Sat, May 19 2012
| TITLE: | Requited |
|---|---|
| AUTHOR: | D. Vincent |
| CATEGORY/TYPE: | Angst |
| RATING/WARNINGS: | PG-13, Gen,(implied adultery) |
| MAIN CHARACTERS: | Phileas Fogg |
| DESCRIPTION: | Write story summary here. |
| STATUS: | Complete |
| AUTHOR'S NOTE: | They say 'write what you know'. I'm not sure that's good advice, since it's too easy to twist a character to fit an author's neuroses. I do know how it feels to be very young, lose a sibling, then spend the rest of one's life looking for a replacement. By a certain age, we've all lost someone, so maybe you know what it's like too. Perhaps that's why so many of us have created a lost younger sister for the Fogg family. Even though I'm drawing from my own experience, I've tried to stay in canon, so please feel free to say if I've strayed too far. Oh, there are no pirates, mangoes or harems in this story. Maybe next time, on the other list ;) |
Phileas slipped from under the bedclothes and felt his way to the floor. He had been listening carefully, but hadn't heard anything except rain dripping off leaves for several minutes. A dim flash of lightening briefly lit the room, but no low rumble of thunder followed. The storm must have moved too far away. Phileas could just make out the steady breathing of his younger brother. He couldn't hear anything else. The screams had stopped. He had a very bad feeling in his stomach and the hair at the back of his head felt prickly. Slowly, he felt his way through the dark nursery on bare feet. As he reached the door, he could hear people moving past, but he couldn't tell what they were saying. He crept into the hall, and the bad feeling got stronger. When he finally reached his mama's door, he heard a new noise, like choking. He peered around the door post and saw his mother with her head thrown back and her mouth open.
The lamps were bright enough that he could see her dark hair matted against her face. Her eyes were closed as if she was sleeping, but she was not breathing. He felt as if he was standing beside himself and he heard a voice explain, "Your mother is dead", though no one was there. A dark mass moving on the other side of the bed caught his eye. The noise was coming from there. After a few moments, Phileas realized that it was his Papa, who must have finally returned last night, lying with his head on Mama, sobbing. This frightened Phileas more than anything ever had in his short life. He had never seen his father - his big, strong father - the only one who could ride Big Black - cry. In panic, he fled back to the safety of the nursery.
+ + + + +
"Come on! Keep moving!" Everything had gone wrong. No, worse than wrong. It was a catastrophe. In hindsight now, the ambush had been carefully planned - not a matter of suspicious border guards or cover blown. No, these hussars knew them on sight, and struck without a single questioning word. They had been waiting for the brothers. Phileas was preoccupied with his own rage in the earliest moments. First, there was the loss of his hat. Shot right off his head and a very good hat at that. Then, there was the realization that they had been misled – betrayed even. Finally, cold terror gripped his heart when he heard Erasmus groan and saw the blood creep over his fingers. A wound in the gut was never good. There was a chance, if they could make it back to the surgeon's house, and the bullet had missed anything vital, he might yet be saved.
For some reason, he could hear his father's voice, "You'll have to help look after Erasmus, now that your mother is gone." He'd carefully followed that dictum for years, though Erasmus had never made it easy, especially after his cohort in crime, Rebecca, joined the family. Still, Phileas had prevailed, until now. He pulled his younger brother along through the snow. If he could move, maybe the wound wasn't bad. If he could move, there could be hope. Wood and bark exploded near Phileas's head. Another close shot. He dropped to a defensive posture, but Erasmus was too dazed to react. Phileas pulled him down into the snow, and his heart lurched again as his brother gave a strangled cry of pain.
"Stay down!" he barked. "You must stay down." He took aim, and squeezed off a shot, then another.
"Promise me something, Phileas." Erasmus's voice barely carried above the noise of the battle.
"What?" Phileas snapped. The middle of a battle was no place for conversation, though he immediately regretted allowing his anxiety to lash against his wounded brother.
