Mon, February 06 2012
| TITLE: | Le Coeur de Jean |
|---|---|
| AUTHOR: | Marielle d'Ablis |
| CATEGORY/TYPE: | Romance |
| RATING/WARNINGS: | NC-17, Adult-Het |
| MAIN CHARACTERS: | Passepartout\OFC |
| DESCRIPTION: | Jean and Therese exchange Valentines. |
| STATUS: | Complete |
"A ma vie de coer entier.
~ a 15th Century poesy ring
Jean Passepartout hurried to answer the door of number seven...again. He received the latest pile of valentine missives with his usual smile and gave a coin to the boy for delivering them. After all, it was the Fourteenth of February and appropriately cold and damp for London in wintertime. He quickly shut the door, leaving the chill outside, and turned towards the main hall, thumbing through the Foggs' valentines.
He chuckled. Every year it happened. Miss Rebecca Fogg bet with his master, Mr. Phileas Fogg, as to who would be receiving the fewest valentines. The forfeit was always the same: a kiss and the loser conceded defeat with a kiss and the treat of dinner at the restaurant of the winner's choosing. Passepartout did not think that anyone really "lost" this wager. Given the opportunity to kiss Miss Rebecca or be kissed by her, the valet thought there could only be "winners." Dinner was merely a formality, although last year, Miss Rebecca had chosen to eat at a restaurant in Budapest.
It was one game that his master wished he were not so good at.
Why? Because every year, Miss Rebecca received fewer valentines than her very eligible and very rich cousin…and so, she won. It seemed that the ladies of London were not opposed to declaring their admiration for his master on Valentine's Day. In fact, some of the mothers of the ladies were not opposed to telling his master that very same thing.
Passepartout sifted them into their respective piles, laughing as he recalled last year's fiasco. His master had sent Miss Rebecca a dozen extra valentines under different names, in order to make her "lose" the bet. But Miss Rebecca simply asked Passepartout to inform Miss Edwina Middleton, who resided across the street, of the latest valentine count. When Passepartout did this, Miss Edwina had sent two valentines to his master for every one that Miss Rebecca received. Not only had his master lost the bet, but also he had lost it by the greatest margin ever.
Today, the two cousins would be gone all day, only to return tonight for Passepartout's scarlet-themed dinner of borscht, venison medallions with red pepper sauce, sautéed red cabbage with red onions and a dessert of blood oranges tossed with Madeira wine.
Then, the valentine count would begin.
Passepartout had just put the kettle on to boil when he heard another knock on the door. He set the teacup on the table and scurried to the front door. Opening it, Jean found a small boy standing there with a very solemn look on his face.
"May I help you, little boy?" the valet asked.
"Are you John Passtoot?" the boy asked seriously.
Jean smiled at the mispronunciation. This youth was after his own heart. "Yes, I am Jean Passepartout. How may I help you?"
"She said I was to give you…this." From behind his back, the boy produced a large heart-shaped box and handed it to the valet.
Passepartout stared at the gift in his hands. It was a wooden box carved in the shape of a heart, measuring about eight inches across. The outside was dabbed with subtle hues of pink, red, and gold paint, giving it an elegant though simple appearance. The entire box was coated with a clear matte lacquer, sealing the workmanship. It was tied closed with a plain white satin ribbon.
"Is there a card?" he asked the boy.
The boy shook his head negatively.
"You are sure that this is for me? Perhaps, this is meant for my master, Mr. Phileas Fogg?" he questioned.
"No," the boy shook his head again with certainty, "the lady in the cab said 'John Passtoot.'"
"What lady?" he asked the lad, barely noticing that his grip around the box had tightened to the point where his knuckles were white, in order to stop his hands from shaking.
The child pointed to a cab and Passepartout tore across the street without coat, hat or muffler to investigate the mysterious giver of this gift, the delivery boy following close on his heels. Passepartout rapped on the cab's door with a quick staccato as he pleaded for forgiveness of the intrusion.
"Excuse me, Madam? I am sorry to disturb you, however, I think you must have been mistaken in this deliveration. I have come to give you your heart back."
The door of the cab opened slowly and a woman's voice answered him with a hint of laughter in it, "I am afraid that once accepted, my heart is not easily returned, Monsieur."
Jean peered into the cab to find the caramel eyes of Therese Darché upon him. For a moment he could not speak as Therese admonished him for not wearing a coat in the bitter weather. The boy still stood beside Passepartout, peering in at Therese until she took a coin out of her bag and handed it to the child with her compliments. The young courier nodded and ran off down the street.
"Therese! How is that you…why did you not tell me? You are supposed to be in Paris! Is everything all right?" he sputtered when he finally found his voice.
"Yes. Everything is fine. I had the chance to visit London. That is all. It happened only very recently. You will probably receive my letter tomorrow." She smiled at him and Passepartout smiled back at her so broadly that he was convinced his grin must have connected his ears.
He glanced over at the house and asked, "Can you come in, Therese? My master, he is gone out with Miss Rebecca. They will not return until the evening meal."
A shadow darkened her features as she hesitated, "It may not be wise, Jean. I…I would not wish for you to do something improper because I am here."
"You speak nonsense. I have just put the kettle on. Come in, I can always say that we were discussing a new order of truffles." Jean reached inside the cab and offered her his hand as she descended to the street. He led her directly to the front of Number Seven and was about to ascend the first stair when she backed away. Jean turned, giving her a quizzical look, but Therese only said, "There is a back door, yes? I would not wish to be mistaken for something that I am not."
He nodded. She was right. London was not Paris and Number Seven was not Therese's chocolate shop. He would have had more presence of mind, were he not totally overwhelmed by the fact that she was there at all.
The couple entered from the back of the house. Jean ushered her into the kitchen, where he helped her off with her coat and hat. He was just drawing out the chair for her when the doorbell rang again.
Therese gave Jean a slightly panicked look, but he waved it off, saying that it was only another delivery. From sheer habit he picked up his valentine, propping it up on a side table. The shift in contents caused the heart to roll slightly, until it finally rested behind a vase, but Jean failed to notice this as he walked back to towards the kitchen. He returned to Therese and found that she had prepared the pot and the tea was steeping.
He paused in the doorway for a moment, watching her in silence. Her back was turned to him as she searched the cupboard for sugar. Jean smiled as he felt his heart expanding in his chest. Therese had no way of knowing the delight he felt in seeing her here - in his world.
