Fri, May 18 2012
Charity in the Age of Modern Marvels
Phileas had already entered the room by the time she rounded the top of the stairs. She stood at the door and saw him carefully deposit a sleepy-eyed Aimee beside Jules on the narrow cot. Dr. Picot stood to one side and met her eyes, nodding toward Phileas, who collapsed into a chair, propped his elbow on his knee, and rested his forehead in his hand.
She moved to stand behind him and placed her hand lightly on his shoulder. "Passepartout should be bringing tea shortly. I've told him we should have a decision on a course by then."
"Something else to decide," said Phileas, his tone weary beyond measure.
"If you like, I'll tell him to send us in circles for a bit."
"No." He took her hand from his shoulder, squeezed it gently in his own, and then released it. "We don't have the time." Sitting straighter in the chair, he asked, "How is your patient, doctor?"
"Well enough. Sleeping peacefully, at any rate, but he'll need care for some time."
Phileas took a slow breath, then glanced up at Rebecca. "Duty calls, yes?"
"Yes," she answered sadly.
"Then if it would be possible, Dr. Picot, I'd ask that you arrange the appropriate care, for as long as it will be required. I will, of course, cover any fees."
Dr. Picot nodded slightly in agreement, then cleared his throat. "And if I may ask a favor of you, Monsieur Fogg?"
Rebecca walked over to the doctor and took his hand. "Anything within our power, sir. We're in your debt, for your care of Jules."
"Yes. Well." To her amusement, the doctor flushed slightly. "That's my life's work, mademoiselle, and I thank you for having brought me back to it this night. But there's a favor I would ask. About the child--?"
"What about the child?" asked Phileas, his upright posture suddenly less due to formality than interest . . . and perhaps alarm.
"Jules told me that you were looking for a place for the girl." The doctor folded his hands together, as if he'd rehearsed the words and had prepared himself for the speech in their absence. "There's a doctor of my acquaintance in Dijon with a thriving practice as a surgeon; he and his wife lost their only daughter last year to a wasting disease. His wife can have no more children and their house has been the emptier for it."
Something in Rebecca's heart had stilled at the first question - she'd met Phileas' gaze, but his eyes had remained locked with the doctor's throughout the speech, his expression concerned, interested . . . damn his indifference!
A percentage of his immediate reaction could be easily tagged as civility - Phileas was sometimes rude in jest or when annoyed, but never when faced with a man of breeding such as Dr. Picot, particularly after that man had done them such a great service. There was, perhaps, a certain percentage that could be laid at the doorstep of outright weariness; her cousin had just fought a man twice his size, beaten him at his own sport, then instigated an impromptu duel in absolute darkness with that monstrous pimp . . . .
Better not to think of that. Definitely a port discussion, to be sure. She might even use some of those new phrases she'd picked up this evening.
No, it wasn't indifference. He was seriously considering the matter. And she had to put a stop to it.
With her most charming smile in place, she gestured down at Aimee, saying, "This can surely wait until later, Phileas. The child is exhausted - she needs rest. Then there's Jules to consider, with his injuries . . . ?"
He would not look at her, would not meet her eyes. Phileas stared at the doctor, as if taking the measure of the man's word. "And he is . . . a good man?"
"I have found him such, yes. His wife, too, is very loving. I met them many years ago, shortly after the birth of their daughter. The loss of her from their lives left a terrible void." Dr. Picot raised the back of his hand to his nose and sniffed for a moment - Rebecca had the impression that he was trying to overcome the threatening exhibition of the heartfelt emotion they could hear within his words. After a second, he added, "I don't think you'll find a better accommodation for the little one, monsieur; they will treat her as if she were their own. And in the home of a doctor . . . she will find understanding she would not find elsewhere."
"Still," said Phileas thoughtfully, his gaze falling to the bed, "there is Verne to consider. I don't know his wishes. At our parting this morning, we--" he smiled ruefully at Rebecca, "we had not come to terms on this matter."
Lying was part of what she had been bred to do - for what was espionage but the task of weaving an elaborate web of deception, setting it alight, and then walking through the burning tatters of words and deeds to freedom on the other side? Rebecca lied very well. Well enough, in fact, to occasionally convince Phileas that black was white and that no one in China drank tea. It was one of her gifts.
She could tell Phileas that she didn't know what Verne thought or felt about the matter - they'd discussed it only in passing. She could play upon his guilt - he'd not caused the attack in the alley or the abduction of Aimee, and yet she knew he'd claimed that upon his own conscience, as a debt owed.
Of course he had . . . she'd done that, too. It would not be hard to win this concession now, with these two weapons at her disposal. And he was tired, weary of making decisions. One more arrow in her quiver. It could win them a few days, perhaps a week more . . . .