"Promise me that no matter what happens, you'll take care of Rebecca." Erasmus had finally decided to ask for her hand, and he'd been practicing the entire trip. After years of on again, off again, he wanted to make their partnership permanent. Even Phileas had to admit that they went well together. They both had those peculiar light eyes, which seemed to appear sporadically through the generations of Foggs, and they shared a wild, reckless joy in life. Phileas often envied his brother's close, almost psychic communication with their cousin. A few whispers, a knowing smile and then they were off to who knows what mischief, often leaving Phileas to pick up after them. He'd done his best to keep them in line, and out of Papa's way, but it had been hard work. Now this. In spite of years of careful guarding, and many narrow misses, Erasmus was really hurt.
Phileas couldn't bear to think about the possibilities. "Rubbish," he snarled. "You're going to make it. You'll see her again yourself." He couldn't know that ten minutes later, his brother would be dead, and all he'd have for comfort was the cold reality of stone and ice.
"Don't fight me on this," Erasmus replied. "Just promise. For once, just promise."
"All right! I promise. For God's sake, keep down."
+ + + + +
When Easter term at Cambridge ended for Phileas, he didn't go home to Shillingworth Magna, but spent time with his friends following the races and the games. Erasmus got to play in a few for Eton, but went home directly after the last one. Phileas would have preferred to linger with friends at the spa in Buxton, but a letter from his father demanded his return. Henry Granville was getting married in London, and since his grandfather was the Duke of Norfolk, it was a particular honor to be invited to the wedding, according to Sir Boniface, anyway. Phileas expected that it would be a particular bore, but he'd been promised a visit to papa's club as compensation.
Erasmus met him with a gig at The Tontine in Glossup, where the coach nearest to Shillingworth Magna stopped. The town seemed to grow every year. Phileas estimated that there must be over three dozen mills along the river and streams outside of town. The only thing that seemed to grow as fast as the town was his younger brother. Erasmus may have grown another inch in the fortnight since last they met, or perhaps he was just standing taller. After stowing his trunk, Phileas climbed onto the seat beside Erasmus and pretended to study his face. "There's something different about you," Phileas said.
"I don't know what you mean," Erasmus replied with a smile that implied that maybe something was different. He clicked his tongue and snapped the reins. They started down the road.
Phileas grabbed his hat with one hand, and the board of the seat with the other. "Yes, there is." He looked closer. "Are you growing a beard?"
Erasmus laughed heartily. "You haven't noticed? I've been shaving for a while." He broke into a broad grin and shook his head, then deftly changed the topic. "How did it go with that girl?'
"What?" Phileas was finding it difficult to maintain his dignity (and his hat) at the pace Erasmus had set.
"You know, the one who was trying to catch your eye? At the game?" Phileas' cold glare told him that his older brother's flirtation had not been successful. He laughed again, and urged the horse even faster. They left the town behind, and entered the woods edging Shillingworth Magna. Once the entire valley had been forested, but now the trees were limited to the estates, the smaller landholders having cut their trees for fuel or replaced them with pasture or gardens. The Foggs had kept their woods, and they made an excellent buffer against the bustle of the town. In a few minutes, the noisy mills were only a memory. Phileas expected his brother to slow as the road twisted through the trees, but if anything, he drove the horse faster. Phileas bore it for several minutes before he decided to make a complaint.
"I say! I've managed to come from the spa relatively unsoiled, but this pace will quite ruin my new suit!"
The mad charioteer favored him with another winning smile and replied above the rattle of the gig, "You've become quite the Beau Brummel".
Phileas refused to take the bait. "A gentleman must always maintain appearances. You'd do well to learn that lesson." Erasmus had never taken his duties as seriously as Phileas, but then a second son's duties were lighter than a first born's. Still, he could dress a little better. He was already of an age when these things mattered. Another jolt loosed Phileas' grip, and it was only quick action that kept him from flying out of the gig. "Perhaps you're only trying to kill me? Hoping for the keys to the manor?" It was a joke between them, as Erasmus had made it clear that he was happy to be free of the responsibilities (and the scrutiny of their father) that Phileas endured. Erasmus only laughed again, enjoying his brother's discomfort. "Well, I'm tired of guessing. You'll just have to tell me what's gotten into you," Phileas finally admitted.
