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The night Jack Robinson’s life changed started out much like any other. He and Phryne were sitting in Jack’s office, talking through the evidence in their most recent case, when Constable Collins knocked on the door.
“Yes, what is it Collins?” Jack’s voice was calm. He was leaning forward, elbows resting on the desk, and Phryne perched on the desk across from him, one leg on the floor. Both of them turned to look at Collins as he stuck his head in.
“Um, sir, you have a visitor?”
“Who is it?” Jack played with a pencil between his fingers, tilting his head at his constable.
“He says… he says he’s your son, sir,” Collins swallowed, and Jack’s fingers stopped momentarily.
“I…” Jack was nonplussed. “I don’t have a son, Collins.” But he stood and moved toward the door nonetheless. He heard Phryne rise behind him and felt her presence at his back as he stepped into the station lobby.
Standing in front of the lobby desk, a carpetbag at his side, was a boy of about thirteen. He had curly brown hair and bright blue eyes, and his nose and mouth were the same as Jack’s. His face was serious, and Jack thought he could see fear in the boy’s eyes. A man in a sailor’s uniform stood behind him, one hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Hello there,” Jack said, his voice gentle.
“’E doesn’t speak much Engleesh,” the sailor said, a French accent flavoring his tenor voice. “’E is looking—”
“Bonjour, monsieur,” the boy’s voice was deep and it wavered a little as he gazed at Jack. “Je suis Nicolas Jacques Berger. Ma mère était Amelie Berger.” Jack translated as quickly as he could: I am Nicolas Jacques Berger. My mother was Amelie Berger.
Jack staggered, placing his hand against the frame of his office doorway to keep from falling. He knew that his face must reflect his shock. He remembered Amelie—she had asked him for an hour of pleasure on Christmas Eve when he was deployed in France. He had betrayed his marriage vows to take comfort with her; that hour helped him weather the rest of the war with his sanity intact, but when he’d returned home, the guilt of it had been a part of the demise of his marriage.
His mouth dry, Jack drew in a breath. “Is your mother here?” At the boy’s blank look, Jack fumbled into French, a language he’d barely used since 1918. “Ah, est votre mère ici?” He braced himself for the boy’s answer, already knowing that if Amelie had been here, she would be standing beside the boy. And if she wasn’t, chances were that it was because she couldn’t be.
The boy shook his head. “Non, ma mère est morte. La grippe prit il ya quatre mois.” Jack lost the thread of the boy’s statement after “morte”—that was a word he knew all too well—but Phryne made a small noise of distress behind him. Jack closed his eyes a moment, remembering Amelie’s sweet smile. When he opened them, it was to glance helplessly over his shoulder at Phryne.
“Venez, Nicolas,” Phryne’s voice was quiet as she stepped aside to wave the boy into Jack’s office. “As-tu faim?” She had limited experience with boys his age, but what she did know was that they were almost always hungry. Nicolas glanced at her and nodded, then looked back at Jack, his eyes huge in his thin face.
“Please,” Jack said, his voice rough. “Come in and sit down.” He stood aside as well, tilting his head in a beckoning movement. As Nicolas passed, Jack stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
“Welcome—er, bienvenue,” he said gently. He turned back to the sailor. “And thank you, Mister…”
“Thibault,” the man supplied. He took his hat from his head and twisted it between his fingers. “Nicolas is a good boy. You are his father?”
“It is possible,” Jack said, swallowing hard. “I knew his mother during the war.”
“If ’e needs a place to stay, tell ’im zat I will take ’im on again.” Jack tilted his head at the man.
“And where would that be?” Jack’s question was pointed.
“I am ze first mate on ze Marchant; Nicolas came on in Rouen as a cabin boy. ’E is a good worker, and if ’e does not ’ave a ’ome wiz you…”
“Thank you, Monsieur Thibault. But if he is my son, he will have a home for as long as he wants one.” Jack’s voice was low, but definite. “If you’ll leave your contact information, though, I’ll make sure he gets it if he wants it.”
Thibault nodded and went to the desk, where Hugh handed him a pad of paper and a pencil. Jack turned to his office to find Phryne waiting in the doorway.
“Hugh,” she said, “if it’s all right with the inspector, could I trouble you to run out and purchase some meat pies for Nicolas?” She glanced at Jack, who nodded, then approached the desk to hand Collins a few coins. Turning back to Jack, she smiled softly at him as she preceded him into the office where Nicolas was sitting straight-backed in the visitor’s chair.
Jack blew out a breath before entering his office and drawing the door closed behind him. He began to walk around his desk, intending to sit in his chair, but halfway there, he thought better of it and turned to lean on the edge of the desk facing Nicolas. He looked the boy over, unsure of how to proceed.
