Chapter 6

A week passed in the house in London as Phileas and Melody quietly settled in. In the back of his mind, Fogg had been holding a hope that there would be some way out of this mess for them. Until he found it, they would just deal with the situation as well as they could.

He considered sending Melody to her brother, but decided against it. It might appear to Charles Anderson that he was abandoning Melody after gaining his way with her. Having married her in such an unconventional manner, it was better to tread carefully around Charles Anderson's sensibilities. That, or chance getting called out.

Melody was doing all she could to make him comfortable as he recovered. She took the duties of mistress of the house without complaint, cleaning and cooking and crocheting lace, bringing him the mail, and badgering me about getting overtired.

The mail arrived at a surprising speed after my requests for information. A fine thing, having so many active agents in my acquaintance. Her father's service record was of no great interest. He had been an exemplary officer near the end of his career, working his ticket back to England with each change of position. From India to Egypt, and a transfer to Italy had been in the works before his death. Odd tragedy, killed in a robbery on the street. Senseless. Yet, there must be a reason for the attacks on his daughter. Most likely, something her father had been into, had or knew? Something someone wanted badly. Maybe badly enough to kill him?

Maybe something going on at his command? Maybe Phillip can chase that down. That will take time. Too much time. It's the only way.

Melody's bustling about the house like a maid soon became a major point of annoyance. Phileas don't like her serving him or moving things about. And the other things she did… He was utterly furious the day he found his account book updated behind his back. "I left the ledger out with the receipts to finish later. You did not need to do that for me," He thundered.

She, as usual, fell to tears. She considered it nothing extraordinary, just a matter of jotting down things by his example. "I always tended to such household tasks for father. He was far too busy to manage such things. You mustn't tire yourself so. The doctor said so."

Checking later, he found it done properly, no errors at all.

More clashes of wills came over what Melody thought a wife's duties included. Another day of my doing more than she thought I should and being proven right when in the throes of a spell. I fell down the stairs after flouting her concerns. Again, I was forced to accept her care, with grudging gratitude.

Today, instead of shouting at her, I was reasoned with. Despite my instructions that she always remain in the house, she had gone out with money from the household cash box to buy food.

"Phileas, unless you plan for us to eat turnip and potato soup until your servant returns, I have to go out," she said. "I bought some lovely looking salmon. You like salmon as I remember. Surely you are tiring of soups?"

While Melody made a fine array of soups, I am getting my fill of it. I conceded the point and said no more about her morning visit to the market, so long as I go with her on any other trips.

"Are you sure are well enough?" she said.

"I wasn't hurt in the fall." I said impatiently. "Really Melody, I'm not an invalid. Or I don't want to become one from too much coddling. I need exercise."

"Oh, well, of course you do. You should take a cane, though. Such a beautiful collection of canes you have," she said, picking one out of the tall brass jar by the door for me. "Ebony to go with your coat?"

I accepted the cane, more because I always carry a cane when I go out than in deference to her concern. Following her father from primitive command to primitive command must have given her this outspoken, independent streak.

Social restrictions what they are, girls raised in England, weren't as obstinate as this. Melody wasn't as bad as Rebecca, but the traits were a prominent part of the lady's manner. No one would ever call Melody biddable.

But then again, I wouldn't have done well with a biddable woman. I prefer women who know their minds and use them, irritating or not. Now if I can just get her to stop crying every time I raise my voice.

Rebecca and I clash all the time, and never has she been reduced to tears. I don't know how to deal with such timidity. Well, no. She's not Rebecca, and there were reasons we battle so much, having nothing to do with my issues with Melody.

Instead of shouting, I tried venting by making quiet sarcastic comments to myself when frustrated. Things that should have made her stood have made her nagging stop. Not as good as shouting, but it made me feel a little better.

Melody thankfully didn't cry in response to this form of censor. Her father apparently had voiced his ire in a like fashion, so she reacted to it in a husband the same way, making disparaging comments against my supposed obstinance in return.

"You grumble worse than my father ever did," she said. "And over such small things. I am merely cleaning," she said as she gathered up the tray from their lunch. "Do you complain against your valet when he puts your clothes away? If so; I pity the man."

I win more battles than I lose this way. Melody gives up, saying, "As you wish, my lord." Not a sign of demure submission at all. Her tone makes it plain she considers me dictatorial and doesn't like it.

And I say, "As it should be."

The one argument I never win involves hiring of a servant to handle household duties.

Melody stubbornly blocks those efforts, arguing she had too little to keep herself occupied. I despair of her self-sufficient streak. "You are keeping women who needed the work unnecessarily unemployed. And I suppose if marooned on a deserted island, you would be equally obstinate, taking matters into your own hands. Dusting your skirts off, sewing your petticoats into a tent?"

She giggled and replied seriously, "But of course… how else would I get shelter? But if you were with me and there were domestics on said deserted island, I suppose I would allow you to employ them with our welfare, if you insisted. But for now, you have a man in your employ, and I won't have him replaced while serving your cousin."

I hid my amusement at her, turning his quip into a comedy. A deserted island with domestics wandering about, indeed.

"Surely you don't think I'm still in danger here?" Melody said as they returned from the market on another day. They had been together in London for ten days now. Melody had chosen pigeons and an assortment of other things for the day's meals.

"Caution would be prudent," Phileas countered. "Whoever came after you at sea went to a great deal of trouble to follow the ship across the coast. They could have followed it on to London. Besides that, you are not familiar with London, and it is never a good idea for a woman to travel unescorted through the city."

"So, I am to be cloistered?" Melody said with her head down in a gesture he now recognized as reluctant resignation. On any other woman, it would have looked like a pout. Melody made the gesture look dignified rather than peevish.

Phileas held his amusement in check. She had used those words before when he had restricted her movements aboard the ship. At sea, the Stiles had seconded him on that, but there was no one to help squash her complaints here.

"No, you are not being cloistered, but it is customary for a lady to have at least an Abigail escort when she conducts her business in the city. We would already have a servant to do these things if you weren't so protective of Passepartout's position."

"We have been through that Phileas," Melody said impatiently. "I can handle what little needs to be done until he returns. As it is, I have more idle time on my hands than I have ever had. For so short an absence, it just isn't right to replace the man when I can manage."

"But you will let me hire an Abigail for you when Passepartout returns?" Phileas said, hopeful that he had convinced her of the need. "Or at least a full-time maid. After all, I can't have it said that I keep a personal servant for myself but won't provide my wife with one. Would you have it appear I neglect you? Would you have the whole of London down on my head?"

As tired as she was of this issue, the way Phileas was presenting it had Melody hard pressed not to giggle. Melody recognized his tones. She gave him a sidelong glance, smiled, and said with long suffering forbearance, "As you wish, my lord."

Phileas savored the victory. Her tone lacked its usual indigence. She was parrying words with him, teasing him back. "Phileas will do," he said. "I am neither lord nor sir, but the sentiment is appreciated."