Tue, February 07 2012
| TITLE: | Phileas Rushes To His Bath |
|---|---|
| AUTHOR: | Sherry Thornburg |
| CATEGORY/TYPE: | Jammie Workshop |
| RATING/WARNINGS: | PG, Gen |
| MAIN CHARACTERS: | Phileas Fogg |
| DESCRIPTION: | Jammie Workshop Entry |
| STATUS: | Complete |
| AUTHOR'S NOTES: | I knew exactly what scene to start with when this project was suggested. If Phileas had ever needed a bath after an adventure it was this one. But then that bath scene worked its way into a second one. I consulted Miss Oden and she advised me to run with it. So I’m doing it again. With me you again get two for one. Missing scene from Dust to Dust At the end and before “I’m very very very sorry!” |
After a harrowing night, Phileas boarded the Aurora heading straight upstairs for a bath. He couldn’t get his spider silk covered clothes off fast enough. Once in his room he yanked the cravat loose tossing it to the floor in the far corner. The jacket followed, followed quickly by waistcoat, shirt, pants, socks and shoes until he was down to his drawers.
Then it hit him. He had forgotten to tell Passepartout of his intentions. ‘Foolish of me really,’ Fogg thought to himself in irritation. But then again, from the moment he had reached the Aurora after leaving that spider monster and her priest’s ashes in that cavernous basement, Phileas had wanted nothing more than to rid himself of the last vestiges of her presence in his life. Fogg could not even stomach thinking her name now. He just wanted it all washed from him mind and body.
Not to fear. Passepartout had divined his need. The valet knocked on the door a moment after Phileas pulled his robe over his back to find him. The man opened the door and entered pulling the copper hipbath on wheels. He had made that modification to it for ease of movement. There had once been a full lavatory on the Aurora, but Passepartout’s former employer, the Baron, had sacrificed the luxury for storage space after he had lived on the airship for a time. Phileas had accepted the loss as well once the airship had come into his possession. Having Rebecca on board so often would have made a fixed bath facility more convenient, but also a trial in personal logistics. So, they sufficed with a small water closet and this movable tub. It was more convenient really to have the copper tub brought into their rooms when they wished a bath. It was narrow enough to get through the doors and light enough to lift and carry had Passepartout not come up with the idea of putting wheels on it.
After locking the wheels down Passepartout went back to the hall retrieving the hose he had rigged to the water heater. With a twist of a valve, out poured forth a flood of warm water into the bath. Phileas waited patiently through the process admiring the man’s ingenuity yet again. The old fashioned way of doing this would have required him to assist the man in carrying the heavy tub into the room, then waiting at least twenty minutes for the buckets of water to be brought in to fill it.
‘Passepartout was worth his weight in gold,’ Phileas thought in silent praise watching the process. Phileas knew it and had known it from the first month the man had come to him. If it weren’t for his exasperating moments the Frenchman would be the perfect valet. ‘But who was it really who had been exasperating of late?’ His mind added, looking over the last few days as he had become more and more besotted with that woman. He had insulted everyone liberally, and had become the willing thrall to a monster. The self-examination disgusted him. Phileas sought words to say that would clear the air between himself and the valet, but wasn’t given the time to say them. The man finished his work, gathered the discarded clothing and left the room without saying a word.
‘A very bad omen there,’ the Englishman thought guiltily. Passepartout only worked silently when he was angry. ‘After this bath,’ Phileas thought ruefully, ‘there was going to be hell to pay making things right with him.’ Fogg did so hate eating crow and didn’t put it past the man, in his present frame of mind, to find one winging by the airship, catch it and serve it to his master for breakfast. Phileas smiled to himself at his sudden turn of thought hoping the valet wasn’t having similar. ‘How would crow be best served? Broiled? Baked?’
With those oh so pleasant thoughts running through his mind, Phileas added the bath oils to his water himself. Another clue that the valet was in a foul snit. These oils weren’t scented as Rebecca’s were. For a moment he thanked his impatience to get to his bath quickly before Rebecca could think to take one first. The flowery oils she used required scrubbing from the tub afterward. If they weren’t, vestiges of it would end up in his bathwater. The smell of roses and lavender were all well and good on her person, but not his. Phileas much preferred unscented oils that didn’t compete or double dose him after using scented soap. He then laid out a scrub brush, cloth, his soaps and other necessities. He even considered a fresh shave, but that had been done before leaving the airship earlier. It was too soon.
