CHAPTER 66
At eight-thirty in the morning I heard Charles Lowry mutter to himself, which was followed by a creaking noise and a rather loud thump. I sat in my room with the door cracked open and mind wandering between the interview questions I had yet to write and a waltz I had finished but wasn't satisfied with when I played it on my violin.
"Charles, darling," Meg said.
"Please, I can do this on my own," he replied.
I turned in my chair, the creak of the seat beneath me excruciatingly loud.
"But-"
Another thump.
"Maaaaaay!" Alex yelled from his crib.
Meg gave an exaggerated sigh. "Now Alex is awake."
Charles either made no reply or his words were drowned out by Alex repeatedly calling Meg's name until she finally entered his room.
"How did you manage to climb down by yourself?" she asked him. "You shouldn't do that, Alexandre, you could hurt yourself."
Alex quite proudly said, "Aie!"
"You are not hurt at all. That little mark is from months ago when you hit your head on your father's desk."
"Aie!" he said again.
"Fine. I will give you one kiss since you insist you are injured." She made a kissing noise to accompany what I assumed was a kiss to my son's forehead. "You have become so dramatic. Did you know that?"
"No," Alex answered.
Their words were interrupted by another thump. This time I rose from my chair and glanced down the stairs where I saw Charles struggling to turn the corner from the bedroom he shared with his wife to the hall.
He grunted and pushed himself back, then attempted to maneuver forward. The door was wide enough and the halls spacious, but one of the wheels had caught on the rug and made it impossible for him to pull himself further. Charles looked down and leaned to the side, his lips pressed together in frustration as he realized why he could not move.
The chair sat far too high off the ground for him to move the rug himself if he moved to his left or right while leaning forward was out of the question as he was liable to topple out completely.
Charles sat back, exhaled hard, and hit the wall with his closed fit hard enough to make a sound but not do damage to his hand or my house. As he muttered under his breath, he looked up to see me staring at him.
We both looked away at the same time. I highly doubted he wanted my assistance and considered simply returning to my bedroom, but Madeline stormed out of the dining room.
"What is that sound? That knocking?" she demanded.
"My apologies," Charles answered. "I'm afraid I am not yet accustomed to the layout of the house."
"I thought we had rats in the walls," Madeline said as she turned to leave.
"Rats in the walls indeed," I grumbled.
From his nursery, Alex yelled, "Rats!" I had no doubt he would add another word to his vocabulary and tell everyone who would listen that his name was Alexandre Kire and there were rats in the walls. Meg would be horrified the next time she took him with her to the market.
Madeline whirled around to face me, her hands firmly planted on her hips. "With the way you and Alex leave food everywhere, I would not be surprised."
She started toward me, but I met her at the bottom of the stairs. "I assure you, Madame, I do no such thing."
From the corner of my eye, I saw Charles silently wheel himself back into his bedroom and wisely out of the path of confrontation.
"There is a cup of coffee and biscuits on your desk in the parlor," Madeline shot back.
"You know full well I do not drink coffee," I replied.
Madeline grunted. "A gift to the rats, then."
I knew by her tone that she was being overly dramatic for a purpose. I wondered if she realized Charles was stuck in his bedroom because he could not get past the runner in the hall.
"Along with the crumbs under the rugs from your son," she added.
"Under the…" I paused, eyes narrowed. Clearly she was aware of her son-in-law's difficulty and that was the best excuse she had to move the runner.
"You and that boy." Madeline shook her head as she bent and started to roll up the rug.
"Yes, me and my son in my own damned house."
"Damned house!" Alex yelled.
He ran out of the nursery stark naked with Meg red-faced and two steps behind him. Out of all the words he had tried to imitate over the last few months, he naturally had no issues whatsoever enunciating damned house and rats. Judging by the murderous look on Madeline's face, she was not pleased with my language.
Alex would have undoubtedly dashed down the hall and into the kitchen if it had not been for the rug partially rolled up. He stopped, a wide grin on his face, and squatted down to further roll up the wool rug. When he stood once more, he proudly held up one of the rifles from his toy soldier and showed Meg.
"May, look!" he said.
"Yes, yes, I see a naked little boy who should be ashamed of himself. Are you ashamed?"
"Damned house!" Alex yelled as Meg proceeded to pick him up. She carried him off under her arm like a sack of potatoes and shut the nursery door with her foot.
