The Viscount – Chapter Eighteen

I think I will take the next two weeks to re-read what I’ve written so far and tighten the plot before continuing (which, I will readily admit, needs it). Therefore, this is the last chapter until the new year. Thank you for your patience with me, and for following along as I write.

THE VISCOUNT OF MAISONS LAFFITTE

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Viscount’s eyes rested steadily on Chastity at the door. “Come,” he said quietly. And then, turning to look down at the slim figure lying on the bed, “Thomas, your mom is here. Can you squeeze again for her?”

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

“He’s out again,” the Viscount said, still looking at her. “I think that effort exhausted him. But really it was a significant leap. He was able to comprehend what I was saying and command a physical response in answer.”

Chastity’s cheeks were flushed, and her quick breaths betrayed her agitation, but she kept her body perfectly still. She looked down at her son, and said softly, “I wish I could have felt him squeeze my hand. I wish he would wake up.”

The Viscount just nodded. He didn’t speak right away, and then after a moment, said, “I’m pretty confident he will wake up, and possibly in the next few days. But with brain injuries it is impossible to predict 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 not be a fast recovery, and we’re unlikely to know straight away the extent of his injuries.”

His voice grew even gentler. “But I encourage you to hope for the best outcome, and let Thomas sense your hope.”

She met the Viscount’s gaze squarely, but with a tremulous smile. “I cannot thank you enough.”

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

“I know – you were … it was a coincidence for you to be here when Thomas regained some awareness.” There was a crease between her brows. “But I want to thank you for … what I can only describe as your friendship these past two weeks.” She chewed her lip. “I don’t want to presume too much.”

“You’re not,” he replied. “I am your friend, and I hope you will come to me if you need anything.” He left the bedside and went over to the door to pick up the pieces of porcelain that lay shattered there and threw them in the garbage.

“I’ll ask the cleaning staff to come mop up the coffee,” he said. She watched him as he wrapped his scarf around his neck, and it dawned on her that he wasn’t here as a doctor, but in casual clothes, and that he had come in to the hospital especially to see Thomas.

“Here’s my card, which has my cell phone on it. My friends call me Charles.”

“Chastity.” She took the card with another shy smile.

“Okay then.” He snapped his leather gloves against his hand. “I’ll check in on Thomas tomorrow.”

When the Viscount left, all the emotions she held in check seemed to crash at once, leaving her exhausted. Chastity 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 that Marc would not choose this moment to make an appearance. She wiped her palms on her jeans, and then rested her forearms on the bed, her two hands touching her son, and her head resting on her arms.

Her son – Tommy. Tommy. Her eyes welled with tears when she thought about him regaining consciousness. She took his hand and squeezed it, but felt nothing in return. But if he was on his way to getting better … she would give anything for that to be so.

And then, the Viscount. Who was this person? Her thoughts were a confused jumble. He had seemed so indifferent and cold as a father, and he acted out of sheer disregard for anyone else in his role at the school and in the town. But he was so clearly warm and caring as a doctor, going beyond the duties required of him – even continuing to watch over her son when his week was over. Why would he do this?

She lifted her head up and breathed out in 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 that the result would be the one she liked.

Chastity stood up suddenly, restless, and started walking across the small room. She yanked some paper towels out of the dispenser and started wiping the coffee off the floor tiles and door absent-mindedly. No, she couldn’t ask him about Camille – couldn’t think about work just yet. She would have to return to it eventually, and indeed even wanted to. She cared about her students, and they seemed to be attached to her too. A few of them had sent her cards at the hospital on their own initiative, which brought tears to her eyes. But there was not enough room in her mind and her heart to think about that now. And as much as the Viscount declared himself her friend, she felt she could not ask him such a question just yet. The two worlds had to remain separated for the time being. And as such, the Viscount would remain a mystery.

Having settled that, however unsatisfactorily, she resumed her seat by Thomas’ side. Her mother’s visit could not happen quickly enough for her comfort. The silence, although sometimes welcome, often threatened to do her in when she connected it with the absence of Thomas’ chatter. And she was discovering that Marc’s presence was not the remedy.

