Page 36 of A Touch of Charm
“Until they return?” Andre asked and Mary nodded. To a child, a few days or weeks meant as much as an adventure of unascertainable duration. He smiled. “Fresh madeleines from the patisserie near the practice on Harley Street,” Andre said and instinctively passed the pastries to her.
“Can I take them to the study? Miss Thea is waiting for me with a bilo-logy lesson.”
“Biology?” Andre chuckled.
He handed the parcel over, and Mary immediately took it.
“We have scissors there to cut the cord,” she called as she skipped down the hallway, tugging at the cord that tied the parcel, and Andre hoped she’d share them with Thea. The gesture felt right in the moment, yet he knew deep down that he had acquired them for Thea, not just as a mere treat. There was a longing in his chest, an unvoiced wish to present her with something more fitting—flowers, chocolates, tokens of affection he could not openly bestow.
In fact, Andre had not seen Thea again after tending to the patients at Cloverdale House.
He had only caught sight of Stan arriving to confirm their dinner plans with Thea once nurse Shira had attended to the task of cleaning his wound and refreshing his bandage. Earlier that morning, Andre had inspected Stan’s shoulder, noting with a twinge of disappointment that it wasn’t healing as swiftly as he’d hoped either. The other doctors would return shortly, marking the official opening of Cloverdale House as a rehabilitation center. Likewise, his friends would soon arrive, and a steady flow of patients would provide a welcome distraction from the princess who had occupied his every thought.
Andre’s heart ached for the unlikelihood of a formal courtship. He could have sent a calling card, requested a proper visit, and perhaps invited her on a chaperoned stroll along Pall Mall. But he was no aristocrat, and she, a princess, stood on a pedestal he felt forbidden to reach. His mind lingered on possibilities that dared not take form, constrained by the chasm society placed between them. Mainly because of the secret of his birth, the jeopardy he’d put his family in, and the shame he’d bring upon Thea’s lineage. He could tackle impossible love, but what he’d realized he harbored for Thea was beyond words. All he could call it was hopeless—a fatal diagnosis of heartbreak was the only possible outcome.
Thus, he hoped Mary would share the madeleines with Thea so that she could at least taste some of his favorite pastries. He could offer his protection and friendship without admitting to the ardor of his feelings, couldn’t he? Thea had sounded as though she felt rather alone, and perhaps the spongy cakes could offer her some comfort—that’s what Andre’s mother had always said: “There’s comfort to be found in food.”
With several patients in residence, although the other doctors hadn’t returned, Cloverdale House buzzed with activity. But Andre needed solitude to think. He slipped through the side door, emerging into the secluded area at the back of the estate, where a long medieval wall still stood. The wall seemed pointless, not enclosing anything of significance. “Hedges along a pointless wall,” Andre muttered to himself. The blackthorn, meticulously pruned and perfectly aligned, stood staunchly in its place. Pruned, trimmed, and unwavering. Andre felt like that hedge—close to a piece of history laden with royal legacy, yet unable to expand or grow. His lineage was too diluted to claim any throne, although it allowed his family to brush shoulders with the elite of Europe. But not him. He was merely the hedge, vibrant and robust, deeply rooted yet not truly part of the grand scene. Plus, he wasn’t going anywhere, just like the hedge.
Frustrated, Andre kicked a pebble across the gravel path. He’d never felt so trapped by his station—angry, yes, especially when his siblings had been invited to the Hofburg Palace in Vienna, the epicenter of imperial social life. As the eldest son, he should have escorted his sister, but his younger brother, Lorenzo, donned the evening attire and took his place. At their mother’s behest, Andre had stepped aside.
He was the outsider, pruned by tradition to stand firm in his place. When the Napoleonic army invaded Florence, his survival hinged on discretion. That fateful night had severed him from his family, and he missed them now more than ever.
“Andre, listen to me,” his mother had whispered, her voice steady despite the chaos unfolding outside. “You must go to Vienna. Study at the university. They won’t acknowledge you, and it’s all my fault. Your future depends on your education. Do you understand?”
