Jennie Goutet's Blog: A Lady in France, page 30

The Viscount – Chapter Seventeen

THE VISCOUNT OF MAISONS LAFFITTE

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The music was audible as soon as he entered the iron gates and turned down the lane towards the house – a somewhat crumbling old manor that was set far back from the street, and encased in age-old trees. This was probably how the party was able to carry on in full swing without incurring a neighborly call to the police.

There were a few people outside of the house, and one or two of them nodded at Camille. But as soon as he walked through the door, Mitchell and Sandeep hailed him with inebriated loudness. “Camille! You made it, man.” He gave a small wave, and then walked over to Jerôme and shook his hand. “Salut,” he said.

“You got here just in time,” Jerôme said. I was starting to run out.”

“My dad wanted me to have dinner with Manon Duprey,” Camille said simply and without boasting. “I couldn’t leave until we were finished.”

Jerôme whistled. “Is she just as hot in person? You’re a lucky dude.”

“Yeah, but she’s my father’s girlfriend. So I’m not as lucky as you think.”

Somebody fell laughing into Camille’s back, pulled to her feet again by the guy she was with. She sloshed beer all over his shirt as she was pulled up, and then moved away without noticing it. He pulled his shirt away from his bare skin, and tried to wring it out.

“Hi Camille.” A girl with straight blond hair walked up to him, her skin tanned from makeup, her voice flirty. “I’ve never seen you at any of these parties before.” He had didn’t recognise her.

“I’ve been to one or two,” he mumbled, torn between surprise and annoyance.

“What?” she yelled over the music. She fell forward just a little bit.

“I’ve been to a few,” he said a little louder. Then he looked around, desperate to leave her company and find a place where he could get his hands on a drink – something to give him something to do. But he didn’t see the bar right away, so he just stood there.

“So,” she said with a glinting smile, her breath of combination of beer and cigarettes. “What do you say you and I head upstairs and find someplace to talk – get to know each other better? ” She linked her arm through his, and added, unnecessarily, “If you know what I mean.”

Camille looked her over. He was sure she didn’t attend Ermitage, though she seemed to know a lot of people at the party. Even in the dim lighting, there was something repellent about her. Perhaps it was the pride of his heritage, inevitably passed down in the genes, but he wasn’t even interested in a one-night fling with her. And despite his social awkwardness, he found it in him to refuse her offer.

“He may be the son of a Viscount,” she loudly to a friend as she walked away, “but he’s still a complete dud.”

Sandeep walked past him just then, having seen the whole thing. He jerked his head towards the departing figure. “She’s from Sartrouville. I have no idea who invited her,” he said. “Come on, let’s get you a drink.”

Camille turned to Jerôme and said, “I’ll be right back.”

Jerôme had a satellite of girls around him, but he didn’t seem interested in any of them. He was watching what was happening throughout the party with a keen eye. To someone more than just a casual observer, it was obvious that he was the one who kept all the plates spinning. “Make it quick,” was all he said.

When Camille returned moments later, drink in hand, Jerôme immediately disengaged from the girls and signaled with two fingers for him to follow. They walked up the winding staircase, carpeted with a faded oriental rug, and continued down a hallway that was decorated in shabby chic with old wallpaper, but well-chosen frames. Jerôme stopped, and rapped on the door in front of him.

“Entrez!” a voice called from within, but Jerôme was blocked from pushing the door open by a meaty hand. “It’s just me,” he said with a tinge of impatience.

Inside, the room was dark with a red lava lamp in motion, of all things, but which looked strangely compelling to Camille in his altered state. He hadn’t taken anything strong, but he smoked a bit of pot on his way to the party to calm his nerves. He had been tempted to use the white pill that he now knew was speed, but he wanted to save it for  the next week when the midterm exams would start. He was just starting to understand how awesome drugs were. The speed helped him to maintain good grades and get a lot done, and the pot – or hash, whichever he had one hand – kept him mellow and cool so he could talk to people without fear.

“Camille is here with the supply,” Jerôme said crisply. “Move over. And you – give me that scale. Let’s bring it out and weigh it.”

Camille opened the backpack that was full of various packets wrapped in plastic. His supply had, indeed increased, as had his acceptance in the crowd – just as James had predicted. And now that he had promised that favor to James – still didn’t know what it was, but he was assured it was nothing illegal – he was able to get a certain amount of drugs for free, which was necessary because his father didn’t exactly give him an unlimited allowance.

Jerôme watched with an eagle eye as Camille brought the packets out one by one. He said, more to himself than to Camille, “I don’t know why the dealer insists on using you to bring the supply when I’m the one with all the contacts. He could save himself time and money.” He shook his head with disgust. Camille only shrugged his shoulders, mellowed by the combination of vodka and pot.

When the money had been counted out to him, and tucked in his inside pocket, Camille had the vague thought that he should head straight home and put the money in a safe place. To that end, he started walking down the stairs, taking his time to stop and look at the paintings with a fixed interest.

“Good evening, Camille,” he heard someone say. “Camille.” The voice was now lilting, brimming with laughter. He turned to look at someone he knew from his History class. Eléonore, her name was. Her dark brown hair was cut short to frame her face, and he had never seen such beautiful, large brown eyes as the ones that were raised to him just at that instant.

“Eléonore,” he managed.

“Ah, good! You’re not completely stoned then.” She smiled at him, and he continued to stare at her face, fascinated by the beauty of her eyes.

Her dimples peeped out at this, and she said with slightly raised eyebrows, “Alright then. Take care, Camille.” She turned to walk up the stairs, and only peeked at him once before walking down the hallway. He was relieved to see that she headed into the bathroom instead of going into the room where Jerôme was. He had the hazy idea that he would wait for her to come back down. In any case, it was so pleasant on the stairwell, he saw no reason to move.

* * *

The Viscount walked lightly through the hospital doors. He was unable to explain, even to himself, why he was even at the hospital again when his week of filling in was over. He had already handed over all his patients to Docteur Toussaint, except young Whitmore. He told himself that he was particularly interested in how this case was progressing from a medical point of view. He wanted to see how the young boy would fare cognitively once he woke up. He found himself hoping anxiously for the best, for his mother’s sake, as well as the boy’s.

“Bonjour Christian.” The Viscount smiled at the intern as he walked by.

“Bonjour Monsieur,” the young man returned. He ran to catch up. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon, but I’m glad you came in. I have a progress report for you to sign if you have a minute?”

The Viscount looked ahead to the door just ahead where Thomas was, and then stopped walking. He turned and answered, “Sure. Let’s go do that now.” They walked side by side in the direction of the small office the Viscount had borrowed during his short stay, and turned into it. He walked around behind the desk, and gestured to the chair that was just in front of it. He took the paper that was being handed to him, and pulled a pen out of the glass holder full of pebbles sitting on the desk. He read the paper quickly through.

“How is it going for you here?” he asked, keeping the questioning open-ended to avoid influencing the answers.

“Good,” Christian answered firmly. “I feel less hassled and … ignorant” – here he chuckled – “than I did the first week or two.”

“Have you given more thought to a specialty?” His mentor ran his finger down the page of ratings, and skimmed the questions that were at the bottom.

“I’m definitely interested in pursuing neurology, although I’m not yet sure whether I want to pursue pediatric.” He paused for a minute looking down. “This may sound faint-hearted of me, but I’m not sure I have it in me. The sight of the children suffering is harder than I expected it to be. Or – there’s something about a parent’s concern and grief that is magnified compared to other patients’ family members. Take Thomas, for example. Every time I go into his room, I see the anxiety and the despair that is on his mother’s face, even though she attempts to remain cheerful. It’s heart-breaking.”

