Note: I recently discovered Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries thanks to a friend and soul sister, Tammy. I am a writer by trade, soul, and heart. Characters draw me in, and Jack and Phryne not only drew me, but enchanted me from the first episode. After a second binge of the series (minus the movie since the reviews weren’t that keen on the storyline and the characterization), Jack and Phryne’s conversation over martinis at the end of series 2’s “Death Come Knocking” and Jack’s devastating attempt to save his heart by letting Phryne go in “Blood at the Wheel” wouldn’t leave me alone. Characters have a way of talking me into writing, lol.
This story could be set anywhere in the canon, but I believe it works best pictured after Game, Set, & Murder. Disclaimer: I don't own the characters.
Whiskey swirled in an amber eddy as Jack rolled the crystal tumbler between his hands. His drinking partner sat, as she always did, in the accompanying arm chair, sipping her own selection. Tonight, it was champagne. Appropriate, given they were cheering the successful end to another case.
And yet, his mood was more considering than celebratory. This whirlwind of a woman had torn into his world with all the force of a Tasmanian dervish, completely upending his life professionally, but even more so personally.
War had frozen him, scarcely allowing him to feel for fear that he would feel too much and then what little remained of him would be lost forever. Yet, she’d blown in, a warm, healing wind, melting his self-prescribed ice, luring him to not only feel again, but to feel deeply. To drink freely of the wild freedom in which she lived. He had tasted, reluctantly at first, and then returned, helpless to slake his craving. And now he longed for more. To fully embrace not only all of the emotions he’d tried so hard to avoid, but also Phryne herself. And as a woman loved not merely as a savior needed.
His voice was soft, but not tentative. He had committed to the endeavor and would see it through—no matter the end. “You once described me as having a heart as deep as the Pacific Ocean.”
“I did,” came her lilting reply. Her eyes longed to tease, but awareness flickered under the impudent gleam as if she sensed the gravity and import. She took another sip of champagne, her gaze never leaving his.
He broke the contact, tilting his glass and watching the whiskey move like those vast waters. Dipping, swooping. His lips twitched in wry amusement. “I must confess that you are right.”
Her mirth and satisfaction at his admission didn’t need to be seen. But still she said nothing, giving him the space to find the words he needed to speak.
He took a quick breath. Man up, Robinson. Even Collins wouldn’t dither this much.
He found her gaze again, thankfully still patient, and open. Surely, she would know his next words. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t already spoken them over and over, both in subtle looks and doubled entendres. But he’d reached the end of both, and it was time for plain speaking. He and his heart needed a forthright answer. “I must tell you something you probably already know. Though it may be as deep as the Pacific Ocean, it is also a heart that fully loves you.”
He paused, allowing the truth of his confession to sit between them. Her eyes had widened, and for a just a moment, fear had flickered in their depths. Having seen Rene Dubois for himself, her deep-seated reasons for the emotion were valid. Surely, she knew him well enough by now that there was no comparison between himself and that monster. But perhaps reassurance and clarity were in order. “I told you once that I didn’t want you to change. That I wouldn’t ask you to change. So let me simply ask this. Can you find some part of your heart that is just for me?”
She sat, staring at him with those expressive gray eyes, a treasure box of emotion. The silence stretched. She would either be the end of him … or the beginning of them.
Jack’s earnest, heartfelt face blurred in Phryne’s gaze. His simple, direct request waking her from a type of sleep. Phryne Fisher, a woman who threw herself into entertainments and adventures for the thrill and pleasure they afforded, claimed to know herself so well. But as it happened, she didn’t know a thing about her heart—especially as it related to one, John “Jack” Robinson.
She enjoyed investigations with him—relished them really. The partnership toward a common goal of arresting killers. The thrill of discovering clues and especially tweaking him when she found them first. Her personal investigations of cheating spouses, thieving staff, or disappearing persons weren’t half the fun, precisely because one-half of her was missing in those solo endeavors.
However, that was John “Jack” Robinson, Detective Inspector. What about the man alone?
In truth, though, could she separate the one from the other? He himself had tried after the car accident, telling her he wanted her to stay, but needed her to leave. She wouldn’t permit it then, so why was she giving place to the same thought now?
Yes, Jack was a delightful playmate who matched her wits like no other. But he was also a deeply caring man. A steady rock at Janey’s grave. A wry flirt whose impish teasing could catch her off-guard. He possessed a poet’s soul, a gentleman’s bearing, and he was worth more than all the aristocracy put together. But what was he worth to her heart? When he had spoken of giving her up because the thought of her death was unbearable, his self-sacrifice had come the closest of any words to breaking her.
So what did that mean for her heart? She recognized and accepted that it was large and leaped where angels feared to tread. She had given pieces of it to many over the years, cherishing Veronique Sarcelle, Mac, and Dot and others dearly. Holding a deep fondness for Mr. B., Aunt P, and Arthur. Even those unfortunates, mired in the unfairness of low birth, abuse, and despair, were given tokens automatically out of its deep well of compassion. All had been freely given, without request.
But here sat Jack, asking for a piece of his own.
She searched that emotional vessel and surprise greeted her. But what she found was absolutely and unshakably true. She blinked rapidly, and Jack’s dear face solidified. The care in his eyes had turned hesitant during her contemplative search. He leaned back, once again pulling away. His mouth opened on what was sure to be an apology. She grabbed his hand, barely wrapping his long fingers with her own.
The earlier light flared in his eyes, and she spoke the truest words she had ever said. “You’ve had the largest part of my heart for the longest time.”
