Chapter 22 #2
“I’d be sure to waive it for you.” Oste crossed his arms and stared out the massive doors of Saint-Sauveur. “What else is it that you have for me, then?”
The lieutenant flashed a grin. “It depends on if you’ll allow me to steal you or not.”
Oste’s brow shot up. “The esteemed Madame Dorotèa Lézin may have a thing or two to say about that, depending.”
Jehan looked over his shoulder and leaned back until he spotted her across the transept idly inspecting one of the returned pews.
Oste watched her as well, and identified her common trademarks of stalling when the situation asked for it.
Everything was moved back where it belonged, and the last of the club members were trickling out or were soon to, and she’d not a task left besides conversing or waiting for him to leave with her.
She rubbed a tiny patch of dust on the seating with her handkerchief, which was so imperceptible it was nearly laughable.
That woman knew how to take her time, and he also knew how she’d rather spend it.
“She’s not still your assistant, is she?” Jehan asked before Oste could continue.
He shrugged. “I suppose that’s something we still have to smooth out, what, with our relations changing and all, but I’ve no wish to see her go from it.”
It was the lieutenant’s turn to look surprised. “Truly?”
“I’ll not tolerate her lowering herself to scrubbing the floors of my office anymore, but in truth I’ve come to realize I do not think I much mind the arrangement.
No, no, that’s not what I wished to say.
I like it, Jehan. I find it helpful, which I am trying not to be too ashamed to admit.
Men in both our trades take people on for duties as needed, and one’s wife at his side is more regular than an unknown servant or maid.
Balac’s wife assists with his paperwork, though, mind, she’d never willingly step foot into a surgery or morgue like Dorotèa has.
I regret she can earn no salary of her own from it, and that she’d not be able to claim any sort of education for what she might see or do, but I like work, and so does she.
If I require help, and I do, then I’m best off having good company for it, and with someone who enjoys it. ”
“I…” Jehan began, but he soon frowned and interrupted himself by swallowing and rubbing his neck.
His dark, sharp brows drew together. “I don’t have anything smart to say, actually.
” He peered across at Oste instead of the wayward Dorotèa who still held her husband’s attention.
“I’d not thought I’d ever hear those words leave your mouth. ”
Oste let his shoulders stoop upon his exhale.
“It’s in the best interests of my patients, besides.
I’d prefer to direct my energy towards better being able to treat more of them; I cannot manage all that I can if I am ragged.
If I have vigor to spend on either fetching an order from the apothecary or examining a sick infant, I think that choice is clear.
My body will no longer allow the tireless gallivanting I once managed. ”
The lieutenant set his jaw. “If I may say as much, Oste, I did not think you’d return to work.” He nudged the ground with his foot and swiveled his head. “I did not think you’d return at all.”
“Perhaps I broke, but this vessel doesn’t have enough cracks so as to stop holding water entirely.” Oste forced a weak smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I promised to do my best with what remains for me. Flassans should have directed his lot to aim for my head.”
He balled up a fist at his side. “I don’t know why you didn’t take him to court for what he took from you—”
“To what end?” Oste answered, nonchalant.
His glance across to Jehan was almost pitying.
“I already was thanking my lucky stars I wasn’t condemned when I inconvenienced half the Palais by managing to live.
I’d not have a chance against Flassans in the courts, and if anything, they’d have dug up the extent of the truth.
Tortured it out of you if it would have pleased them, for the crime of being my friend.
Even with my family name, the courts would have laughed if I’d demanded compensation.
The count’s brother and former First Consul of Aix, or the young upstart of questionable heritage and beliefs? No, no, I’ll make do with what I have.”
“I don’t know how you managed it,” said Jehan with a rapid shake of his head.
His mouth pressed into a thin line, and Oste scarcely had seen his companion so grave when he wasn’t in front of a case or the dead.
“I had help to get here. If I needed more, I could have called upon a hundred men. Still, getting into the Palais was a matter of picking my way through a nest of vipers. They groomed me for this, and still it was hell. They wait for you to do anything wrong.”
“Perhaps you see why I’ve always been so sour on the subject of allowing help.” Oste ran a hand through his hair and snorted. “I’ve been quite unused to it.”
