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Usually, when Passepartout was carrying out a heist, the voice in his head that questioned if he should was overridden by the clever voice explaining how he could. This imbalance had landed him into hot water countless times, but it was also what made him an accomplished thief. Tonight, though, the voice that questioned if he should would not shut its stupid mouth.
They had escaped the fuss at the Reform Club and retired to Chez Fogg, where they cleaned themselves up and dined lavishly, courtesy of the faithful Grayson and Phileas’ equally ancient cook. Passepartout had kept to his seat and let the dishes arrive at glacial speed, rather than jumping up to help, and over the course of the meal, the three of them had toasted their triumph via several bottles of top quality brandy.
Grayson retired for the night, and now, half an hour later, they were arrayed around the fireplace. Abigail was sprawled in one armchair, with her shoes kicked off. Her plait had come entirely undone, and bright curls framed her flushed cheeks. Phileas was, unbelievably, lying on the hearthrug like a schoolboy, head propped on one hand, watching the flames leap in the grate. His clothes were askew, and a stray lock of hair had fallen onto his brow. It was hard to believe that here was a middle-aged gentleman who only a few hours earlier had brutally bestowed a fortune upon the man who’d schemed to have him murdered.
The conversation—shared recollections of their journey, mutual teasing, and exciting possibilities for the future—wound down like a neglected pocket watch until the only sound in the room came from the dancing flames in the grate and the winter wind whistling through a crack somewhere over by the window. A grandfather clock in the hallway outside struck twelve.
Passepartout regarded his companions from his position in a second armchair, on the other side of the fire. In much the same way the three of them had acquired an extra day in their travels—by stealth, incrementally, four minutes at a time—so Passepartout’s heart had gradually opened itself to not one but two new objets d'affection. For all the good that such emotions could possibly do him; as his inner voice kept reminding him, he certainly must not act on them. Nonetheless, he was grateful to be here.
He ground out the stub of his cigar and smiled as honestly as he could. “Joyeux Noël, mes amis.”
“Merry Christmas, Passepartout.” Abigail’s smile was quietly luminous. “Merry Christmas, Mr Fogg.”
“Yes, Merry Christmas, both of you.” Phileas grinned up at Abigail, and Passepartout’s breath caught painfully at the warmth of it.
Eleven hours ago he had stood alone in the thronging Reform Club and seen them welcomed into the arms of waiting friends and family: Fix and Fogg, whom he had protected with his wits and his life, whom he wanted desperately, achingly to hold onto, and both of whom, he discovered in that terrible moment, were out of reach. He’d stood there, his heart swimming with loss as Fogg was celebrated by his peers and Abigail embraced her father. They had no more need of him—and so, like the coward he was, he’d fled.
He’d been so immersed in his self-pity that he was halfway down the street before he remembered he had nowhere to go. He halted in a gust of snowflakes, his lungs burning with cold, and scolded himself for a wastrel. Even if the adventure were over, there could still be one or two more precious moments, just the three of them. One or two more casual touches and shared smiles. It would be inexcusably negligent to toss aside the last delicious crumbs of the best meal of his life.
Slowly, he’d turned around. And that turning had led him here, to a renewed camaraderie, to the first trembling seconds of Christmas spent cosy before a fire, and to a new adventure already being planned. Here, with his favourite people and affection for both of them crowding his chest. Here, tormented by the realisation, acquired only that afternoon, that he desired them both in the most intimate sense possible. He gripped the armrests of his chair so he didn’t do anything idiotic.
He had no idea whether his passion would be welcomed, even if he dared offer it. One on her own had been a challenge; two was vastly more complicated. But if it was, it would inevitably bring them pain. Abigail’s father, Fogg’s friends and admirers—no right-thinking person would countenance a ménage à trois, particularly not with a partner who had Passepartout’s chequered past . Abigail and Phileas were both too respectable to fall so far. Not to mention that Phileas was even more of an innocent than Abigail, who at least saw the world with curious, unblinkered eyes.
As if in answer to that charge, Phileas spoke into the silence. “You know, Bellamy was very kind to me, once,” he said, quietly. “When we were young, I admitted I had something of a schoolboy crush on him—very awkwardly, I might add; I made a terrible hash of it, really—and he was a regular brick about it. Told me it was perfectly understandable, nothing to be ashamed of. I suppose he changed his mind about that later on.”
Abigail’s eyes widened as she registered the import of this. “But Estella! I mean, I thought you were—”
She stopped and glanced across at Passepartout, apparently expecting him to share her confusion.
“Oh, yes, Estella, of course,” Phileas said, in what was undoubtedly supposed to be a casual tone.
Passepartout shrugged at Abigail, but his pulse was picking up. Did she consider such affections between men repugnant? Then his whole line of thinking had been a mistake from the start.
