Chapter 17

17

C harles gazed steadily at Thomas’s mother and in a quiet voice, said, “Come.” He turned to the slim figure lying on the bed. “Thomas, your mom is here. Can you squeeze again for her?”

She darted to his side and took his hand in hers. “Hi, sweetie, I’m here. Can you squeeze my hand too?” There was no responsive pressure. The machines continued their calm and steady beeps.

“He’s out again,” Charles said. “I think that effort exhausted him. Butit was a significant leap. He was able to comprehend what I was saying and command a physical response in answer.”

Miss Whitmore’s cheeks were flushed, and the quick breaths betrayed her agitation. “I wish I could have felt him squeeze my hand. I wish he would wake up.”

“I’m pretty confident he will wake up in the next few days. But with brain injuries, it’s impossible to predictwith accuracy because we don’t know if the neurons have been damaged or just bruised. You have to be prepared that even if he does wake up, his will probably notbe a fast recovery, and we're unlikely toknow straight away the extent of his injuries." Charles resisted the urge to take hold of her hand. "I encourage you to hope for the best outcome, and let Thomas sense your hope.”

Their gazes locked, and Charles felt something flash through him. Awareness. Longing. He could see she was trembling.

“I cannot thank you enough,” she said.

Charles returned the smile, but shook his head. “I was just in the right place at the right time.”

“I know it was a coincidence for you to be herewhenThomas regained some awareness.” There was a crease between Miss Whitmore’s brows. “But I want to thank you for…what I can only describe as your friendship these past two weeks.” She blushed. “I’m sorry. I don't want to presume too much.”

“You’re not,” he answered quickly, anxious to reassure her on that point.“I hope you’ll come to me if you need anything.” Leaving the bedside, Charles went over to the door topick up the pieces of porcelainthat lay shattered, and he threw them in the garbage.

“I’ll ask the cleaning staff to come mop this up,” he said, wrapping his scarf around his neck. "Here's my card, which has my cell phone on it if you need to reach me.” Handing her a cream-colored card with gold lettering, he hesitated, strangely nervous. “My friends call me Charles.”

Her eyes darted to his, and she took the card. “Chastity.”

“Okay, then.” He snapped his leather gloves against his hand, almost reluctant to set out. “I'll check in on Thomas tomorrow.”

He left the room, a spring in his step. Chastity .

When the doctor was gone, all theemotions Chastity had held in check seemed to crash at once, leaving her exhausted. She was grateful for the steady beeps and the silence behind them that blanketed the room and the ward. She had too much to think about and desperately hoped Marc would not choose this moment to make an appearance. Wiping her palms on her jeans, she rested her forearms on the bed, her two hands touching her son. She laid her head on her arms.

Tommy. Her eyes welled with tears when she thought about him regaining consciousness. She took his hand and squeezed it, but his hand was limp in hers. If he was on his way to getting better…she would give anythingfor that to be so.

And then—the viscount. Mr. de Brase, Dr. de Brase— Charles . Her thoughts were a confused jumble when it came to this man. He had appeared so indifferent and cold as a father, and it seemed he acted out of sheer disregard for anyone else in his role at the school and the town. Yet he was so clearly warm and caring as a doctor, going beyond the dutiesrequired of him—even continuing to watch over her son when his week was over. She had noticed he was there today in casual clothes, not his doctor’s jacket. Why would he make the effort?

Chastity lifted her head and breathed out a sigh. It was like he had a split personality when she compared the two versions of him, but his behavior towards her since Tommy was injured was unmistakably sincere. Perhaps she had misjudged him initially. Did she dare ask him about his son? Ask if he had taken the time to seek help for him? She found that she wanted to reconcile the two personalities into one, and hoped the resultwould be one she liked.

Restless, Chastity stood suddenly and started walking across the small room. She yankedsome paper towels out of the dispenser and began to wipe the coffee off the door, absent-mindedly. No, she couldn’t ask him about Louis—couldn’t think about work. She would have to return to it eventually, and in some ways even wanted to. A few of her students had sent her cards at the hospital on their own initiative, which brought tears to her eyes. There was just not enough room in her mind and heart to think about that now. As much as Charles de Brase was starting to treat her like a friend, she felt she could not ask him such a question just yet. The two worlds had to stay separate for the time being. As such, the viscount-doctor would remain a mystery.

Having settled that, however unsatisfactorily, Chastity resumed her seat by Thomas’s side. Her mother's visit could not get here quicklyenough. The silence, although sometimes welcome, often threatened to drown her when she connected it with the absence of Thomas's chatter. And she was discovering that Marc’s presence was not the remedy.

If Charles, returning home, had been privy to Chastity’s reflections and questions regarding his inconsistency, he would have been surprised. Already the image of his son’s slightly annoying teacher of a few months ago was replaced by the woman he had spent time with every day for the past couple of weeks. If he thought about her role in his son’s life at all, it was to admire her tenacity in trying to help him. In this, he was reminded ofsomeone. A young bride…

He liked the way the creases in her brow gave way to smiles when he entered the room. He appreciated how Chastity looked him in the eye when he gave his medical opinion—and her regard was free of the predatory look he usually got from other single, beautiful women.

And she was beautiful, especially with her hair down that way. Mon dieu .

He was not in the habit of questioning his own motivations or actions except, perhaps, when it pertained to his son. He had inherited enough of his father’s character to be sure of his actions, and enough of his mother’s to think no one had a right to question them. In all areas this served—except for Louis.