It would be so easy.
"Jules . . . said." Even as that winsome, inner demon cajoled her to be selfish, to be stealthful, to use her arts and crafts to their fullest measure, to lie . . . Rebecca could not. Nor could she look at Phileas, letting her gaze rest upon Verne and the child, each lost in a forgetful slumber. "Jules said that he would leave the matter to your discretion. I warned him that you'd return this evening with rooms rented and a nanny hired." She forced a smile, despite the tightness in her throat, and turned her gaze to Phileas. "You've not only proven me right, you've gone one better. If this is the place for her, Phileas, we don't have the right to keep her from it."
There was, in the instant she looked at him--before the civil, genteel demeanor could return--something in his eyes that was far from indifferent, far from disinterested. It was as selfish and as personal as the desire she held deep within her own heart.
Dear Lord, had he wanted her to lie?
She was saved from pursuing that inquiry by a happy accident of childhood - Aimee had shifted as she slept, nearly falling from the bed. When Rebecca moved to catch her, the child awakened in her arms with a soft cry. She yawned and rubbed her eyes as she was gently set down upon the edge of the bed. "Rebecca?" A quick turn and a half breath - she caught sight of Verne, sleeping. "Oh."
"You see, we brought you back to Jules," said Rebecca gently. "I told you the doctor was taking care of him."
Small fingers reached out to touch Verne's bandaged hand, then the bruise on his cheek. "He's sleeping?"
"Yes, he's sleeping," agreed Rebecca, forcing what she hoped was a comforting smile. "And you should be sleeping, too; it's very late for little girls to be awake."
Aimee seemed prepared to say more, but then noticed the doctor standing behind Rebecca. Her eyes widened at the appearance of this stranger and she looked back at Verne. Whether she was seeking protection or intended to protect him, Rebecca couldn't say.
"It's all right, Aimee," said Phileas, in a quiet, even tone. "That's Dr. Picot. He's been a very good friend to us, particularly to Verne. We owe him our thanks."
When Phileas spoke, Aimee nearly fell from the bed again, turning to locate him. She watched him for a moment, then looked back at Dr. Picot. She lowered her gaze, as if thinking, then looked back over her shoulder at Phileas again. "Is he a gentleman?"
And were they to answer that question without insulting the good doctor? Rebecca stepped forward quickly and her hand on the child's shoulder to reassure her. "He won't hurt you. See how he bandaged Jules? Dr. Picot is a kind man."
"Dondre told me that some of my gentlemen were doctors."
So matter-of-fact. Then again, it was all that Aimee knew. It was time that she knew better.
"Let me introduce you properly," said Rebecca, taking her hand and leading her from the bed.
Still not quite awake, Aimee went willingly, but drew closer to Rebecca as they approached the doctor. He'd long since shed his coat and Rebecca thought his loosened tie and partially unbuttoned vest gave him an air of charming dishevelment. "Aimee, may I present Dr. Picot. Dr. Picot, this is our very dear friend, Aimee."
"I am charmed, mademoiselle," said Dr. Picot gravely, holding out his hand.
Aimee carefully fit her small one into his grip, watching him all the while as he shook it, then drew her hand back to her chest and held it there after he released her.
The doctor glanced at Rebecca, as if uncertain what to say. "Jules thinks very often of you, Aimee. He'll be glad to know that you're safe."
Aimee leaned forward, her voice low as if she were telling him a secret. "They broke Jules, like they broke my doll. But worse." After a worried glance over her shoulder, she asked anxiously, "Can you fix him?"
"I have done my best, mademoiselle. Now Jules must rest, so that his body will heal." When she continued to stare at him, he chuckled lightly and added, "Yes. He will be fixed. But he must rest."
"We'll take care of Jules," promised Rebecca. She knelt down beside Aimee and placed a hand on each of the child's shoulders. "You trust us to take care of him, don't you?"
Aimee nodded, her gaze again going toward the bed where Verne slept. She yawned and rubbed her eye with the back of her hand, then looked up at Rebecca again. "When will I have to go back?"
"Never!" said Phileas, in such a sharp tone that Aimee started, one hand reaching for Rebecca's arm for support. Realizing that he'd unnerved the child, he rubbed the flat of his palm over his face and then shook his head. "I'm sorry - I didn't mean --"
Rebecca was quite certain that she would have had difficulty dealing with the emotionally naked, honest expression that Phileas had fixed on Aimee if it had been directed at her. But Aimee seemed oblivious to that. The child's brow was furrowed. She glanced at Rebecca, and then back at Phileas, as if trying to solve a puzzle.
"But I belong to Dondre."
