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When they staggered through the door and Jack kicked it shut, the last thing he was thinking about was the sleeping situation. They had been traveling for well over eight hours at this point, and between the weather and the roads and the general sense of unease and discomfort that had pervaded the entire nearly-silent journey, Jack hadn’t spared a thought for sleep, except to affirm in his own mind that sleep was good and he desperately wanted some. By unspoken agreement, he dragged baggage around and stuffed towels into the gap under the door while she worked on the fire to try and combat the settled cold of a late June evening. It wasn’t until he had hung up the coats and shoved the bags into the tiny space under the table, really the only free floor space there was, that he registered his companion’s sharp sigh of concern and turned to address it. The cabin they had been given, he realized, was a deeply rural affair. And that included a single bedroom, with a single window with only a thin curtain hanging over the panes, and a single bed to the side, facing the fireplace that was only beginning to generate heat after several minutes of work.
Rosie was standing in the middle of the room, her bare feet curled tightly into the plush of the rug, her face turned away from him. Her shoulders were shaking, and her neck was taut enough he could see the dimples of her bones where her hair was pulled away. His steps suddenly were intolerably loud in the silence, and he bent to unlace his shoes and put them aside. Rosie made no noise, but her fists were balled up as she stared implacably at that bed, with its cheerful red-and-blue quilting on a single blanket and pair of pillowcases decorated with embroidered chrysanthemums. At the single, narrow headboard over the single narrow mattress. The one that looked so much like the one they had shared ages ago, almost-broke, but happy. That had been cold for years before they had finally called it quits. That was so different from what she would have had with Fletcher, the bastard. He hovered in the doorway, watching her. But she didn’t move – only trembled, her hands clasping and unclasping spasmodically.
“You can sl—” She cut him off, ice crackling around every word as if they had been frozen by the wind outside.
“No. You drove. You sleep in the damn bed.”
“Rosie, I—”
“There’s a chair. I’ve done it before. It’s fine.” She turned to stalk away from him, but the reality of the room meant that she had to push past him to get into the small kitchen area. He resisted turning around, but he could hear her bashing dishes and silverware in and out of the cupboards as she hunted out the kettle. She was going to make herself a cup of tea, he knew. Divorced or not, her habits wouldn’t have changed that much, and when Rosie wasn’t fine, and insisted that she was, she made herself a cup of tea and overbrewed it by half, just to drown it in milk and swallow it down anyway. She might as well just make a warm milk in the first place, but warm milk was for people who needed comfort, and Rosie was fine, Jack. He shook his head.
It had been unavoidable. When Fletcher’s crimes had caught up with him, Jack’s forlorn hope that Rosie would be spared had been dashed almost from the outset. The papers had torn her to pieces, and he’d been at a loss at how to comfort her. Her father, her fiancé, her ex-husband: all three of them were suddenly players in a game where every move wounded her and brought her to new lows. And then it had gotten worse. More charges had been brought against Fletcher in Sydney, and Rosie was subpoenaed to testify. One of the fathers of the trafficked girls had been making threats, and Rosie needed to be taken to safety anyway. But that meant making the trip away under police custody. Jack simply hadn’t known what would be worse for her – a long rail journey with an inquisitive and impolite sergeant escort, or an even longer, but more private, car ride with him. Rosie, to his surprise, had asked for him. Perhaps she had been at as much of a loss as he. They had traveled at a relatively fast clip, given the usual state or the roads, but even several days’ journey hadn’t been enough for Rosie to unbend. She’d simply retreated into herself, colder and smaller than he’d ever seen her before. And now, on their last night – this.
There was a crash, and the mug she had pushed out of the way shattered on the floor. Rosie muttered an expletive under her breath, but Jack had spotted the broom on the way in, and had it quicker to hand than she did. “Let me?” He asked as blandly as he could, but Rosie still drew back with her lip all but curled in a snarl. She wouldn’t want coddling or patronizing. She was Fine. But if she swept, there was liable to be crockery through the window, and possibly the broom as well. She drew back, and, studiously avoiding eye contact, he drew the broken pieces of the mug away from her feet. She backed up, watching him for a long moment. He could feel her eyes boring a hole in his jacket. He kept sweeping. Only when he was finished and the fragments safely deposited in the bin, did he turn back to his ex-wife, who was FINE, Jack, and the single bed.