“Well, it’s a rare chap who’s only loved one person in their life, though, isn’t it,” continued Phileas, “especially if that person turned you down. I think it would be rather a sad, dreary existence. What do you say, Jean?”
Phileas had called him Jean before, too, at the Reform Club, and then knelt to light Passepartout’s cigar. The memory made Passepartout’s throat ache, and hung his conscience out to dry like a damp rag. The others should know the truth of him, and here was a perfect opportunity for candour. There was, after all, no hope and therefore very little to lose.
“I agree.” He licked his lips and looked deliberately at his erstwhile employer. “But then, I’m French. I didn’t know such sentiments were common here in England.”
“Not common, no.” Phileas’ gaze was intent on him now, seeing him completely. “But certainly not unheard of.”
Abigail nudged her foot against Phileas’ knee. “I’m sorry Bellamy turned out to be such a cur, Mr Fogg. You deserved far better.”
“It just goes to show, though, doesn’t it? You can’t always tell. You have to see a person’s mettle tested before you can really know them.” Phileas sat up and folded his arms on his bent knees. “I wasn’t a great prize myself, back then. And if Bellamy hadn’t been who he is, I wouldn’t be here now with you two, so it’s turned out rather well, I think.”
He cast her a shy, sideways glance. He was still a confusing mixture of self-conscious and assured, reputable and matter-of-factly open-hearted. Travel had broadened his character, emphasising these contradictions, but a mere eighty days had not been enough to weather away his softer edges nor to cause him to entirely shuck off a lifetime of polite society’s expectations.
Nonetheless, Abigail clearly read intent into his look. “Oh,” she breathed, but nothing more. She sat completely motionless, her hands frozen in the process of picking at the edge of her thumbnail.
“I’m sorry,” Phileas said, quickly, and Passepartout wanted to intervene before he made a hash of this, too, but it wasn’t his place to smooth their path. He waited. Phileas cleared his throat. “Abigail, I want you to know, I never looked at my best friend’s daughter this way, not once. That would have been wholly out of line! But I suppose I feel my intrepid chronicler is a different sort of thing. You’ve been so strong and faithful, and damned courageous, and I’ve come to greatly admire—But I shouldn’t, should I? My sincerest apolo—”
She held up her hand to stop him and looked across. “What do you think, Passepartout? Lui aussi?”
Him too? The question slammed everything into focus and put the despondent should voice firmly in its place. Passepartout almost laughed out loud. He should have known she wouldn’t be scared off by unconventional attractions. She was grounded in her own good character, and she was offering Passepartout much more than a mere circumnavigation of the globe; she was offering the world. A shared decision, a partnership, a welcome. Even if he hadn’t been thinking along the same lines himself, the reckless gleam in her eyes—expectation, adventure, and not a speck of maidenly outrage—would have captured him.
It shouldn’t have, no doubt, but it was too enchanting a prospect. His should voice couldn’t hope to prevail.
He nodded. “Oui. C’est bon pour moi.”
Phileas was looking between them cautiously. Passepartout raised his eyebrows in challenge. Would world-famous English adventurer Phileas Fogg really take this step?
“What was that? You know I don’t speak French.” Phileas bit his lip. “No, wait. Before you say anything else, Jean, you must know it’s both of you. In fact, it only works if it’s both of you, you see that, don’t you?”
“Ah, oui?” A giddy elation was making Passepartout’s head spin. He was fairly sure it wasn’t just the brandy. “So your happiness depends on my participation, is that what you’re saying?”
Phileas clapped his hand to his forehead. “Oh, Passepartout, I’m sorry. I’m not the first fellow to make a—a pass at his valet, and I’ve always found the practice quite reprehensible. A man’s livelihood should never be reliant on that sort of thing.”
He looked suddenly wretched. Passepartout shouldn’t have enjoyed the sight, but he couldn’t deny it raised his spirits. He grinned. “Phileas, I have good news and bad—no, actually, they’re both good things. One—” He held up a finger. “—I’m no longer your valet.”
“Oh, no,” said Phileas, head bowed, the words muffled by his hand. “Aren’t you? Was it really that terrible an idea? I’ll take it back then. Just reconsider leaving, please, because I’ll be completely lost without you.”
“Shh,” advised Abigail, and signalled Passepartout to continue, which he did.
“You announced when you opened the second bottle of brandy that Abigail and I had earned our promotions to travelling companions.” As if it hadn’t already been obvious from the way Grayson accepted Passepartout’s presence with such equanimity. He held up a second finger. “More importantly, I must inform you, monsieur, that you are not the one here who is making the pass.”
Phileas’ hand fell away from his face, revealing a comical expression of despair mingled with hope. Passepartout gestured gallantly towards Abigail, who laughed.
A log in the fire shifted, sending up a whirl of sparks, and her expression sobered, perhaps thinking of a certain disgraced Englishwoman in the desert. The memory didn’t stop her, though. If anything, it spurred her on.