"It's not what, it's who," said Erasmus.
"Who? What on earth do you mean?" Phileas asked.
"I think I'm in love," the young man confessed.
"What?!" One final jolt persuaded Phileas to wrestle the reins from his brother. He pulled back and brought the gig to a stop. "Tell me you're not serious. You're far too young…" Phileas had an inkling of the kind of trouble that `love' could get a man in. Erasmus did not have enough experience to avoid unscrupulous seductresses. If he wasn't careful, the family might even be forced to pay support for unintended little Foggs.
"It's not what you think," Erasmus replied, insulted. Phileas always saw the worst in every situation.
"Tell me who it is," Phileas demanded.
This was even more satisfying than Erasmus could have planned. He really had the old stick-in-the-mud by the short hairs. "You'll just have to see," he teased, but repeated, "Really, Phil, it's not what you think," when he saw his older brother's sour look. He moved to take the reins back, but Phileas held them out of reach.
"I don't think so. Besides, I think the horse would prefer a slower pace." They were only a few minutes away from the house, but Phileas used every moment to interrogate his reckless sibling. Phileas asked him about every young woman whose name he could recall. At a certain point, he realized that Erasmus was enjoying his apprehension, so to tease him in return, he turned to ridiculous choices. "Cook. You're in love with Cook. Admit it! It was her kidney pie," he told him as they made their way from the stable toward the hall.
"Always the way to a man's heart, that kidney pie, but not this time."
They were just passing through the kitchen garden when Phileas spied a knot of serving women. There was one he didn't recognize. She stood a hand taller than Cook, who had always been one of the tallest women in Shillingworth at five feet. Perhaps she was some relation of Cook's, come to work at the house. One of the other women pointed the men out, and the tall woman turned and started towards them. It wasn't until she got within a few feet that Phileas recognized her – his own cousin, Rebecca. He never expected that she could have grown so much in less than a year, though her face was still very girlish, and her head seemed a little too large for her body. She wasn't especially pretty, but it was easy to tell that she would be in a few more years. On instinct, Phileas turned to watch Erasmus. It was not hard to see the emotion shining in his eyes. "Here's our Phileas, come home from school," Erasmus announced to her, though it was perfectly obvious who Phileas was, and just as obvious that Erasmus was only looking for something to say to her.
"Hello, Phileas," she said very gravely and shook his hand, apparently eager to demonstrate that some polish had been acquired at Madame Robley's Finishing School.
"Well hallo, Rebecca. You've grown so much I hardly recognized you." She blushed, and looked to Erasmus for reassurance.
The younger brother took her hand and put it on his arm. "Yes. Well. I'm sure that Phileas would like to freshen up after his trip. No doubt Papa also would like a few words with you." He began to lead Rebecca towards the berry bushes. "Are the currents ready yet?" Phileas heard him ask. As he crossed the threshold, Phileas allowed himself a smile over his brother's also very obvious jealousy. Well, it seemed an innocent enough flirtation.
+ + + + +
Phileas knew almost immediately that he was dreaming, but he couldn't wake. In his dream, it was storming outside, but it was always storming outside at home. The room he stood in reminded him of the study at Shillingworth Magna, but that didn't really matter to him. What mattered was the woman in his arms. She was warm and soft. He could feel the velvet of her gown under his hands, taste her sweet mouth against his. The pleasure was exquisite, for a moment, anyway. Then pleasure turned to horror as he felt cold hands close on his arm. "You bastard! You promised to take care of her, not take her for your own!" The winding sheet half covered him, but he knew it was Erasmus. He wanted to tell him that they'd never found his body, and there'd been no winding sheet, but the words died in his throat when he realized that the woman in his arms was his cousin, Rebecca. She wasn't clinging to him, but fighting against him, fighting to go to her true love. A shiver of self revulsion passed through as he looked down, saw her gown, torn and soiled and knew that he had done that, had forced his attentions on her and…
He finally startled awake, but he wasn't sure if he had left the dream on his own, or whether his companion had roused him from it. He felt her cool hand on his forehead and heard her whisper, "Hush, it's only a dream". It took him a few heartbeats before he could place his surroundings. The Countess de Neuilly… "Hush," she repeated. "You're safe. There's no one else here." How true, with her husband being in the city and the few servants in a different part of the chateau, they were effectively alone.