Under his gaze, Nicolas’ already straight back stiffened more, and he raised his chin.
“C’est vrai,” he said, his voice slightly belligerent. “Je suis votre fils. Ma mère me l'a dit.” Jack looked helplessly at Phryne.
“He says that it is true, that he’s your son. His mother told him so.” She translated quietly.
Nicolas reached into the pocket of his threadbare jacket—all he wore to combat the chill of the winter evening—and withdrew a letter, worn with repeated reading. He held it out to Jack, who took it. Unfolding it, he stared uncomprehendingly at the French words written there. Phryne moved to read over his shoulder, aloud.
My darling Nicolas,
If you are reading this it is because I am gone. I am so sorry to leave you, my love. I hope that you are old enough to understand that I would never abandon you if I could avoid it. You are my world.
I am writing this letter just in case I never find the courage to tell you of your father. He was a good man, Nicolas, a soldier whose company was stationed outside of our village. He came to my door on Christmas Eve, after my husband was killed in the war. He and I comforted each other that night, and a miracle came out of it, though he never knew it. He was with me only that one night; by the time I knew that you were growing inside me, your father’s company had moved on and I had no way to contact him.
His name is Jack Robinson. He is not a large man, but he has a presence about him. You have his hair and his mouth, and perhaps one day, the angles of your face will be the same as his. Before the war, he was a policeman in Melbourne, Australia, and if you have need of him, you should travel there to find him. He had a wife, my love, so you might even have brothers and sisters—I know that he will welcome you.
Wherever you go, my darling boy, know that I will be watching over you from Heaven. I will be your guardian angel. Be good, be kind, be generous. All good things will come to you.
Je t’aime,
Maman
As Phryne read, Jack’s eyes strayed to Nicolas. The boy watched Jack’s face, struggling to keep his own face expressionless. Jack catalogued Nicolas’ features, noting the similarity in the shape of the boy’s face—the jawline that when he grew out of childhood would sharpen into a match to Jack’s, the shallowly dented chin, the pronounced bow in his upper lip. Jack let out a small, huffing laugh, raising his hand to the back of his neck.
“Je—” he cleared his throat and smiled, incredulous. “Je suis… ton père.”
The smile that bloomed on Nicolas’ face was blinding.
**********
With Phryne translating, Nicolas told Jack his story. He also devoured the three meat pies that Hugh brought him, eating neatly and speaking only when his mouth was empty.
Nicolas told Jack that he had lived with his mother in that same small house that Jack knew, helping her to tend the animals and the crops on their small farm and selling their excess at the village market. Jack got the impression that the people of the village deeply disapproved of the illegitimate child that Amelie had borne, and that they had shunned the both of them socially, though they were happy enough to buy their crops. Nicolas had attended the village school until his mother had died, four months before. At that point, he had sold the farm and all of its stock, keeping only a few personal items, and set out to find his father.
“I had no one in the village to turn to—none of them wanted me—so I decided to travel to Australia. I walked to Rouen and asked on the dock to see if any ships were coming to Melbourne. When I found one, I asked for work. The Marchant took me on as cabin boy, and brought me here.” Nicolas shrugged in that particularly Gallic way, as if this incredible journey was nothing more than a stroll down the lane.
“You are a very resourceful young man,” Jack said, wonderingly. “And how on earth did you find me once you got here?”
“Francois—Monsieur Thibault—helped me. He asked the dockmaster where the closest police station was, and went with me there. The policeman there knew your name and sent me here.” Nicolas’ deep voice cracked occasionally; Jack realized that it was still in the process of dropping. The boy had a dark fuzz across his upper lip as well—if Jack remembered his own youth, he’d bet that Nicolas would soon need to shave daily unless he wanted to grow that mustache out completely.
Jack noticed that Nicolas watched him closely as he talked. It might be that he was gauging the effect of his story on Jack’s sympathies, but Jack rather thought he watched the way that a starving man looked at food—as if he could draw it in with only his eyes. Jack imagined that, having been ridiculed for having no father his whole life, it must be rather surreal now to be sitting with him.
“And you, monsieur, my maman said that you had a wife—do I have brothers or sisters?” Phryne stumbled a little over this translation, her wide eyes flying to Jack’s face.
“Ah.” Jack shook his head, his eyes sad. “I am divorced, Nicolas, and my wife and I were never blessed with children.” He paused at the stunned look on Nicolas’ face. “That shocks you? That I am divorced?”
Nicolas nodded, his brows drawing together. “The church says that what God has joined together, no man shall put asunder,” he said. “Ma mére said that God understands more about men than men do about each other, though. That he would not have damned her for lying with you, nor for having me, even without marriage. So maybe he would not damn you for leaving your wife because you fell in love with another woman.” Jack and Phryne exchanged a glance at this, and Jack shook his head, then nodded, then shook it again.
