Chapter 8
Rebecca rode with Passepartout and Jules in a hired carriage to her cousin's house after mooring the Aurora in her usual spot. The trip to Egypt had been everything Phileas had predicted it would be, boring beyond suffering, leaving her little to do but smile for hours on end while listening to a constant barrage of gossip.
By the time she had been freed of her duties, she had learned not only where the local prince's loyalties were but also who had been sleeping with who, which of the local regiment's wives were slutting for every taker, what graft was being taken and which officers had been getting inexplicably rich as they tended their duties. In a chatty report, Rebecca had given an accounting of it all to Sir Jonathan. If he wanted to send it up the chain of command for chargeable offences and disciplinary action, he was welcome to do so. She, as of eight days ago, had washed her hands of the whole matter.
On the way back to England, she had made a brief holiday trip to Paris. She and Passepartout had spent a few days looking in on old friends, including Jules Verne. Jules was no longer in any danger from the League of Darkness. It had been destroyed and dispersed. But over the years of protecting him, Rebecca and Phileas had taken Jules as a dear and trusted friend.
When they had met at the café near his garret, Rebecca had been treated to some wonderful news. Jules had met a widow at a wedding and had taken to her strongly. The wedding contract was being written, and he was looking into becoming a stockbroker to support his new wife and her daughters.
Jules married–Rebecca couldn't contain her joy at the happiness she saw radiating from him. She immediately suggested he make the trip back to England to tell Phileas in person. "I know he will want to know and give you a good send off. I can see him now giving you the tour of London to celebrate your last days of bachelorhood."
Jules laughed, knowing that she was right. "I had wanted to tell him in person rather than sending a letter," he admitted, and happily agreed to join them.
Upon reaching Phileas's house, Rebecca let Jules hand her out of the carriage. She was feeling unaccountably weary. The trip must be catching up with me.
The winds and weather had been with them all the way home. It had been a pleasant trip, but tiring all the same. She had little to do but watch the world go by and listen to Jules talk about his fiancé. He was so smitten. His constant compliments on the lady had been amusing and endearing, but wearing.
"Perhaps I will rest a bit here and join you and Phileas for dinner. That is if Phileas has returned." Rebecca said. For all she knew, her cousin could be sequestered in whatever North African brothel he had mentioned an intimate familiarity with the smell of as they had crossed the airspace of Montravia. The memory of her disparaging quip in response to that comment and his insufferably smug response could still irritate her.
The man can be such a pig at times.
Passepartout opened the front door for her. "If he isn't at home, you two can come to my house this evening. I will treat you to a fine meal catered by a restaurant I love where the French cuisine is sinfully–"
Rebecca froze in the entry hall. Something was out of place. Yes, the furniture been moved. To good advantage, but out of their usual places, just the same. And there was the smell of bread baking and a hint of lavender in the air. The cooking meant Phileas was home and had called in a cook to serve him. That seemed out of character, as Phileas normally just headed for the Reform club for meals.
And the lavender? Phileas does not use pot-pourri. Where could the lavender be coming from?
Rebecca headed for the open door of Phileas's study, looking for him, followed by Jules and Passepartout. They found nothing. Heading back out again, she froze in the doorway seeing a young woman standing in the door to the parlor. She was a very pretty little thing; something under twenty-five, with thick, well-dressed brown hair and striking light brown eyes. She was several inches shorter than Rebecca, with a warm peach complexion that spoke of exposure to a sunny climate other than England's. Such a pretty girl. For a moment, Rebecca wondered if this could be the cook Phileas had hired, but then discarded the notion. No English woman in service would wear such costly muslin with such fine lacework to bake bread.
Jules, despite being under Honorine's spell, had found pretty to be too tame a term for the lovely lady standing in front of the parlor door. She was exquisite, sublime, breathtaking, and not at all what he would expect to find Phileas Fogg bringing home. This young woman looked several years younger than himself, not Phileas's style at all, and didn't have the mature, shall we say, worldly look that Fogg's women normally had.
By Rebecca's silence, this wasn't a relative, so perhaps Fogg was changing his tastes? Jules's mind jumped to the next possibility.
Oh, we wandered into Fogg's house at a bad time.
Rebecca's next thought mirrored what Jules was thinking, only that explanation made less sense than thinking this girl a cook. Phileas, like most men clinging to their bachelorhood, avoided young women such as this like the plague. Such young ladies usually had a scheming mother standing behind them, looking to snag a rich catch for their offspring. Phileas was rich, and on the to be snagged list.
"You must be Rebecca Fogg, Phileas's cousin," the lady said. "Phileas has spoken of you to me often. And, you are Passepartout?" She said, looking at the valet. "And you, sir?"
"Jules, Jules Verne," Jules said quickly, stepping forward to take the lady's hand. "And, umm–you are?"
Rebecca couldn't quite find her voice or her manners. Being greeted by anyone besides her cousin upon entering this house had been aa shock.
The young lady smiled, but looked nearly as uncomfortable as Rebecca felt. "That will take a bit of explaining," she said nervously.
"Not at all," Phileas said.
All eyes turned to the stairs Phileas was descending.
"Rebecca, Jules, Passepartout… May I introduce you to my wife, Melody?"
"Your what?" Jules blurted out, completely bewildered. He was still holding Melody's hand and felt petrified in place from the shock of his friend's announcement. Cousin, long-lost sister, maybe paramour, but never did he expect to hear Phileas Fogg say the word wife.
Rebecca didn't allow her face to move at the announcement. If she had, her jaw would have hit the floor despite the literal impossibility of that truly happening. Phileas couldn't have surprised her more had he announced this young woman his daughter, which she was technically young enough to be, but that was beside the point.
The point was, her cousin, her only close living relative, had chosen a wife without telling her. He hadn't waited to allow her to witness the monumental, long-awaited event of his nuptials. He had not even bothered to send her a cable to announce it; not even to concede that he had lost their longstanding bet on which of them would be dragged to the altar first.
And if Rebecca had been shocked at the news, Passepartout had been completely floored. Even under normal circumstances, the man was incapable of hiding his reactions. In this instance, Passepartout's animated face somehow showed shock, disbelief, denial, and a surge of pure unrestrained glee in quick succession. So overcome with joyous goodwill, he brushed Jules aside to take both the young lady's hands and shake them enthusiastically before offering a double kiss to his new mistress's cheeks.
Pulling back from that, Passepartout recovered himself enough to see his master's frowning reaction. He made it clear he had overstepped. To make amends, the valet babbled formal congratulations, followed by an offer to take over in the kitchen.
The display of French sentiment covered over Rebecca's lapse. By the time Passepartout had completed his embarrassed retreat, she had recovered enough to offer her new cousin-in-law a proper greeting. Rebecca paid Melody a kiss to the cheek, then allowed herself to be led into Phileas's study.
Jules had known the Foggs long enough to guess what would come next. When Melody, a bit overwhelmed by their sudden appearance, and his valet's charming felicitations, she claimed the need to give Passepartout instructions on what she had planned for dinner. Jules followed them to the kitchen. By the look on Rebecca's face, what would come when she recovered herself would be for Fogg's blistered ears alone.