Once they were gone, Charles, who was still out of my line of sight, snorted with laughter. Madeline shot him a look she usually reserved for me, but given that we could still hear Alex chanting his newly learned phrase, she could not keep a straight face. With a shake of her head, she rolled up the rest of the rug and placed it against the wall in the foyer.
"You should watch your language," she said to me with a wag of her finger.
My damned language, I wanted to say to her, but I assumed she would have no qualms of thumping me in the arm, which I undoubtedly deserved.
The clock chimed nine and Charles cleared his throat before he once again wheeled himself out into the hall, this time successfully. He briefly glanced at me, then set his attention on navigating his way toward the parlor.
I turned, walked ahead of Charles, moved the two chairs aside so he would have ample room, and took my seat behind the desk. Just as Madeline had stated, there was a plate of unfinished food beside an empty cup of tea I had forgotten to take to the kitchen at the end of the night. Damn that woman, I said to myself, which I suppose only proved her point even more.
Once Charles wheeled himself inside, his face appeared quite ashen and damp with perspiration. His breaths were somewhat ragged and he made no attempt to make eye contact, which was for the best as I had no idea what to say to him.
"I suppose I have two strikes against me," he said once he reached the desk.
"I beg your pardon?"
"The inability to maneuver past a child's toy under a rug and tardiness for an interview."
"Ah." I sat back and pretended to look through an assortment of papers on my desk, none of which were relevant to our interview. "I seem to have forgotten my questions upstairs."
"I will wait if you wish to retrieve them," Charles offered.
"Not necessary," I answered, mostly because the questions did not exist and all I had was a sheet of paper with the words 'interview Charles' written across the top of an otherwise blank page.
Charles folded his hands and placed them on the edge of the desk. "If you would prefer, I can give you a list of my qualifications as a tutor."
I had no desire for him to know I was unprepared for our meeting, so I sat further back in my seat and stared at the ceiling for a long moment. "Very well," I said at last.
He seemed somewhat relieved by my answer and shifted in his chair. "I taught from the time I was fifteen years of age. Reading and writing at first, but then venturing onto arithmetic, history, German and Italian, which of course would aid in your son's music lessons, if you have started him yet."
I had not. Alex had no attention span when it came to music. He was far too occupied with taking apart whatever he could find. If I played for him, he would listen, but at his age he assumed the bow was more useful assaulting the desk, bed, and sometimes my knee than for playing the violin.
"Adequate thus far," I said.
Charles shifted again. "At the age of eighteen I spent a year at university, then traveled for six months through Europe and parts of Africa and made a living teaching in larger cities before I returned to university to start my second year. I evaluated my pupils and developed a curriculum that best suited their individual needs.
"Once I completed my four years and graduated with a degree in history, I went on to lecture for two semesters. I was asked to write papers on my travels as I spent a good amount of time in Egypt on an expedition with a gentleman named Arthur Leach, a fine fellow.
"While I wrote for the university, I continued tutoring boys ages six to sixteen. Private education, Monsieur, very well-educated and groomed young men, all of whom excelled. I could provide references from the families if you would like."
"Three would suffice."
Charles swallowed. His hands balled into fists and he seemed to strain as he sat back in his wheelchair.
"You are uncomfortable," I observed.
"No, no, I am absolutely willing to answer whatever questions you may have for me-"
"Physically," I said.
Charles briefly held my gaze before he finally looked away and stared at the edge of the desk. "Constantly while sitting," he admitted. "I do not understand how my legs are utterly useless and yet the pain varies between blinding and a dull throb every single second of every day. I feel I would be better off…"
He didn't finish speaking. Again he attempted to shift his weight, but his hips were pinned so tightly in the narrow chair that there was no room for him to move no matter how he tried.
"You would be better off in a much wider chair," I said at last.
Charles appeared somewhat startled by my words. "This was the only one available and cost a small fortune, Monsieur."
There were other ones manufactured, I knew, as I had spent part of my sleepless night flipping through one of a half dozen catalogs Madeline had delivered to the house monthly. Among the elixirs, gadgets and household items was a section that contained medical devices, including three different types of wheelchairs.
"A small fortune," I echoed.
Money meant little to me. In the Opera House there was food readily available for the taking, I had suitable housing beneath the theater, and I enjoyed twenty thousand francs a month complements of the original manager, Monsieur Chiampa, who in turn persuaded the next manager, who naturally passed on the monthly fee to Firmin and Andre, two of the biggest fools I had the unfortunate displeasure of working with for the last eighteen months of residing in the Opera House.