Paris might as well be a million miles from London when winter set in; his master was reluctant to risk the Aurora to unkind winds and turbulent storms. Jules would return to London by more traditional modes of transportation next week. Passepartout would not be surprised if they did not return to Paris until sometime in late March, meaning that he would not have the opportunity to buy his master truffles at Therese Darché's chocolate shop again until that time.
"So, where is the baby?" he asked, going into the cabinet nearest to the door and handing her the sugar bowl.
"Baby? You realize that Rose will be two in a few months, Jean. She is a baby no longer. She is with my cousin, Renata, whom I am visiting. Renata says that she sees nothing of Emile in her."
He nodded in agreement. Even though he had never met Therese's deceased husband, their child, Rose, was the very image of her mother.
"Ah, so you did not come all this way just for Passepartout?" he pulled out her chair to let her sit.
"I came because…" she hesitated, as if choosing her words with particular care. "I was invited. I only thought that I might drop off some special truffles for you, since I am in London anyway." Her voice remained formal, but Passepartout saw the smile that pulled at her lips.
"Ahhh. Tea and truffles. Is a good pairing, yes?"
"I have always thought so," she succumbed to the grin.
"Many things go well together, Therese." Passepartout found himself reluctant to move from his position behind her chair. The pleasure of seeing her, of being in her presence, of having the slightest possibility of touching and tasting her, claimed the breath from his body. He swayed ever so slightly enjoying the wave of happiness that showed itself as giddiness.
Therese elicited a very visceral response from him, both emotionally and physically. He could manage the emotional part - in theory, at least. He would simply tell himself that he was in his master's house, among his master's things. He would say this silently and repeatedly until he could control the overwhelming urge to lay Therese down upon his master's table in his master's kitchen and kiss her very well.
The physical response was…harder. Literally. He had not seen her since before Christmas and this was the Fourteenth of February! It was no wonder that he found it suddenly difficult to concentrate when he was close to her. The ghost of his master's voice did nothing to dissuade the throbbing ache between his legs. It was time to think…
The rational side of Passepartout's brain spun into mental calisthenics as it calculated the number of hours before his master would return divided by the projected number of valentine deliveries that would occur during that time. Subtracting from that, the total time required for today's meal preparation and cooking, and Passepartout realized that he was probably already five hours behind schedule; he had simply failed to notice it.
On the other hand, the distinctly louder, irrational side of his brain did not care. The calisthenics that it was screaming for had nothing whatsoever to do with mathematics. Therese was here. Now. He wanted to enjoy this sweet blessing.
He noted her subtle movements in the lamplight: the quickening rise and fall of her bosom when he drew nearer, the way that she gripped the teacup a bit tighter than was necessary. She shifted slightly in her chair, her back resting against his hand. Feeling the ripple of desire swell into a tidal wave as it passed between them, Passepartout considered the logical outcome. Phileas Fogg, the master, would be furious with him. But Phileas Fogg, the man, might understand in a few hundred years.
He weighed the options: his master's wrath versus love with Therese. Passepartout had suffered Fogg's wrath before; that was a given in the natural course of any day. But making love to Therese here... His decision did not take long.
Jean leaned over and whispered into her ear in a low voice, barely brushing her lobe with his lips as he did, "Certain things can no longer bare to be parted." He nuzzled the back of her neck, just below where she had drawn her dark hair up into combs and watched as the first shiver of anticipation passed through her.
"Jean, I am not sure that this is wise…"
He traced her neck with his fingertips, following the curve over her shoulders and down her arms. Jean leaned over her, close enough to feel the silk of her hair against his cheek and to smell the faint scent of chocolate that always clung to her. He gently brushed her inner arms, continuing lower to Therese's wrists and finally her hands, where he helped her to replace the teacup upon the saucer before pulling her chair out. He raised her to her feet and spoke in a low voice, "To do otherwise, would be foolhardly."
They stood facing each other - waiting. It was simple desire, a small declaration of self in two lives given freely to others.
Jean watched her with pride. He had no doubt that she had traveled all this way to see him. It was a bold gesture on her part involving time, expense and courage; Jean found himself profoundly flattered by it. But then, he was always flattered by Therese's attention.
Over the past year, the lovers had grown comfortable in their relationship, finding a balance between the whims of Phileas Fogg and the demands of Therese's motherhood and her business. Jean would visit her when he was in Paris under the pretense of obtaining truffles. She would give him truffles for his master, with the requirement that he return to visit her. Together, they tested each other's stamina, indulged other's creativity, and sometimes, they even made truffles - all, with deliriously happy results.
So having her here in London was truly a miracle, and miracles were not to be casually dismissed. He reached out and took her hand. Jean turned it over and drew his index finger across her palm and up the inside of her forearm, before pulling her in closer to deliver a first, gentle kiss to her lips.
Her lips parted for him, offering no resistance as he slipped his tongue between them, enjoying the sweetness of her mouth and the faint taste of chocolate. Therese exuded chocolate; its scent emanated from her very pores. He no longer dared to taste the confection in public, for to him, Therese and chocolate had become inseparable in his mind.
He relaxed as he felt her body accept his embrace, his arms pulling her in tighter. The kiss deepened, the fullness of his lips covering hers before shifting to a gentle suck. Jean pulled back and looked into her brown eyes. They had turned almost hazel as her pupils grew large and the flush in her cheeks heightened to a delicate rose.
She followed him silently as he led her to his bedroom, leaving the kitchen, the teacups, and the forsaken tea to grow cold.
His bedroom was sparse. Jean's workshop was cozier than this room was, since the only time he ever spent here was to sleep. He actually preferred cooking in the kitchen or puttering in the workshop to being here. This place was for rest, and rest was a very small part of Passepartout's day. Two years of employment by Fogg had afforded him precious little sleep, now that he thought about it.
Jean ushered his guest inside, quietly closing the door behind them. Therese hesitated as if suddenly aware of the intimacy of their surroundings. He hastened to reassure her by pulling her towards him again, trailing feathery kisses along her brow.
"I should not be here. This was a mistake. It was only that I…"
He silenced her with lips that claimed hers possessively; she became quiet and still as he reached for the combs in her hair. Pulling them free with a gentle hand, Jean released her dark silk from its bondage and delighted in entwining his fingers with the soft strands. He unbuttoned top of her blouse, exposing her neck as his tongue dipped into its well at its base. She murmured soft encouragement.
