Page 11 of Nineteen Eighty

Charles groaned and pulled himself away from the table. He shuffled into the hall. He wouldn’t have known Catherine’s purse from the purse of the random woman at the supermarket, but she was their only guest, so he found the brown suede sack with ease.

He reached inside, rifling for the book, but instead his hand wrapped around a plastic case.

When he withdrew it, he turned it over, examining the light pink contraption. The clasp opened and he saw immediately what it was.

Birth control.

Charles looked up and locked eyes with a panicked Catherine.

“Please, don’t tell him.”

Charles dropped the pack back in her purse and thrust it at her. “We’re well past the point in our lives where I’m compelled to keep, or care, about your secrets, Catherine.”

Charles nearly fell asleep in the nursery room rocker, little toe-headed Lucie sleeping at his chest. Adrienne would sleep in here, too, when she was born in the summer. Giselle had only recently moved to her own suite of rooms, as Nathalie had the year before.

He was thinking about a new problem that had crept up, spreading its tendrils through the family. Or perhaps not so new, but only recently come to his attention.

This problem had a name: Soren LaViolette. And this problem had impregnated his sister. If Charles knew, everyone knew. Edouard, who wasn’t in the business of touching his wife, certainly knew.

A swash of light fell across the carpet as the door opened. Charles looked up, prepared to be annoyed, but it was only Nicolas.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, son?”

“I can’t sleep.”

Charles rotated his wrist to check the time. Almost midnight already. He was surprised Lisette hadn’t come in to chide him for not putting Lucienne to bed sooner. “Go downstairs and get a glass of milk, if you want.”

“I don’t want milk.”

“What do you want, then?”

Nicolas dropped his eyes. “You.”

A very familiar guilt crept into Charles, one specifically set aside for these moments with his son. He loved Nicolas. In his own way, he loved Nicolas twice as much as he could ever love his daughters. But his daughters were easy to love, and Nicolas reminded him of… of another time. Another Charles.

With some reluctance, he nestled Lucienne down into her bundle of blankets in the crib and followed his son out the door.

“Want me to read to you?”

Nicolas shook his head without turning around. He navigated the second set of stairs, to the third floor.

“Where are you going?”

“Can I sleep with you, Dad?”

And yet, it was times like this… when Nicolas needed him… that he was not so hard to love at all. Charles jogged up the steps until he was standing before his son. He lifted him into his arms and carried him up the last few steps, to the master’s suite.

He could ponder the problem of Soren LaViolette another night.

“You bet, son.”

CHAPTER 4

In Our Own Way

“Have you thought of a name?”

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