“It’s not as simple as that, Nicolas,” he said on a sigh. “My relationship with Phryne began after my marriage ended. But yes, I like to think that God would understand my reasons.”
Nicolas shifted his gaze to Phryne, his brows furrowing. “So do you two live together, then?” Jack nodded, as did Phryne.
“We do, Nicolas,” Phryne said. “We have an adopted daughter, Jane, as well, so you have one new sibling to meet, if you’re willing. I hope you’ll come and stay with us.” She turned quickly to translate for Jack.
“Yes, please—will you come to stay?” Jack’s hand, which had been resting on his thigh, reached out as if to touch Nicolas, then dropped away. “I would very much like to get to know you.” He licked his lips, watching Nicolas’ face carefully. “You have a home with us for as long as you want it, and likely longer than that,” he smiled a little sheepishly. “We have a rather large chosen family, and I think they will all be thrilled to meet you.”
Nicolas had turned confused eyes back to Jack as he spoke. “Chosen family? I don’t understand.”
Jack grinned. “Well, some people have large blood families—brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins—we don’t have that,” he gestured between himself and Phryne, “so we’ve gathered people around us that we love, creating a family that we chose.”
Nicolas smiled a little, his mouth turning down at the corners before sneaking upward. Phryne rolled her lips together. The expression was exactly one that Jack made when he was trying to suppress a smile.
“I would like to meet your chosen family, monsieur. I hope that I can become a part of it.”
“Nicolas, you already are,” Jack said with a smile.
**********
Phryne called ahead to Wardlow to ask Mr Butler to ready the guest room for Nicolas; Jack went out to talk with Hugh and fill him in on the story, while Nicolas trailed behind him, unwilling to let Jack out of his sight. Gathering up his overcoat and hat, Jack picked up Nicolas’ carpetbag. Phryne smiled at the boy and beckoned him to follow her; when he looked back at Jack for confirmation, Jack nodded reassuringly. Nicolas’ reaction to Phryne’s Hispano-Suiza was reverent, and he stroked the car’s hood and fenders before climbing carefully into the back seat.
When Phryne took off at speed with only a shout of “Allons-y!” to warn him, Nicolas whooped with delight.
“Il est comme monter le vent!” He hooted, letting his head fall back and spreading his arms, riding the wind. Phryne and Jack exchanged a grin at his delight, and Phryne pressed the accelerator, speeding up even more.
She took the long way home, just to hear him laugh, whipping around corners and passing slower vehicles with aplomb. Jack laid a hand on her knee and didn’t tell her to slow down.
Arriving at Wardlow, Phryne and Jack hopped out of the car. Nicolas moved more slowly, his wide eyes on the house. Jack stopped a moment and looked too, remembering the tiny farmhouse where Amelie had lived. This must seem palatial.
“C’est beau, n’est pas? Cela est notre maison,” Jack hesitantly laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder as he climbed out of the car, “et le vôtre?” This is our house, and yours too? Damn his rusty French, Jack thought. He wasn’t sure that was right, but he wanted Nicolas to know that he had place here. The boy’s shy smile made it seem that perhaps he understood. With a squeeze of the hand on Nicolas’ shoulder, Jack smiled too, and tilted his head toward the house.
Mr Butler met them at the door with a smile and a string of French. Of course Mr B speaks French, Jack thought with a laugh. The man trained at le Cordon Bleu.
I need to look into some French lessons, Jack thought. If I want to be able to communicate with my son. My son. I have a son. He swallowed hard. He would get the boy settled and then he’d be able to think about it.
“Mr Butler, this is Nicolas,” Jack said as he shrugged off his overcoat and hat and hung them on a hook by the door. Nicolas, watching, did the same with his outer coat, revealing an even more threadbare homespun shirt beneath it. “He’ll be staying with us for a while.”
“Welcome, Master Nicolas,” he said in English. Jack couldn’t tell whether the boy understood more than his name, but Nicolas smiled at the older man. “Viens avec moi?” Nicolas looked back at Jack, who nodded and lifted the carpetbag to indicate the stairway.
Jack trailed behind Nicolas and Mr Butler as they headed up the stairs to the guest bedroom. The boy craned his neck this way and that, quietly taking the house in. Jack wondered whether he was always this quiet, or if he would open up more as he grew more comfortable. He remembered his own childhood—he had always been the type to stand back and watch, taking in any new situation fully before engaging. He still was, though with his rank, he’d learned to bypass that part of his nature if he needed to.