The Viscount didn’t answer as he checked off several ratings, and scribbled notes in answer to each of the questions. He paused over the last one, wrote something quickly, then capped the pen and put it back. “You will be a good doctor,” he said with a smile. “You have heart. However, you’re wise to know your limits. Not everyone can handle pediatrics – we all have a cap to our effectiveness that’s linked to our personality, and, I suppose, our level of humanity.” A dimple appeared. “Of which some seem to think I have none.”

“Sylvie would refute such a suggestion,” Christian said roundly, with an unaccustomed allusion to their personal connection. The Viscount simply smiled, and handed the paper back to Christian.

When he walked into Thomas room, he saw Chastity sitting in her usual spot. She looked surprised to see him, but  pleased. “Any changes?” he asked, walking over to take a look at the chart.

“It seems so,” she said. “Docteur Toussaint is encouraged – and so am I – that Thomas seems to be opening his eyes for longer stretches of time. There seems to be more of a deliberateness to his movements too.” Her eyes twinkled.  “He seems bent on getting the IV tubes out.”

The Viscount read the patient’s chart, noting the same progress recorded that she spoke of. “This is good news,” he said. “I’m very pleased to hear it. I hoped, of course, that we might start to see some changes by now, but it’s impossible to predict when these will happen, and what the final outcome will be.”

“I know,” Chastity said, “but I cannot give up hope.”

“And you absolutely should not,” he replied firmly. He looked at her. Her already slim frame was thinner than it was weeks ago, but she was starting to have some bloom to her cheeks again. He was distracted by the curly locks that fell from her loose chignon, and how she tucked them behind her ear. She wore pendant earrings that swung back and forth as she talked.

“You look well,” he finally said.

“I am well,” she replied – her smile brightening, which made her eyes sparkle. “I have good news.” The Viscount drew his eyebrows together, wondering if the good news had something to do with this father of Thomas’ that he had met only once – who did not leave him with a very favorable impression. He looked at her steadily, waiting.

She flushed and suddenly looked self-conscious. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. It’s only that my mother is coming to France.” His face softened at her news, and he was conscious of a feeling of relief.

“I never thought she would be able to get away because she works with my father in the dry cleaning business. She handles all of the accounting aspects, and my dad simply cannot function without her. But one of his retired friends, who’s a whiz at numbers, offered to take her place so she could come here.” Her voice was tremulous, despite her grin.

“I am so glad to hear it,” he said softly. “That kind of support is just what you need.”

“It’s true,” she said, her voice throbbing with suppressed emotion. “I have been trying to keep up my strength for Thomas, you know, and though I’m very grateful to Maude and Elizabeth … “ She smiled at him, “and to you – I should add, I would love not to have to be so strong all the time.” He nodded thoughtfully, looking at her.

After a short pause, he recollected himself. “When does she arrive?”

“Next week,” she said, and in a burst of good humour, walked over and kissed Thomas on the cheek. He fluttered his eyelids, and both of them watched him intently, but he didn’t move again after that.

“Can I bring you a coffee?” the Viscount asked, as he had the few times he had seen her since he brought her that first delicious espresso.

“I would love one,” she answered warmly. Her smile was reflected in her expressive eyes, and when she looked at him like that, he couldn’t see any resemblance between this woman and the one who taught his son – the one he had thought of as a viper.

He came back quickly, and handed her one of the tiny white porcelain cups, but then stopped short. “I’m sorry. I forgot the sugar.”

“I’ll run and get one from the nurse’s station,” she said in a voice that was almost merry. “They keep a stash there and have always encouraged me to help myself. They are so good to me.”

She walked off lightly, coffee in hand, and the Viscount walked over to Thomas and set his cup down on the bedside table. “Thomas.” He jostled the small frame gently. “Thomas. Your mother wants to see you.”

There was no response. He nudged him again more firmly, but his words were caressing. “Thomas. Open your eyes.”

There was a sigh, and Thomas opened his eyes; but he stared, unseeing, at the ceiling. “That’s better, Thomas. Can you see me? I am Docteur de Chabot.”

The boy’s eyes seemed to focus for a second, but then stared again, unblinking. The Viscount sat on the side of his bed, and held his hand. “Thomas, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”

There was a pause, and then, “Well very good, Thomas! You did it! That was a strong squeeze too,” he grinned.

Just then he heard the crash, and he turned to look, Thomas’ hand still in his. Chastity stood in the doorway in mute astonishment, her eyes going from the Viscount to her son, and the porcelain cup shattered at her feet.

The post The Viscount – Chapter Seventeen appeared first on A Lady In France.

Videos, Links & French Miscellany

I have a few videos and links to share with you today, but let me start with news. Actually no. Let me start with a question. Have any of you stopped receiving my blog posts by e-mail (those who have subscribed that way)? Please do let me know.

And now for the news. Hunter has indeed been adopted by his foster family in Germany, and seems to be living in a state of luxury never before experienced.

We are so glad.

I got my engagement ring re-sized, but will have to drum up 575€ to fix the wedding band, which is not going to happen anytime soon. Sigh. Shall I put a fundraiser on the sidebar? But at least I’m “engaged” now.

We went to see Cinderella in the theatre, except it was totally the twisted French humour version of it. We were told that once the doors closed we would not be allowed to leave. And all the actors smoked on stage. True story.

But there were parts that were really funny. For instance, the “ball” took place in modern times and had modern music, but the stepfamily didn’t know that, and they wanted to impress the royal family. So they showed up in Louis XIV gear. I was cracking up.

Now. On to the videos. Here are some of the kids, which are probably more of interest to the family than anyone else.

Juliet’s ballet class. You can hear how dance teachers sounds in French.

Gabriel when he was a wee one. We just discovered this video buried in the computer. He’s saying, “Je peux voir Papa?” which means – can I see it Papa? Then he says half-French, half-English, “Tu peux le tournes it like this, Papa?” – which means – Can you turn it like this? He knows that there is a screen on the camera that will show him the video if only his father will turn the darn thing.

Finally, a recent video of William learning to read. My mother is taking French lessons and she wanted to show everyone in her class how natural the rolling of the Rs comes to her grandkids. I can’t exactly promise that the “learning to read” part comes naturally, however.

Another – not video, but sound – link I want to share with you is my brother-in-law’s SoundCloud account. It’s here: TIM VAGO. He does all the piano and other music, as well as the singing (and writes most of his own songs).

I love his version of Hallelujah (which is obviously not his own song), and which you’ll hear with a charming French accent. And I particularly like Ma Melancolie which is his creation. My brother Jeff is a very talented piano player – jazz, classical and show tunes – so it takes a lot to impress me, but Timothée has definitely earned my admiration.

Almost done, but wait! I’m not finished. I found this adorable video link on how to swear in French. Except it’s not the vulgar swearing, but rather the more delicate, refined swearing. “Avoidance swearing.” Géraldine’s blog Comme Une Française is found HERE, and this is the video:

Happy December 1st, friends!

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The Viscount – Chapter Sixteen

I have less time to write this school year. I teach/tutor more than I have in the past, and my kids have shorter school days due to a reform in the school rhythm. I often feel like I’m scrambling to get posts and chapters up, and my laundry is in a continual state of undone. That being said, and although weaving a plot is near-agony for me, I notice a feeling of emptiness and restlessness when I’m not writing and moving the story forward. So that’s something, right?

I hope you had a great Thanksgiving, my compatriots.

