Ch 7

Being gawked at for many years of my life due to my appearance has made me acutely aware of when someone is staring. Without turning, I knew Madeline was burning a hole into the back of my head as I sat in the kitchen at a table far too small for my liking. The light and breeze was better here than anywhere else in the house, which was the only reason I chose to sit here. That and because I caught glimpses of Julia in her own kitchen.

"Where is Alex?" I asked as I flipped through the morning paper.

After having slept on the cold, unforgiving ground for a number of hours, my back ached and my throat was sore. I was still cold, and the breakfast she had made was doing nothing to sate my appetite or warm my insides. Christine was back in Paris. It was the only thought in my mind and the paper was filled with the same cries of joy I felt fluttering through me.

"Sleeping," she answered. The tea kettle landed on the iron pot holder with an angry thud that made me jump in my chair. She looked from me to the back door and frowned.

"I merely went to chat," I mumbled, still not lifting my head. I had seen Madeline's silhouette in the window when I walked through the back gate after midnight. My business was my own. Had I not allowed her to live here she would be on the street. Of course, had I not destroyed the opera house she would be living there, but even so, I didn't have to extend the hand of my wealth to her.

Madeline grunted. It is so very English of her to make such a wretched display. There are times when I forget she lived for several years in London before her parents had the sense to bring her to France.

"Your relations with Madame Seuratti are none of my concern."

"True enough."

Another page turned. By God if the Leather Apron wasn't walking through my paper all the way from White Chapel. It's been nearly a year since the last murder and now the reporters think he has come to the Paris World Fair to claim another lecherous woman of the night. I glared at Madeline as she went rummaging through the cupboards with her back to me. There was something else she wanted to say. I could just tell. Having known her for twenty years, I knew her habits and she knew mine.

"It's Alexandre," she said under her breath.

I sighed. "What has he done now?"

Madeline glanced at me from over her shoulder. Even when angry—and it seems she is frequently angry with me—she is a decent looking woman. Sometimes I wish she had remarried after her husband unexpectedly passed, but our lives are intertwined.

"He hasn't done a thing."

"Of course not," I replied as I reached for the cup of tea she had set on the table earlier. "He's not out of bed yet."

"Oh, Erik," she said scornfully.

For the first time our eyes met and I knew what she implied. It was not Alex, it was me. The fault had always been mine. If anything, I am consistent.

Immediately I turned back to the paper and stared at the words I had no interest in reading. A pile of horse manure would have been more welcome than her scorn.

"He has a good home, a good education and the funding to continue the life he has grown accustomed to living. And quite comfortably, I might add," I said in defense of something I had yet to be accused of.

"That is not enough," Madeline said quietly. She turned her back on me as she spoke. Coward.

"It's more than I ever had," I growled as I twisted to face her. "Shall I remind you, Madame? Refresh your memory of what my own father did to me for years?"

Madeline kept her back to me and shook her head. "I am well aware."

"Are you?" I challenged.

"I woke you last week," she said, her voice low. "In the middle of a nightmare."

The truth in her statement stoked my already burgeoning anger.

"Is that all what you want for him?" Madeline persisted.

My jaw clamped shut at her words. Alex's life was exponentially better than mine in every way possible. I had never raised my hand at him, not once. He had never been forced to drink water from an oily puddle to quench his thirst or dig through refuse to sate his hunger. He had not walked until his feet were bloody or been lashed for disobedience. He had everything he could possibly want, save the love of his mother, and that was merely a matter of time.

"You know precisely what I want for Alex." I shoved my cup and saucer aside, abruptly stood, and snatched the paper from the table. With no other outlet for my frustration, I crumpled the newspaper up into a ball and threw it onto the floor. My actions were infantile, but I made no apologies. "You have a letter to send," I said over my shoulder as I stalked toward the hallway.

"Erik," Madeline warned. "Please."

"Take it to her hotel at once. She has always been an early riser. See to it that she knows supper will be served at nine."

"Do not do this.""

Her pleas meant nothing to me. I stood in the doorway, my right hand gripped tightly to the frame. "Send Alexandre to me when he finally decides he is ready to start his day."

Charles Lowry sat at the desk in his wheeled chair when I walked into the study. He gave a nervous smile as he looked up from one of his books. As a war veteran, there are many things that make Charles leery of his surroundings and for that I cannot blame him. The man lost a leg in combat and lost use of the other one when he injured his back, becoming paralyzed from the waist down. It is quite unfair that such a young and handsome man as Charles Lowry hides from the world merely because he cannot leave the house unassisted.

I met Charles briefly between tours, years earlier when he courted Meg and had use of both of his legs. He's a handsome man, a fine, distinguished fellow with jet black hair and dark eyes. His skin is always an olive tone, his face always clean shaven, and his hair kept short and neat, which makes him appear younger than thirty-two. I can see why Meg is attracted to Charles. He's quite possibly the most intellectual creature I've ever met and it is an honor to have him teaching my son. However, Charles believes that I am the one who blessed him as no university would have him teach. He cannot climb up the stairs to reach his class room. Therefore, his vast mind is contained in my home.

"Latin today?" I asked merely because he continued to glance at me as he read.

"Ancient Egypt," Charles replied. He marked his page in the book and folded his hands. "Alexandre takes great interest in building, architecture and design."

"Good," I said amiably.

Charles went quiet for a moment and I went about searching the bookshelves. The only sound in the room was the floor creaking beneath my feet and Charles breathing, something I found so distracting I had half the mind to tell him to hold his breath until I was gone.

"Monsieur, if I may, Alexandre asked me last night if I could…perchance…if it met your approval…of course…"

"No." I knew what he would ask on my son's behalf. I had overheard Alex's usual exuberant tone as he clamored on about the exposition and the buildings he wished to explore. He had Meg nearly in a frenzy over what they would do and see together. The two of them had always been co-conspirators, ever since Alex was an infant.

"It would provide a most unique learning experience for Alexandre…"

"I said no."

Charles was flustered as I hadn't given him the chance to voice his question, but he would not offer another moment of trouble. From the reflection in the window, I watched him bow his head in defeat.

"Yes, I apologize, Monsieur, I didn't mean to offend."

"You will see to it that Alex does not ask again," I instructed firmly as my fingers found the book I wanted and slid the heavy tome from the upper shelf, bringing with it a dust mote that danced in the morning light.

"As you wish, Monsieur."

Despite seven years of being removed from the army, Charles was still a military man able to take orders from his superior. I quite enjoyed his company when it was strictly professional. Without another word, I left the library with the hollow book beneath my arm and returned to my room. I wanted to read some of Christine's old letters before we were reunited tomorrow at supper.