“Assuming I’m right in thinking we’re in agreement on this,” she said, softly, “then Passepartout is quite correct. We would like to extend an invitation, Mr Fogg. Phileas.”
Passepartout wanted very badly to kiss her. “I believe it’s unanimous,” he said, overriding the voice in his head. It immediately rallied to point out that the most precious and rare things should never be stolen, only given freely. “I wonder, though, would it still be unanimous if we hadn’t consumed so much brandy?”
Even as the question hung in the air, he resented himself for asking.
But Abigail just grinned. “Oh no, Phileas, we’ve made him nervous. You’re not going to run away, are you?”
For that last question, she looked Passepartout straight in the eye, and he had to suppress a wince. She knew him too well. But his brother had died only a few months ago for what he believed in. Life was short, and Passepartout believed in this. In love given, received and cherished. At that, his should voice was revealed for what it was—pure cowardice, at least on this matter. It suffered a fatal blow and died for good.
“No,” he said. “I’m not going to run.”
“I could never be deserving of either of you, but—well, I hope you know that I will try,” said Phileas, fervently, reaching out in both directions.
Passepartout took the offered hand, felt the warm, sure grip of it, and thought he might never let go.
Abigail mirrored him briefly, holding Phileas’ other hand in both of hers, but then she rose to her feet, a little unsteady from the liquor or the late hour. Passepartout beckoned with his free hand, and she came to him, letting Phileas’ hand slip free to caress his hair in passing. And then she was standing before Passepartout, beautiful and bold and brave. He spread his arm, inviting her into his lap.
Her eyes were dark in the firelight, and her lips parted, but she accepted the invitation readily, in a charade of polished English etiquette, sitting primly sideways—and then immediately ruined the effect by sliding her arm around his neck and snuggling against him. He gasped at the feel of her in his arms and nuzzled her neck, kissing the delicate skin there, making her shiver.
And then she drew his head up and met his mouth, a kiss like a song full of wonder and promise. He closed his eyes and sank into it for a long moment until she gently pulled away.
Phileas was still on the floor, still holding Passepartout’s hand, watching them intently, his cheeks flushed.
“Qu'est-ce que tu attends?” asked Passepartout, tugging him closer. “What are you waiting for?”
Phileas scrambled to his knees, clumsy in his haste—or maybe stiff from sitting on the floor at his age—and again, for a flash, Passepartout was reminded of the club, of Phileas saying his name and lighting his cigar. Perhaps Phileas thought of it too. “Jean. Abigail—”
He leaned in and kissed Abigail’s cheek, and she turned her head and returned the kiss, open-mouthed and eager, both of them so lovely Passepartout could have cried. She wrapped her arm around Phileas’ shoulder and urged him up, and before Passepartout had time to compose himself, he and Phileas Fogg were facing each other with Abigail tucked between them.
“Oh,” said Phileas, faintly. He brought Passepartout’s hand to his own cheek and pressed it there. “I—I shouldn’t—” He swallowed.
Ah, so he, too, was tormented by a should voice. A much more foolish one, since Phileas very obviously should. Passepartout would have to vanquish his doubts, and luckily, now Passepartout’s own conscience had been quieted, he could finally hear the clever voice explaining how he could—which was simple, really.
“I’ll be disappointed if you don’t,” he said. “Truly saddened.”
“So will I.” Abigail sounded content and not the slightest bit concerned.
A faint smile creased the corners of Phileas’ eyes. “Well, you know, I do hate to disappoint. And after all, it is Christmas.”
He bent forward, and Passepartout met him halfway. Together, they forged a smouldering, yearning kiss that tasted of brandy and hunger. Either Phileas had more experience than he’d let on, or he was a natural—Passepartout could happily pass days just like this. Then Abigail moved in his lap, and he nearly groaned aloud—these two, they’d be the death of him—and suddenly kissing wasn’t nearly enough.
He broke away, as breathless as if he’d raced around the world on foot to find them. “Mes amours.”
“Well, since it’s—” Phileas cleared his throat. “I mean, it’s getting rather late, isn’t it? Shall we, ah, retire?”
“To your chamber, perhaps?” suggested Abigail.
Phileas flushed and smiled. “I was hoping so. Jean?”
Every lonely corner of Passepartout’s heart was warmed and brightly lit, filled with eagerness. He tried to maintain a serious expression. “It strikes me that our next adventure just got a lot more adventurous.”
Abigail snickered and slid off his lap, and she and Phileas gave him a hand up, into an awkward but delightful three-way embrace.
“I think you’re right.” Abigail leaned against Passepartout’s shoulder, clutching Phileas by the lapel. “Even more extraordinary than the last. I predict very great things for us, my dears, and the best of them will be wholly unfit to print.”
END