I might have sat there for hours or days after Masson left me, my mind darting from one fragmented idea to the next like a fish in a rain-swollen stream.
Ignore it?
Tell Christine?
Confront Miri-ange? And say what? I know you're planning to elope? I forbid you seeing him (again)?
Send her to a convent school?
Kill him?
Send for the police?
Silke startled me back to the real world. Shaking my shoulder, she sounded more irritated than I'd ever heard her.
"…won't you LISten?" She demanded.
"What, Woman, for God's sake?"
"He wants you. He's sick," she grumbled.
"Reza?" My heart stumbled.
"Who else?" she replied, scuffing briskly upstairs.
Reza's room smelled of camphor, and he looked a bit ashen, but except for sitting up in his bed, he was the same: same grin, same glass of coffee. Still, I'd never seen him in bed before, never seen him with so much as a sniffle, and I felt seconds away from making a fool of myself. If he turned out to really be ill, I was sure I would.
"Finally you summon me to your bed, and it smells like a hospital in here. Your technique needs work, Old Man." I tried to joke, but I gripped his proffered hand too tightly, and he saw the panic in my eyes.
"It's just a little something in the chest," he dismissed, pressing a scribbled list into my hand. "I need a few things, but I don't know how they're called except in Persian. I don't know if it's the chemist or herbalist–"
Silke grumbled something unintelligible, fussing around across the room.
"She doesn't approve of self-doctoring," Reza admitted sheepishly. His chuckle ended in a nasty rattling cough. Silke was by his side instantly, arranging pillows. She shoved me aside as I proffered a glass of water.
"He doesn't need you! He needs a proper doctor," she insisted. I stared, wondering when she'd gotten so damned mouthy.
Reza's coughing subsided. "My friend will see to it; we've seen each other through many a challenge. It's nothing, you'll see. Run along now." Silke took much persuasion; obviously she felt Reza and I were in league to deceive her, but finally she retreated to the other side of the room.
I glanced at the list and nodded. "I can translate. She should be able to get it all at the chemist."
"I'm not going," Silke declared flatly.
"Now see here, what the devil have I done to twist your knickers?" I snarled. I should have realized we were both worried sick over the old man, but…I guess I'm stupider than I look.
"I'm not going!" Silke repeated, to Reza this time.
In a couple of hours, I had Reza set with some sickly sweet-smelling tea and a chest poultice.
"Better," I noted. He nodded, squeezing my hand in thanks.
"I'll come take supper with you if you like," I offered from the door.
"I hope I'll be able to come to the table, it's not as bad as all that."
I'd only just disappeared over the threshold when I heard Silke begin her campaign. "No, you won't! Please stay in bed, promise me."
I heard the smile in Reza's voice when he replied. "I won't go if it makes you feel better. Don't fret, Farideh." Farideh? 'Delightful?' There was something for me to puzzle over in my copious spare time.
-0-0-0-0-
"God. You look like hell," Raoul blurted.
"Screw you and the horse you rode in on." I dropped my bones into his oversized wing chair. The buttery-soft leather was cool against my cheek; its fragrance enveloped me like a lover. "I adore this chair; you don't deserve this chair. I'm taking it home with me."
"Wait, I've heard this before. Yes; last time, you took my wife." He handed me a brandy and proffered the humidor. "So: grumpy and self pitying; to what do I owe this double pleasure?"
"Reza is in bed–in bed, mind you–with a chest catarrh. I've never known him to be sick a day. I don't know what I'll do–" my voice broke.
Raoul crouched smiling, and tried to gently shake some confidence into me. "There; don't worry, you said yourself it's nothing but a catarrh."
I told Raoul what I'd done for Reza and allowed him to charm me with his infuriating optimism. We smoked and drank in silence. Finally, I puffed out a huge sigh.
"There's a blizzard in hell, my boy," I confessed, holding up my glass. "I need to ask your advice–one father to another."
"Oh?" The comte makes a fine server; he jumped to his feet to give me a refill.
"What would you do if someone came calling for Liselotte? Courting, I mean."
Raoul sat, considering. When he raised his eyebrow, I noted a place where he'd have a wrinkle in his forehead someday–if there is a God.
"She's nearly fifteen, Erik. It's a fine family," he shrugged.
"You would say that, you're goddamned nobility yourself, never done a day's work–"
"What's that got to do with anything? You don't think I'd've introduced him to Miri-ange if he was a reprobate, do you?"
"Why didn't you introduce him to your own little girl?" I hollered.
"Because he didn't want to meet my little girl!" He hollered back. We were up in each other's faces, like years ago in the front hall.
