Page 19 of A Noble Affair
Charles’s muscles twitched, but his face and posture remained impassive from years of breeding. He stared at the teacher, unseeing.What am I going to do about this?He couldn’t bear to think of his son going down such a path, and at the same time, he couldn’t believe it. His son was an awkward teenager. That was all. He never saw any signs of this at home. After meditating speedily, he decided it couldn’t hurt to be open to seeking advice. It didn’t mean he had to follow it.
“What course of action do you recommend?”
The English teacher relaxed, as if she had been expecting a fight. She shrugged imperceptibly and turned her attention to the principal.
Elizabeth answered. “I think he should speak to the counselor who’s associated with the school, unless you have someone else you’re connected to.” Charles shook his head.
“And then—Mr. de Brase, do you talk to your son? Spend time together?”
“Of course,” he answered in irritation. “We went away together during theToussaint.”
Chastity broke in. “I think what she means is, do you talk about the things he’s worried about, or how he’s feeling?”
Charles tried not to glare at her as he searched for the best way to answer. Sweat pooled under his shirt. “I don’t believe this is the place to discuss how I parent my son. I give you my consent to let him meet with the counselor, and I’ll make sure his private life is well taken care of.”
This time he didn’t rush out, but looked at each of them to make sure they all understood each other. Finally Elizabeth stood and gave him her hand. “Thank you for your time.” The teacher stayed seated, and he gave an infinitesimal pause as he wondered if he should offer his hand. In the end, he just left.
Charles strode from the school. He could see Mademoiselle Whitmore staring at him critically, as if he were a terrible father.Just like my mother, he shuddered, gritting his teeth.
There’s no way he takes drugs.He can’t even muster enough energy to rebel in that way. He tried to recall the last time he had kissed his son in greeting, and whether or not he had noticed the smell of smoke. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had been that close to his son, even in Deauville where they spent three days together.
As a boy, Louis was different. A vision flashed before Charles—the memory of chubby little legs running ahead to the man who sold pinwheels near the port for the Seine River Cruises. He smiled as he remembered his son at this age, back when he still laughed with enthusiasm. It was not just his son who had changed, Charles had to admit. He didn’t delight in spending time with his son like he had when Louis was little.I don’t even know what to talk about.
There was no specific reason to pinpoint for this metamorphosis—no trauma occurring in the last couple years between his son’s boyhood and his adolescence. No, the trauma happened much earlier at the time of Louis’s birth.
His wife, Miriam, had died two days after the birth of their son from complications resulting from placenta accreta. They had made it through the birth successfully, and he was sure she would recover, but the scheduled operation to discover the source of bleeding resulted in her losing her life.
He remembered holding her hand and looking at her tiny smile as she was in the gurney ready to be wheeled in. She had been a frail thing with cropped blond hair and the large brown eyes she bequeathed to her son. He brushed the locks off her forehead and allowed the nurse to slip a cap over her hair. Leaning down, he whispered, “Don’t be too long in there. Your son and I will be waiting.”
“Use the waiting time to get some diaper-changing lessons while I’m under. I won’t be able to pick Louis up for a while, and I don’t want him to be soggy.”
“I’ll have him swaddled like a pro.” Charles had forced down the lump in his throat and grinned.
“I’ll see you after.” They began to wheel her away, but her gaze didn’t leave his until the swinging doors hid her from his sight.
He couldn’t go to the nursery, not while he was waiting. Instead, he went to the waiting room and sat on one of the hard plastic chairs to begin those long hours that would eventually end in anguish. “There were just too much blood loss,” the doctor had said. “There was nothing we could do.” Charles hadn’t thought about that moment in a long time. He frowned.
In those early years, Louis was the only connection Charles had to his young bride. As his son began to grow and lose some of that innocence that causes a child to blurt out the first thing on his mind—that causes a child to reach out for his father without any fear of rejection—Charles began finding excuses for why his son didn’t need him much anymore.
As Charles pulledoff the exit on the highway, his thoughts turned again to the English teacher.The viper, he thought with quickened breath, as he remembered her green eyes and the way she slammed the file on the desk at their first meeting. He thought about her ugly American clothing and aggression. Her accusations.
He was annoyed. He was also bothered. For the first time in many years, he began to wonder if he had done well to leave his son to his own devices as much as he had.I’m not going to browbeat my kid the wayIwas raised. He would not meddle in even the smallest affair the way his mother had done to him. At the same time, he couldn’t be easy.
And he reflected on how unusual it was for him to question himself in this way.
9
Paltier walked down the smooth stone steps that led to the basement. The stairway was lined with dim light fixtures, which flickered next to the large windows at the landing. The stone walls held centuries-old deer heads, mounted on green felt-covered wood. The air was chilly.
His shoes echoed on the stone floor as he made his way towards the old kitchen, with its brick fireplace that took up most of the wall, and the wine room that was just off to the side. Entering the damp room, he selected a bottle without hesitation, dusted it off with the chamois cloth he had brought with him, and tucked it under his arm.
At the landing, Paltier hesitated before taking the stairs to go back up. Following his internal prompting, he continued walking through the corridor into another unlit stone room. This one had small windows placed high where above ground was. He walked over and routinely pulled on the gate to a tunnel that led nowhere. It had been condemned before his time and no one had the key to the iron gate. It was the only alcove the previous viscount hadn’t had filled in. Something about not wanting to ruin the history of the place.
He scrutinized the room to see that everything was in place and opened a closet to make sure nothing had been moved there either. The château was set on a hill, and this part of the basement was ground level, decorated simply with worn armchairs, old frames, a chest and bureau, and a few of the inferior artifacts. He swiped his finger on the tabletops and made a mental note to talk to the housekeeping staff about not neglecting the basement.
With one last sweeping glance around the room, he retraced his steps down the corridor. Just as he was about to exit the narrow walkway and enter the landing at the foot of the stairs, Paltier heard the sounds of a heavy door being scraped open. The wood had swollen and was being shoved against the tiles, and he could hear the door opening in short bursts as someone heaved his body against it.
It occurred to Paltier that no one would hear him if he yelled for help, and that he had no weapon on hand with which to defend himself. What never occurred to him was to save his own skin and go hide while the interloper helped himself to whatever treasures the château had. He stepped out in plain view in the alcove that held the door. Standing with his back turned as he closed the door, was the gardener—André.