Jean's valet duties required him to be quick and efficient in all things. His master's mercurial moods had tested Passepartout in many ways. It was only logical that one of the challenges that he had conquered was dressing and disrobing at an accelerated pace. Jean had shed his clothes in a heartbeat while Therese was still on the third button of her blouse.
Unfortunately, part of his brain was still counting the minutes, even though his eyes were filled with the sight of her beauty. He bit the inside of his cheek to silence the thoughts, determined not to rush Therese as she stopped undressing to trail her fingers over his shoulders, down his smooth chest and against his well defined torso.
"Que t'es beau, Jean. Pardone moi, je pouvais pas t'oublier," she whispered to him.
He smiled at her words as she reacquainted herself with his body, and he expertly finished opening her blouse. Jean then began unlacing her corset with deft fingers as Therese cooed her delight to him. She leaned in closer, brushing his neck with fine nibbles. Her touch was light as feather, but seared him with awakening desire.
He caught her about the waist as he tore the corset free, pulling her into him as her abdomen pillowed his stiffened manhood. There was so much of her to know and explore and so little time. Jean led her to his bed, kissing her as he did, slowly easing her down upon the mattress as he slid off her pantalettes and dropped them to the floor.
That was when he heard the knock on the front door.
Therese stiffened, her eyes widening in concern, and Jean momentarily froze at the sound. He was naked, and becoming presentable again would have posed no problem - except for his current state of "anticipation."
Therese slid off the bed to retrieve her pantalettes. "I really should leave," she said a bit nervously, as if her mind was suddenly changed by the intrusion of the outside world into their private interlude. "As I said, this…was not wise. I can wait until you return to Paris."
"No!" Passepartout shouted a bit louder than he had intended. "I cannot, Therese. Please! The door will take only the fewest of moments." He wondered if he sounded half as desperate for her as he felt at this minute.
"But Jean," she motioned to his obvious discomfort, "you cannot function this way."
"For you, Therese, I can be functous. My only concern is that I am now able to open doors without the use of these." He waved his hands at her, but glanced down at his fully erect member. Therese covered her mouth with her hand to suppress the giggles that percolated out of her. She left her clothing alone and returned to his bed to wait.
Jean gave her a quick smile as he pulled on his pants, belting them only loosely, to minimize his discomfort. He donned a sweater, then his white workshop coat.
He buttoned two buttons and turned for her inspection. "There! You see? Whoever is at the door will be thinking that Passepartout was experimenting in his workshop! And they would only be halfway wrong!" His eyebrows wiggled up and down at the innuendo.
Therese managed to nod. Her laughter followed Passepartout down the hallway as he attempted to transform his hunched waddle into a semi-erect walk.
He returned five minutes later, considerably straighter in posture. "There is no warmness outside. I collected more valentines for my master and Miss Rebecca. But, when the door opened and frezid wind went 'wooshy'…well…" He glanced down at his crotch before giving her a defeated look.
Therese raised an eyebrow, "Oh. Yes. That is a problem." She curled a finger at him, which he promptly heeded. Discarding his clothing as he approached, Therese flung her arms wide in a welcoming embrace, as Jean pounced upon the bed, laughing.
He kissed her quickly, barely able to decide which part of her to delight in first, but Therese stopped him. She sat up in the bed, legs bent and parted, exposing her woman's nest to him. He reached up to pull her down, but Therese shook her head negatively and quietly commanded, "Come up to me, my sweet. You can recline after I have left."
He gave her a curious look, but did as she requested, sitting up opposite her with his legs bent in a kneeling position. Therese came closer, reaching down to his resting staff and gently massaging his manhood. With one hand, she brushed beneath his sensitive sacks, following the underside of his rod before encouraging its unfurling with a tender tug. With her other hand, Therese caressed herself, drawing her fingers across her lips, over the well at the base of her neck down to the mocha and nipple of her left breast - teasing him to arousal.
This was a very different Therese and he wondered how long his woman had planned this "valentine" to him. Two months? Two months of passion slowly simmering within her? He shivered at the thought. No wonder she was so very warm to the touch and so sweet to the taste. Jean did not want to wait. He went to pull her closer, but Therese tucked her legs up under her and backed away. She leaned over towards him just close enough to bestow a tantalizing kiss before she bowed, lowering her lips to his shaft.
He luxuriated in the sensations, but feared that if she did anymore, he would climax without her. He pulled her toward him so that they again were knee-to-knee and face-to-face.
"Therese," he whispered, his voice suddenly hoarse for wanting her. He drew his fingertips lightly across the tips of her breast and watched as her nipples peaked hard beneath his soft strokes.
She shivered and he slid his hands around to her back, following its arch and curve down to the dimple above her buttocks. He slowly lifted her up, pulling Therese onto his lap, but she stopped him, drawing a gentle finger along his cheek.
"Jean, I have done some…reading. In a foreign book. Meant…for lovers."
His eyes widened, "You, Therese?"
She drew her brows into a scowl and smacked him playfully on the arm. "Yes, me! You told me you read all the time for your experiments! Do you think it is wrong for me to do the same?"
"Wrong? No! I think it is wonderful! But, we do not have much time and I am not sure that…"
Therese kissed him and he felt the incredible warmth of her lips upon his and how perfectly they matched his in firmness and pressure. Therese was as welcoming as the sight of home after a long journey and as intoxicating as the first taste of May wine.
Passepartout's eyes darkened to ebony as he nodded. "If you lead, Therese. I will devotedly follow."
She smiled, throwing her arms around him, and whispered, "Thank you, mon cher."
"I am the one who is thank…FUL!" he gasped as her moist folds caressed his tip, inviting his entrance. Therese slid herself down slowly upon his erect member as Jean let go of a low, feral groan. He nuzzled the hollow behind her ear and she tilted her hips in towards him. His hands skimmed the sides of her breasts, finding her waist and pulling her closer. They joined together in fiery passion above and below; Jean felt himself sinking deeper into her.
Slowly, Therese leaned back, reclining while she was still impaled on him. The shift in her position made Jean gasp in surprise. He leaned forward, but Therese placed one foot upon his chest, sliding it up towards his chin, holding him erect.
"My God, Therese!" was all that he could manage to say.