Nicolas face was astonished as they entered the guest room, which Phryne had redecorated when Jack moved in, making it more masculine than it had been, just in case he felt the need to be away from her at night. He’d only used it a few times, when she was traveling, and even then, he preferred their shared bed. The room was done in shades of blue and green, with hunter green tone-on-tone wallpaper above the stark white wainscoting. The bed situated against the outside wall was large and soft, and the deep blue duvet was accented with a mound of pillows covered in lighter blue sheeting. A comfortable armchair by the window was situated to take advantage of the light, its blue-and-green striping working to tie the room together. The floor was wood, but a huge Persian rug ran under the bed to cushion bare feet from the morning cold. There was a large closet at one end—oh, that was being used for Jack and Phryne’s overflow, they’d have to ask Mr B to move those clothes elsewhere—and a dresser and full-length mirror stood opposite the bed.
Mr Butler was demonstrating the room’s amenities, with Nicolas nodding seriously, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration. When the two of them headed out of the room so that Mr Butler could show Nicolas the location of the water closet, Jack stayed where he was, setting the carpetbag down, and just breathed. When Mr B came back, a wondering Nicolas in tow, Jack smiled.
“Mr B, my French is… not as good as I’d like. Would you help?” He said quietly. “And may I impose on you to show Nicolas around? I need a moment.”
“Of course, sir,” Mr Butler responded, and prepared to translate.
“Nicolas, I’m going to wash up for dinner. Mr Butler will take you around the house, and I’ll see you in a little while. I’m… I’m very glad that you’re here.” The last was spoken softly, and Jack held Nicolas’ eyes, smiling and hoping that his feelings would bypass the need for translation.
Nicolas smiled again, that small, shy smile. Jack thought that he could read warmth in the boy’s eyes too. Mr Butler noted that Nicolas’ small smile was almost a mirror image of Jack’s. There was no denying the resemblance between them.
“Je suis très heureux d'être ici, monsieur,” he said softly, and Jack almost didn’t need the softly translated “he is very glad to be here.”
**********
When Phryne opened the door to their bedroom, she found Jack seated on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. Moving swiftly to sit beside him, she wrapped her arms around him. He clutched at her almost desperately, and she realized that his shoulders were shaking. He buried his head in her neck, and she could feel the wetness of his tears.
“Shhhh, shhh, my darling, it will be all right,” she whispered, stroking his hair. She had known, when Mr Butler and Nicolas came into the kitchen where she’d been filling Jane and Dot in on the situtation, that Jack would have needed a moment alone. But a moment was all she was willing to give him, because he needed comfort more.
“God, Phryne,” his whisper was broken and muffled by her clothing, “I have a son. A son I never even knew existed. It never even occurred to me that I might have left Amelie pregnant. And if she hadn’t died, I might still not know about him.”
“But he’s here now, Jack,” she said softly. “And it doesn’t make you a terrible person to be glad of that, even if that means being glad that he had nowhere else to go.”
“What if…” she heard Jack’s hard swallow, felt him clench his arms around her. “What if he doesn’t want to stay?”
“I don’t think that’s likely, love. He seems very happy to be here,” she dropped a kiss on his temple. “And even if he does feel the need to go out into the world, you and I won’t let him let go of us completely. We are rather good at correspondence, remember?” Jack laughed a little against her, and she smiled.
“And Jack, I cannot imagine that any child would be upset to have you as his father,” her voice was soft, and his arms contracted around her again. “You have been a magnificent father to Jane; you will do the same for Nicolas.”
“And what about you, Phryne?” He said, lifting his head to meet her eyes. His face was wet, and she felt her heart contract. “Are you all right with taking in another child?”
“Well, given that I feel strongly about keeping you here with me, Jack, I’m sure that I will persevere.” Her smile was small and loving. Letting out a shuddering breath, Jack leaned in to rest his forehead against Phryne’s.
“What would I do without you?” he whispered.
“You will never have to find out,” she replied, and kissed him sweetly.
Shifting in his embrace, she laid her head on his shoulder as he mopped at his face with his handkerchief. They sat there quietly for a few minutes, supporting each other, their minds whirling with the day’s events. Suddenly, Jack stiffened.
“Oh god, Phryne. Rosie,” his voice was anguished. “I’ll need to tell her about Nicolas before she finds out from anyone else.”
“He was conceived while you were at war?” Phryne’s voice was understanding. “Does Rosie know about Amelie?” Jack shook his head.
“I never could tell her—I never told anyone,” he said softly. “It was part of the reason I couldn’t open up to Rosie after the war. She would have been devastated. She might still be.” He rubbed Phryne’s back. “God, I never wanted her to know.”
“She’s strong, Jack,” Phryne said. She had come to love Rosie. Once Rosie’s father and former fiance had been imprisoned for their crimes, and she’d found her own path in life, Jack’s ex-wife had blossomed. She was now a frequent visitor at Wardlow. “She’ll handle it.” She fell silent a moment. “Did Amelie know that you were married?” At Jack’s nod, she went on. “Maybe that’s why she never tried to contact you about Nicolas. She didn’t want to jeopardize that life?”