THE VISCOUNT OF MAISONS LAFFITTE

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“How 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, and seemed to take a minute before comprehending who it was and what he was saying.

“Hi Marc,” she said, looking back down. “He’s pretty much the same.” She mechanically grasped her son’s hand. “The swelling is down, both inside the skull and also on the outside. You can see that 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 came a strong smell of smoke – and pulled up a chair beside her. He sat down, his legs spread apart in his designer jeans, elbows resting on his knees. He looked up at her. “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 really sweet, but the doctor is really 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 everything he’s saying without being distracted. I need to be able to communicate any changes in Tommy’s state.”

Marc leaned back against the folding chair suddenly, and looked up at the ceiling. He spoke nonchalantly. “So I heard Docteur de Chabot is none other than the Viscount of Maisons Laffitte.”

“Yes, I was very surprised,” said Chastity calmly. “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 that it cannot be true – not with the care he gives his patients here.”

There was silence for a moment. “Yes, I can see why you might have thought that. He didn’t strike me at all as being someone who cared about anyone else.”

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

Marc gave a forced laugh. “Well he seems to have everything going for him, doesn’t he? Handsome, rich, titled, owns a château, and now a neurosurgeon – and he’s nice, on top of it all!”

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

Perhaps if she had responded lightly, or even returned the laugh, Marc would not have made the fatal mistake at this juncture. But he could see his quarry slipping away and couldn’t stop himself from rushing the fence. “Chassy,” he said imperatively. She looked at him. “Have you given any thought about us?”

He could see the shock and anger flash in her eyes, so he tried to make a recovery. “I would like to take my place with you at the hospital as more than just the person who fathered your child. I would like 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 back down again.

He mistook this for weakening on her part, and pressed on. “I will take time off work. I will ask my parents for some financial support. I know they will 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!” She cut him off sharply, glancing at her son. “Not in front of Thomas.” She stood up and walked over to the door, beckoning him to follow. When she saw that there was no one passing by in the corridor, she said more softly. “Seriously, Marc. I can’t believe you are talking about this now. I can’t think about anything other than Thomas. Surely you understand that. I am allowing you to be here for Thomas’ sake, but that’s where it ends. I don’t have room in my thoughts or my heart for anything else right now.”

Marc put his hand on the doorframe, leaning his head 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 on 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 she saw the hurt look, she relented. “Don’t quit your job, okay? You can come during the day 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 said gracelessly and went back over to the bedside to take his seat.

“Tommy,” Chastity said, following him over with an attempt at 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.

 * * *

The Viscount drove on the autoroute, the dark road lit by the headlights heading 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 Camille was doing since he had seen him the week before even less than usual. He had looked haggard. He also remembered suddenly that he needed to follow up regarding the exhibition with the paintings he had bought and borrowed that was to open in just a few weeks. He was irritated with himself for forgetting to bring it to his business manager’s attention.

And then Mademoiselle Whitmore flashed before his eyes. He thought about her dispassionately – well, mostly so – as he considered how hard her situation was, and how little support she had, compared to the other parents he had had to deal with. He remembered how green her eyes were whenever she looked at him, and how her gaze had changed in the months since he had first met her. She went from looking judgmental and stern as a teacher, to looking as frightened as a child when faced with the severity of her son’s condition. And now her gaze 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 and driving over the small pebbles that led to his entrance.

Paltier came running as soon as he heard the front door open. The Viscount strode into the marble foyer and jogged up the steps onto the first landing.

“Sir!” Paltier said, slightly out of breath.

“Paltier,” the Viscount said 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!” expostulated that worthy gentleman. He divested the Viscount of his wool coat, and took his scarf and leather gloves.

“How is Camille? Is he here?” Paltier carried his coat over to a large armoire set against the wall, and hung the coat on a wooden hanger, before replying. “Camille is upstairs, and from what I can tell, he seems to be his usual self. However, Sir, I should warn you that Mademoiselle Duprey is in the Italian apartment.”

At this news, the Viscount stopped short. He turned to Paltier and raised an eyebrow. “I was not expecting her,” was all he said.

Paltier looked a little embarrassed, but managed to stifle any desire to defend himself. He answered woodenly. “I apologize if I have 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, leaving the rest unsaid.

The Viscount reflected on this for a moment. “No, you did well,” he said. “Please let her know that I will be with her in a moment, but I want to see Camille first. Oh, and please bring her some refreshments.”

“I have already offered,” Paltier said with dignity, “but she refused.”

“Of course you did,” the Viscount said soothingly. “I won’t be very long.” With those words, he ran up the steps to his son’s room and tapped on the door.

“Entre!” his son yelled from inside, above the loud music. The Viscount opened 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, video games on his iPad.

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

His father looked around the room, and then said with quiet irony, “I see I should visit you more often. Since when have you started smoking?”

“Oh, that.” Camille had recovered himself a bit by now and some of his defensiveness returned. “Well, it’s not all that big of a deal, you know.”

His father returned no answer. He leaned against the messy desk near the entrance and looked at his son. Camille squirmed under his searching gaze, but said nothing.

“I was just wondering how you were doing, and if you needed anything.” The Viscount reached down and pulled something that poked him from where he was sitting. It was a wooden puzzle.

“I’m fine.”

The Viscount reined in his exasperation and said, “Camille, you always say you are 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?

Camille jabbed his toe against the wood floor, sending a sock skidding across it, and looking at that moment much younger than his teenage self. “Well, uh. I was thinking I would like to buy a moped. I was wondering if you would give me the money to get a new model?” He glanced up, frowning.

The Viscount resisted the urge to turn the request down immediately by saying he could walk or take the metro anywhere he wanted to. He quickly considered that this could be a way to reach his son and get him to open up. “Sure. You can have a new moped. I’ll have Jean take you to the shop, help you choose one and fill out all the paperwork.”

Camille flushed. “I can’t just have the money and, you know, do it myself?”

A wrinkle appeared in the Viscount’s brows. “Why would you want to – ” He caught himself before betraying that he didn’t think his son was mature enough to do it, and said more kindly, “I don’t think so. You’re a minor, and it’s better that you make such a big purchase with someone else. The dealer would expect that.” He added suddenly, “Hey – I can take you. I’ll be spending less time at the hospital next week.”

If Camille had any further objections to being denied making the purchase himself, he did not voice them. He just mumbled, “No, no. That’s fine. I can go with Jean.” Then he corrected himself. “Mr LeFevre.”

The Viscount had to be satisfied with that, even if he still felt just as distant from his son. “Okay. Well, Paltier told me that Manon Duprey paid me a surprise visit, so I’m going to see what she wants.” His son just nodded. As the Viscount turned to go, he suddenly thought of something else and turned back, “Who is your English teacher now?”

His son looked up in surprise. “Mademoiselle 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. Madame Moore taught one class, and then this other teacher came in.”

“Do you like her as well as Mademoiselle Whitmore?” he asked curiously.

“I don’t know.” Camille shrugged. “I suppose not. Mademoiselle Whitmore is really tough, but you can tell she cares about the kids.” He looked embarrassed to have said as much.

“Okay. Well … good night.” The Viscount went into the hallway and shut the door softly behind him.

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 and her eyes tired. “Charles,” was all she said quietly;

He walked over to where she was, his confusion evident. “What is it, Manon?”

She leaned her face into her hands and started sobbing quietly. He had never seen her so distraught. Finally, she gathered herself enough to say, “My grandmother died suddenly. That’s why I’ve come back from London.”