Downstairs, heavy boots thudding against the wooden floors grew louder. Napoleon’s soldiers were raiding homes, searching for any sign of resistance. Andre’s heart pounded, his instincts urging him to rush downstairs and defend his family. But his mother’s grip on his arm was firm, her eyes pleading with him.
“Papa already reserved a spot at the Faculty of Medicine for you. Go early; they will let you work until the semester begins.” She handed him more money than he could count and stuffed it in his waist pocket. “This is all we have in the house.” Why did she assume she wouldn’t have any use for it?
Dread settled in Andre’s chest, and his heart pounded with an unfailing yet new sense of panic.
“I can’t leave you and the others,” he protested, the weight of responsibility as the eldest son pressing down on his shoulders. “I need to protect you.” But he didn’t want to leave his family’s side. What would life be without his family?
Mother jerked back.
A loud crash echoed from below, followed by the unmistakable sound of a struggle. His father, Dr. Johann von Dürer, was trying to fend off the invaders. Andre heard a grunt, a shriek from his little sister, then silence. His breath caught in his throat.
His mother, Isabella di Lorenzo, quickly moved, gathering a small bundle of essentials. Her usually composed face was etched with worry lines, her lips pressed tightly together. The faint glow of a single candle illuminated her features, giving her an almost ghostly appearance.
Mother’s eyes were so wide open that he saw the white around her dark brown irises, the same color as his own.
“Go!” her voice cracked, and she avoided eye contact. It would have shattered her resolve; he understood that much. She kissed his forehead, pushing him towards the window. She hurriedly opened it, the cold wind biting at their faces. “If I can, I will find you. But it would be best if you survived despite my mistakes. Nothing else matters, my love, except your life and survival. Remember that! I wish you only happiness in life.”
“But Mama!”
“Please go, my love!”
Andre hesitated, torn between his duty to his family and the urgency of his mother’s command. He glanced back at her, but she turned away, moving towards the stairs. A faint cry escaped her lips, and she disappeared. Andre didn’t know it then, but it would be the last time he’d see his mother.
The night air carried a chill that seemed to seep through the stone walls of their villa in Florence. Andre, eighteen and brimming with youthful idealism that was doomed that night, stood by the window of his dimly lit room. Florence’s terracotta roofs stretched before him, their familiar reddish-brown hues muted under the cloak of darkness. The undulating pattern of the tiles formed a mosaic, each piece fitting seamlessly into the next, creating a familiar and treacherous landscape.
Half-hidden by storm clouds, the moon cast intermittent patches of silver light across the rooftops, making the wet tiles glisten like polished stone. The rain had turned the usually warm, dry surfaces slick and dangerous. Andre could see the rivulets of water streaming down the curves of the roofs, pooling in the dips, and cascading down to the cobblestone streets below.
Propelled by panic, Andre climbed onto the roof, the shingles slick with rain. The metallic scent of iron filled his nostrils, a gruesome reminder of the bloodshed below, dull hits, and the stench of brutality emanating from the streets. He moved cautiously, heart racing, as he navigated the treacherous surface. With every step, the image of his family’s villa, not as he knew it during his happy childhood, rather that night, fraught with violence, burned into his memory.
The streets were scenes of horror; lifeless bodies lay sprawled in the mud, victims of the violent raid. The mingling scents of blood and rainwater created a horrendous odor. Andre’s stomach churned, but he pushed forward, driven by desperation. He found a hidden corner on a faraway roof and crouched, his body trembling with cold and fear.
Andre’s memories flooded his thoughts, destroying his unrealistic imagination to woo Thea. Again, he looked at the small green blackthorn along the old wall. His parents had repeatedly advised to remain inconspicuous until they found him. He waited semester after semester at the university but they never came for him. And when he went to pursue his apprenticeship in India with Felix, he knew the traces of his old life would be erased. The one thing he’d promised his parents was that he’d do well as a doctor—his only link to his family. And yet, Andre was like a hedge in the wall’s shadow, forbidden to blossom like other plants. But he felt a change around Thea, as if his feelings might finally unfurl and bloom.