“It’s possible,” Jack said quietly. “Have I ever told you about Amelie?” Phryne shook her head. “She was a farmer living near where we were bivouacked on Christmas Eve of 1917. I took a group of men to the village to buy some supplies so that we might have a better Christmas dinner than the rations we’d been living on for the last few weeks.” Jack lifted his gaze to focus on the wall, or maybe on the past. “She was lonely—her husband had been killed in battle, and she was all alone. She asked me for an hour of pleasure. I tried to say no, told her that I was married, but the idea of that hour appealed to me too. It had been almost two years since I’d left home, and I was beginning to feel nothing at all. So I didn’t protest very much. We comforted each other for that hour, and when it was done, I walked away. I never saw her again.”
Phryne rubbed a hand against his chest. She hurt for him. Her views on the pleasures of the flesh were different from his, she knew, and Jack would have tortured himself over that hour of pleasure and comfort. She didn’t blame him—she’d seen the war too, and she firmly believed that however he’d managed to get through it with his sanity and his spirit intact had been worth the price. She couldn’t, in all honesty, regret that his marriage had crumbled. If it hadn’t, she wouldn’t have him in her life, and she would have been considerably poorer for the lack of him. He would still have been her dearest friend, she thought, and she believed that there was a good chance that they would still have loved each other, but they would never have been able to act on that love. Theirs could have been a terribly sad story instead of the joyous one they were living.
“I think that hour sort of… stopped me from the slow death I was going through,” he said quietly. “It helped me remember that there was good in the world as well as evil. So I tried not to regret it. I hope that Amelie felt the same. She would have suffered for carrying my child, and for raising him to know that he was a product of love, not hate.” He knew that there had been many women during the war who’d been raped by soldiers too far gone into madness. It would have been a simple story for Amelie to tell—that she’d fallen victim to one of those—but what would that story have done to her son? Jack could tell that Amelie had cherished Nicolas, and he hoped he’d get a chance to do the same.
“It sounds like I have plenty to be thankful to Amelie for,” she said softly. “If who you are today is in part due to her.” He smiled and leaned down to kiss her tenderly. They sat for a moment more, before they heard Mr Butler’s dinner bell ringing. Taking a deep breath, Jack gave Phryne one last squeeze and stood, pulling her up with him. It wouldn’t do to miss Nicolas’ first family dinner.
**********
The following day, Nicolas stayed at Wardlow, occupied by English lessons with Jane and Mr Butler. Nicolas had hit it off with their daughter almost immediately, and her revelation of having come to the family at about the same age Nicolas was now had seemed to allay some of the boy’s anxiety. Mr Butler had also pulled Jack aside to ask if it would be all right for him to order Nicolas some new clothing, as he had only one additional set, and both needed mending. Jack had thanked him and given him carte blanche—he knew that Mr Butler could be trusted to get Nicolas everything he’d need.
Dot had immediately taken to Nicolas, who’d met her eighteen-month-old son and charmed him completely. When they’d left to meet Hugh at home for dinner, she’d had to pry little Adam away. Today, she was “assisting” the English lessons by keeping Nicolas and his tutors supplied with sandwiches and snacks. In the tradition of teenage boys everywhere, Nicolas had proven to have a hollow leg, eating everything that had been put in front of him with gusto. When Jack had left, Nicolas was on his third plate of sandwiches and he’d learned enough English to say goodbye to his father in it.
Content that Nicolas was being well cared for, Jack found himself on the steps of Women’s Choice magazine, heading to see Rosie. The press surrounding the arrests of George Sanderson and Sidney Fletcher had been brutal on Rosie, with the exception of Women’s Choice, which had reported fairly and accurately, without speculating about whether Rosie had known about their crimes and hidden them. After all the hubbub had died down, Rosie had hit it off with Phryne, as he’d known she would. When Rosie had expressed her gratitude for the magazine’s balanced coverage and a wish that she could thank them for it, Phryne had offered to introduce her to Regina Charlesworth.
Rosie and Regina had bonded almost immediately, and Rosie now worked at the magazine, writing the advice column under the magazine’s pseudonym, along with a regular column on gardening tips. She loved it; said that it gave her a purpose and an independence that she’d been missing. She also said that being able to put together an occasional column that gave tips about the scientific cultivation of rare breeds that she’d learned from Jack was the icing on top of an already delicious cake. Regina encouraged her to stretch herself and her readers’ understanding of the word “gardening,” and was thrilled when she brought in some of the more complicated topics. Jack smiled at the thought that Rosie’s friendships with Regina and Phryne were helping her find her inner modern woman.