The Viscount knew how close Manon was to her grandmother so he just sat down next to her feet, and put his arm around her curled-up legs. “I didn’t know where else to go,” she wailed. “I didn’t want to go back to my empty apartment.”

“How did she die,” the Viscount finally asked. “When we saw her around Christmas time, she seemed to be in great health.”

“Aneurism,” she choked out through her sobs, which were growing a little louder. The Viscount listened to her patiently, his heart a little touched by her grief and the biggest display of vulnerability he had ever before seen in her. He pulled her up next to him and put his arm around her and hugged her close.

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

This was only slightly inaccurate. The Viscount knew that her parents were both alive, but neither wanted anything to do with her until she became famous and it was too late. Her grandmother gave her a loving and orderly – if bourgeois – childhood.

“I know,” was all he said.

After some time of crying quietly, while the Viscount stayed with her and waited, she finally pulled out a tissue and blew her nose. She stared straight ahead as she spoke numbly. “The funeral is on Wednesday. I was given time off for the funeral until Thursday. Could I stay here?”

The Viscount cleared his deep voice and stared absently at the top of her blond curls. He was not precisely thrilled at the loss of his freedom, but he was not a monster either and could see that 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 that he had not yet answered.

“Sure,” was all he said.

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Lentil Soup Recipe

I once went on a blind date with a man who confessed he didn’t know what lentils were. I was perfectly ready for him to say he didn’t like them, but that he didn’t know what they were?

From that hapless remark, I knew that our first date would be our last.

It’s not that I love lentils so very much (although I like them a great deal). It’s just that they’ve been a part of my diet since I can remember. And they are so easy to make!

To begin, brown an onion and 4 small cloves of garlic in about a tablespoon of olive oil.

While that’s cooking, peel four carrots and chop them in rounds.

And then measure two cups of lentils, which you will want to wash.

Put the lentils in a bowl (I like this one because it’s made of plastic and somewhat flexible – easy to grip). Pour water in the bowl, swirl your hand around in it to wash the lentils, then slowly pour the water out. If any lentils float to the surface and pour out, they are better off not in your soup anyway. Repeat the rinsing process.

By now the onions should be browned, so you put the lentils, carrots, 8 cups of water, a vegetable bouillon cube, and 1-2 teaspoons of large grain sea salt (less if you’re using regular salt). Perhaps start with one teaspoon and see if you need more. I like my soups a little on the salty side.

You also need to add 2 bay leaves. I never used to think they mattered very much in recipes, but ever since I’ve started pulling them fresh off the bay laurel bush in my yard, I’ve changed my mind. They are very fragrant. Add the two leaves plus 1/2 teaspoon of basil. Bring this to a boil and then turn down the heat and simmer for at least one hour.

I like my soups puréed. I find them to be prettier (although it’s difficult to take pretty pictures of lentil soup), and I find that the tastes blend nicely when it has been puréed together.

It’s important that you remove the bay leaves before you purée the soup. They do not soften at all during cooking, and you will have sharp little chunks of leaves in your soup.

When serving lentil soup, why not make homemade bread? (I have a gluten-free mix that is currently in the oven).

Or, you can microwave some hotdogs and cut them into rounds and put them in the lentil soup. The French often do that and it’s a great favourite with the kids.

And there you have your warming meal ready for dinner.

The perfect dish to brighten the heart on a gloomy, rainy November day.

(In case the flowers are not doing the trick)

Lentil Soup Recipe   Print Prep time 15 mins Cook time 1 hour 15 mins Total time 1 hour 30 mins   From: Lady Jennie Recipe type: Main Cuisine: French Serves: 4-6 Ingredients 2 cups lentils 8 cups water 4 carrots 1 onion 4 small cloves garlic 1 T olive oil 2 t large grain sea salt 2 bay leaves 1 bouillon cube (vegetable) ½ t basil Instructions Brown the onions and garlic in olive oil. Peel and cut the carrots in rounds. Wash the lentils. Put all the ingredients in the pot and bring to a boil. Simmer uncovered for an hour. Purée and serve hot. 3.2.2885

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Forty-Five Is When I Love Myself

Today I turn forty-five, and I am beautiful.

I put on my black dress pants with that forgiving 6% lycra blend, my black boots, and my green silk scarf. I spritz on perfume from an old (but still heavenly-scented) bottle of Clinique Happy, since the burglars made off with the more recent, expensive bouquets. I am free to go into Paris for lunch with my husband because my two students miraculously both canceled. We head in the direction of the Champs Elysées.

We stop at the FNAC store and I discover a DVD series on sale that has all the A&E Jane Austen movies in one set for only 35€. Of course, I’ve already seen Pride and Prejudice a number of times, as well as Mansfield Park. But there are four other movies to discover, and my mother-in-law has just given me a moderate sum to spend as I please.

.

I am so pleased.

We get an early reservation at an intimate brasserie that is known for its french fries “à tombé par terre” – to fall to the ground for – and for its roast spring chicken.

I start with a green salad, and finish with a café gourmand (an espresso with mini crème brulée and a homemade applesauce that is served in the tiniest mason jar you’ve ever seen). I cannot finish my french fries, as delicious as they are.

On our way home, we make a pit-stop at la Maison du Chocolat for a very small box of decadent chocolates that will not be eaten in one sitting.

And they give us both a free sample of raspberry-filled chocolate.

I am forty-five, and I am far from being at my ideal weight. But I am soft when you hug me, and my smile reaches my eyes.

My hair is thinner than it once was, but I am still growing it out a little so I can pull it up off my shoulders. And I will wear the tiny pendant earrings, the colour of my eyes, that my husband gave me and which swing playfully next to my cheeks.

The too-tight wedding rings that have been sitting in my jewellery box for fourteen years – tucked inside the folds where the slapdash robbers did not find them – are now at the jeweller being sized up so that I can finally wear them once more.

Will I punish myself forever for not being able to return to my wedding weight? No. Size those babies up and make me an honest woman again.

My wrinkles become more pronounced, rather than disappear. My chin begins to sag a bit – and my belly too. This body has been inefficient at burning calories for a long time; but it brought three souls into the world, and still serves me for brisk walks along the Seine in the autumn leaves.

The wrinkles are also years of wisdom, and they are laugh lines, and my body is a soft landing place for all the hugs that come my way. I don’t want to be twenty again with my whole uncertain life before me, and all the doubts large before my eyes. I don’t want to be another woman, who stops traffic with her beauty but wonders if her husband loves her for anything deeper than that.

How can my life, as is, be anything but beautiful?

My birthday welcome today. Do they notice I have not yet showered? They do not.

Today I turn forty-five, and I don’t wish to go back in time. I love the Jennie that is right here. The one that is as is.

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Gloom

I know, I know. You actually think I’m going to write something gloomy and depressing, don’t you? But no! I’m in the best of spirits, I assure you. I just liked the photo prompt from Alison at Writing, Wishing and Greta at GFunkified. They’ve been giving weekly photo prompts for the last year, and this week’s “gloom” strikes close to home for anyone who lives in the Northern Hemisphere where the seasons change.

Take this, for instance.

Or this.

Pretty gloomy, huh?

But the great thing about gloom is that, without it, we cannot fully appreciate cheer!

And the pleasure of coming home to it.

Cheers!

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The Viscount – Chapter Fifteen

THE VISCOUNT OF MAISONS LAFFITTE

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The scene repeated itself. There stood the Mediterranean-looking man, who went by the name of Etienne, standing by the stone wall that overlooked the Seine. But this time it was a different wall, a different part of the Seine. He stood in the bright sunlight, and having finished his cigarette, tossed it below onto the cobblestone walkway that directly bordered the river.

