Chapter 15

Rebecca Fogg sat in the main parlor looking out the window on a stark white, bitter winter landscape. It had been her view since just before Christmas, and would be her view for some time to come, as nearly every day the snow fell anew. The weather patterns that brought electrical storms to the valley were now bringing an excess of snow. She and Phileas had been shut up in the house until both were going stir crazy, but there did not seem to be any relief. If things did not change, they might be trapped until spring thaw.

The one saving grace in their seclusion was the lack of mail from Isaac Jordan. The pest was getting close to the need to tell Phileas about it, so he could have a man to man talk. She didn't do that. It was the coward's way out, but he was legally her guardian and he had dealt with proposals several times to send the persistent packing. She did, however, want to know how things were going with Verne's research.

A week before Christmas, Rebecca received a box from Jordan's offices. She had hoped it was business records. What she received was a silver brush set and a note. A Christmas gift; a completely improper Christmas gift. Even fools knew that wasn't done. Rebecca may not choose to follow all the little nuances of society, but she knew what they were and knew personal gifts of this nature were not sent to acquaintances. Jordan was trying to step up their relationship; a relationship that didn't exist.

While fuming and calling perdition down on his head, she re-wrapped the box to be sent back with a note of her own. The note had been as clear as Rebecca could explain her lack of interest and refusal to receive more letters from him outside of business needs. Rebecca sent it to the post via a servant instead of giving it to Phileas.

This is mine to do. Phileas was a dear and would have been happy to get rid of the man, but no, this pest was hers to deal with, not his. Using him might cause issues that could bleed over to their business association.

Phileas, at that same moment, was brooding in his study. The isolation was wearing on him too, but the snow was too deep and the storms too volatile to risk using the Aurora to escape. After making two tours of the property to check for weather damage, Phileas took to the study and closed the door.

Games of chess and cards with Rebecca, or his latest pass time, chopping wood were no longer of interest. It was his usual massage to the servants of, keep out, I'm drinking, but he hadn't touched a drop since Christmas.

Winters of this kind brought out many odd associations. Passepartout and one of the groom's daughters had been caught in the back garden, kissing.

Keeping each other warm in the snow, no doubt, Phileas dismissed.

Her father didn't look at it that way and kept his daughter home. She wasn't an official staff member; she just helped now and then.

To add to that, two courting couples on the staff, one in early January and one last week, had announced engagements with weddings to be held in May. Everyone had been all smiles and good wishes toward the couples, with no comments on their rush to the altar.

At this rate, Phileas thought, there will be no unattached women over sixteen on the property, except Rebecca.

To his relief, the long-distance pursuit of Rebecca by Jordan had been put off until spring. She had received five letters and one box from Jordan all together. The box found out had been sent back after opening through a servant. He did not comment on it. He had been fairly sure what it must have contained and why it had been returned. He wondered why Rebecca didn't bring it to his attention. I am legally her guardian. She knows to call on me to handle pests.

The answer had been obvious. Rebecca would do her own dirty work. That worked into the plans of the mission well, as he was not supposed to even be chasing the man off. That did not stop him from entertaining himself with scenarios. With the snow so thick, he had nothing better to do, and spent far too much time considering what this mission was subjecting her to.

A knock sounded at the door. "Sir, a messenger brought a letter from London. May I enter?"

Phileas called him in. It was from Chatsworth. He had had great in luck getting a mole in Jordan's offices just before the snows started. The man was said to be tracking down the other the lost funds in that last report. In this cache of updates were copies of all the files Jordan's clerk had on Rebecca's dealings with his employer. It had included all the information on her reference for Verne.

When Phileas read through that and learned all the information she had disclosed about her background and holdings, he was appalled. How could she have been that foolish or ignorant to give that sort of detailed information to anyone? And then the answer made him sick anew. What have I, her cousin protector, ever done to teach her otherwise? Obviously, Sir Boniface had taught her nothing. What lessons father gave her about finance had finally laid to rest. There had been none. The evidence before him showed their combined failure.