If the Viscount, 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 one he had spent time with every day for the past couple of weeks. This woman was quietly dignified, but vulnerable in a way that made him want to come to her aid. And if he thought at all about her role in his son’s life, it was to admire her tenacity. In this, he was reminded of someone. A young bride …

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

He thought about the last time he saw his son. It was around noon a couple of days prior, and Camille 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. He had showered, and was wearing clean clothes, but it was weary eyes that he turned to his father.

The Viscount, 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.

“Camille, it’s noon. Is that your breakfast? Why aren’t you … out?” He was abashed to discover that he didn’t know what his son generally did on Saturdays ever since he had declared himself finished with riding lessons. In fact, he didn’t even know who his friends were. Camille looked back down again at his plate. He shrugged his shoulders, but didn’t say anything.

“Where were you last night?” the Viscount frowned, and then realizing that the chef, who was new, was watching the conversation with undue interest, dropped the subject. “Never mind. We’ll talk about it later. Don’t forget to call Grandmère. You missed last week and she was vexed.”

“I won’t,” muttered his obedient offspring.

And that was it. His father had not spoken to him, or even seen him 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 management of the estate, which suddenly occupied all of the Viscount’s time. Before he could notice the shift soon enough to remedy it, his son stopped asking to see him and kept his own counsel. And now, it didn’t help that Manon had only just left to return to England the day before, and since she showed no interest in getting to know Camille he didn’t try to throw them together. Usually he was better able to balance the two, but in her grief, she was more needy than was her habit.

Ah. That was complicated. The more he thought about it, the more he was certain things could not continue with Manon. But she was in too fragile a state for him to end things with her now. He put that out of his mind and turned his phone on, punching one of his saved numbers and putting it on speaker. After a few rings, he heard the laughter in the deep voice.

“Charles. So soon?”

The Viscount rallied back. “It’s been a few months already, Jef. When are we going to have our apéro?”

“At your place, as soon as you wish it, as long as your sister will be there,” he shot back.

“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.”

“Why thank you for the compliment,” Jef chuckled. “In these downhill years, that’s very refreshing.”

“But listen, we need to meet. Why not join me for the art gallery opening in two-weeks’ time. I want to talk to you about the spring ball.”

“No, Charles,” Jef said disapprovingly. “You’ll never open up your home again to the public after what happened the last time.”

“Let’s just say I was persuaded too,” the Viscount said ironically. “There is very little risk that a second theft could occur, and even so – there will be heavy security. But I still want to 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, the Viscount answered. “My own security, if you will. So. Can I count on you for the opening?”

“Send me the details.” And then just before hanging up, his friend quizzed, “And see that Adelaide is there too so I can ask her to be my date for the ball.”

* * *

Jean Martin stretched on the makeshift bed that protected his body from the cold stone floor. It was five o’clock AM, and he didn’t have the luxury of staying here much longer before the old man was going to be awake and bustling about. In the year that Martin had been employed at the château, he never knew a day that he didn’t run into Paltier by six o’clock at the latest.

It was the nearing the end of January and was unseasonably cold outside, and he wasn’t looking forward to going out there. But 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 table there 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 Martin when he lost everything he had in some disastrous gambling. He could no longer afford to pay his rent and so he had to give up his apartment. With no family in the vicinity, and none that he could confide his troubles to, and a girlfriend who had recently discovered a preference for a trainer at the gym where she worked, there was really 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. And each morning, he crept out the same way, only to return for work.

Martin stretched. The sounds had stopped some hours since – noises that had started a week prior, and which had begun to have a familiar rhythm to them. The first time he heard them was at two in the morning, and there was a scraping coming from inside the wall on the far room in the basement. It wasn’t the scraping that brought him noiselessly towards the far wall, but a soft banging, as if someone were hitting the stone with a chisel from the inside. He located the spot, and found a smooth, limestone wall that bordered an old stone bathtub. When he was assured that no one was around to see him, he put his ear close to the wall to listen to the banging and the scraping. 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.

That was a week ago, and he had heard the soft noises every night since then, 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 essential belongings, in a long-unused cupboard that he was confident would not be opened. He stretched, and tied his boots, before putting on his coat and beret.

He went to the door, which led to the lower grounds, and slipped out, silently 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. Jean Martin had an idea about these noises, and he considered how he might turn the situation to his advantage.

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