He looked around impatiently, and at this cue, Jean didn’t waste any time jogging across the street to join him. “You kept me waiting,” was all the man said.

“I’m sorry. There was a delay in the train schedule,” he lied. “So do you have news on the buyer?”

“Yes, I am in touch with him. Come let’s walk,” he commanded, and surged forward without waiting for an answer. “The buyer is a Russian, and he will be ready to receive the package when his cargo ship has been reloaded and is ready to return. That’s going to be sometime towards the end of April. I’ve got the driver in place, but you need to let me know now if you’re sure of your end of the deal?”

“I’m getting there, and I will be ready by then,” Jean quickly reassured him. “I’m securing two points of entry to be able to come and go without detection. All that’s left is for me to choose the right moment when its occupants will be fully distracted.”

“The place is more fully guarded than it was twenty-five years ago,” Etienne warned. “I hope you have better plans in place than to think it’s nothing more than breaking a window or picking a lock. If that were the case, I would use one of my own men.”

Gaining confidence, Jean shook his head. “It’s all about relationships and I have two in place that will allow me to gain access when I need it.”

Etienne dodged some tourists and walked back next to Jean before saying, “I’ll need to have more details before long to make sure there aren’t any screw-ups.”

“As soon as I get a few more items in place – namely when it’s going to happen – I will let you know everything.”

“Alright I’ll be counting on that.” Etienne nodded in Jean’s direction before taking abrupt leave of him again. But this time Jean felt less disconcerted by the encounter this time around. It didn’t matter how much more cunning or dangerous Etienne was. He knew that he had something Etienne did not have … the map.

* * *

Chastity fluttered around the hospital room, picking dead leaves off the plant that had been brought in by Maude, tucking the teddy bear sent by her parents next to her son’s arm, only to remove it and put it back next to the window where he would see it when he opened his eyes. She walked back to his side and sat down, kissing his cheek and then holding his hand.

“Hi baby,” she murmured. “Well. Now that the room is in order, shall we continue with our story of Harry Potter?”

But she didn’t pull out the book right away. In the week that her son had been in a coma, she hadn’t left his side except to shower. She knew that French law would permit her to extend her paid leave of absence because her son was gravely injured, but she was beginning to accept that her son might be in this state for some time. And then what would she do? She had no family here, and she couldn’t imagine ever leaving him to go back to work. But if his coma were of long duration, she would have to.

Oooh! I can’t think about that just now!  

Mr de Chabot – Docteur de Chabot had been in every day since the accident, and – almost without realizing it – she had begun to look forward to his visits. He always spared those few extra minutes after examining Thomas to provide reassurance. It was very subtle. He would let drop a comment that the body used the coma to allow itself to heal, and it was by no means a sign that he wouldn’t wake up. Or he would tell her of a case he handled a few years back where the child was hit in exactly the same way as Thomas, and how the end-result had been better than anyone had hoped for. She would have been hard-put upon to explain exactly why, but her spirits were always lifted by the time he left.

“Bonjour Madame.” A handsome young man with a large smile walked into the room. He came over and shook her hand, speaking in perfect English. “I am an intern in this hospital, and my name is Christian Okonkwo. Docteur de Chabot charged me with keeping a special eye on your son.” His broad smile caused her own to appear.

“Are you studying to be a neurosurgeon too then?” she asked.

“It’s my plan,” he replied. “This is my sub-internship so it’s not too late to decide on a different specialty, but if I can get a residency here, this is the field I would choose.”

“You’re not French,” Chastity observed.

“No. I’m Nigerian. But I was studying in Cambridge with Docteur de Chabot’s niece, and she made the introductions that allowed me to intern here.”

“Oh, that was kind of Docteur de Chabot,” she said politely. “You must be fluent in French then.”

“Yes, I went to the Lycée Français in Lagos.”

“And I went to the Lycée Français in New York.” Chastity smiled. “I guess learning to be fluent in French has its uses after all.

The intern went over to Thomas and checked the catheter and the stitches, making notes in the patient’s file. “Has he shown any movement that is new?” he asked.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “He sometimes jerks suddenly, but he did that right from the beginning. And the doctor said that it’s not necessarily a sign of awareness.

“That’s tr—” The intern was interrupted.

“Bonjour Mademoiselle.” The Viscount strode into the room and clasped Chastity’s hand warmly, before shaking the intern’s. “Christian.”

“So you were able to come earlier than expected,” the intern observed.

“Yes. My estate manager is quickly getting up to speed and I am able to extricate myself more easily these days.” The Viscount smiled at Chastity as he said this. “So, you’ve been introduced to our intern then.”

“I have.”

“Has he reviewed your son’s progress with you?” His eyes rested on hers for a minute before he looked down to study the patient’s chart.

The intern spoke up. “We were just going through them. No new movement. His ICP level is down to sixteen.” He turned to Chastity, “This is good news, Mademoiselle. It’s within the normal range.”

“So it was the right decision to avoid the craniectemy then?” She looked back and forth between the two of them, but it was The Viscount who answered.

“It was a risk, but one worth taking. If his intra-cranial pressure had gone higher than twenty at any point, we would have rushed him into emergency surgery. I’m very glad it did not because that can engender other issues, even if it can also save a patient’s life. All in all, I would say that, given the circumstances, we had the best possible outcome. And now we need to keep waiting. Patiently — ” he added. He smiled and turned to the intern. “Christian have you done rounds with Docteur Bellamy yet?”

“Yes, I have but I wanted to come and meet Thomas as you suggested,” he answered innocently.

“I’m glad you did.” The Viscount turned to Chastity, “I asked Christian to start checking in on you regularly to see how you’re doing; that way he can keep me in the loop. I’ll be off after this week because the in-house doctor is returning from his conference.” He added, “I’ll still be coming in to check on Thomas, though.”

She smiled softly at him. “Thank you.”

The Viscount gestured to the intern, and turned towards the door. “Shall we?” The intern nodded his assent and gave his hand to Chastity, saying, “I will come as often as I can, and you can have me paged if you want to reach the Docteur.”

As soon as they left, it felt to Chastity as if the room was closing in. She walked over to the window and looked out over the parking lot. The grey winter weather gave off a feeling of late afternoon rather than mid-morning. She didn’t dare to call and ask, but she hoped that Maude, or even Elizabeth, would come and visit her. She felt so lonely. Completely forgetting her plans to read to Thomas, she stared forlornly out the window, and watched as tiny snowflakes began falling. Tiny, desolate snowflakes that tainted an icy world with bleakness.

Chastity smelled freshly-ground coffee and turned around, quickly brushing away the tears that had pooled in her eyes, but had not fallen. The Viscount had come in again quietly, carrying two porcelain cups. He looked a little uncertain. “The coffee here is awful,” he said with a tentative smile, “but we have a machine in the back that’s a little better.” And in timing that could not have been more auspicious, as soon as the words left his mouth, the sun pierced through part of the clouds and brightened the room.

She smiled up at him, but felt the tears threatening to form again just from this sweet gesture. She almost didn’t trust herself to speak, but managed a “Thank you.” After he handed her a coffee, he stood there awkwardly with his own cup until she gathered her wits and asked him to sit down.

“I wasn’t sure if you took sugar,” he said.

“Actually, I usually take sugar and milk,” she answered, rolling her eyes with a grin. “Sacrilege for a French person, I know. But the plain coffee is actually better in the machine here so I’m getting accustomed to it without milk.”