"I'm terribly sorry to disturb you. I don't usually have nightmares." He swallowed a few times to force his heart back into place.
"You were dreaming about a woman. Should I be jealous?" She was joking, of course. He never inquired into the details of her heart, and she never asked about his. "Perhaps you were dreaming about your beautiful kinswoman?" He stiffened at the accusation, and she hastened to apologize. "I'm sorry, cheri. You were talking in your sleep."
"I prefer not to discuss it." He rolled onto his side, away from her.
"I did not intend to distress you." She gently stroked his neck above his nightshirt. "If she inspires your dreams, perhaps you should consider saying something to her."
He laughed. "A woman encouraging me to pursue another? There's something I never thought to see."
"Well," she replied, "A flesh and blood rival I can face. However, I could never hope to defeat a phantom rival." In the dark, he could only imagine her shrug of admission.
"There might be some truth in that," he granted, "But she would never accept any suit from me. We were raised as brother and sister. I'm sure that her affection for me is only of the sisterly kind."
"Even so, affection changes over time. You'll never know if you don't ask her." Her fingers felt good on his neck, and he found himself drifting off again.
"Perhaps, but it's so much more complicated than that."
+ + + +
Phileas was a very good boy. He always did as he was told, and he always said his prayers. He had made a deal with God, and since he was so very good, he knew that God had to keep it. He always prayed that God would bring his Mama and sister back. He even dreamed about it sometimes, and it always seemed very real to him. His replacement sister would be frail and dark as he was, and he knew this because after they had laid Mama out in the parlour, and no one was around, he had lifted the wrappings to look at the baby. Baby had a tuft of black hair, just like his. He knew it was very fluffy, because he had touched it. The baby's face had been very cold and waxy looking. He only looked for a moment, but he would always remember the dark hair.
When he heard the maids talking about the child coming to live with them, he knew it must be his little sister, come down from heaven. The women said that she was a miracle, that she was left standing unscratched in the middle of all that destruction, just as solemn as you please, not crying a bit. It was a runaway cart, they said, and such a pity to lose both her parents in one blow, poor little angel. Phileas knew that it was his own little angel, the one for whom he spent five years praying. He even knew exactly how she would look, which is why he was completely unprepared for the little redhead who came out of the coach one morning.
Emerging from the carriage, she was obscured by his father's back, and disguised with a bonnet. The huge blue eyes were the first shock. Erasmus had bluish grey eyes, but it never occurred to Phileas that other Foggs might have blue or grey eyes too, since Mama's and Papa's were dark like his. Then there was that red hair. Phileas' angel sister had dark hair, and he knew since he had seen it, hadn't he? By the end of Rebecca's first month in the house, Phileas stood looking out over the lake, and told God in no uncertain terms, how very good he'd been, and how this little girl with her red hair and blue eyes and very bad manners was not at all suitable, and how Phileas expected Him to do something about it, or Else. But there wasn't any answer, and Phileas remembered how many times there had never been any answer and decided that maybe there wasn't really a God after all. There wasn't any answer to that thought, either. Instead, Erasmus and Rebecca had found him and persuaded him to come see the new farrow of piglets, and they had fed the old sow a shriveled apple. Phileas was happy enough to watch the little beasts, and found that it didn't make any difference in the shape of the world what he thought about God, angels or little girls. His opinion on that subject didn't change for many years after.