She had already arranged one of the towels from the bathroom to form a sort of cushion on the chair, and was fussing with the position of the chair against the wall, her eyes fixed on the fire. Jack knew he wouldn’t win an argument that she should take the bed, or at least share, and, if he were honest with himself, there was only one person he could think of sharing a bed with these days, and it wasn’t Rosie. Not that the two of them didn’t have plenty of practice sharing a bed with absolutely no affection kindling between them. He resisted the urge to sigh. It would be ungentlemanly not to try. But as he walked her direction, she held up a hand.
“Don’t, Jack,” she said. Her voice cracked. She swallowed, still looking resolutely away. “I’ve shared enough lonely night times to not want to do it again. I’ll stay in the chair.”
“It’s freezing in here,” he replied. But her face darkened at that, at the implication he wanted her to keep him warm. “Not – no –,” he fumbled. “Not for me. But let me make some small part of this up to you, and at least know you won’t wake up with a fearsome cold?” He shrugged out of his jacket, trying to make himself seem smaller, less the official police escort. “You know how well I handle those.” It was a cheap dig at himself, but he saw the tightness around her eyes ease just a little.
Their first year they were married, he had caught cold four different times while out on the beat. Every time he had wound up on their sofa, covered in blankets, rattling the windows with his rasping, and grumbling at the mustard plasters and eucalyptus she plied him with. When he passed his cold to her though, he had been struck utterly useless, culminating in a very memorable row where she had dumped an entire pot of (admittedly terrible) tea into the flowerbed and stormed off to her father’s in a wheezing, sneezing pet. “Not that father was a great help in illness either,” she broke in, seeing his face lost in memory. She held out her hand for the jacket, and when he passed it to her, she draped it around her shoulders. “Old Mrs. Winslow though, she could brew a good strong lung-clearing tea. Is there any chance…?” She gestured vaguely at the kitchen and the kettle she had unearthed.
Jack nodded. So much went unsaid – even two people as thoroughly divorced as they were still remembered old habits hard won. Without another word, he put the kettle on himself, letting her decide for herself what she felt strong enough for. He heard her set her shoes down gently on the stone around the fireplace to dry. One, two. Her earrings clink onto the shelf in the (thankfully plumbed) bathroom. One, two. The rustle of a nightgown and wrapper, and then she was beside him, watching him put milk into both mugs. “Uncouth, I know,” he said, and again, there was that ghost of a smile, chased away as soon as she thought of her father, who had come down so hard on his young constable’s lower-class habits. Jack wished it wasn’t so easy to read her thoughts these days – he wondered if he was as transparent to her. The idea unsettled him, and he had to concentrate to keep himself from spilling the tea as he poured. He passed her the mug and stood, retreating to stand by the small sink and look out over the trees that obscured the drive they had followed. No snow had fallen, but faint crystals of ice whisked across the window, driven by a bitter wind that foretold clear, cold skies tomorrow on the road, and likely some nicely temperate weather once they got to the city. He cast about for something to say, and rather watched himself say it in the reflection of the windowpane.
“You’ll have an interesting time doing Christmas in July in Sydney,” he murmured.
“Yes,” she said, “I suppose I will. But I’ve never been much for skiing in the mountains or shoeing through the snow anyway. A little splash in the bathing booths might suit me better.” He turned to see her sitting down gingerly on the bed, and he felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. He clicked off the light in the kitchen, moved to the chair, seated himself, and leaned against the wall, facing her as she tucked her feet under the blankets. He arranged his jacket over his lap and warmed his aching fingers against the mug.
“You did always want to see the seaside there.” In the firelight, her face looked haunted, tired, but she brightened at the idea. “And the harbor is supposed to be a grand sight, from what they tell me. You could take a boat ride, visit the museums. You’ll be your own mistress in the between times.”
“You know, I hadn’t thought about that.” She shook out her sleeves and wrapped her arms around her knees on the bed. “Everything else has been looming; I didn’t really… Well, maybe doing my duty won’t be quite so bad.”