There was a silence that was not uncomfortable as each one took a sip of coffee. “Please,” she finally said. “Tell me how you came to be a neurosurgeon.” Her voice squeaked a bit on the last word, which made her blush. The Viscount had nothing to set his cup on, and was sitting in a folding chair, but he still managed to look elegant. However, his whole face lit up with boyish charm and he began speaking as he leaned forward.

“My first wife – she died when she was young – was very interested in medicine from a young age. We sort of grew up together, you know? We went to the same bilingual school in St Germain-en-Laye, and even after my family moved to Maisons Laffitte, I continued to go there. We were best friends before we even thought about a romantic relationship. And she was definitely the one who influenced me to choose medicine.”

“She was really smart, you see. And I have a competitive nature. If she was going to do something, I was going to do it better.” He chuckled – “although I rarely succeeded. She was focused completely on medicine and wanted to work in South America in one of the poorer communities. At the time, I thought it was what I wanted to do as well. But …” The Viscount stood up slightly and reached over to set his cup on the windowsill before resuming his place. “We married very young, and by the time we were medical residents, my wife got pregnant with Camille and she died as a result of childbirth. So I continued in the medical field alone.”

Chastity’s scanned his face compassionately. She took another sip of coffee before asking, “What happened to Camille while you finished studying and started working?”

“My sister Adelaide and my niece Sylvie spent a lot of time with Camille, and I had a live-in nanny, of course. But I spent every minute that I wasn’t working with him.”

Chastity nodded her head, as she processed this. She asked, “How did you choose neurosurgery?”

“Well, part of it was chance. I happened to secure an internship in the field. But I was drawn to neurosurgery – probably because my father died of a stroke. Although … if we’re going to go with that reasoning, I should be in obstetrics to save future husbands from becoming widowers.” He laughed without humor. “The psychologists would be able to explain it all, I’m sure.”

“Well, it does seem logical enough,” she responded gently. “You want to help.” She finished the last bit of her coffee, and held it in her lap. And then she took a deep breath before saying, “I just wanted to say thank you – for treating Thomas so gently, and for taking the time to explain things to me. I think that somehow … it kept the panic at bay. It kept me from going over the edge.” She didn’t dare to say anything else, but smiled at him, bravely, through the lump in her throat.

The Viscount didn’t feel the need to brush off her thanks the way he usually did. He smiled back at her and watched as a curl fell forward, framing her face. “You looked like you needed a friend,” was all he said.

After he had gathered up the espresso cups with a promise to see her tomorrow, she went back over to the window and looked out. The sun had disappeared again, but the weather seemed less sinister. The snowflakes fell playfully, darting suddenly to one side in a gust of wind. She took in a deep breath, and with it – strength.

As she turned to her, she felt hopeful for the first time, even though there had been no change in his condition. “Tommy,” she said playfully, kissing him very gently on the nose, “let’s read Harry Potter.”

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Mint Chocolate Pudding

We have these little dessert pots of mint-chocolate mousse that are sold by La Laitérie here in France, and while this is a pudding and not a mousse (the white chocolate mousse recipes don’t have egg whites) I did imitate the crunchy swirl of dark chocolate that is found in the commercial variety.

You need 200 grams of white chocolate (true white chocolate, made from cocoa butter). I used Nestlé.

And you need a handful of mint leaves – this did not give a strong mint flavour, so if you like it really minty, you’ll want twice as much.

Simmer very gently the mint leaves and 1/3 cup of sugar in 250 ml cream. (1 cup)

Keep an eye on the cream. You don’t want it to boil over, but when it’s very hot, strain the leaves and top layer of cream.

Cool, then refrigerate the mixture for a few hours before whipping the cream. Don’t expect it to turn into proper whipped cream. For that to happen, you would have needed to heat only a small portion of it with the sugar and mint, and refrigerated it overnight before whipping the rest of the (undoctored) cream while it’s still very cold. But the pudding will still hold shape with slightly whipped cream.

When you’re ready, melt the white chocolate in the microwave for 45 seconds to a minute, and then stir it to make sure everything is melted. Heat again in 15 second intervals if there are still lumps.

Mix the melted white chocolate with 3 egg yolks while still hot.

And then blend the mint-cream mixture with the white chocolate and yolk mixture. Just blend enough to thoroughly mix it, and put the pudding in six small ramekins.

When that’s done, melt 200 grams of dark chocolate, along with 1/4 teaspoon peppermint (or mint) extract in a bowl.

Once the dark chocolate is melted, take a heaping spoonful of it and swirl it into the mint pudding with a chopstick. There will likely be a layer that pools at the bottom, but that’s okay. This is what it looks like (below).

Refrigerate the pudding all day or overnight. And when you’re ready to eat it, this is what the texture looks like – pudding with a swirl of mint-chocolate crunch.

It’s rather simple, don’t you think?

And here’s the printable version:

5.0 from 1 reviews Mint Chocolate Pudding   Print Prep time 6 hours Cook time 15 mins Total time 6 hours 15 mins   From: Lady Jennie Recipe type: Dessert Cuisine: French Serves: 6 Ingredients 200 g white chocolate a handful of mint leaves ¼ t peppermint extract 250 ml cream - 1 cup ⅓ c sugar 3 yolks 200 gr dark chocolate Instructions Simmer cream, sugar, mint leaves very slowly. Let it cool, then refrigerate it for a couple of hours. Melt white chocolate and mix with egg yolks while still hot. Whip the cream mixture as much as it will rise. Blend the cream mix and the yolk-white chocolate mix. Pour into small ramekins. Melt the dark chocolate and peppermint extract. Swirl into the mint pudding mixture and stir with a chopstick. 3.2.2802

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Hard Pressed, but not Crushed

If you’ve been reading my blog regularly, you know it’s been a challenging couple of weeks. It actually started in August with some divine discipline, and continued into September/October with acute depression – in part because this is the time of year I suffered loss. And then everything came to a head over the last two weeks in despair and hope.

To back up, two weeks ago, my husband was in New York so we did not get to celebrate his birthday together. He was concerned about leaving our family because I was barely functioning through my depression at the time. I also had walking pneumonia (or something like it) and did not know it, and which certainly did not help. My heavy lungs were a physical manifestation of how heavy life felt. During that week, I sought advice on a forum for what to do with my biting dog, and was shocked to see that the main advice given was to put him to sleep�. I was also praying for a friend’s 3-yd old daughter who was facing a life-threatening surgery, plus another friend who seemed to be losing her battle against cancer, when I got the news that an old friend from my days in NY had just died from cancer when I didn’t even know she was sick. I couldn’t stop crying.

My husband came home in time for the weekend, and together we prayed that Hunter would never bite anyone again. My friend’s daughter came through the surgery like a champ, and is now home (!), and I had the comfort of my husband’s presence when I needed to go to SOS Medecin with a urinary-tract infection (and where I was finally diagnosed with a “bronchite pneunomie”). Things seemed to be getting better (except for the rat swimming up from the sewer into our toilet bowl).

But then Hunter nipped William again on Monday, and we knew we needed to take urgent action. We tried to set up an appointment with the vet to seek advice (do we have to euthanise him?) but couldn’t get an appointment until Friday. And then Tuesday was our anniversary, but I had a fever and had spent a lot that day crying about our dog so we didn’t celebrate. By the time we met with the vet on Friday, he said that euthanising was indeed the best option, because the SPA would exacerbate his aggressive tendencies, and he would probably be put down after having lived a miserable stint in a small cage. We had been trying to re-home him for a year (some periods more urgently than others) so we didn’t have any hope of that being an option, and the breeder had refused to help. So we set an appointment to put him to sleep in a week’s time.