+ + + +
Danes, Austrians and Prussians. Fogg had already sacrificed too much to their ambition, and he didn't want to add Rebecca to his list of sacrifices, certainly not after the events of last year. The grief of losing Mrs. Brown was fresh enough, though he had ceased to see her face every time he closed his eyes. If he wanted to feel his heart twist within his chest, all he needed to do was recall the moment in the airship Aurora when she first lifted her dark eyes to meet his, and remember that her sure steady grace, her selflessness and her modesty, were now gone because of her association with him. No matter how he thought it through, Fogg found a way to blame himself. Count Gregory may have pulled the trigger, but Saratoga Brown would never have been a target if she hadn't met Phileas Fogg. He was determined that no one else should suffer by his or her association with him, especially since his last miscalculation left Rebecca clinging to the roof of Verne's garret. She had barely recovered from her leg injury when she fell again whilst scaling the cliffs at Professor Marachal's laboratory. Fogg couldn't decide whether this current assignment, a trivial matter of confirming the status of the fleets at Kiel, was out of compassion for her health, or a punishment for failing to secure the reanimation technology of Professor Marachal. Knowing Chatsworth's petty jealousy towards the Foggs, he was inclined to believe in the latter case, but Rebecca had rushed him off with her usual insouciant smile when he had suggested it to her. He only wished to put her on her guard, but she had replied "I am aware of your opinion of Sir Jonathan, Phileas."
He looked over the spread of cards on the table and wondered how many minutes had past since picking up the four of diamonds. Now more than ever he preferred the quiet of his own company, but tonight he found it difficult to concentrate. He sighed and pulled out his watch. Half past midnight. Rebecca was late. He finished off his claret in a swallow, but it did nothing to relieve the anxiety in his gut. He stood and threw the card down. "Passepartout," he called, "I'm going out".
Passepartout emerged from the galley just in time to watch Fogg pull out his old coat and hat. "Yes, master," he replied with a frown. He knew that the old coat wasn't for pleasure visits.
Though it was early summer, there was a breeze off the Baltic, and Fogg was glad for his coat. Earlier that breeze had won him a wager in a yacht race, ostensibly his reason for being in Kiel. Baron von List had not been particularly happy to lose that wager, but Fogg considered it just payment after enduring the Baron's lectures on Prussian duty towards Schleswig for most of the afternoon. He hurried towards the harbour and decided by instinct on a vantage point. At around 30,000 souls, the city was not a booming metropolis such as London where a stranger could be completely overlooked, but he could blend in here near the docks with the sailors, merchants and other travelers. After half an hour he spied a familiar figure limping towards him. He restrained himself from rushing to her side, and instead detached from the shadows at a more casual pace. "What's happened? Are you all right?" he asked when he reached her side.
"Oh, the mission went as expected. I simply slipped on a stone and twisted my foot on the way back." She looked up at him and forced a smile. "Hurts like the devil."
He put his arm around her waist. "Lean on me. It's not too much further." She nodded, grateful for the assistance and threaded her arm over his to press against his back. Neither spoke again until they reached the Aurora. Phileas eased his cousin into a chair, then bent to help unlace her boots.
"I can do that, you know," she told him, but then had to ask for help when it became too painful to turn her foot to pull the boot off. "Ah...Phileas?" He'd been watching for her request and had the boot and stocking off in a few moments, all the while smiling to himself. Rebecca would do anything to maintain her independence. She loathed relying on anyone else, including him. He winced when he first saw the bruise on his cousin's foot. The midstep down to the outer toe was mottled purple and yellow.
"Well," he said and took a breath. "This will surely swell if we don't do something." He thought for a moment. "Wait while I get something for it." He had in mind a warm Epson salts soak, but he needed Passepartout's assistance, as he had no idea where his valet might keep the necessary ingredients. A few minutes later Phileas returned followed by Passepartout with a basin. The valet, his nightcap slightly askew and padding along in his slippers, could barely keep his eyes open as he poured warm water into the china basin and mixed in the mineral salts. He gave a confused bow and started for the stairs. "Bandages?" his master called after him. Passepartout patted his chest, then reached into his pocket and extracted a roll of cloth. He shuffled over to his employer and held out the roll. "Thank you, Passepartout. That will be all." Passepartout nodded and shuffled back up the stairs.