The official tally from Verne's records, which were being faithfully sent to Jordan, would by now be something over 200,000 pounds. That is more than the wager that gained me the Aurora and something slightly under the worth of Shillingsworth Magna, not including its lands and tenant properties. It is much less than the worth of the Fogg family jewelry collection, which had been compiled over several centuries; and far less than his combined estate assets, which included concerns in England and investments abroad. But it is also far greater than Rebecca's net worth, even if one included the dowry father had tucked away for her in a separate fund I'm administering. At the rate this paper debt is growing, when we get back to London, Rebecca would be totally ruined by spring.

In truth, I could have bailed Rebecca out of this mess myself if it were a real problem. The question is, would Rebecca come to him with such a problem? Rebecca did not know what sort of paper mess was awaiting her yet, and I have no assurance she will bring it to me when she knows. Self-reliance and self-sufficiency were Rebecca's ruling tenants, father's doing. To come to me in such a miserable situation would be humbling for both of us. It would choke her to ask, but despite the gall of the situation, I sincerely hoped she trusts me enough not to do as the nurse and the other ladies did.

I could not imagine Rebecca shutting herself off from him as the last several victims had done from their friends and families. I would never allow it, but would I recognize the signs so I could act? I must believe he would, and confront her directly, force her to explain. We are too close for that.

Phileas shuddered, more from his thoughts than from the bitter cold. All this supposition wore on him more than the snow.

What is more important for me to deduce what Jordan might require of her, besides herself, in repayment? The snake had increasingly taken advantage of his victim's positions or the positions of their principal protectors to gain tangible advantages. Rebecca has nothing of that nature. Nothing but what her position in the service might get for him. He doesn't know about that. Rebecca labeled her income an allowance from me, of all things.

A very generous cousin I am, managing Rebecca's house in London, which she inherited from my father, as well as handling all her affairs and providing her with a living allowance of that sum. Maybe the next one to get fleeced will be me, as further generosity to my cousin.

He thought about that for a moment, a possibility. Legally, all I just mentioned is mine to oversee, anyway. Everything that is hers is in my keeping until she marries. Jordan must know she can't liquidate anything without my express permission.

But no, he won't come to me with any of this. That would ensure his fraud is discovered, just as it had when Sellers investigated. Jordan will only show Rebecca the depths of her situation and demand something of her in return.

But what?

Jules Verne was sitting in his cold, drafty garret in Paris, going over the experiments that he had concocted for the month to come. They were all quite plausible, but were now boring him to tears.

I'm tired of playing this game. It's taking too much of my time, specifically my enjoyment of cheap wine and cheap talk with my friends. I have a new idea for a play, and these experiment logs don't let me get to it.

With approval from the agents working with him, Jules had slowed down the pace of the work. They saw no need for him to appear obsessed with it the way he had last summer. "Creative moments are expected to come and go," Agent Hardy had said.

The wind whistled through the cracks in the windowsill as he finished his last editing and put the papers down. He really wanted to talk to Fogg about putting an end to it. He had even tried to make a trip to England in January, only to be told the snow in England was terrible this year.

"It will do you no good. The Foggs are in the country," Agent Hardy said. "They are buried. You should go later, in the spring. I will make a note of it in my next report. Mr. Fogg will be told as soon as communications resume."

That had satisfied Verne, but didn't make him happy.

Jules then gave up lying about and stood to look out his garret window. Paris was enjoying a mild winter with just enough snow to make the city pretty. He watched people go back and forth until he saw his friend Paul head into the tavern at the corner.

Enthusiasm rose.

That is what I need, some company and mulled wine to take the chill off. He grabbed up his heavier overcoat to put over his leather jacket, wrapped the scarf his mother had sent him for Christmas about his neck, and headed out into the streets.

