Mon, February 06 2012
| TITLE: | Harvest Time |
|---|---|
| AUTHOR: | Sherry Thornburg |
| CATEGORY/TYPE: | |
| RATING/WARNINGS: | G, Gen |
| MAIN CHARACTERS: | The cast of SAJV and my own creations. |
| DESCRIPTION: | |
| STATUS: | Complete |
In the beginning there was a beautiful dirigible named the Aurora that had been the gambling winnings of a disillusioned ex-secret service agent named Phileas Fogg. There had also been Jean Passepartout, the dirigible’s engineer/pilot who had become the folly/valet of Phileas Fogg of London England. But that had been many adventured ago when the League of Darkness terrorized Europe unimpeded and a young Frenchman named Jules Verne had been in danger because of his visions of the future.
But now was the end, or the beginning of the end, or the beginning of a new beginning depending on ones point of view. Phileas Fogg was no longer so disillusioned or mercurial in his moods. He had settled down to the life of the lord of the manor with a happiness and contentment he would never have imagined possible in the beginning. Melody was at his side now as his wife, and that made all the difference.
Jules Verne had also settled himself. He was no longer a hunted starving writer. He had married a respectable widow and had taken on the veneer of a respectable stockbroker to support his new family. He still wrote and was doing well in periodical magazines. One day he promised his friends he would have his first book written. He was working on it even now, somewhat secretively.
Rebecca Fogg had advanced in position and experience to supervisory tasks. She didn’t jaunt from place to place keeping her new husband and cousin on pins and needles in fear of her safety any more. A good thing that… Rebecca’s Samuel was more protective of her than Phileas had ever been.
Fogg still wasn’t sure what he thought about Rebecca coming back from a quiet mission in Scotland to visit him with a large red-headed Carmichael in tow. But a Rebecca, fiercely in love, had been a sight to behold. Her direct shining blue eyes had dared him to say anything against her choice as she had introduced the man, and he, caught so completely off guard, had not been up to the challenge.
Behind her back however, Phileas had had the man thoroughly investigated, but had found no problems with him. So Fogg had given his blessing and had walked his beautiful cousin down the isle in a ceremony fit for a queen, or a countess, for that was Rebecca’s new title.
In honor of her marriage, and taking advantage of Rebecca’s new social position and Lord Carmichael’s political connections, Chatsworth had moved her to the place of his direct subordinate and heir apparent to the director’s office. Rebecca had been expecting such a change, but had not hoped to be made the man’s successor. Phileas and her husband had been pleased and had called it Chatsworth’s most intelligent career move in his many years of service.
But on the heels of all those happy events had come notice of a loss. Her Majesty’s Government had given notice that it would now be taking back possession of the grand lady Aurora. The dirigible had only been allowed to be in Fogg’s possession as a tribute to his service to the country as long as he made it available for the queen’s business. That had not been understood in the beginning, but it had since been explained to him. It had not been completely unexpected news. Phileas Fogg had held his wonderful airship as long as he could, but now he had lost his last excuse to hold possession of her.
Passepartout had been offered the option to remain the Aurora’s pilot, but it would require him to become part of Britain’s secret service formally. The offer had been generous, and as much as he hated to give her up, Passepartout had had no wish to become an agent to the English Queen. He was a Frenchman in his heart and would always remain so. So this was to be the last cruise through the night sky for both men. When the Aurora returned to England, she would be stored away on government lands to wait for a new pilot and new adventures with a new generation of younger agents. But that was several days away yet. Passepartout and Phileas were as of now having a late night together.
Outside the moon was full and bathed the Aurora and the countryside below with silvery light. Inside, the Aurora’s controls were locked and her position nearly stationary as the wind was light. Fogg poured himself another brandy, refilling Passepartout’s glass as well. Truth be told, Passepartout had about the same capacity for alcohol as Phileas did. He had just never let his former master know it before now. And now, three bottles later, the cat was out of the bag and the two men were matching each other shot for shot to see who would still be standing when dawn came.
Thinking on it as he gazed out at the stars, Jean Passepartout acknowledged that he had had a long very satisfying association with his English gentleman. It had been as varied and exciting as his life had been before taking on the position. He had liked that and the quiet scheduled simplicity of Master Fogg’s routine in between. The adventure would have been too much for him and the routine too boring, but together they had made a perfect balance giving the Frenchman adventure and stability.
But lately, the stability had become more important to Jean Passepartout. He was not so young anymore, but not so old that he had no prospects. Passepartout had reached his prime. He had looked back on his life and found it good, but wanted something more. Something like what he saw when he watched his former master and Miss Melody together as man and wife.
The present topic of reminiscing between the two men was the resurrection of their young friend Jules Verne’s late teacher, now departed again along with his grief stricken daughter. The two had been recounting adventures in between bottles. Even now, Phileas still wasn’t sure what to think of Sir Jonathan attempting to resurrect the Prime Minister in order to continue negotiations for a treaty in India.