When all was ready Phileas tossed his brocade robe on the bed and tested the tub to make sure it wasn’t going to roll as he stepped into it. That had happened once before. Falling to the floor with one’s bathtub flying to the other side of the room had been most damaging to his dignity. The resulting damage to the bulkhead had not been minor either. Pulling the string on his drawers he let them drop. Phileas stepped out of them and slid into the hot welcome water.
Phileas did so like a good hot bath. In London he had a large claw foot tub that allowed him to stretch out his tall form in comfort. At Shillingsworth Magna the laundry tub was still used for the purpose, but it was quite roomy too. This beaten copper hip tub was not so long, but was tall enough for the waterline to hit him at breastbone level. He could not stretch out his legs, but he could, with some maneuvering, get his knees under water. The tub’s upper edge was elliptical. The sides and foot were level while the head end came upward allowing him to lay back. His head would just touch the top of the lip if he slouched enough. Sometimes it was a major inconvenience being tall. Fogg made a note for the next time he found himself in India. He would order a proper sized hip tub made for a man of his stature. ‘Hmm… Maybe have an attachable shelf for bath necessities? Better than laying things out on the bed.’
After giving his body time to acclimate to the hot steamy water, Fogg executed a curling motion that bent his long frame into tight thirds. Thus folded, he pushed himself under the water further completely submerging, holding the edge of the tub to keep down. For several moments he stayed under letting the heat seep into and over him. When out of air, he pulled himself upright again, slowly, so as not to splash anymore water out onto the floorboards than necessary. Making extra work for an angry servant was a bad move.
He took up the shampoo first, as was his habit to work from top to bottom, and vigorously washed the spider silk from his hair. The first application only dissolved and spread the mess. A second was required to fully clean it out. Unwelcome images came unbidden to his mind again as the sticky stuff finally gave in to the foam. The woman’s silk draped parlor that so reminded him of a Bedouin travel tent… Her taste as he had kissed her into relaxed subjection; or so he thought. So consumed by lust, Phileas had been deluded into thinking that he had been the one doing the seducing. Fogg had even gotten cocky enough to ask her history before remembering his manners.
A knock to the door came again pulling Phileas back to reality. Passepartout came in when bidden with towels, which were laid on the bed within reach. Normally the valet would have offered to scrub his back. And if not, Fogg would have requested the service, but this night he thought better of it. Offering an angry servant access to one’s skin with a hard bristled brush wasn’t a good idea. Passepartout left the room again without a word.
Phileas repeated the dunking maneuver to rinse his hair, shaking his head vigorously underwater. That done, he took up his sandalwood and spice scented soap and set to scrubbing. All traces of that woman’s silk, scent and even the memory of her touch on his body he wanted gone. He scoured his skin starting at the face going down under the chin to his neck and shoulders where she had kissed him. He washed hard his arms and back where she had caressed him until they were pink from hot water and rubbing. His chest he scoured too, removing the memory of her hands playing in his hair. He then stood in the tub taking the treatment to his stomach and lower parts.
An image came to him then of her as she had risen, naked and aglow, while he had been in the throes of passions euphoria. Her hair had been tangled and tossed from his hands running through it. She had washed and dressed looking down on him, not like a lover, but as a predator contemplating a good meal. Fogg had seen his predicament then and had tried to rise. But by then it had been far too late. He had succumbed to more than just the pleasure of the moment. Something had happened that had robbed him of the ability to move.
Shaking his head of those images, Fogg used the water pitcher on the washstand to make sure his back was fully rinsed. His skin tingled from its hard wash. It felt good. Now cleansed of the last of her, Phileas lay back against the back of the tub to soak. The scent of the soap and feel of bath oil mingled with the steam of the water to clear his mind.
Disobediently, his mind continued its recollections to the next coherent thing Phileas could remember, being dressed again and standing in the basement, being covered head to toe in sticky silk. He involuntarily shuddered from the memory of her dark eyes staring at him as the silk had covered him fully. ‘The woman’s memory was going to take time to get rid of,’ Fogg acknowledged with another shudder. She had been one of the most erotic and utterly terrifying experiences of his life.