"I promise, you will never see Dondre again."
His right hand was clenched into a fist as he spoke. Only that, and the barest edge to his speech, revealed anything of his anger. His tone was moderated, a quiet voice befitting the status of a sickroom and a conversation with a frightened, sleepy child.
And still Aimee was staring at Phileas as if she knew there was something more to this, not quite understanding. Nor, Rebecca hoped, would she ever. It was quite a burden to carry, to know that someone had killed another human being to avenge you, to keep you safe.
She reached out to draw the child into her arms, but Aimee moved away, taking small deliberate steps toward where Phileas was seated. Rebecca glanced at the doctor in concern, then rose to her feet and shadowed the child, uncertain as to what she might do. Phileas was simply watching her with a bemused expression, a bitter edge to his uncertain smile, as if he knew the child would bolt from him at any minute.
She paused within reach of him and placed a small hand on his knee. "Do I belong to you, now?"
"No." His movements slow, Phileas lifted her hand and placed it back upon her chest, over her heart. "No one owns you."
"I don't have to go back?"
"Never," he repeated, his hand still resting atop her own, over her heart. "We will find you a family." He glanced up to meet Rebecca's gaze, then looked over at Dr. Picot as if for confirmation, before returning his attention to Aimee. "You will live in a house with a mother and a father. You will have you own bed and your own dolls. And you will be happy."
"Will it be a glass house? And can Jules live there, too?"
Fighting to stay dry-eyed, Rebecca found her cousin looking up at her - he had no answer. "Perhaps," she said, touching the Aimee's hair lightly. "Perhaps."
That was what her mother had said to her when she was a child. It was not 'no,' or 'never,' but 'someday,' 'maybe.' It was an answer to ease fears, to quiet tears . . . an answer for a little girl to dream upon.
A little girl, with soft hair that curled at the ends.
"A cage," Rebecca said very quietly, "is not always a bad thing."
When Phileas looked up at her and echoed, "Perhaps," she wasn't entirely certain whether he was answering Aimee, or herself.
The child seemed to have come to her own decision. Taking a step closer to him she announced, with an unexpected gravity of tone, "I don't think you're a gentleman, Philly-ass."
"Indeed?" he asked, in a voice so soft that it was almost a whisper.
"Yes." Without warning, Aimee climbed into his lap and settled her head against his neck - to his credit, Phileas didn't move a muscle. She yawned and added sleepily, "But you must take better care of Jules."
"I shall endeavor to do just that," he answered, looking up with a grin and meeting Rebecca's gaze.
"Good."
His arms around the child, Phileas rested his chin upon her hair lightly, his head tilted slightly so that he could meet Rebecca's gaze. "Tell Passepartout to take us to Dijon."
Her own voice was hushed as she watched Aimee's eyelids fluttering - gravity was winning that war. She glanced back toward the doctor, who had the back of his hand to Verne's cheek, checking for signs of fever. "Are we certain, Phileas?"
"At the moment, I'm certain of only three things - that you have a mission awaiting you--"
"Damn the mission," she hissed, but then looked away at his reproachful glance, for neither of them believed she'd walk away from her duty.
"And that Verne will need care for a time. I'll trust Dr. Picot to arrange that when we return to Paris this morning." He leaned his head against the chair back and smiled weakly. "If you'd be so kind as to give Passepartout my instructions . . . and ask him to prepare my cabin - our good doctor is probably in need of more than a few hours rest at this point."
"What about you?"
"I'm comfortable, at the moment." Phileas shifted slightly, grimacing as he moved Aimee to a better situation across his lap, then sighed. "Quite comfortable, thank you."
"All right." Rebecca walked the few steps toward the door, placed her hand on the knob, then paused. Something that he'd said . . . . Turning back to Phileas, she asked, "What was the third thing?"
"Oh. That." Closing his eyes, he added, "If the child didn't leave my protection by tomorrow morning, I should find it impossible to ever let her go."
Had Phileas been less weary, more in possession of himself, he would never have said those words. His eyes were still closed and Rebecca suspected that he had been barely wakeful these past few minutes. She would erase the comment from her memory - the words had never been spoken.
Yet after she closed the door to the room behind her, Rebecca stood in the hall and leaned her forehead against it for a moment. Her eyelids shutting of their own volition, she allowed his words to echo one last time in her heart.
Perhaps.
It was time to head downstairs. There was the cabin to arrange for Dr. Picot, a heading for Dijon to be set, a proper bed prepared for the child . . . .
Perhaps.
She wondered, not without reason, how fate could be so unkind and so unfair to those blessed enough to be born with wings.
End of Chapter Twelveb
Chapter 12 | Chapter 12b | Chapter 13