His mind could no longer hold any other thought than that of filling her; his body screamed to do so. Her hips were angled towards him on the wedge of his thighs and Jean found that all he needed to do was lift himself from resting upon his feet to push further inside of her. He heard her gasp at his first thrust, her toes curling around his chin.
Therese kept one foot braced against him, so Passepartout gave one toe a tentative nibble while stroking her inner thighs with the palms of his hands. Bodies now locked, he pierced her with his rhythm and Therese answered him with shudders of delight between ragged breaths.
The muscles in his shoulders were stretched tight like a bowstring poised to deliver its arrow. He heaved himself into her with a great thrust, straining every fiber of his being to mingle with hers. She arched beneath him becoming both chalice and pillow to his essence. He released his soul and flooded her body, collapsing on top of her with an exhausted cry and waited for his senses to stop swimming.
Jean reluctantly disengaged from her and reclined, turning and pulling her into the shelter of his side. He relished her warmth and her sweetness as two months of tension seeped out of him. He enjoyed being like this with her, cocooned in the afterglow of lovemaking and deliciously weary. He kissed the crown of her head and murmured, "That was in a book? Then you deserve a library…like the one of Alexandria. I will build it for you someday."
"Of course you will." She smiled at the thought.
"No, really." He relaxed with his eyes closed. Jean could almost believe that he was lying on a warm, sunny beach - content with the world. "It will have shelves that can move," he continued, full of languor. "So that you do not need to climb to find the one you search for, they will come to you. I will make it so that the books do not collect the dust. Perhaps…the books could clean themselves somehow." Jean mulled over the possibilities and smiled.
"I doubt that I would need anything so grand as what you describe. I have simple tastes. A plain bookcase would do."
"I am thinking…no," he replied, stifling a yawn.
Therese nestled closer, but did not look at him. Instead, she kept her eyes fixed upon the ceiling, concentrating on a slight buckle in the plaster. After awhile, she began, "You have a large imagination, Jean. It is how you are. I truly believe that you could not think small, even if you chose to do so. That is why I wanted to see this house. I wanted to see your life here…to see this other side. I…I have seen so very little of you lately."
"I am sorry, Therese."
"It is not your fault." Her voice was soft and soothing, lulling him into a complete state of tranquility - his chest rising and falling rhythmically as his breathing became deeper.
"I understood your responsibilities and devotion from the very beginning. And certainly neither of us has lied to the other. It is only that…sometimes, I wish…" Her voice drifted off for a moment and she sighed. "We never speak of certain things. Things that, perhaps, should be spoken of…at least once in a lifetime. I missed you. Today is St. Valentine's Day and I wanted to tell you, if only this once…that I love you. I love you very much, Jean Auguste Passepartout."
Therese waited, amazed by her own forwardness. She was not a meek woman, but she was very guarded in some things - her heart, especially. It was only after a minute of silence that Therese dared to look at her lover, only to find him sound asleep.
She smiled at the irony as she gently moved his arm and slid out from its comforting shelter. "And so I have told you - even if you were not awake to hear it." Therese slipped out of the bed and began to dress in silence.
She finished her task and quietly left the room, closing the door gently behind her. Retracing her steps back to the kitchen, she picked up her coat, gloves and hat. Therese was about to leave, when instead she placed the articles down again, entered the hallway and ventured to the left.
She crept silently, mouse-like even though she knew that Jean was asleep and the rest of the house was empty. It was foolish thing, she knew, but Therese wanted to see his home. One quick peek and she would slip out and be gone.
Pushing open a door, Therese found Passepartout's workshop. Her hand involuntarily covered her mouth as she entered a large room, which was flooded with light and covered with every sort of odd and end that one could imagine. Wires and ropes. Strings and pulleys. Wheels. Tubing. Glass beakers. It was fascinating! Therese did not even know what many of the items were for, but - it was spotlessly clean and masterfully organized.
"This is what you do?" she spoke in a hushed tone, reluctant to disturb even the air. "So many things, Jean…and your master, he gave this all to you. You did not exaggerate his generosity."
She remembered his words, "I have but to ask and it appears." He had told her this, but she had not believed. Now she could. It was a wizard's den. Her eyes were wide with awe, and she could well imagine him here - lost for hours on end, inventing some wonderful device. She took one long, last look around the before leaving the sanctuary, then turned and made her way down the hall.
It took Therese more than a moment to work up the courage to pass through the felt-covered door--the boundary between service and the quality it served. Before, she had always scoffed at the division. But in this house, among these things, it seemed a very real barrier, not just some imagining in her head. For though the masters paid for her wares and the servants delivered them, never had Therese had the opportunity to see the destination of her truffles, nor had she cared - until now.
She pushed the door open.
Therese was not sure whether to expect the opulence of a palace or the simplicity of a monastic cell. Jean's descriptions always left much room for interpretation. What she found was an ordinary gentleman's study--or rather, a study furnished for the extraordinary gentleman. There were many bookshelves, full of books and dotted here and there with small statues. She stepped inside to take a closer look at a marble nymph. The work was like nothing she had ever seen, so lifelike that she could not stop her hand from touching it and confirming that it did not, in fact, breathe. Even being ignorant of art, she knew the piece was very valuable. Next to the nymph was a sketch in a carved wooden frame. It showed a peculiar machine, its function unimaginable to her. Scrawled words at the top of the sketch proclaimed it to be "The Doodle" and it was signed "Jules".
That was the name of the man Jean had told her was his employer's closest friend. The one he said was a law student at the Sorbonne. Therese was skeptical of this. In her world, rich aristocrats did not befriend bougeoise students on a whim. Yet the paper of the sketch looked ordinary enough. Perhaps, then, everything that Jean had told her was true and not the product of his vast imagination and wishful thinking. If so... if so... how could anything compare to this life? What could she offer him?
Therese found herself swallowing hard and thanking God for the blessing of Jean's slumber. He had not heard her words; she would not know what to do, if he had. One thing was for certain - she would never look at him in quite the same way again.
She was still standing there, mesmerized by the elegance of her surroundings, when a loud knock issued from the front door. Jarred from her private thoughts, Therese jumped at the sound. Surely Jean would awaken, and then how could she explain being here in his master's study? A sudden wave of panic washed over her and her first instinct was to flee. But if she did that, she might actually meet him in the hallway as he dashed to the front while she tried to sneak out the back. And she was not sure that meeting Jean was such a good idea right now. Not after seeing all this.
