Chapter 15

15

“H ow is he tonight?” The words were uttered breathlessly, not from panic, but simply from having rushed into the room an hour later than he had promised. Chastity looked up, reverie broken.

“Hi, Marc. He’s pretty much the same.” Her voice was flat. “The swelling is down, both inside the skull and also on the outside. You can even see his head is less swollen.” She went on talking, more from a desire to fill the silence than a desire to share. “He’s been moving more. He jerks his feet suddenly, or pulls at his tubes—we have to be careful of that—but the doctor said it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s gaining consciousness.”

Marc peeled off his scarf and leather jacket—with the gesture camea strong smell of smoke—and pulled up a chair beside her. He sat, designer jean-clad legs apart, elbows resting on his knees. He searched her face. “I wish you would let me spend more time here. I wish I could be here when the doctors come and visit him so you don’t have to handle it alone.”

She gave him a fleeting look and an imperceptible smile. “It’s fine. That’s sweet, but the doctor is clear in what he says, and he seems to care about Thomas. He takes the time to answer all my questions. It helps me to meet with him alone so I can absorb everythinghe’s saying without being distracted. I need to be able tocommunicate any changes in Tommy's state.”

Marc leaned back against the folding chair suddenly and examined the ceiling with nonchalance. “So. I heard Docteur de Brase is none other than le Vicomte de Maisons-Laffitte ."

“Yes, I was surprised.” Chastity fiddled with the hospital blanket at her side. “I teach his son, and our interactions had not led me to believe he would have a profession like this. To be honest, I thought he was rude and unconcerned about his own son. But now I know it can’t be true—not with the care he gives his patients here.”

Marc paused before replying. “Yes, I can see why you might have thought that. He didn’t strike me as being someone who cares about anyone else.”

“I suppose you can’t be a doctor, and particularly one who works with children, without caring somewhat.” Chastity shrugged.

Marc gave a forced laugh. “He seems to have everything going for him, doesn’t he? Rich, owns a chateau, and now a neurosurgeon—and he'snice, on top of it all.”

Perhaps he expected Chastity to laugh at his attempt at a jest, but she responded absently. “That’s true.”

Marc’s expression twisted into a grimace. “Chassy,” he commanded, and her eyes focused on his.“Have you given any thought to us?”

When the shock and anger flashed in her eyes, he leaned forward. “I’d like to take my place with you at the hospitalas more than just the person who fathered your child. I want to spend more time here and be with you as you talk to the doctors—be a support to you.”

“You have to work,” she answered feebly, looking at her hands clasped on her lap.

He mistook this for weakening on her part and pressed on. “I’ll take time off work. I’ll ask my parents for some financial support. I know they’ll give it to me if they understand why I’m asking. I want to make this work, Chassy. I still have feelings for you—”

“Shh.” Chastity cut him off sharply, glancingat her son. “Not in front of Thomas.” She stood and walked over to the door, beckoning him to follow. After checking that no one was passing by in the corridor, she lowered her voice. “Seriously, Marc. I can’t believe you’re talking about this now. I can’t think about anything other than Thomas. Surely you understand that. I’m allowing you to be here for his sake, but that’s where it ends. I don’t have room in my thoughts or my heart for anything else.”

Marc put his hand on the doorframe and leaned his forehead on his arm. He exhaled loudly then faced her. “Can't I at least spend more time here? Come during the day? I can take the relay so you can go outside, or go home for a bit.”

Chastity chewed her lip. “I can’t imagine leaving him. Maude brings me changes of clothes and anything else I need and even stays while I run and shower or take a quick walk outside. I don’t need anything else.”

When he gave a pained expression, she relented. “Don’t quit your job, okay? You can come on your days off, and maybe you can stay with him for a half-hour while I take a walk or something. That will be…helpful.”

“Okay. I guess that’s better than nothing,” Marc replied gracelessly and returned to take his seat at the bedside.

“Tommy,” Chastity said, following Marc to his side and attempting cheerfulness. “It’s time for your favorite show.” She clicked the TV on, and as the sounds filled the room, she and Marc turned towards it in silence.

Charles drove on the autoroute, the dark road lit by headlights in both directions. He was listening to a classical radio station, but his thoughts were elsewhere, jumping from one issue to another. He wondered how Louis was doing since he had seen him even less than usual the week before. He had looked haggard. He also remembered he needed to follow up regarding the paintings he had borrowed for the exhibition that was to open in just a few weeks. He wasirritated with himself for forgettingto bring it to his business manager’s attention.

Then Mademoiselle Whitmore flashed before his eyes. He considered the difficulty of her situation and the minimal support she had compared to the other parents he dealt with. He remembered how green her eyes were whenever they turned towards him and how her gaze had changed in the months since he had first met her. She had gone from the stern, judgmental teacher to a vulnerable woman, terrified when faced with the severity of her son’s condition. Now she was changing yet again and becoming softer. Confiding.

By now he had driven through the streets of Maisons-Laffitte, and was turning through his tall iron gates, driving over the small pebbles that led to the front entrance. Charles strode into the marble foyer and jogged up the steps onto the first landing. Paltier came running as soon ashe heard the front door open.

“Monsieur.” Paltier was slightly out of breath.

“Paltier,” Charles addressed him with a smile, “how many times have I told you you don’t need to greet me when I come home?”