They sat in silence, watching the foot soak for many minutes before Rebecca sighed and said, "All right. Why don't you just say it."
"Say what?" Phileas, enjoying the silence, wasn't thinking about anything in particular at that precise moment.
"You know. Your usual speech about politics and meddling?" Rebecca watched him out of the corner of her eye.
"Waste of breath," Phileas replied. "You've made it very clear that you enjoy meddling in other people's business." He shifted in his chair and met her eyes. "Of course I might have a stronger case for the joys of civilian life if my own were more tranquil, but then I blame you for most of the excitement." He raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips just enough to let her know that he was teasing her.
"Really?" she asked. "And where would you be if not sampling the pleasures of summer on the Baltic?"
"Someplace warmer, and farther away from Prussians and Danes," he answered. He had a letter from his friend Douglas in his pocket, inviting him to Egypt. He was intrigued by the request for help delivering some artifacts to a museum in New York.
"I hope I'm not keeping you from anything important." She wiggled her toes and sloshed the water in the basin.
"Oh no. I have plenty of time to deliver you back to Shillingworth Magna. It will be up to you to keep off that foot for a few days."
"I see," she said, in a way that indicated how unlikely it was that she would keep off the sore foot.
He doubted that she did see, that she could understand. He would dedicate his life to keeping her safe, if only she would let him. After several decades acquaintance, he knew that wasn't likely. He didn't speak any of these thoughts aloud. Instead what he said was, "If the water's gone cold, it's time to bandage the foot." Rebecca nodded, and held her foot out of the water. He bent and dabbed it gently with a linen towel, then wrapped it tightly with the bandage. "That's got it." He leaned back to admire his handiwork and tried to remember where he first learned to treat a bruised foot, but Rebecca was leaning on him again, and it was difficult to focus. Besides, it was two hours past the time he usually retired, and he was quite fatigued.
They made it up the stairs and to Rebecca's closet. He paused at her door. "Can you...?"
"Yes, I can manage." She paused, then gave him a quick buss on the cheek. "Thanks for your help. Really." She disappeared behind her door, and he slipped into his room. Drowsiness made it difficult to undo his buttons, but by the time he pulled on his nightshirt and laid against the pillow, he found he couldn't sleep. He was thinking about how warm her foot felt in his hand, even through the towel, and what she might have done if he had leaned forward and kissed it. Then he remembered a summer long past, and a girl with muddy feet - not an angel, just a little sister splashing after fish in a cold stream. Erasmus had tried to catch them with a dam of rocks, but Rebecca had been the one to sharpen sticks for spears. Phileas pressed his hand against his breastbone to ease the dull ache that followed this reminiscence. He tried to tell himself that it was dyspepsia, but after he sat up and took a sip of water, he found himself weeping.
"Rebecca is not Erasmus," he told himself. "She's alive. Stop this foolishness." He wiped two tears away, and lay back. He wished again for some way to keep her safe. As the eldest male in the family, he was technically her guardian, but he couldn't imagine asking Her Majesty to release Rebecca from Service and Rebecca, well Rebecca would simply shoot him if he did. And if he pursued the other option that would allow her his protection? She'd probably shoot him for suggesting that too. He smiled, and was relieved that both his heartache and urge to weep ebbed away. In the final moments before sleep took him, he considered that Rebecca might not require his protection. They'd been apart as often as together, ever since he first left for school. Perhaps the problem was that they'd been together too much of late, and he'd grown accustomed to her company. A trip to Egypt could be just the balm his tender feelings needed. Maybe he'd ask Verne along, too. Yes, a trip to some place sunny and warm might do the trick. "And if you were to follow the Countess's advice and speak to her?" he wondered. "What if her love is more than a sister's?" He paused, almost believing at the edge of dreaming that someone had whispered in his ear. "Loves me?" he replied, thinking how like a ploy from one of the Bard's comedies the Countess's words were. "Why, it must be requited, though Rebecca is a most unlikely Beatrice." He fell asleep with a smile on his face.