The only solution would be to answer the door. Jean had said there were valentine deliveries today. She could accept them on his behalf and he could remain sleeping! She would be doing him a service as well as saving herself from embarrassment.
Struggling to control her trembling hands, Therese moved to the front door and opened it.
"Oui?" She shook her head and started again in halting English. "Yes? I may…help you, Monsieur?" she did not recognize the voice issuing from her throat.
A jovial deliveryman stood before her, grinning broadly. To Therese, his voice boomed far too loud and the English he spoke sounded far too hard and blunt in her ears.
"Afternoon, miss! Delivery for Mr. Phileas Fogg!" He smiled and held a bag filled with letters out to her.
Therese glanced down in disbelief at the sack brimming with valentines. She said uncertainly, "All? Pour Monsieur Fogg?"
"Yes, m'um. All. Your master is a might popular with the ladies, I'd say."
"Oui…yes. Merci."
He tipped his hat and she was about to close the door when another voice chimed in, "Hold on missy! No sense in shuttin' the door ta open it agin." A second deliveryman had now joined the first.
"Y..yes?"
"Delivery for Miss Rebecca Fogg." He held out a bag of valentines of equal weight and girth to the first she had accepted.
"Mon Deui," was all she could manage.
"Aw, it's all right, m'um. Can't be too many more. The day's almost over," the first man said encouragingly.
Therese nodded, dug into her own pocket and handed them each a coin before closing the front door. She dragged the bags over to the hallway side table. Barely breathing for fear that Jean would emerge at any moment from the servant's area, Therese tried desperately to slow her racing pulse. Her eyes fell upon the two piles of valentines that were already arranged and waiting for their recipients. They would be difficult to ignore - beautiful cards and boxes covered in satin and silk, some with decoupage cupids or embossed with gold leaf. Others were decorated with tiny pearls. Pearls! On cards!
Suddenly, Therese felt more than inadequate; she felt stupid and crass and the entire house seemed to mock her. The overwhelming claustrophobia made her desperate to leave. She would take back her heart, if only she knew where Jean had placed it! Fighting back the lump in her throat, Therese rose, stumbled back to the kitchen to retrieve her things, and raced out the back door - never daring to look back.
Jean Passepartout stirred from his decadent dream. Stretching as usual, he unconsciously reached for Therese beside him. It was very good of her to let him close his eyes for a moment. It almost made him want to drift off again…
His hand roamed the bed searching for her warmth, but all it encountered were cold sheets. Passepartout's eyes flew open, instantly wide and alert. "Therese?" he said uneasily.
Silence.
"Therese?" he repeated, only this time, a little bit louder.
Still, no answer.
He sprang out of bed, fumbled for his waistcoat and pulled out his pocket watch. "Merde!" he swore. Late! It was late! The dinner! Therese! Rushing into his clothes, he admonished himself for sleeping and swore he would never sleep again, especially if God saw fit to help him with the dinner.
He dashed into the kitchen while still buttoning up his waistcoat. No Therese. No dinner. He smacked his hand against the table. What to do first?
"Therese?" he called again, but recognized that she was gone. He would make it up to her. Next time. But first, he needed a meal.
For the next two hours, Passepartout ran around the kitchen like a man possessed, but in the end, he had succeeded in once again doing the impossible: the valet had managed to prepare and cook a scarlet-themed dinner for his master and master's cousin. It was not the exact menu that he had planned earlier. The borscht had become beet sauce for the venison. The red cabbage had become a slaw with carrots and blood oranges. The Madeira was left for dessert. True, it was not was not what Passepartout had intended, but it would do. Knowing his master and Miss Rebecca, they would not be as famished for food as they were for valentines.
Hearing the cab pull up in front of the house, Passepartout raced to open the door and watched as Rebecca and Phileas Fogg entered in high spirits.
"You really should prepare yourself for dinner in Kiev, Phileas. I feel an overwhelming urge for Russian cuisine." Rebecca teased as she handed Passepartout her coat.
"You seem extremely sure of yourself, cousin. Enlisted poor Miss Middleton again, have you?"
Rebecca laughed, "No. She begged off this year. It seems her hand is now permanently crooked. You are safe from her on that count."
Phileas' eyebrow lifted in speculation, but he said nothing.
Dinner passed without incident; Phileas wrinkled his long, elegant nose only once during Passepartout's motley meal. He genuinely smiled, though, at the Madeira as the cousins retired into Phileas' study for the card count.
Passepartout saw his master and Miss Rebecca settled before leaving the room to fetch the valentines. He reappeared moments later with the teacart laden with cards of every imaginable shape and size - some were gold, many pink, but most were red. A number of them were attached to lace doilies and someone had actually sent a stuffed red cardinal clutching a card in its claws. Passepartout wheeled in the holiday treasure with an enormous smile.
"Happy Valentine's Day!" he exclaimed.
"Well, it certainly looks like it! Heavens, Passepartout, next year we shall have to get you a wheelbarrow!" Rebecca laughed. "Are all of those for us?"
Passepartout shook his head, "No, Miss Rebecca. All of this is for you=! Master's is still in the hall."
Rebecca's mouth dropped open slightly in shock, but she recovered quickly and immediately turned to Phileas, who feigned innocence.
"I do not believe this!" Rebecca said aghast as Passepartout began piling the valentines on the table next to her. "Phileas!"
"Seems as though you are rather popular this year, Rebecca." He seemed to take an enormous interest in his Madeira as he spoke.
Rebecca immediately began thumbing through the cards as Passepartout left to retrieve his master's share. "From your Secret Admirer…your Secret Admirer…your Secret Admirer! Phileas! Most of these do not even contain names!!"
"I suppose that is why your admirer is 'secret'," he replied, the smallest of smiles pulling at the corner of his lips. "Let me guess. Chatsworth sent you the stuffed bird?"
"It doesn't say." Rebecca stated between gritted teeth.
"How…unfortunate."
Passepartout returned a second time with an overflowing teacart. "For you=, master!" he shouted.
It was now Phileas' turn to be stunned as Passepartout steered the overloaded cart to his master's desk and began to shovel them before Fogg.
"Passepartout…are you certain that all of these are mine?" he asked pointedly.