Phileas closed his eyes, forcing all images aside, giving himself to the warmth of the water. He draped his arms across the lip of the tub letting his fingers trail back into the water. The oils on the surface collected about his fingertips. He opened his eyes slightly watching the light from the lamp play in the oils creating a pattern of colors. Thus relaxed, he meditated on that for a timeless eternity, willing his mind blank.
Some time later, Phileas came out of his meditations to the realization that the water had gone cold. ‘All good things must come to an end it seems.’ Phileas reluctantly lifted his relaxed clean body from the tepid water taking up a towel from the bed to rub dry. The room was chilly. Goose flesh rose fast as he worked. Fogg took up a nightshirt for a moment trying to decide if he would go to sleep or go downstairs for a meal. A hard decision that. He was hungry, but wasn’t sure if the others were awake or asleep by now. His movements in the galley would disturb the others. There were also the possibilities of what his mind might treat him to in sleep.
Another knock came to the door answering at least part of his dilemma. He assumed it was Passepartout again coming to take away the tub. He bid the knocker to enter as he turned to take up his robe. The door opened as he was struggling into it, back to the door. Hands came to his aid pulling the heavy brocade loose from his still damp back so he could fully push his arms into the sleeves. Fogg tied the satin sash and began saying what he had intended to earlier.
“Passepartout,” he started slowly, “I can’t say enough what a fool I’ve been of late. I’ve been abominable, and owe you my regrets for that, and thanks for coming to my aid. He then turned to see not his valet, but Rebecca standing behind him smiling. She wore one of her heavier dressing gowns against the nights, or was it early morning’s, chill. Her hair was down and gleaming bright copper from a recent brushing. Her blue eyes were gleaming too from catching him off guard like this. ‘A rare event indeed.’
“I agree and I’m sure Passepartout will be glad to hear that you are no longer the half wit you’ve been acting of late. I heard you moving about,” Rebecca offered in explanation of her intrusion. “You feeling better?”
“Quite,” he answered suppressing his surprise at finding her in his room. “You? You had Passepartout and I quite unnerved there for a moment.” Rebecca’s unconscious form on the floor came back to him unbidden. She had been his saving grace once again. His light in the darkness… She had shined down… lifting him out of that hellish nightmare of his own creation.
“Well… thank you.” She said dismissing his question. Her lumps and bruises would heal quickly enough. It was he whom her concern centered on. “I’ll let you finish dressing. Come downstairs when you are ready. Everyone is still up and Passepartout says he will have breakfast ready at the usual hour.”
Phileas was still humbled from his earlier pronouncements, her response, and uncomfortable at being caught in nothing but his robe in front of his cousin. Nonetheless he would continue what he started. Phileas stopped Rebecca’s retreat taking her by the elbow gently. When she turned back he took her hands. “What I said is for you too Rebecca. I’ve been a damnable fool of late and don’t deserve you. How can I redeem myself?”
Rebecca flustered uncharacteristically from his honest humble apology. Phileas’ expression was so tender, as it had been when she woke from being knocked out in her fight with that monster. The air was humid from the once warm water. The atmosphere laden with too much she didn’t want to consider.
Rebecca had nearly lost him last night. Not to a lover. She had known him to take lovers in the past and was accepting of that. She had no hold on him there. ‘That woman… monster… would have killed Phileas had Rebecca not been there. Would Jules and Passepartout have seen what was coming? Would they have been there to rescue Phileas if she had still been in England?’ Rebecca thought not. Only Jules had been beyond that woman’s power over men. Passepartout had been as besotted as Phileas.
Rebecca turned away and out of his gentle hold. She took a few steps to the tub to gather her composure. She had coveted her cousin the first use of the tub while brushing spider silk out of her hair, but Phileas had been too fast for her. Dawn was nearing. No one had had any sleep as yet and she had no wish to greet a new day with unpleasant memories of the last still on her.
“You can relinquish the tub and refill it for me when you are done dressing,” she said looking back to him. “After we are both fresh again, we will go downstairs together. You can then make your apologies to Jules and Passepartout.” With that Rebecca crossed the hall to her own room to wait.
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