Chapter 2
In the end, Phryne had decided against letting her father ruin tea and had eaten eagerly. Those scones might not have been made by Mrs Harlan's hand, but Mrs Swanson had been a dutiful apprentice and they tasted very close to how Phryne remembered them. She was slightly nauseous, in fact, given the nearly obscene amount of them she had indulged in but she couldn't say she minded it and there was a particular joy in the way she climbed the stairs to the upper floors. She didn't even feel like spoiling it by knocking on her parents' room door to confront her father and continued upwards to hers.
After more than a decade of sharing close quarters with her family, just the thought of an entire floor for her had been enough to boggle her mind when the Fishers had come to London and she had been shown to her new room. By virtue of having been the long gone dowager Baroness', it had a massive Gothic Victorian carved bed with so many finial "spikes" pending from the canopy it reminded Phryne of a carnivore plant ready to devour her as soon as she laid on it and a red damask wallpaper that could have perfectly been modelled after the room that had haunted Jane Eyre's childhood. Phryne hadn't particularly liked either, actually deeming them 'horrid', but those particularities hadn't been enough to dull the fact that that room was hers and hers alone (she had obviously wished Janey could be there and have hers too).
Soon, the undesired furniture had been moved to storage and given way to a pale green Art Nouveau set with elegant and delicate irises carved motifs much more in line with her preferences and the offending wallpaper had been replaced by a Morris brighter floral pattern with cheerful light blue, pink, and yellow flowers blooming from green stems. Back then, Phryne had congratulated herself on her sophistication and now she must admit that her girlhood room had aged well. After all, her current bed in Australia was also of a lighter Art Nouveau style.
On the bed, there was a pair of silk robin blue pyjamas with long sleeves and a velvet kimono, surely bought by Margaret anticipating that Phryne might not be ready for the colder nights she would meet in England. The affection Phryne felt for her mother tugged at her again. She might not consider herself Jane's mother per se and their approaches to parenting might differ, but the good things she did practice, Phryne recognised she had learnt from her.
Phryne was looking forward to getting updated about Jack, Mac, Dot, Aunt Prudence and the rest of friends in Australia through the pile of letters and telegrams presented on the desk by the window, but she would do that before sleep, when she was finally settled.
She sat down on the bed and looked around. How many letters had she written at that desk, how many books had she read sitting on the armchair by the window, how many times had she laughed and cried into those pillows, how many dreams had she dreamt in that bed, how many confidences had she exchanged with friends in that space. And yet, between boarding and finishing school, the sojourns at Brentby, the war, Paris, and the flat she had rented after her return to London and now Australia, she hadn't actually slept that many nights in this room. It had been hers in the sense that she had inhabited it for periods of time, but when she was away, it wasn't the image that came to her when she thought of «my room». Truth be told, she had never had a very definite picture to attach to that notion – it usually depended on where she was and where she was supposed to sleep that night. Even when she was in the war, 'home' never conjured Chester Square or the golden stone of Brentby in particular, just some place away from the bleeding fields of the Front. It could seem quite exciting sometimes, but, while not often, it also made her feel dislocated and adrift, like she didn't belong anywhere yet she also didn't belong everywhere.
The soles of her boots tapped on the well-polished wooden floor. No one would guess that there was only one maid responsible for cleaning the house now but that was probably the core order she had been given.
Phryne went into the dressing room. How marvellous and sophisticated just the thought of one had seemed and she must admit she missed it a little now. Maybe someday she would overcome her annoyance and distaste for all the fuss attached to building works and have one made in 221B. It was covered by the same wallpaper than the room and had a large wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a full-body mirror, and a dressing table from the same set as the rest of the furniture. There was also a Victorian chaise longue with its original wood frame and wheels she had coveted from one of the guest rooms, specially upholstered in rosewood pink velvet at her request.
There was a nearly empty bottle of a perfume she didn't wear anymore on the dressing table alongside a beautiful set of silver brushes and a hand-mirror she had always deemed too beautiful to actually use. She touched each item, trying to remember when it had been the last time she had done so.
Phryne's tour through the many drawers resulted in a couple forgotten or discarded things. The wardrobe was practically empty too. Most of the clothes, shoes, and other accessories had either been retired for good, stored, lost, given away, or shipped to Australia, but there were two boxes with which Phryne hadn't known what to do so she had left them there. One of them contained her Court Presentation dress, a silk garment of simple but elegant design, a reminder of a night which had been interesting yet the actual courtesy to the King the most underwhelming part of it all though. The other held the infamous 18th birthday dress which also represented her first couture gown, a pause in Margaret's discomfort about spending money on clothes after so many years of mandatory economy, and Phryne's first visit to Paris – also the occasion where she had been taken so much by the city, she had decided that she would live there someday.
But those were objects intertwined with particular memories. Did it mean that by keeping them there Chester Square was her home?
Phryne took a deep breath. She didn't know why she was fussing over this matter so much. Perhaps it had to do with the context of her return to London. When she had gone to Australia, she hadn't vowed to never return again, she actually liked the place, but she had always thought that it would happen when she wanted to, not in an unwished moment and tied to one of the people had had always most driven her to go way.
Besides, there was Jack. Their kiss on the runway had been hanging over them for quite a while and Phryne believed it would have happened eventually, particularly after he had admitted his 'romantic overture'. She wasn't a woman of many regrets but now, with a clearer head, she did wish it hadn't taken place on the brink of her departure. There was some romance in parting ways at such a moment, but it also felt like too big of a step to leave things unresolved like that. But maybe having this time would be good to think everything over. Phryne was deeply scared of hurting Jack somehow and someday, particularly considering how he had opened his heart to her and her own regard towards relationships in the latter years – after all, it had been her own blind trust in love and in René and the awful turn it had taken that had led her to that stance. Phryne couldn't lose Jack both as a friend and as romantic partner. They had had their grievances about this and they hadn't even acted on their feelings yet. It wouldn't get any easier from now.
There was no doubt in her that she loved him. It had been quite surprising to find so. There had been the emotional and physical connection with Lin, perhaps the closest thing to love she had experience since her Paris days, but while it was complex in its own right, this bond with Jack was something else. Phryne couldn't exactly pinpoint the moment it had happened, most certainly there wasn't a particular instant that marked that transition, it had been the gradual development of their flirting, their matching intelligence, their professional collaboration, their chemistry, their kiss at Café Repliqué, and the rift caused by the mistake that led to him thinking she had died – a photography being dipped in the chemicals needed to reveal what it had captured.
She had chosen to be with him. She had chosen to be with him and he had taken her wholeheartedly. The realisation made her smile.
A/n: Thank you for reading this chapter. I hope you enjoyed it. As mentioned, I'll be updating this fic through the next month but I'm afraid I can't promise actual dates because this will be a post-as-you-write thing.
Thank you for your feedback and may I find you here soon.