Knocking lightly on the door to the magazine’s main press room, Jack stuck his head in. Rosie was seated in the corner, her desk set at a ninety degree angle to Regina’s. The two women were alone in the room, and both looked up as he entered.
“Jack!” Rosie’s voice was delighted, and she rose to greet him with a kiss on the cheek. “What brings you down here?”
“Hello, Rosie, Regina,” he nodded at the older woman, then turned his attention back to his ex-wife. “I need to speak with you. Somewhere private, if we can manage it.”
Rosie’s face showed concern. “Is everything all right? Phryne and Jane are all right?” Rosie adored Jane—she’d taken on the role of a doting aunt to Jack and Phryne’s daughter.
Jack nodded, and smiled. “Yes, everyone’s fine. There’s just been an… unexpected development, and I want you to hear about it from me.”
“Let’s go down to Miss Lavender’s office,” Rosie said, glancing at Regina for permission. Though Miss Lavender had been dead for almost two years, her workspace had been kept intact. Since Regina said that she preferred to sit in the busy newsroom, Miss Lavender’s office was used as a general working area and conference room. And because her name was still on the door, they’d all taken to calling the room that.
Following behind Rosie, Jack tried for what felt like the thousandth time to prepare himself for Rosie’s reaction to this news. He’d rehearsed his opening remarks in his head twice when Rosie closed the door to the office behind him, but they all flew out of his head at her blurted question.
“Is Phryne pregnant?”
“What? No! Oh Rosie, no.” Jack moved to grasp her upper arms with his hands, smiling reassuringly down at her. Rosie had felt their inability to have children as keenly as Jack had, and he’d had no idea how much the possibility of his having a child with another woman had burdened her. He could see it on her face, though. She would do her best to be happy for him, but it would cut her to the bone. This news would not be better, but at least she wouldn’t have to watch the progression of the pregnancy. He drew her into a hug, and she let out a shuddering breath.
“I would be happy for you, Jack, you know that,” she said softly, her arms wrapping around his waist.
“I do know, but it would hurt all the same,” he responded just as quietly. “I’m honestly not sure that the news I’ve come to share today will hurt any less. I’m sorry, Rosie.”
Giving him a squeeze, she let go and turned to sit in one of the chairs that had been placed around the worktable. Jack followed, sitting beside her and turning to face her, his elbows on his knees.
“Tell me, Jack. Whatever it is, it can’t be worse than what I’m imagining right now.” Rosie’s voice was calm, but she gripped her hands together in her lap so hard the knuckles were white.
“All right. Let’s just rip the bandage off.” Jack sat up, rubbing his hands on his thighs. “I found out yesterday that I have a son, Rosie.” Her gasp was soft, and he hurried on. “His name is Nicolas, and he’s thirteen. There was… there was a woman, in France, on Christmas Eve 1917.” He reached out to cover her hands with his, but she pulled away, so he swallowed and continued. “It was one time, Rosie, and never again. There’s no excuse, I know, but it was Christmas Eve, and I was… I was dying inside, Rosie. I didn’t know the man that I had become, but after… after that… after we… I could see the good in the world again, even if I couldn’t quite reach it. I am so sorry, Rosie.” Jack closed his eyes, his hands falling back to his thighs.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Rosie’s voice was a strangled whisper, and when Jack looked at her, he could see that her eyes were red and full of tears. “When I asked you to find someone to be unfaithful with, why didn’t you tell me you already had? I could have forgiven it, Jack.”
“But I couldn’t forgive myself,” was his soft reply. “I cannot regret the hour I had with Amelie because without it, I would not have lasted through the war. I’m sure of it. But I hated that it would hurt you. I loved you so much, Rosie. You were all that was light and good and clean, and when I came home, I felt so… soiled.” He swallowed hard, his voice breaking on the words he’d never been able to say until now. “I tried to be the man you needed. I tried. But that man wasn’t there anymore.” He shook his head, his own eyes growing damp.
Rosie took a shuddering breath, wiping at her eyes. She closed her eyes for a moment and bit her lips. Jack had been unfaithful, yes. And he hadn’t told her, even when their marriage was in shambles. But if that one hour had given him the strength to make it through the war, she couldn’t truly regret it either. He was the best man she’d ever known, and she was so very glad he’d made it home. Opening her eyes, she looked at him, seeing the anguish on his face.
“I’m sorry that I couldn’t be the woman you needed, Jack. I tried, too.” She reached out to him this time. He turned his hand over so that he could clasp hers. “I am glad that you found Phryne. I wish that we could have healed each other, but seeing you with her makes me so happy. She’s brought you out of the darkness.” She reached her other hand up to cup his face. “You’re still not the Jack of before the war, but you’re closer to that man again.” He smiled at her, knowing that she was right.