Charles thought about the last time he had seen his son. It was around noon a couple days prior, and Louis had only just rolled out of bed. He was in the kitchen, having a piece of baguette smothered with butter and raspberry jam and a cup of black coffee. Louis had showered and was wearing clean clothes, but it was a set of weary eyes that he turned to his father.

Charles, who had only gone into the kitchen to discuss with his chef which catering companies they would use for the spring ball, was taken aback to see him there.

“Louis, it’s noon. Is that your breakfast? Why aren’t you…out?” He was chagrined to discover he didn’t know what his son generally did on Saturdays ever since Louis had declared himself finished with riding lessons. In fact, he didn’t even know who Louis’s friends were. Louis examined his plate and shrugged.

“Where were you last night?” Charles had frowned then, and realizing the chef, who was new, was listening to the conversation with undue interest, dropped the subject. “Never mind. We’ll talk about it later. Don’t forget to call Grand-mère. You missed last week and she was upset.”

“I won’t,” muttered his offspring.

And that was it. Charles had not spoken to, or even seen, Louis since. It had been some time now that they had fallen into the habit of living completely separate lives, brought on, perhaps, by the troubles in the estate management, which eventually forced Charles to take the longest sabbatical the hospital would allow.

Before he could notice the shift soon enough to remedy it, his son stopped asking for him and kept to himself. Even now, itdidn’t help that Manon had only just returned to England the day before, after having extended her stay. Since she showed no interest in getting to know Louis, he hadn’t tried to throw them together.

Ah. That was complicated. The more he thought about it, the more he was certain things could not continue with Manon. It was ill-timed that she was in too fragile a state for him to end things with her now.

He put that out of his mind and punchedone of the saved numbers into his phone, putting it on speaker. After a few rings, he heard the laughter in the deep voice.

“Charles. So soon?”

“It’s been a few months already, Jef,” Charles rallied. “When are we going to have our drink?”

“At your place, as soon as you can find time for me,” Jef shot back, adding, “as long as your sister will be there.”

“What, still have a crush on her after all these years? She’ll never have you, you know. She said you’re too much of a babe.” He couldn’t resist adding, “even though you look like you’re fifty with all the smoking you do.”

“Now that I’m a gray-beard, maybe you’ll start heeding my advice.” Jef chuckled.

“Whatever you say,” Charles said. “Listen, we need to meet. Why not joinme for the art gallery opening in two-weeks’ time. I want to talk to you about the spring ball.”

“Charles—” Jef protested, disapprovingly. “You’re not going to open up your home again to the public after what happened last time.”

“Let’s just say I was persuaded too," returned Charles cryptically.“There is little risk a second theft could occur, and even so, there will be heavy security. Iwantto run a few ideas by you.”

“Okay.” His friend was thoughtful. “I see why you want my help. You want to have someone you can trust.”

“Exactly. My own security detail, if you will. So can I count onyou forthe opening?”

“Send me the details.” Then just before hanging up, his friend quizzed, “And see that Adelaide is there tooso I can get her to accompany me to this ball.”

* * *

André Robin pulled his gardening coat over his shoulders and stretched on the makeshift bed that protected his body from the cold stone floor. It was five in the morning, and he didn’t have the luxuryof stayinghere much longer before the old man was going to be awake and bustling about. In the year that André had been employed at the chateau, he never knew a day to go by when he didn’t spot Paltier walking about by six o’clock at the latest.

It was nearing the end of January, and unseasonably cold outside, and he wasn’t looking forward to going out there. He knew of a café a few streets over that opened early enough to receive him for breakfast, and by now they knew his face. He could stake out a tablethere until it was time to report to work.

Hiding out in the basement with its cavernous rooms was the only solution that presented itself to André when he lost everything in disastrous gambling debts. He could no longer afford to pay his rent and had to give up his apartment. With no family in the vicinity, and none he could confide his troubles to—and agirlfriend who had recently discovered a preference for a trainer at the gym where she worked—there was no option left to him. He crept in close to midnight each night, washed himself in the kitchen basin that was downstairs, and huddled in one of the dark passages close to the wine cellar. Each morning, he crept out the same way, only to return for work.

André stretched. The sounds had stopped some hours since—noisesthat had begun a few weeks earlier, and which started to take on a familiar rhythm. The first time he heard them was at two in the morning, and there was a scraping sound coming from inside the wall on the far room of the basement. It wasn't the scraping that drew him towards the noise because that—he had assumed—was rats. It was only when he heard a soft banging, as if someone were hitting the stone with a chisel from the inside, that he went to investigate. He located the spot next to an old, locked gate set into a tunnel that it seemed no one had a key to. At least he had never seen anyone open it. When he was assured that no one was around, he put his ear close to the wall and listened more carefully. He was, by no means, certain of what he was hearing, but he understood enough to nod once in satisfaction and move off quietly to where he was sleeping.

Ever since that first time, he heard the muted noises almost every night, which ceased long before dawn. He got up decisively and rolled his bedding into a bundle, which he stowed, along with a few of his essentials, in a long-unused cupboard. He had had a close call with his previous hiding place when he heard talk of dismantling the old furnace, but this spot was not likely to be discovered. He stretched, and tied his boots, before putting on his coat and beret.

The door there led to the lower grounds, and he slipped outsilently, locking the door behind him. He walked off to the side of the property where there was a copse of trees that would lead him to the gate and the warmth of the café. As soon as the trees obscured his profile, he lit a cigarette and crunched on the snow in meditative rhythm. AndréRobinhad an idea about these noises, and he considered how he might turn the situation to his advantage.