“Nobody sensible would begrudge you a little Christmas leave, as it were, after you’ve given your testimony.” He flexed his feet as he sipped his tea. Good brew, that.
“I have missed your tea, Jack,” she said, taking a sip of her own. “You always were the only one who could get a decent cup made from the bags of sawdust they stock at the station.”
“Liberal application of sugar,” he replied. “And not being in too much of a hurry.”
“You never are,” she observed. “I think I might do the driving tomorrow anyway, if you don’t mind watching for kangaroos.” They both smiled at that. She was referring to a rather infamous episode where she had tried to learn to drive as a surprise for Jack, but instead had run over a bird after swerving to avoid what she had thought was a kangaroo on the side of the road. (It had been a rock covered with dead creeping moss). He had been called to a motor vehicle accident, only to find his own wife crying over the corpse of a songbird, her father’s car with one wheel perilously close to a ditch and spouting steam from the radiator. “I was so young,” she mused, taking another drink. “Crying over a bird.”
“A good heart,” he offered gallantly, “which you still have.” She shrugged, but didn’t start berating herself, which he decided to count as progress. The silence settled around them again, but it was less brittle now. He felt his eyelids growing heavy, hard chair notwithstanding, and he set the empty mug on the floor and removed his tie. “Let’s both get some rest, Rosie. We can toss for the honor of driving tomorrow morning.” He closed his eyes, and there was a rustle and a sigh as Rosie dragged the blanket over her head. Soon, they were both asleep.
---
Some time later, Jack felt an arm slide under his shoulders. “Upsy-daisy,” Rosie whispered, and, disoriented, he thought for a moment he had fallen asleep on the sofa, and she was bringing him back to their bed in that poky old flat on Carter Avenue, over the butcher’s. The firelight was low, and the room was uncomfortably cold. “Jack, gentlemanliness has its limits,” she said, and there was an exasperated fondness to her voice that he hadn’t heard in years, “and I can’t drive that police car if you get hypothermia and die. They’ll arrest me for your murder.” Tiredly, he let her lead him to the other side of the bed, tuck him in, and then, without hesitation, climb back in herself. His muscles groaned in relief, but when she put her arm over him, he stiffened again. “Relax, Jack,” Rosie said, and that note of gentle familiarity was there again. “I don’t want anything except for us both to be rested.” He nodded, realized she couldn’t see him in the low light, and cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “for how things turned out. All of it, I mean, not just this.” He gestured vaguely into the dark, and she snatched his sleeve and dragged it down.
“You’re letting out the warm, Jack.”
“Ah, right.” He swallowed, wondering what he could safely say.
“Also, you didn’t brush your teeth.”
“Sorry,” he said, and she huffed a small laugh under her breath.
“So,” she said, as he wriggled cautiously around to face away from her. “Tell me about Miss Fisher. Are you winning her over the same way you make tea? Slowly, and with liberal application of sugar?” She tightened her arms around him before he could bolt, and she could feel her smile against the back of his shirt. He was going to be so rumpled as to be indecent tomorrow.
“I… She’s…”
“I thought as much,” she said. “You’re in it deep, Robbo, you might as well try and bring her along.”
“I regard Miss Fisher very highly,” he said, a little defensively.
“I was your wife, Jack, don’t even try to prevaricate with me.” She snuggled up against him and sighed appreciatively at the warmth. “You would make anyone’s heart do a loop-the-loop if you looked at her the way you do Miss Lady Detective Fisher.”
“She can supply her own loop-the-loops,” he retorted. “She can fly a plane.” Rosie giggled. She always giggled when she was tired.
“You smell terrible, by the way.”
“Thank you,” he grumbled. “I slept in my clothes because I wanted to assure my ex-wife my intentions were honorable.”
“And I only brought you to bed because you did so,” she said into his shoulder blades. “And because you snore when you sleep upright.”
“I’ll try to remember that should the problem come up again.”