The valet shook his head. "I veridified them all, master. For you, they all say."
Rebecca's spirit recovered considerably as she watched Fogg's scowl deepen with each handful of cards placed before him. "Phileas, you are too humble. How very kind of the ladies of London to remind you of your…availability." Her eyes danced at his dilemma.
Fogg was pensive as he picked up the first valentine. "'From your Secret Admirer.' Wonderful," he said flatly.
"I am thinking master, that you might let me build a bigger mantel for you - so that you can dismay these cards!"
Bursting into peal of laughter, Rebecca's impish grin matched her mood, "Oh, yes Passepartout, I believe that he is quite dismayed at all these sentiments. Indeed."
After glares and giggles were exchanged, the cousins set down to the task of opening their respective mounds of missives. Phileas opened each valentine in his calm, methodical manner, separating the cards into piles: those that were signed and those that were anonymous. At times, he would issue a noncommittal "mmm" as he read the name of the sender, but a few actually elicited a small smile from him. Rebecca, however, tore into her cards with joyful abandon, issuing a running commentary to her cousin on each card and its sender.
When she was finished, Rebecca waited patiently, her hands folded primly on her lap until Phileas had completed reviewing the last of his valentines. Then, she questioned, "Well?"
Phileas looked up and replied evenly, "Ladies before gentlemen, dear cousin."
"As you wish - one hundred and twenty-three. You?"
Fogg's eyes narrowed momentarily before they crinkled at his smile, "I believe we have…a tie." The corners of his mouth pulled up into a satisfied smile showing the brilliant white of his teeth.
Rebecca popped out of her seat, incredulous. The swish of her crinolines did not disguise her determined march as she exclaimed, "That is not possible!"
"I admit - it is improbable, but it is not impossible, for it has occurred. I am afraid that this year there is no winner."
"No!" She pivoted on her heels and stalked over to Passepartout. "I do not doubt your efficiency, Passepartout, but are you absolutely certain that all of the valentines are here?"
Though, he had done nothing wrong, the valet suddenly found himself perspiring under Rebecca's scrutiny. He swiveled his gaze between the pair. "That is all. Truly!" he insisted.
Rebecca leveled her eyes at Passepartout, just for a heartbeat for emphasis and then nodded before turning slowly towards her cousin. "Then there is no harm in my double checking…just in case?"
"For heavens sake! If Passepartout has said that is all there is, than that is all there is! The man does not lie - even for me!"
"That goes without saying. But there is the possibility that one might have become misplaced. There were an unusually large number that were delivered."
Fogg released a long, slow sigh. "If you must," he relented. Passepartout went to follow her, but Fogg stopped him with a slight lift of a finger.
"Thank you." Rebecca headed into the hall to search for an elusive valentine.
The floor was spotless, although she lifted the edge of hallway rug just in case one had somehow managed to slip beneath it during the journey from the door to the side table. No such luck. There was not even a speck of dust, let alone a valentine. She scanned the framed mirror that stood just above the table. It was possible that one might have become lodged there. She shifted the mirror slightly, but again was disappointed. Rebecca had turned towards the study when a bit of gold winked at her from behind a vase. It just caught the corner of her eye as she turned past the service area door. She walked over, reached around the vase to and found it: a box in the shape of a heart! Obviously, an errant valentine. Rebecca picked it up and walked triumphantly back into the study.
"AHA!" she said producing the box with a flourish. "I knew there had to be one more. A tie indeed!" She thrust the box at her cousin, who blithely ignored the insinuation.
He turned to Passepartout and asked simply, "Is this mine?"
Passepartout's knees buckled as he watched Miss Rebecca holding his valentine from Therese. The color drained from his face. He felt weak as she offered the heart to his master. Why did he not take it to his room? How could he be so careless? Passepartout could not deny his heart, but to claim it would require an explanation - something he would rather avoid. His dark eyes widened perceptibly as he swallowed hard and shook his head with a vigorous "no."
Phileas shifted in his chair and addressed his cousin, "There. This does not belong to me; I believe dinner in Trieste is now in order. The valentine is yours."
Studying the top of the box, Rebecca pursed her lips in thought. "No. I disagree. This gift definitely has a woman's touch. It is understated in comparison to some of the others, but was decorated with great care, nonetheless. Quite charming. Whoever she is, this lady holds you in high regard. You shouldn't deny her…perhaps the card has been misplaced?"
Fogg sat unmoved by Rebecca's observations. "If this were mine, Passepartout would have delivered it to me. It is yours."
"No. Even without a name, this was definitely not meant for me. Passepartout, for whom was this intended?" she turned towards him seeking enlightenment.
The valet found himself beset by two sets of eyes, one blue and one green, expectantly awaiting resolution. Feeling guiltier than he had ever felt during confession, Passepartout blurted out, "It's mine! This one is mine! It was delivered here to me this afternoon while you both were out. This heart…is mine."
His outburst was met with stunned silence. Passepartout's palms were sweating as he slowly extended his hand towards Rebecca to receive the valentine. Her face softened into genuine fondness as she passed the box over to him.
"I am sorry, Passepartout. I should have guessed. I meant no insult to you or…" She cocked her head as she read the underside of the heart, which was now facing her. "Renata?"
Fogg pushed back his chair and stood, "At least we know that Passepartout's admirer is not 'secret.'"
"Not at all. For Passepartout was given not only a name, but an address."
The valet only now realized that Therese had never told him where she was staying - only that it was with her cousin. Passepartout flipped over the heart and there, adhered to the bottom of the heart, was a paper with Renata's full name as well as an address. When he brushed his hand across it, the paper detached. It had not purposely been placed there, but had somehow become stuck; Passepartout was very grateful that it had.
Looking up at Rebecca, his eyes shined with delight as he gushed, "Thank you! Thank you so much! I…I might not have noticed. Thank you, Miss Rebecca!"
"Not a problem, I assure you. Let it never be said that Rebecca Fogg stood in opposition to Cupid. So," she said turning to her cousin. "You realize what this means, Phileas?"
Fogg shot his valet a quizzical look, raising an eyebrow in silent speculation, but remained focused upon Rebecca. "Indeed, I do not."
Rebecca favored both of them with an angelic smile, "It means not only that you and I are tied, but that Passepartout has won the bet!"
"What? Passepartout is not part of our wager." Fogg barked.
"No, Miss Rebecca. I have won no thing."