But in the height of irony – we decided to go out with the kids after the vet appointment (of whose recommendation they were blissfully unaware) to try and put aside the heavy weight on our hearts. We went to a nearby amusement park, took a detour coming home, and got stuck in standstill traffic for an hour and a half, allowing some local criminals the time to rob our house.

And our “vicious dog” … did nothing to stop them.

We must have interrupted the robbers because they left the computers and camera (and the upstairs window open). But they took all my 24k gold, an antique pocket watch, a gold and aquamarine ring my mother gave me, a gold and pearl necklace in the shape of a cross that my great-grandmother gave to my grandmother when she left for WWII. And all three Nintendo DS games, plus 300€ cash.

Oh, and they ran off with our sense of security in having a safe home.

I have to say I was doing better though, and my husband and I both took the discovery in stride. I had been using two inhalers and it was finally dislodging the heaviness in my chest, and I was grateful to have such a clear answer about what to do with our dog, even though the answer was painful. At least we were no longer in doubt after two years of trying to make it work. So the robbery just seemed like another thing on our plate, and not a blow too hard to deal with.

On Sunday we taught the kids’ class at church. It was the story of how Abraham was told to sacrifice his son Isaac, and how at the last minute he was spared from having to do such a painful, dreadful thing. The story parallels God’s having to sacrifice his own son, Jesus, and – like a sudden flash – it inspired me with faith.

Maybe God will not ask me to sacrifice my dog.

You will probably laugh at me for interpreting it that way, but nevertheless, I did. And on the faith I gleaned from the story, I attempted a last-minute posting to re-home Hunter in three places – once again, even though it had never before come to fruition. A few suggestions/possibilities fell through, but I was able to be in contact with someone who is part of an association that is against euthanisation and works hard to find solutions to rescue the dogs. And then I waited.

Wednesday morning, I woke up so heavy as the deadline to put our dog to sleep drew near. It had all just been too much – the illness, the loss, the worry, the grief about our dog, the robbery – the rat!!! I’m not sure why, but in searching for a random passage in the Bible, I flipped to Isaiah 40 – the ending of which chapter says:

“My way is hidden from the Lord;

    my cause is disregarded by my God”?

Do you not know?

    Have you not heard?

The Lord is the everlasting God,

    the Creator of the ends of the earth.

He will not grow tired or weary,

    and his understanding no one can fathom.

He gives strength to the weary

    and increases the power of the weak.

Even youths grow tired and weary,

    and young men stumble and fall;

but those who hope in the Lord

    will renew their strength.

They will soar on wings like eagles;

    they will run and not grow weary,

    they will walk and not be faint. (27-31)

As I read about the weak increasing in power, and the weary gaining strength, I began to be fortified and look at everything more positively. (The effects of my morning coffee probably also helped). And then there was that scripture about eagles again, just like on the mountain!

About an hour later, I got a call. My contact had good news! She put me in touch with a refuge in Germany that specialises in rehabilitating Hunter’s breed, and not only will they take him, but there is also a doggie carpool that will bring him there. So today’s appointment will not be to kill my dog (sob) but to put a microchip in his ear so he can legally pass the border. I could just weep.

But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. (2 Corinthians 4: 7-12)

Yes, there are other things going on. I am still praying for my friend who is fighting for her life. Her name is Marie and her two sons are the age of Gabriel and William. If you pray, pray for her too. We have our own health scare in the family, which is probably fine, but I’m never at ease until the results come in. Our financial problems have not been resolved, but there have been some rays of light poking through. For instance – though part of our home renovation loan was rejected, and our water heater is on its last legs, and our roof about to crumble to bits, and our car in need of more repairs than it’s worth – the delay in our loan procedure resulted in a lower interest rate, I was able to gain a few more students to earn more money, and we have a few items we can sell. It will all work out in the end.

The other night, when it finally dawned on William that our dog would not be coming home afterwards, and he was downstairs wailing and explaining to his best friend, Hunter, what would happen to him: “You’ll be going away and you will never see us, ever again …” it was a healing kind of cry because we were able to reassure our son in all truth that Hunter would be going to a better place.

Sometimes, despair is only a pit stop on the way to deliverance.

We will never forget you, Hunter.

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The Viscount – Chapter Fourteen

THE VISCOUNT OF MAISONS LAFFITTE

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The ambulance screeched to a halt in front of CHI Poissy hospital. The driver leapt down and opened the back door, while the attendant inside unsecured the gurney and pushed the end forward so that it could be carried down. Chastity jumped down from the ambulance and promptly fell to the pavement. She had no strength in her knees, and it was only by sheer will that she was able to get up again and run after them.

The first responders pushed the gurney between them, shoving the swinging doors open with a bang as they brought their charge through. A triage nurse met them.

“Seven year old boy with a severe concussion. He’s unconscious.

“What happened?”

“He was hit by a car.”

“Get Docteur Bellamy in here,” the triage nurse yelled to an aide that was stationed nearby. She begin cutting off Thomas’ clothes, and prepping him to draw blood. The neurologist was not long in appearing.

“What do we have here?” The details were repeated to him as the triage nurse inserted an IV, while another nurse placed the monitors on the boy’s chest and forehead. After a brief glance at his vitals, the doctor said. “Let’s get a CAT-scan.”

As they pushed the gurney through another set of doors, the nurse finally turned to Chastity, and saying kindly, “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait in the waiting room over there. You’re not allowed in this section, but we will give you news as soon as we have it.” The nurse pressed Chastity’s arm, and she was forced to acquiesce.

The doctor examined the screens as the inert patient was being scanned through the hollow white tunnel. “We’ll need to relieve the cranial pressure,” he said, shaking his head. ‘I’d be more comfortable getting a pediatric neurologist in here since he’s so young.” Then, speaking decisively, “Page Docteur Toussaint.”

The triage nurse replied, “Docteur Toussaint is at a conference this whole week. There’s another doctor who’s covering for him while he’s away. He’s normally on leave …”

“Has he retained his hospital privileges?” Upon being assured that he had, the doctor yelled “Get him in here.”

Chastity remembered how the doors banged mutely as they wheeled her son into a section of the hospital out of sight. She numbly walked over to where the waiting room was indicated and looked for a seat. The floor was blue, and the chairs were orange plastic. The fluorescent lighting was only slightly muted. An older couple sat across from her, the wife’s hand tucked into the husband’s arm. She glanced at Chastity sympathetically, but didn’t say anything. A teenager bounced his knee up and down rhythmically, absorbed in a video game. She sat stiffly on the chair nearest to the door.

She couldn’t cry. It wasn’t the lack of privacy that prevented her. It was the horror. She was conscious of feeling icy cold and burning hot all at once, and there was a lump in her throat that prevented her from swallowing or speaking. She sat, racing through the scene again and again.

Here kitty, kitty …

Mom, if I thought a kid was in trouble …

Hold on sweetie.

Oh, if only she could go back and pull his attention away from the cat so he didn’t run into the street. Over and over her thoughts turned. The cat, Tommy No! The screech. His lifeless form.

The winter sun began to set outside, making the fluorescent lights seem even more harsh. The short wait was already interminable.

While it was still early morning, the Viscount walked briskly through the corridors on his way to the pediatric ward. He stopped at the nurse’s station to pull his chart, and ran his finger down the notes from yesterday’s surgery.

“Bonjour Docteur.” An attractive nurse smiled up at him. He looked at her frowningly and muttered bonjour before walking slowly over to the ICU recovery area. The progress for his young patient was far from certain and he saw that not all of the cranial pressure had been alleviated.