“Oh no Jack,” she said, and now there was a definite note of teasing in her voice. “If you’re ever trapped in an isolated place in the middle of winter with Miss Fisher, you should definitely, definitely not sleep in the chair.” He felt himself flush. Rosie apparently did too – she chuckled again. “I’ve not slept well since… Well, I sleep better next to someone. Maybe I should find someone who needs a roommate when I get to Sydney. I wonder if there are any scandalous lady detectives there.”
“At least that would be an enjoyable sort of scandal,” Jack said, shocking himself. He wondered sleepily if he was thinking of Rosie sharing a bed, or himself. Then he gave a sudden hiss. “Your feet are freezing!”
“Sorry,” she said, sounding utterly unrepentant. “So, has your tolerance for female-related scandal increased then?” She was teasing him as nobody else could, but then, nobody else was Rosie. Nobody on the force now knew that on his first brothel raid, his shock and embarrassment could have rivaled anything Hugh Collins would have felt. One woman had had the gall to hand him one of her… tools… and suggest he take it home to try on his wife, leaving him so gobsmacked that she’d managed to scramble out of a window while he fumbled with the thing. He had wandered home after his shift in a sort of daze, and it was only after several nights of pressing that he had admitted to Rosie that he had found the whole thing…titillating. She had laughed, then admitted she wasn’t exactly innocent of such matters herself. “Father always has been an Old Guard hypocrite,” Rosie said, following his thoughts again. “Never considered his daughter might get into the banned books before he took them away to be destroyed. Nevermind that was exactly what he was doing.”
“You should see Miss Fisher’s collection,” he interjected. “I caught Collins with a copy of Erotica of the Far East that all but had her name on the inside cover.” There it was again – that low, glad giggle deep in her throat that he had been so sure he’d never hear again. He had berated himself for so long over the divorce, sure that it would crush her to pieces. And here she was, rising from the ashes of her life burning to the ground yet again, and managing to laugh. Jack was beginning to realize that Rosie had more in common with Miss Fisher than he would have ever expected, and he said as much. The words came out cottony and muddled.
“Thank you for that, Jack,” she said, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “I’m doing my best. Let’s get some sleep before we both get maudlin though.”
“As you say,” he yawned. “We have a long way yet to go tomorrow, and I don’t have the paperwork filled out to make you my constable.” He buried his hands under the pillow, and after a final, affectionate bump of her forehead between his shoulderblades, Rosie rolled over and did the same.
---
They shook hands outside the Sydney police station. One of their officers who was transferring to Melbourne would drive the vehicle back, and Jack, blessedly, had been offered a train ticket home. Rosie had checked into her hotel, looked up her cousin, and even made plans to visit the seaside. There didn’t seem to be a lot left to say.
“Rosie, I –” He paused, trying to find the right words. What did you say to your ex-wife on the eve of her former fiancé’s trial for corruption, slaving, and worse? He shifted in the shade of the station doorway, trying to make something sensible come out of his mouth. Rosie merely shrugged.
“It doesn’t need saying,” she said, shifting her parasol and extending a gloved hand. “I’ll be alright, I promise.” Her gloves were a pale lavender – not a color she wore much when they were young. He took it firmly. “I’ll send you a postcard when I find that scandalous roommate.”
“I’ll be sure to burn it so it can’t be entered as evidence,” he quipped. The wind ruffled his hair, and he squinted slightly as it whisked across his face. In this light, Rosie’s cheeks were pinker than they had been in ages. Her parasol suited her, he thought, and maybe the warmer weather and the thought of starting fresh did too.
“You remember what I said, Robbo,” she said solemnly. “You’d do well to take Miss Fisher up on it, should she make you an offer. Though if she takes any chances with your heart, you send me a postcard in return, and gold revolver or no, I’ll see about her.” Jack didn’t doubt it.
“Heaven help me if the two of you ever unite to conspire in any capacity,” he rumbled.
“Now there’s a thought,” Rosie said. She tossed her head back, taking in the city, the sunshine, the sky. “But this city is my fresh start. She can have whatever she likes of Melbourne.” She stared at him for a long moment, and his throat suddenly felt awkward, as if there were a rock, or maybe a tight knot of bittersweet affection, balled up in it. Then Rosie smiled and winked at him. “And so can you.” She spun on her heel, scooped up her case, and strode away into the glittering sun.