"Why, of course you have! And if I may remind you, cousin, the precise wording of the wager was not limited to you and me. I believe that it was 'whoever within the house receives the fewest valentines' is proclaimed the winner. It is true that previously, Passepartout could be excluded, based on his not receiving any valentines. That, however, has now changed. He must be included, for he has received one. A very pretty one."
With that, Rebecca walked over to Passepartout and kissed him gently on the cheek. "There. Congratulations Passepartout! You are this year's winner." She whispered in his ear, "Do not forget to select a dinner destination."
Passepartout felt his cheeks flush scarlet at the brush of Rebecca's lips. He clutched the heart close to his breast and stared at his shoes uncomfortably until she retreated. He looked up slowly to find his master considering him.
"Master, it is of no importance - this wager. Passepartout did not even know he was having involvity."
"That may be, Passepartout, but it does not change the fact that Rebecca is correct in this instance. The wording of the agreement was such that the wager now includes you since you have received…that." He indicated the heart.
"So then," Fogg continued, "how shall this be arranged? I believe the choice of city is now yours. Any preferences?"
"Dinner? With you? Master, I cannot be going to dinner with you and Miss Rebecca! I am your valet! I…I am appreciating this offer, but I must decline. Please."
"You know, Passepartout doesn't have to have dinner with ''us=. He might have dinner with…someone else," Rebecca's eyes sparked with delight at this idea. "Passepartout could pick his escort and destination and you could pay for it!"
"You seem to be rather free with my money."
"Yes, well…" She considered a moment before continuing, "I suppose that you might kiss him and I might pay." Her mouth drew up into a wickedly mischievous smile.
"Point taken," Fogg answered flatly as he turned to his valet. "What is your destination?"
"Destination, master?"
"Heavens Phileas! Isn't it obvious? London, of course!"
Passepartout looked confused. "It is?"
"Yes," Rebecca continued, pressing her advantage. "And he will require the entire day off. Tomorrow should do nicely."
"I will?" The valet stood astonished at his own boldness in asking for such a thing.
Rebecca nodded to him. "Yes, I believe that 'Renata' would be thrilled by your invitation, wouldn't she?"
Suddenly, Passepartout understood and began nodding vigorously. "Oh! Yes! She would! Would that be possible, Master?" he asked Fogg.
"Ah, finally someone recalls that I am in the room. Since when does dinner encompass an entire day? I don't suppose you would allow Passepartout to answer that, Rebecca?"
Rebecca walked over to her cousin and placed a gentle hand on his arm. "Phileas, if he is already at his destination, it is only fair that you allow Passepartout the time. If he chose Trieste instead, for instance, it would take us an entire day to journey there. Not to mention the expense of preparing the Aurora for the trip and…"
"Very well, Rebecca! Has Verne lent you his law books? I surrender. Passepartout may have tomorrow off and dinner with his valentine with my blessing! Are you satisfied?"
She reached up and kissed his cheek. "Thank you Phileas." Then whispered, "From your 'secret admirer.'"
Fogg broke into a satisfied smile. "You are quite welcome…from yours."
The next day was clear and bright as Passepartout paused before crossing the street to his destination. The unimposing walk up looked quaint, but despite it's welcoming façade, he was nervous, and with good reason. Passepartout was being presumptuous, since he was neither expected nor invited to this house. He kicked himself silently for not sending word ahead, but yesterday's events combined with working in his shop most of the night had left him exhausted. It was only now, as he stood upon the threshold, that Passepartout realized he had no idea of what to say to this cousin of Therese and he was even less confident about his words to his lover. He had come to give her his heart - a token of his admiration and much, much more…
Last night, in the quiet of his workshop, Jean had opened Therese's gift to him. To receive truffles from a woman whose business were truffles did not seem extraordinary… unless you were witness to her creations. The box was filled with her confections; each chocolate was molded into the shape of a heart then decorated with a yellow sugared rose petal. These were then painstakingly painted with delicate stripes of ganache. Even the buttons had been dotted on. Therese had filled her heart…with him - sweet hearts in valet waistcoats. He was moved to tears by the sight as he sat staring at her gift, unable to sample even one.
Taking a deep breath, he tugged on the red silk waistcoat, smoothed his jacket and briskly strode across the street. He knocked with a confidence that he did not really feel and waited - hoping against hope that the first person he would encounter would be Therese.
A young woman of about eighteen with blonde hair and lively blue eyes greeted him. They stood the same height, though her slender frame, gave her the illusion of being taller. A perky smile lit her face and she asked in a heavy French accent, "May I help you, sir?"
"Excuse me, Madam, but I am looking for Therese Darché. I was told she is staying here with her cousin, Renata Laniér. Is this so? I would be greatly indebted to you if I could speak to Therese. I…I am Jean Passepartout."
Nothing could have prepared him for the woman's reaction. She flushed a pretty shade of pink as her eyes popped open wide in recognition of his name. He voice stumbled over her words as they fought to get out.
"You…you are Jean? Jean Passepartout? Oh! Oh! Oh! Forgive me! I have forgotten my manners. Please, come in! Come in, Monsieur Passepartout. Therese is my cousin; I am Renata Laniér."
He was hustled inside and escorted to a cozy sitting room as Renata bubbled, "We were not expecting visitors; Therese never mentioned that you might…oh!" Her hand flew to mouth, trying to hide the shock at her own faux pas. "What am I thinking? Would you care for some tea, Monsieur? It would not take very long. I don't mind making it. I don't mind at all, though I am hardly as competent as you. I would be very honored…"
Jean thought the young woman would burst at any moment. She chatted excitedly at him in French, becoming louder and more animated as she spoke. And the more animated she became, the more he longed to speak to Therese who was gentler in both manner and voice than her enthusiastic cousin. He found himself having to talk louder just to reclaim the woman's attention from her babblings.
"I do not wish to trouble you, Madam. Perhaps, if you could tell me if Therese was still here or not?"
Renata broke into a fit of girlish giggles. "Oh, yes! I am sorry. It is only that I cannot believe that Monsieur Passepartout is here! In my little house! Please, make yourself comfortable and I shall go and get Therese. I cannot believe that you are here!"
She turned and began to run out of the room before she caught herself and walked with a feigned composure out the door, shutting it behind her. Passepartout could hear her calling, "Cousin! Cousin! Come quickly! Your valet is here! Therese!"