“Ah! You’re here! Bonjour Docteur.” He looked up at the sound of Anna Garcia’s voice, a dynamic, middle-aged woman, and his favorite nurse in the hospital.

“Hello Anna,” he replied, his eyes twinkling. “I see everyone is still keeping you busy.”

“Aw, now that my own children are grown and out of the house, I need some other ones to look after,” she said with a grin.

“On top of the pediatric cases,” he teased. She had a reputation for being no-nonsense with the more belligerent patients, and they were always the older ones.

“Right you are.” She laughed heartily. “When will we have you back full-time at the hospital?”

“I’m halfway through my year-and-a-half sabbatical, so not for another nine months.”

“We sure miss you around here. Docteur Toussaint is great, of course, but you know he’s married. And old,” she said impressively.

The Viscount couldn’t help but laugh. Anna was only fifteen years his senior, but she mothered him just enough that he didn’t feel toad-eaten, and nothing missed her sharp observation. It was impossible to escape the level attention he received from the inebriating combination of looks, a medical degree, and a title.

“I’ve been meaning to stop by to ask how my intern is doing,” the Viscount said.

Anna smiled and sighed as she reached for the supplies that she had pulled from the supply closet. “I wish there were more like him. He doesn’t put on any airs, and you can tell that his concern for the patients is genuine. It’s too bad he’s only here for a few months.”

“Hm. I’m glad to hear he’s doing well. If he continues to be a good fit, perhaps he’ll apply here,” the Viscount said briskly, already impatient to move on. “Now, for our young patient in Room A. I see your notes here. I’ll take a look at the ICP sensor and see if we need to schedule a craniectomy. Who has been with him?”

“His mother hasn’t left his side. I don’t have the sense that she gets much support.”

 “Alright. Well, I’m on my way there now.” He closed the chart with a snap, and walked down the corridor past two open rooms, one of which was empty, before reaching the correct room. He entered it, his eyes on his young patient’s still form.

A slender woman, with long Auburn curls that hid her face, was leaning on the bed, her forehead resting on hands clasped in prayer. Almost immediately she turned towards him, lifting a tear-stained face, and wiping her nose on her sleeve.

He stopped short in surprise, but she was the first to speak.

“You!” She leapt to her feet, her voice incredulous. He was unable to reply for a moment.

Of course!  Thomas Whitmore was this woman’s son. How did he not make that connection as soon as he saw the name? There couldn’t be that many Whitmores in Ile de France. She looked different than she did at the school, though – vulnerable, young. In the morning sunlight that filtered through the half-closed blinds, he could see that, though her nose was red from crying, her eyes were a brilliant green.

He collected himself. “Good morning Madamoiselle. I apologize for being unable to brief you on your son’s progress last night, but I was called into another emergency. Did you understand everything Docteur Bellamy said?”

“Um yes. Yes … I understand that the pressure in his skull …” Here she choked a bit, and seemed to be trying to master her emotions. She cleared her throat and then continued. “I understand that the pressure has been relieved, and that I shouldn’t expect him to wake up right away. And, but … that I can’t be certain he will wake up?

The Viscount didn’t respond straight away. With his eyes still on her, he spoke kindly, “Please. Sit down,” gesturing towards the chair she had just been occupying, while he went to the unoccupied room and pulled a chair from there.

Before he could take a seat, her words came tumbling out in confusion. “I’m sorry, Mr de Chabot. I don’t understand how you came to be here. You’re not a doctor?”

“Is that so surprising?” he asked with the hint of a smile. It was the first time his face showed something akin to warmth.

“No, it’s just that I didn’t think you did anything.”

The Viscount hesitated before saying, “I am comforted to know that you have such a high opinion of me.” He looked down at the patient’s chart, hiding a somewhat rueful smile.

“No, no. I mean … I thought owning a château was a full-time job, and that if you did anything, it would be to manage your estate. I just have a hard time seeing you here … it’s all so unexpected.” She reached over to the bedside table and whisked a tissue out of the generic box there, wiping her face and blowing her nose.

“I don’t know why I’m bringing all this up. Of course it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry. I’m not myself,” she added in a watery voice.

“On the contrary,” the Viscount replied. “I find you to be much more in possession of yourself than most parents are in your situation.” She looked at him quickly, trying to understand what he meant, but he continued in a more professional voice without elaborating. “Docteur Bellamy was correct, but I think it’s too soon to look at the worst case scenario.”

At those words, tears started trickling down her cheeks again. “He’s all I have,” Chastity said in little more than a whisper. The Viscount, who thought himself immune to the emotions of the families he dealt with was moved; but he didn’t say anything. She blew her nose and then stood up abruptly again. The Viscount read the agitation in her gesture and followed suit.

“Let me have a look at his catheter,” he said. He went over and examined that and ICP sensor, his face unreadable. He looked over his notes again and pressed his lips together before saying, “There is a possibility we will have to temporarily remove part of the skull to allow the brain tissue to expand. I know such a procedure sounds terrifying, but if the pressure in his skull becomes too great, it will be the best course of action.”

“Oh, oh … okay. I didn’t know this could …” Chastity had trouble forming the words to match her patent horror at the idea of such a procedure. Finally she looked up, her eyes troubled. “Is this what the other doctors recommend?”

“It is simply the standard procedure, Mademoiselle.” The Viscount said this, not unkindly. He leaned over and put his hand on the boys arm. “What is his first language?” he asked her.

“English,” she answered.

He brought the chair up to the side of the bed, and again laid his hand on Thomas’ arm. “Good morning, Thomas,” he said in nearly perfect English. “You’ve had a car accident, and you’re in the hospital where we are taking very good care of you. My name is Docteur de Chabot, and your mother is here too. You just rest as long as you need. The important thing is for you to get better.”

With that, he stood up and turned to face Mlle Whitmore. She offered him a tremulous smile in return. “Thank you for taking such good care of my son,” she managed.

“Don’t lose hope,” he said. “Do you have anyone here who can support you?”

“Um. I have a couple of colleagues … I think you know Elizabeth Moore?” She looked up at him and the Viscount nodded. “She stopped by early this morning.”

“Alright. I will be back tomorrow morning then, unless there is a change in his … ”

Before he could finish his sentence, there was a bustle in the corridor as a young man – well-dressed, but with dissipated features, and smelling strongly of smoke – rushed into the room. “Chassy! You should have called me immediately! Oh my God. Thomas! How is he? Oh, bonjour Docteur. Comment va-t’il?” He switched to French when he saw the doctor standing there.

“And you are?” the Viscount proffered.

“I am the boy’s father,” he replied promptly. He stepped back and put his arm around Mlle Whitmore’s waist. Her face was drained of color, but otherwise remained expressionless.

“I see. A catheter has been put in to relieve pressure from the swelling of his brain, and we’re monitoring it.” There was no trace of the previous warmth in the Viscount’s face. “Mademoiselle.” He nodded towards her. “I will see you tomorrow.”

He swept out of the room, and as he was leaving, heard the man’s voice saying, “Well he’s not very friendly, is he?”

And without waiting for an answer, “So. What happened?

* * * * *

I want to give an extra-special thanks and shout out to my friend Dr Deborah Gilboa @AskDocG, who answered my medical questions – even skyping with me while rushing from one terminal to another. Not only is she an amazing friend, but (more importantly) an amazing doctor, mother, and parenting expert. You can follow her advice snippets on YouTube, and buy her book How to Get the Behavior You Want Without Becoming the Parent You Hate by clicking here.

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