Shaking herself a little, Rosie squeezed his hand and drew her hands away.
“So tell me about your son, Jack,” she said, and though her smile wobbled, it was sincere.
**********
Walking through the door of Wardlow that evening, Jack was exhausted. He had not gone into work, but his discussion with Rosie had taken far more out of him than he’d anticipated. He glanced into the parlor—empty—and then the dining room. No one there either. He shucked his overcoat and hat, then his suit jacket. Rolling up his sleeves as he walked through to the kitchen, he listened to Dot and Mr Butler’s quiet voices punctuated by Adam’s happy squeals. He was surprised, when he came to the door, that Nicolas wasn’t there with them.
“Good evening, sir,” Mr Butler said, his calm voice a balm for Jack’s nerves. “I believe you’ll find Master Nicolas out in the garden. He appears to have your penchant for growing things.” His smile was kind, and his eyes twinkled. That told Jack that Nicolas was all right better than any words could.
“Thank you, Mr Butler,” he said softly, and headed out to the garden.
The garden at Wardlow was not large. It wrapped around the house, though, giving a reasonable amount of space in the front and back, and a strip of arable land on the sides. In the year and a half that Jack had lived there, he’d worked on every part of the gardens, creating a meandering path that wound around the house and was interspersed with small alcoves furnished with benches. It was in one of those alcoves that he found Nicolas, and looking at the boy, Jack’s heart lurched. Nicolas was crying silently, his shoulders heaving. He was kneeling in front of a bench, his fingers delicately touching the trumpet of a daffodil. Jack abruptly remembered fields of wild daffodils in the area around Amelie’s farm—he’d planted these flowers without really understanding why, but he thought now that they were an homage to the time he’d spent in France. Those fields hadn’t withstood the boots of the many soldiers that had trampled them, but they had struggled on all the same. He imagined they bloomed again every year, even now.
Approaching quietly, he took a seat on the bench behind Nicolas and reached out to lay his hand on the boy’s shoulder. He felt the shudder go through Nicolas, and his head came up, his hands wiping at his face as he turned to Jack, his eyes red and wet.
“Nicolas?” Jack tried to put what he was feeling into his eyes. “Are you all right?”
“Ma mère aimait ces fleurs,” Nicolas’ voice was rough, clogged with tears. “Elle a dit qu'ils lui ont rappelé que toutes les choses vont dans un cercle, et que la vie recommencera.” At Jack’s bewildered look, he tried again. “Amelie,” he pressed his hands to his heart, “ces fleurs?” Jack nodded. His mother had loved daffodils. “There is… cercle?” And he touched the tips his fingers and thumbs together, forming a circle. Jack nodded again. A circle. “La vie recommencera,” and here, he gestured with his forefinger, around and around. Jack smiled again, sadly. Life begins again.
“I am sorry about your mother, Nicolas,” he said. “Er, je suis désolé… um, ta mère.” Jack sighed softly. “I am not sorry that you are here, though.” He met Nicolas’ eyes, hoping that the words he could not translate would be understood. “I hope that you will stay here forever. Um, rester pour toujours?” Nicolas’ eyes widened, and his eyes locked on Jack’s. “S'il vous plaît?” At the plea, Nicolas’ face crumpled into tears again, and he flung himself into Jack’s arms. Jack held him close, his own eyes damp, breathing in the smell of boy and earth and sweat. He rubbed Nicolas’ back as the boy sobbed into his shoulder.
“Rester, mon fils,” he said quietly into Nicolas’ ear. “Je t'aime déjà.” It was true. He loved Nicolas already.
**********
Six months later, Jack came home to a sort of joyful chaos. It was Christmas Eve, and Jane and Nicolas—his school friends had dubbed him “Nico,” and the name was starting to stick—were in the parlor, busily shaking their gifts to see if they could determine what was inside, while Adam tried to “help.” The little one knew how to open presents now, and keeping him away from the pile had obviously become a game. He shrieked with laughter when either Nicolas or Jane intercepted him; they made it fun, lifting him up off the floor before setting him down far from the tree, facing the door to the parlour. Adam would then whip around and make a beeline back for the presents, cackling madly.
Jack listened to Nico’s deep laughter offset by Jane’s giggle and Adam’s belly laugh, and his mouth widened in a grin. The last six months had not been easy on Nicolas, but he had persevered. They’d found a school that had a French-English program, so he could learn English while still pursuing his other studies. Knowing that he’d had only the local village school as an educational resource, Jack was pleasantly surprised when Nico proved to be an avid student. He enjoyed maths and literature, but his true love was science, particularly in the areas of agriculture. He was a farmer born, and he and Jack had bonded over the gardens at Wardlow. Nico read Rosie’s gardening columns avidly, and discussed them with her when she came over. He would even pull out Jack’s botany books, and he had figured out how to apply some of the principles in them to the more pedestrian crops they grew in the kitchen garden, resulting in impressive yields.