Jehan put a hand over Oste’s arm. “If you had been born just about any other man, they’d have brought you into the royal court by now.”
“I’m not sure I’d enjoy it, to tell you the truth.”
“Well,” Jehan scoffed, “even if the country doesn’t recognize your talents, I’ll ensure the viguerie will. You’re a clever arse, Oste, and I’m almost sorry that I take advantage of it, but I think we both can argue it’s for the greater good.”
His smile, this time, was genuine. Oste clapped his hand down on Jehan’s shoulder, then stroked it when he marveled at the quality of his silk cape.
That was good fabric. “I’m not sorry that you do.
I’m fond of my patients and proposals on sanitation policy, but a criminal inquiry here and there does help switch up the day and keep me sharp. ”
“You ought to write a treatise yourself on post-mortem… matters. Actually, it was Assesseur Margaillet who brought that up. He’s fond of your handwriting.”
Oste welcomed the praise from the present First Consul. “I’ve considered it. My handwriting, though, requires no consideration; I am aware it’s the finest in Aix.”
“Well, it isn’t now, after they shot you,” Jehan remarked. “I find your w’s and k’s have strayed off the mark. And that is not to mention the faint downward slant your lines tend to take on as you further approach the right side of your papers.”
“I shall take you to court,” Oste squinted, “for slander.”
“Find a new charge; it will not hold up when I tell the courts that I admire you, as much as it pains me to say it. In fact, we should probably never bring it up again.”
Oste tilted his head to the side and scratched the back of his neck. His green eyes had rounded in contemplation. “Are you quite well?”
“Save it.” Jehan waved his hand and scowled. “You always made everything look so easy. I’d not have had a clue about this case if it weren’t for your theories and conclusions.”
“You only describe people being played to their strengths, Lieutenant. You have your own that I do not possess, so don’t misunderstand. I may raise questions, but you take care of them.”
Jehan rocked on his heels. “I’d not intended for this to be sentimental. I’m really not that sort.”
“Men who take as long as you do to pick out hats usually are,” Oste hummed, and he gave his companion another pat on the shoulder. “Don’t fret; I’ll judge you for everything but that.”
“You considerate arse.”
He tsked in response, but didn’t answer straight away; one lonely figure bought his momentary silence.
The rest of the members of the confraternity had left and gone on to Borvo’s or otherwise—save for, of course, Dorotèa.
She’d moved on to sitting on the nearby pew with crossed legs and a forlorn, forward lean that made her appear hollow and wilted.
She was well-mannered enough not to intrude, but lacked the trained niceties that might have told her to obscure her misery-addled anticipation.
She had the bench in a death grip and stared dead-on at Oste.
When he noticed, and their eyes locked, she blushed and turned away.
Her legs kicked out from beneath her skirts.
Oste likened her to a trusty steed once, as mortifying as the thought had been at the time.
He’d been right, he believed, but he’d not pondered the extent of its truth.
The best of wives were like the best of mares.
It required effort to keep up with her, and her partiality to her own way left him with only suggestions and never demands.
The ground to stand on between the adjacent chasms of leaving the bridle alone or pulling the reins too much was as narrow a place as any, but that was where everything was worthwhile.
Do right by a good mare, and she’ll do right by you.
He could see her, a lovely Camargue grey who’d never hesitate when receiving a gardian’s cue to take off into the shallows or face down a raging bull.
Dorotèa would choose death over disloyalty, he believed, and this trait of hers spirited along every inconvenience that such a thing meant, such as her sad solitude.
“Can I see if my assistant can fit whatever it is you have in mind into my schedule?” Oste asked.
“This might be rich,” Jehan snorted. “But by all means, go ahead.”
He didn’t waste a beat. Oste waved her way and called across to her. “Dorotèa, if we may?”
She practically leapt up to her feet. At least her reflexes seemed to be in good order.
Dorotèa grabbed her skirts and hurriedly shuffled over without giving in to the impropriety of running.
By the time she made it over to the two of them, her eyes wore a sharp focus akin to a cat’s fixation on a bird.
“Hello,” she quipped, then bowed twice. “Lieutenant. Docteur.”
Oste drew his brows up. “Don’t be so serious. He’ll think I’m cross with you.”
“Are you?” Jehan teased.
“Not last I checked.”