“Surely someone could have taken over the negotiations. As much as one likes to think so, no one is irreplaceable in the grand scheme,” Phileas observed. “Time waits for no man.” The phrase past through Fogg’s brandy sodden head as he looked out the windows at the full moon hanging in a clear night sky. “Chatsworth needed to have been reminded of that line,” Phileas said with an odd moment of poetic reflection. “Time and the tides and all of that; one’s date with the Almighty cannot be postponed or put off. No matter what perverted science is called on to try. And the man has the audacity to call me arrogant?”
Passepartout was remembering again his own brush with eternity in that adventure. He had nearly frozen to death being stuck on the Aurora with her temperature controls set for artic conditions. He agreed completely with Fogg’s assessment. “To time and tides,” he said with a bit of a slur raising his glass.
Phileas raised his glass in response and drank. He had promised Passepartout his choice of destinations for their last voyage. That choice had sent them crossing of the French Alps on their way to Bombay for the beginning of the monsoon season. And now on the way back to England, surprisingly, they were headed for the countryside just north of Paris, which would be Passepartout’s final destination.
“I would never have expected this of you,” Phileas teased as he lounged staring at the stars. “India I had expected… Maybe even a visit to your friend the King of Montravia... and possibly Paris itself in the end; but to a wheat field in the country? That doesn’t seem your style.”
Passepartout smiled and laughed in agreement. He was lying down on the chase lounge with his feet up, glass in hand. His English, which had improved greatly over their association, had reverted to the broken odd diction of the past as the brandy took hold. “Passepartout is man of cities, as is Master, yes. But long ago, I spending much time in wheat fields,” he explained. “My auntie, Aunt Louisa, sending me there when a young boy of twelve and thirteen and fourteen… and fifteen I think,” he related from his seat by the windows.
“Passepartout not always good boy,” he admitted sheepishly. “Very mischief making and trouble finding. When Passepartout find too much trouble, Auntie sending me to cousin with large wheat fields. Passepartout made to spend many hours at harvest time suckling wheat. Is very hard work. By end of harvest, Passepartout coming back to Paris very very sorry dutiful nephew.”
“No doubt,” Phileas agreed in amused sympathy, from his place slouched in his favorite chair. His valet’s aunt had had near the same idea on handling mischievous boys that his father had had. Only for Phileas there had been no wheat fields. Instead, his father had sent him to the woodshed to chop wood when the need arose for a lesson. When Phileas’ arms had become so sore he could no longer lift the ax, the session would be over. But until then he had been required to stand there sweating and chopping wood while his father sat nearby, very calmly lecturing him on proper comportment and behavior for a young man of his class and social position. Over twenty years later, Phileas couldn’t be sure what had hurt worse, the sore muscles or having to listen to his father drone on until his strength gave out.
“So why would you go back?” Phileas asked slipping a bit lower in his chair.
“Time working with cousin not all bad,” Passepartout admitted. “I going back by choice every harvest after learning to be good nephew. I work with cousins and make many good friends before Passepartout going to university.
After harvest every year there was great festival. Much food and wine and singing...”
“And pretty girls to dance with,” Fogg finished picking up similar memories from his own boyhood. “Shillingworth Magna used to host a county fair when I was a boy. The fair still exists, but has been moved to another site.”
“Yes, many pretty girls… and one…”
“Do I detect a lost young love?” Fogg teased again. Good brandy and stories of past romances seemed to go hand in hand on this moon lit night. “Go on, tell me about it. You have my complete attention.”
“Young love lost yes,” Passepartout agreed in a melancholy air, pulling the memories of his youth to the surface. “Rena, very very pretty girl. Eyes blue like sapphires and hair the color of wheat fields. Passepartout very fond of Rena. But… Rena’s father… not fond of Passepartout. When Passepartout go to university for auntie, Rena was given to landowner to west of father’s farm. It good arrangement for Rena, but bad for Passepartout.”
The valet paused then holding his glass on his knee studying the cuts in the crystal. In his mind he saw wheat fields blown in the wind and a young woman with hair almost indistinguishable from the flowing grain, looking up at him with brilliant blue eyes. The last time Passepartout had seen her, Rena had been holding her first-born infant daughter. She had been happy in her marriage and had told him so. But in her eyes, she had also told Passepartout that she could have been happy with him.
The memories of men in their useless efforts to change God’s ordinances on life and death had reminded Passepartout of his Rena and what might have been. He knew her to be a widow for over a year now. His cousin had written to him saying so. He had in turn written Rena with his condolences and had received several very nice letters in return. In their rounds of correspondence had been several invitations for him to come to the country to see her when his duties allowed.
And now Passepartout’s duties to Master Phileas Fogg of London England were over and it was harvest time again in the wheat fields of France. Rena was a propertied woman with two children now. ‘Would there still be smiles in her eyes for Passepartout?’ He wondered hopefully.
Passepartout had written of his resignation to Rena with her sapphire eyes in mind and hopes in his heart. It was time for Passepartout to go back home to France, and it was time to see what could be harvested from his past for the future.
The End