A small fortune meant nothing to me. Neither did the purchase of a wheelchair for my son's tutor if it meant he would focus more on his pupil rather than his own discomfort.
"I admit I do not have the experience you are looking for with your son."
I blinked at Charles. "I beg your pardon?"
"I lack experience in teaching young children," he brusquely replied. "It appears you have no reason to continue the interview."
I inhaled and tapped my fingers against my desk. I had not been prepared for him to grovel, to give me undue praise in order to gain employment. I was not prepared for him to deny the position of tutor. His words left me dumbfounded and irritated. "That is quite unfortunate."
"I apologize if I wasted your time, Monsieur."
Perhaps Monsieur Lowry was unaware I had nothing but time in a house I rarely left.
Without another word, Charles pushed himself away and attempted to turn his chair at the same time, but rammed the front wheel into the corner of my desk.
He paused immediately, a look of horror on his visage as he examined the corner of my desk.
"I…" His voice faded and he swallowed, his complexion sallow. "I thought I merely bumped the edge."
He looked from the desk to me and began incoherent rambling. I stood, walked around to the front of the desk, and examined the deep scratches that Charles had clearly not noticed when he entered the parlor.
"It was an accident," he assured me.
In truth it was not an accident and not at all Charles Lowry's doing. The scratches and gouges in the wood were from Alexandre incessantly banging his toys on anything within reach. Had Charles walked around to my side of the desk, he would have seen the ruts in the drawers from trains and soldiers when they made the leap from my shins to the desk, which were considerably worse than the front of the desk as Alex enjoyed playing beside me.
"I will reimburse you," Charles said under his breath. He appeared truly petrified as he continued to stare at the marks.
"And precisely how do you intend to do that?" I dramatically snapped.
Charles worked his jaw in silence. "I...I will find a way," he vowed.
"Do you have any idea how much this cost me?" I gestured toward the desk.
"N-no, Monsieur, I am afraid I do not."
I exhaled hard, crossed my arms, and muttered under my breath, which I hoped gave off the impression of being livid. My deep, resonating voice had served me well over the years in the Opera House and clearly my tone had the same effect on Charles as it had with bumbling theater managers.
Charles sat tapping his fingers on the arm of his wheelchair in silence. Given his refusal to speak or meet my eye, I knew he had no idea how to reimburse me for the damage to the desk. As much as I would have liked to tell him it was not his doing, Alex still needed a teacher. In the grand scheme of things, lying to Charles benefited not only Alex, but eventually Charles would see I acted on his behalf as well-at least I hoped he would see it that way.
"Six weeks," I said through my teeth as I stalked toward the hall. "Six weeks of tutoring my son. I do not care if you have no experience with a child of his age. You will evaluate him this afternoon and build a curriculum based on his needs. Is that understood?"
"Y-yes," Charles said, quiet as a damned mouse.
"Is that understood?" I said, this time considerably louder. "Do not mumble in my presence, Monsieur Lowry. I haven't the time to spare on mumbling."
"Yes, Monsieur Kire. I understand completely."
"Good. At the end of six weeks, I will determine if your debt to me has been paid in full."
"Thank you, sir."
I walked out of the room and nearly collided with Meg, who was clearly attempting to look as though she was cleaning the wall with her bare hand and not eavesdropping.
"The desk-" she started to say.
"Yes, yes, I know all about the desk," I said impatiently. "Where is my son?" I demanded, still fueled by what I considered a near flawless performance.
Meg looked frightened to death of my tone, but before she could say a word Alex hopped out from behind her and giggled, clearly tickled by his own antics as I took a step back.
"Alex," I scolded. "You startled me with your da…" I caught myself before I cursed, but my son's eyes lit up nonetheless.
"Damned house," he yelled as he sprang up and clung to my arm.
For my own sanity, I hoped Charles would start with lesson on manners and appropriate language. As it was, I felt as though I was raising a heathen disguised as an angel.
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A/N: Through writing A Heart that Waits I always imagined that as a child Alexandre was a handful, mostly because Erik wanted his son to have the freedom he himself lacked as a kid. :) How did Alex become a decent enough kid? Good ol' Charles! Thanks for reading and sending reviews! Hope you're enjoying my stories!