It had taken two months before Nico felt comfortable enough to show his temper, which was remarkably slow to ignite, but explosive when it did. All of them had learned some new French vocabulary the day that he’d first boiled over. Jack couldn’t remember now what had been the catalyst, but he did remember feeling some relief that Nicolas was coming to realize that he didn’t have to be perfectly behaved all the time to be welcome. Now, at fourteen, Nico was a typical teenage boy, by turns helpful and stubborn, sarcastic and sweet. He’d made friends at school, and Jack and Phryne had learned that having a group of boys at the house raised the energy level—and the noise level—in the household by far more than the number of people in it.
Jack stood in the doorway of the parlor, smiling as he watched his son—even now, it still struck him as miraculous that he had a part in creating this wondrous creature—play with his sister and cousin. Over the last few months, Jack had felt the burdens of the past slough away, his guilt and pain over his betrayal of Rosie replaced by the pride he felt when he looked at his boy. He had said before that he could not regret the time he spent with Nicolas’ mother, but regretting did not mean that it didn’t hurt him to know that he would break a vow to save himself. Now, though, knowing what had come out of it, he would not have changed a thing. Jack believed that whatever force there was in the universe—God or whatever you wanted to call it—had placed him at Amelie’s door on that particular night for the sole purpose of creating this child. To wish his vow unbroken would be to wish Nico out of existence, and Jack could not do that. And his newfound certainty had granted him a sense of peace that he hadn’t felt for almost fifteen years.
“Hallo, papa!” Nico shouted in his newly bass voice as he spied Jack watching, and Jack felt the flush of pleasure that the name always gave him. Jane called him papa now too, and he was amazed at how much he loved it.
“Hello Nico, hello Jane,” he said, his deep voice warm, laughter ringing in it. “And what on earth is going on in here?”
“Le petit monstre is trying to get the presents,” Nico said, scooping the baby up and blowing a raspberry on his chubby belly. Adam shrieked with laughter at this, and grabbed Nico’s thick, curly hair with both hands, wrapping himself around the boy’s head. When Nico set him down, Adam made a beeline for the presents again, only to be scooped up by a laughing Jane.
“Oh no you don’t, little monster!” She said, hugging him close and turning in a circle. “No presents for you until tomorrow!” She brought him over to Jack and, meeting her father’s eyes, tossed the baby to him over the last foot that separated them. Adam shrieked with laughter again, wrapping his arms around Jack’s neck as he was caught, his small body shaking with laughter.
Turning, Jack saw that Dot was approaching from the dining room doors, her bag slung over her shoulder. Adam saw her too, and he reached for her, his shout of “mumma!” loud in Jack’s ear. Laughing, Jack handed him over to his mother, rubbing his ear to stop its ringing.
“I’m afraid he’s a little worked up, Dot,” Jack said, smiling.
“That’s all right, he’ll sleep extra well tonight, won’t you poppet?” She nuzzled Adam’s neck and he placed a sloppy kiss on her cheek before beginning to fight to get down and head back to the fun. “Oh no, darling, we have to go home to see daddy,” she said, holding him securely in her arms. “Good night, inspector, Jane, Nicolas. Happy Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas, Dot!” Jane cried, coming over to hug her and kiss the baby on his plump cheek.
“Joyeux Noël, Dorothy,” Nico responded, following Jane’s example and coming to hug Dot. He kissed her on the cheek, and blew another quick raspberry into Adam’s neck before pulling away with a grin.
“Merry Christmas, Dot,” Jack said. “You’re coming back for dinner tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” she replied with a bright smile, and leaned over to kiss Jack’s cheek, blushing prettily as she did so.
After he closed the front door behind her, Jack turned to his children. Crossing over to them, he slung one arm over each one’s shoulder, hugging them close to his sides. The three of them stood that way for a few minutes, contentedly gazing at the lit Christmas tree. When Phryne came up behind them, tucking herself in around Nico, her hand on Jane’s at the small of Jack’s back, he sighed happily.
“This, right here,” he said softly, looking from Phryne’s face to Nicolas’, then to Jane’s, “this makes it all worthwhile.”
Phryne grinned up at him over Nico’s head. “You are getting sappy, darling.” Both Nico and Jane snickered, but neither moved away.
“Guilty as charged, love,” Jack said, planting a kiss on first Jane’s temple, then Nico’s, and raising his hand from Nico’s shoulder to stroke Phryne’s cheek. “And I’m not here to apologize.”