Jean chuckled. Renata treated him more like Phileas Fogg than Passepartout. He wondered what precisely Therese had told this young woman about him to inspire such overwhelming admiration. He could only imagine.
Jean turned when he heard the door opening, breaking into a brilliant grin. As he whispered "Therese," she appeared before him as if conjured by his incantation. Unlike her cousin, Therese was a small, dark woman with cocoa hair and cognac colored eyes. Upon seeing her, he immediately relaxed.
"You are here," she said quietly, hovering nervously near the door. "Renata has gone to make tea, although I told her you could not stay."
She did not venture any further into the room and her stiff posture communicated formality. Jean recognized her rigidity and moved towards her.
"But, I can stay." Reaching out, he squeezed Therese's hand tenderly, hoping to coax a smile.
"Really?" a wrinkle of confusion crossed her brow as she withdrew her hand from his, retreating a step. "Then, my cousin will be pleased." Passepartout wondered if Therese was pleased at seeing him, she certainly was not acting so.
"Your cousin is sweet woman…"
"Please, do not judge her too harshly. She is very young, newly married, and possesses a very romantic nature."
He laughed. "Perhaps then, it runs in the family. You were the romantic one yesterday." The gentle tease was meant to lighten her mood.
"Yesterday was Valentine's Day," Therese explained matter-of-factly. "I had an excuse. Today, I have none, so I am doomed to practicality once again. I should tell Renata to hurry with the tea so that you do not keep your master waiting. Excuse me." She turned to leave, but Jean captured her hand again, ending her flight. Therese remained facing the door even as he drew closer. He could feel the slight tremble as she struggled to control herself.
"Why do you run from me, Therese? I am in no hurry. However long it takes your cousin to make the tea will be fine. In fact, the unfaster she is, the happier I am." He did not know the reason for her reticence, but relied on an instinct honed during his circus days: gentleness and a soothing voice. Horses spooked easily when they were unused to an acrobat performing upon their back, but he had won over the most timid of the herd using this strategy. Passepartout was unsure of why Therese was now spooked, but she too had responded favorably to his tenderness in the past.
He continued speaking softly, standing so close now that he could easily embrace her. "I am sorry about slumbering yesterday. It is very rude to ignore company even if you are not awake. I was hoping to make amendments for my restivity. And I wanted to give you…this."
He had slowly walked around her so that he now blocked the path to the door. Her eyes glistened with tears, but Passepartout would not let her bolt. He would rather hold her until he understood this new fear she had. He offered her a small box.
"Please take it. It is a day late, I know. For that, I apologize."
She took the box silently, opening it with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. He watched her swallow hard as she lifted out the silver chain with a two inch silver heart attached.
"This is beautiful."
"I made this for you. Listen." He held the heart up to her ear so that she could hear the distinct 'tick-tock' of the clock mechanism inside it. "It is like a locket, only I have placed a watch inside. See?" He touched the mechanism and the heart sprung open revealing a clock face within. Snapping it shut, it again appeared to be a simple locket. He placed it back in her palm.
Therese stared openly at the heart in her hand, unable to speak. At last, she traced its perimeter with her finger. Looking up at him, she murmured, "The heart…beats?"
"Yes! It is beating for you!" he said beaming with pride at both his invention and her observation.
Her face fell as her hand closed around the gift and she extended it towards him, her eyes lowered. "Jean, I cannot accept this. This…this is something you should give to someone you…It is lovely. Please, take it back."
"Take it back?" he repeated in disbelief. "I cannot take it back. 'I am afraid that once accepted, my heart is not easily returned.' A very wise woman told me this only yesterday. Does one day make such a difference?"
She pressed the necklace into his palm. "Sometimes, it does. One day is the difference between dreams and reality."
"Therese, I made this in my workshop for you!"
"Your workshop? Yes. One would think anything is possible in that place…"
There was something in the tone of her voice - something mournful and bittersweet as she said those words. They were uttered like a child whose nose is pressed to a chocolate shop window with no hope of entering. Yet he had seen Therese sneak her delicacies to the neighborhood children from out of her own workshop…workshop? His workshop? His mind made the leap.
"You saw my workshop. Yesterday. Of course, you did!" Therese made to move past him, but he caught her about the waist and held her fast. He gazed down into her eyes, which told him everything.
"It was none of my affair, Jean. I…I had no business being there. You have every right to be angry with me."
"I am not angry. No, I swear. I am not." He was tenderly brushing the tears from her face as he spoke, "And I should have guessed because you accepted the valentines for me while I slept."
Therese nodded in assent. "It is a wonderful place - more wonderful than I could have ever imagined. And your master…to give all that to you. Oh, Jean! Such beautiful things…" She buried her face in his shoulder, unable to continue.
"You peeked in his study then too, no?" He felt her nod. Passepartout held her tightly as he released a loud sigh. She sobbed and he rocked her gently, like a mother comforting a repentant child, his every word brimming with compassion.
"Yes. My master buys the beauty that he cannot find within himself; he also gives because he cannot say. Today, we are alike in that - my master and me."
He paused a moment, listening as Therese's sobs subsided. His voice was no more than a whisper. "I cannot say what you want to hear, Therese, because those words bind me completely, which I cannot do. I am not free to give those words to you as much as you may want to hear them, and I cannot lie." He released her enough to see the tears stifled, but still clinging to her lashes. He opened his hand, letting the heart dangle free.
As he looped the chain over her head, he solemnly said, "This is my heart, Therese Darché. Le coeur de Jean. I need you to keep it safe and warm, to feel it beating beside your own so that you remember that no matter where I am, I am finding my way back to you. For what we say with silence now, will find a voice - some day. Please, take it. Without you, it is only metal and springs. With you, it is my fondest hope."
He tilted her head up as he bent to kiss her, giving her the silent promise of his heart and someday - his tomorrows. Breaking from their kiss, he smiled at her, nodded his approval at the heart's placement and said, "Therese, I believe I shall be partikling in a very elegant and expensive dinner this evening. I would be most honored to have the pleasure of escorting you, if your own heart is so inclined. "
"Dinner?"
He offered her his arm gallantly, which she took. Passepartout patted the hand that rested so naturally there. "Come, mon coeur. As my master says, 'all will be made clear.'" Then he threw his head back and laughed.
fini