Sir Jonathan's mole had become a God sent. The man had already given him proof of the continued growing accounts of the deceased Mr. Peterson and Mr. Simons and one in the name of Robert McTavish. Mr. Smith still, however, could not find an account for Rebecca Fogg. He was now covertly going through all the new accounts set up in the two months after her first visit to see if they had been started under another name.

In the time being, Chatsworth hurried to Daniel's house to give the good news to Katrina. He was let into the house by Daniel's sister and led to the parlor, where Katrina was doing some sewing. He doffed his hat to greet both ladies and bowed as Daniel's sister left them to assist her brother in the clinic.

Once alone, Sir Jonathan gave Katrina his happy news.

To his embarrassment and delight, she gave a cry of excitement, jumped from her position on the sofa closer to him, and embraced him, crying her heart out.

To suddenly have Katrina in his arms like that had dazed him. But more, he had been dazed by what it had done to him. Her bright show of joy after such utter despair had been like a blinding ray of sunshine. He literally basked in having been the reason for it.

But then he caught himself enjoying the feel of her embrace too much, but could not pull back. She had him held tight. To pull away would have been too abrupt, a cruelty. Instead, he pushed down his wayward impulses and tried to just hold her in friendship. It wasn't easy.

She is just excitable. This news fully justifies the burst of emotion. There is nothing in this display for me personally.

With much relief on his part, Katrina did finally calm herself and accept a cloth to dry her tears. "I am sorry, Jon. Thank you so much. I never hoped for such good news."

"I am happy to have been of service," he said, completely understanding.

Lord, she's beautiful. Out of nowhere, Katrina's beauty struck him, not the least bit diminished from crying. Her eyes were a luminous blue, and her cheeks glowed with happiness. If anything, witnessing the flood of her reaction makes me more attracted to her.

Admitting that, even to himself, put Chatsworth in an awkward position. He had no business being attracted to Katrina. She was too delicate at present, too venerable to be pursued. He did not want her falling into his arms out of mere gratitude.

For a moment they sat there saying nothing, holding hands like children. She smiled warmly into his face, and he returned her gaze, somewhat uncomfortably, wondering when he might break off and leave.

Without warning or explanation, Katrina leaned in and kissed him.

It was not a kiss of friendship. It was a full kiss, with a host of promises attached. It was warm and full of life and passion.

His head spun. When he felt her small hand slip into his hair behind his ear, he stopped thinking entirely. On pure instinct, he took her into a crushing embrace of acceptance.

And she didn't pull away.

How long they sat there kissing, he couldn't say. The world may have stopped turning for all he could tell. He drank in her joy and passion like a heady wine, ready to be filled to the brim, returning it all measure for measure.

Then, little by little, thoughts of reality, such as the fact that the parlor door was open, and there were two other people in this house besides them. Daniel and his sister were with patients, but it would not be amiss for either to check on them at some point. Much against his wishes, Chatsworth ended the kiss and brought them both back to reality.

"Oh Jon," Katrina said, looking up at him with pure adoration. "You have always been so good to me, so kind. I have forgotten how much I admired you these last few months. How much I still admire you. But… shouldn't have…."

She dropped her eyes for a moment, embarrassed at her boldness.

That was a sham, and he knew it. She was completely unrepentant, and so was he. She was also too mature a woman to attempt it, but it amused him she would try. He laughed and lifted her face back to his to give her a smaller kiss.

"Katrina, we are too old to be playing coy games. There is no reason for you not to speak your mind and feelings. I have always admired you, too. I still do, far too much for a detached friendship. You are a widow now, well past mourning. Tell me if I am wrong to speak, but I believe we would do well together. If you but grant me the honor of openly courting you, I would be the happiest man in London."

For a moment, his own boldness shocked him, but he shook it off and took his own advice.

Too old to play games, Jonathan. If you want this woman, better say so and get on with it.

Katrina answered his request with a kiss more openly passionate than the first. This time, he did not care who walked in on them. He returned the kiss with as much passionate abandon as was offered.

Chatsworth left the house shortly after, not quite touching the ground as he made his way through the snow to his coach.