“But of course I do.” The worthy gentleman divested Charles of his wool coat, and took his scarf and leather gloves.

“How is Louis? Is he here?” Paltier carried the viscount’s coat over to a large armoire set against the wall and hung the coat on a wooden hanger before replying. “Louis is upstairs, and from what I can tell, he seems to be his usual self.” Charles did not have time to ask him to explain these cryptic words because Paltier went on. “Monsieur, I should warn you that Mademoiselle Duprey is in the Italian apartment.”

Charles stopped short and turned to Paltier with a raised eyebrow. “I was not expecting her.”

Paltier replied in a wooden tone, “I apologize if I’ve done wrong, but she was visibly upset and quite unlike herself. She demanded to see you and wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, insisting she would wait. And considering she is your…” He coughed discreetly.

Charles sucked in his breath and said, “No, you did well. Please let her know I’ll be with her in a moment, but I want to see Louis first. Oh, and bring her some refreshments.”

“I’ve already offered.” Paltier’s spine was perfectly straight as he added, “but she refused.”

“Of course you did,” Charles soothed. “I won’t be long.” He walked up the steps to his son’s room and tapped on the door.

“ Entre ,” His son yelled from inside above the loud music. Charlesopened the door and was met with a strong cloud of smoke, dim lighting, and clothes strewn all over the floor. His son was lying on the bed playing, what appeared to be, a video game on his iPad.

When his father came in, he started up. “Papa. I didn’t expect you.” He managed to snub out the burning end of his cigarette and stand in one movement.

His father took in the room with quiet irony. “I see I should visit you more often. Since when have you started smoking?”

“Oh, that.” Louis had recovered, and his defensiveness returned. “It’s not all that big of a deal."

His father returned no answer but leaned against the messy desk near the entrance and stared at his son. Louis squirmed under his searching gaze.

“I was just wondering how you were doing, and if you needed anything.” Charles reached down and pulled something that poked at himfrom where he was sitting. It was the screwdriver from a Swiss army knife.

“I’m fine.”

Charles reined in his exasperation. “Louis, you say you’re fine, but it doesn’t seem like you are. I’m here to talk, you know. Are you sure there’s not something you want to talk about, or something you need?”

Louis jabbed his toeagainstthe wood floor, sending a sock skidding across the room, and looking at that moment much younger than his teenage self. “Well, uh. I was thinking I would like to buy a moped. Can I have one?” He glanced up, frowning.

Shifting position, Charles said, “Sure. But why don’t we discuss it once you get your grades back up.”

Louis flushed and crossed his arms. “I’ve been working on them. But some of the classes are really hard."

“Maybe we could get you some tutoring.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Louis turned back to his iPad. “Forget about the moped. It’s not that big of a deal.”

Charles struggled to find something to say that wouldn’t harp on his son’s grades but couldn’t think of anything. “Okay, we can talk about it another time. Paltier told me that Manon paid me a surprise visit, so I’m going to see what she wants.” Louis just nodded. As Charles reached the door, he suddenly turned back. “Who’s your English teacher now?”

His son looked up in surprise. “Miss Whitmore.”

“Yes, but I mean now that she’s in the hospital with her son and not teaching classes.”

“Oh. Uh. I can’t remember her name. Mz. Mercer taught one class, and then this other teacher came in.”

“Do you like her as well as Mademoiselle Whitmore?”

“I don’t know.” Louis shrugged. “I suppose not. You can tell Miss Whitmore cares about the kids.” He looked embarrassed to have revealed as much and scowled.

“Okay. Well…good night.” Charles went into the hallway and shut the door with a soft click.

He found Manon curled up on one of the hard-backed sofas, her shoes off and feet tucked underneath her, and her coat serving as a blanket. Her face was tear-stained, her eyes tired. “Charles.” There was no trace of her usual animation.

He walked over to where she sat. “What is it, Manon?”

She leaned her face into her hands and sobbed quietly. He had never seen her so distraught. “My grandmother died suddenly. That’s why I've come back from London.”

Charles knew how close Manon was to her grandmother so he just sat on the couch and put his arm around her curled-up legs. “I didn’t know where else to go.” She sniffled. “I didn’t want to go back to my empty apartment.”

Rubbing her leg, he asked, “What happened? When we saw her at Christmas, she seemed to be in great health.”

“Aneurism,” Manon choked out through her sobs, which were growing louder. Charles pulled her up next to him and put his arm around her, hugging her close.

“My grandmother raised me. She’s the only family I have.”

“I know,” he said. This was only slightly inaccurate. Charles knew that though her parents had been killed in a drunk driving accident when she was a baby, her narcissistic extended family had wanted nothing to do with her until she became famous. Her grandmother, alone, had given her a loving and orderly—if bourgeois—childhood.

After a period of crying, while Charles waited, Manon finally pulled out a tissue and blew her nose. She spoke numbly. “The funeral is on Wednesday. I was given time off to attend it until Thursday. Could I stay here?”

Charles cleared his throat and looked down at the top of her blond curls. He was not thrilled at having her stay in the same house as his son, but he was not a monster either and could see she needed him. She felt small in his arms, and her perfume was familiar, even if it had stronger overtones than he generally liked. After a minute he perceived he had not yet answered.

“Of course.”