Echoes in the Dark. Gayle Wilson
to his schedule. He sometimes wondered who was really in charge here, but because he cared so little, he let his staff’s efficiency carry him effortlessly through the long days. There was no longer any challenge in running the businesses he had pulled from bankruptcy only three years ago. Everything in his life was too well-ordered, the wheels all turning smoothly, oiled by his efficient employees, his soft-spoken servants and, most of all, by his money. At least the old woman offered a break from the routine. That, of course, was why Charles was so annoyed.
“There’s nothing that can’t be put off the few minutes it will take to listen to whatever she has to say. Ask Rachelle to bring in a tea tray. And if it’s private, there’s no need for you to remain. Show her in when the tea arrives.”
“But—”
“That will be all, Charles. Thank you for attempting to handle this. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
He waited until the door had closed behind the retreating secretary. Only then did he remove his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose and then briefly massaging his temples. He could feel the beginnings of a headache. He hoped that Rachelle would include his afternoon coffee with the tea. He closed his eyes and rested his head on his hands, elbows propped against the gleaming mahogany desk.
When he heard the door, he opened his eyes and put the glasses back on, standing up to turn toward his visitor. Her hesitation was obvious, but Rachelle’s friendly voice urged her forward, and finally they advanced across the parquet floor, their footsteps echoing hollowly in the quiet elegance of the room. When Rachelle had seated her in the chair before his desk, he, too, sat down and waited. It was not until she had been provided with a cup of tea, his own coffee poured and placed, fragrantly steaming, on his desk, and the door closed behind Rachelle that he spoke.
“They tell me that you have something to show me,” he said softly, working to keep the amusement out of his voice.
She rustled the package in her lap, until, with trembling hands, she succeeded in freeing whatever it contained from the wrappings. As he waited for her to speak, the silence stretched too long between them. Finally her voice quavered into the sunlight of his expensive office.
“Then you don’t recognize it? The jeweler assured me it belonged to you. I tried to sell it, but he wouldn’t buy it. He said it belonged to the Duc d’Aumont and that you would perhaps pay me more than its value to recover it,” she suggested hesitantly. “He said it’s very old.”
“They didn’t tell you,” he said softly, and she sensed somehow that it was a question.
“I don’t understand. Tell me what?”
“If you are showing me something I’m expected to recognize, we’re both doomed to failure,” he said gently. “You see, I’m blind.” He could say it quite naturally now, after all these years. He could even smile to reassure her.
“Of course.” Her voice was relieved. His lack of response was not a lack of recognition. “I should have known from the glasses, but they didn’t tell me. It’s so bright in here, I didn’t think. I suppose I envied you their protection against the glare.”
He laughed easily and stood to adjust the shade behind him, dimming the painful brightness. There was no fumbling in his movements, so that she found herself watching those sure fingers in amazement.
“They won’t complain. They think that would remind me that I can’t see,” he said, smiling at her. He could hear the answering laughter from across the desk and, judging his movements carefully by that sound, he reached across its expanse and held his palm open before her. She laid the locket she had guarded these years against the outstretched hand, and the long, dark fingers closed around the delicate golden chain.
He sat down, carefully examining the object she had placed in his hand. As his fingers traced the shape of the entwined hearts and then the roughness of the faceted emeralds that outlined them, she could almost read his emotions by the play of the muscles in his jaw, by the involuntary tightening of his lips and the effort to swallow against the sudden constriction of his throat.
She wished she could see his eyes. She needed so desperately to know if he would be willing to pay what she intended to ask, but the dark glasses were a barrier she couldn’t penetrate.
“Where did you get this? My God, how did you—” he asked finally, his hands no longer deftly examining the locket, but one locked hard around it. She could see only a small fragment of the gleaming links between those clenched fingers.
“I intended to tell you that she gave it to me, but that’s not the truth. I stole it. I didn’t think there was any reason... She didn’t need it. I thought someone should have some good of it, and we had nothing. But then I was frightened. I was afraid that if I tried to sell it, someone would know I’d stolen it. She was dying. Stealing from a dying woman—that’s something God won’t forgive me for, although I’ve prayed for her soul every day. And for the baby. I thought that might make up for the wrong I did,” she said piously, hoping to convince him of her remorse.
She looked up to read his reaction, and at the look on those handsome features, she was really frightened for the first time. She had decided years ago that she was going to hell for what she had done, but this man looked as if he might already have been there, might already have tasted that punishment. She wondered if he would have her arrested, imprisoned, and all this long journey would have been for nothing.
“It’s my grandson. Maybe that’s a punishment for what I did, but it’s too hard. He’s just a little boy, a baby.” She knew she was making no sense, but his stillness was confusing her. She had expected anger, was ready to deal with that, but not this terrifying stillness.
“Where was she when you took this?” he asked, calmly enough, but she was somehow aware of the effort it took him to achieve that control.
“With the nuns, the Sisters of the Sacred Heart,” she said. She had thought he might have known that, but she could see its impact on his face and knew the information was a surprise. “I helped deliver the baby. It was too early and she was— I don’t know what she was. She never said anything, not even during the labor. Most women cry or scream, but she...there was nothing there, behind her eyes. The baby was too small, so fragile. The nuns and I did what we could, but when I left, I knew he wouldn’t live.
“They left me alone with her while they went to get the doctor and while they worked with the baby, but she just lay there. They couldn’t stop the bleeding. I knew she was going to die. I’ve seen too many like that. The doctor couldn’t have gotten there in time to stop it. I took the locket. I’m not a thief, but she was dying. I thought...”
Her voice whispered into silence. She waited for him to speak and finally he did.
“Your grandson?”
“Cancer—and the doctor bills are so high. Perhaps if there’s money, they’ll do something for him. He’s only a baby.”
“How much?” he asked. She watched his hand reach for the button that would summon his secretary.
“The jeweler said it was very old. I thought—” But the opening door and the secretary interrupted whatever she intended to ask for.
“Get her out of here,” he said softly from across the desk. “Give her whatever she wants, but get her the hell out of here and find my brother. I don’t give a damn where he is or what he’s doing. You tell him I want him here now. Tell him he has some questions to answer. Some questions about my wife. And my son.”
The old woman was as frightened by the cold voice as she had been when she thought he might call the police. She realized suddenly that the olive complexion of the hovering secretary had blanched to a sickly gray. She knew he would be obeyed, and in spite of her fear, she began to recalculate what she would ask. Whatever she wants, he had said. She was already going to hell. What did it matter? Her mind was busily reconsidering her request as the secretary hurried her from the office, wiping his brow with the handkerchief he had pulled from his pocket. She hardly noticed how much his hands