"Shit, this is getting untidy," I realized, retreating to the cuddly chair. "Damn, Raoul, you'd really hand her over to some man at such a tender age? After all the grief you gave me over Anci?"
"You could be Anci's grandpapa, you dolt!"
"But I wasn't, was I?"
"This is productive," he grumbled.
"I shouldn't have come." I stood. "I just…what sort of family is it, really? Is he going to take mistresses before they're married a year? Is he going to bring diseases home?"
"It's a family like any other, Erik," he shrugged. "I understand they've not been pleased with his choice–nothing against our Miri-ange, you understand–"
"Of course."
There seemed nothing more to say, so we smiled and embraced. Suddenly I had to tear my shirt collar open; I was choking. "Christ, how do I give my blessing, Raoul, even if I want to? Christine will hand me my balls."
"Mm."
"Hadn't thought of that, had you?" I cracked.
"Well…it might do something interesting for your voice…"
-0-0-0-0-
I nipped back to check on Reza. Silke was still hovering, but she graciously permitted me to pop my head in. The old man was dozing with his prayer beads.
"He looks comfortable," I whispered. Silke nodded. "Right, I'll check later."
"No; he'll be fine tonight. Stop by in the morning." In other words, leave us alone, Erik.
Right.
-0-0-0-0-
I spied a pale green dress darting by and hollered. "Commere, Christine. I need to talk to you!"
"Pa-Paa-aaah."
"Papa's right here, Pickle," I spluttered, a mouthful of soapsuds for my trouble. Sofie does not share her bathtime with anyone; being the baby has its compensations.
Christine doled out the kisses. "What's up?"
"Ask me later; you look delectable," I purred.
"You need to stop," she laughed.
"What's funny?" I feigned umbrage. "That was an invitation to bliss!" I grabbed a towel and plucked the Pickle from the tub.
"You said you needed to talk." She followed me to Jeanette's room.
"Dry and dress, please? I need to talk to Mama." Jeanette nodded. "There's my dear girl, thanks." I caught Christine's hand and led her to our room. Once inside, I started misbehaving.
Christine sighed. "How many hands do you have, my stars!"
"How many would you like me to have? I can't help it; you look so appetizing in this dress."
"Then leave it on me til we talk," she suggested, smiling. We sat on the bed and she waited for me to begin.
"Masson says that Miri-ange has been seeing the vicomte at the concert hall. He's confided in me that he's afraid they're planning to elope." Christine's lips twitched almost imperceptibly.
"What else can we do?" She cried. "You've forbidden them."
I nodded. "And it's not working; otherwise we wouldn't be talking about it now."
"Oh, God, Erik. Any way we turn, it seems we lose her."
"I think we've been approaching it the wrong way, Angel." I squeezed her hand. "If we imprison her, we surely will lose her. We must let her go."
"Erik! No, no, no!" She tore away from me. "What are you suggesting? You want to give her to that boy? Fourteen years and you want her to…to…you can't! She's not ready, Erik! Please!"
"Wait," I pursued her to the window. "I don't want to give her to anyone. I merely want to permit him to call, so they can be supervised, hm? Let him call here, let's welcome him."
"No sleepovers like her brother!" Christine hissed.
"Of course not, what do you take me for, Christine! I can't believe you'd suggest such a thing!"
"I can't believe you'd suggest that we welcome this pig," she spat.
"We don't know he's a pig. Masson didn't say anything about Etienne pressing his advantage. I'm confident she's still a good girl."
"And I'm confident he's a healthy young man, Erik. He's going to be pushing to marry her in no time; what then?" Christine demanded, utterly unconvinced.
"Yes, well, by then, we'll all be great friends, and I'll be able to say, Son, you know how fond I am of you; let's just give it another few months. See?"
"You're awfully sure of yourself," she grumbled.
"Christine, if they have our blessing--say our worst fears come to fruition–she still feels the way is open to return home. If she runs away and things go badly, what will she do if she feels we've turned our backs on her? In my heart, I know that the only way to keep her is to give her up." I touched my forehead to hers. "Remember?"
-0-0-0-0-
"Miri-ange? May I speak with you please?"
She was sitting up in bed reading. My precious Miracle Angel; she dropped into the world and landed in my hands, and now, somehow, I was supposed to place her in the hands of a stranger. God help me. I smiled as genuinely as I could and sat on the bed. Kissing her hand, I realized with a start that other lips had been there. I knew I had to make it fast or I'd be a mess.
"You miss your vicomte still, hm?"
Understandably, Miri-ange was reluctant to speak.
"Do you suppose that he would accept an invitation to dine with us?"
"Papa? Papa!" she squealed, bowling me over.