“The sun is down, and yet you are still interrupting.”
“You’re interrupting my interrupting, Aldo. And I am very sorry to interrupt Mr. Stearns’s lesson. But it’s his language faculties we need. This is Kingsley Boissonneault, our new student. He doesn’t speak any English, I’m afraid. We’re hoping Mr. Stearns could be of some assistance. If he would oblige…”
“Of course, Father.” Stearns closed the book in front of him and stood up. Once more Kingsley was stuck by the blond pianist’s height, his face so unbearably handsome. “I will be happy to help in any way I can. Of course, Monsieur Boissonneault doesn’t need my help. After all, he speaks English perfectly. Don’t you?”
Kingsley froze when Stearns directed the last two words at him.
Father Aldo and Father Henry both looked at him with raised eyebrows.
“Mr. Boissonneault?” Father Aldo said in his accented English. “Is this true?”
“Of course it is.” Stearns stepped over the black cat and stood before Kingsley.
Kingsley should have been afraid, should have been embarrassed. But that one step toward him, that look of penetrating insight, inspired other feelings in him, feelings he immediately shoved down deep into himself.
“He laughed while you two were arguing. He knew exactly what you both were saying. If he’s a French speaker in Maine he’s either from France, where he would start learning English at age seven or eight, or he’s Quebecois and therefore at least passably bilingual.”
Father Aldo and Father Henry continued to stare at him. Stearns studied him with penetrating, steel-gray eyes.
“I am most certainly not Quebecois,” Kingsley finally said, the pride in his Parisian blood trumping any desire to remain silent and anonymous. “I’m from Paris.”
Stearns smiled and Kingsley felt that smile in his blood like a shard of ice.
“A liar and a snob. Welcome to Saint Ignatius, Monsieur Boissonneault,” Stearns said. “So pleased to have you here.”
For the second time that day, Kingsley fantasized about stepping into Troy’s knife and letting the blade sink into his heart. Surely a blade of real steel would hurt less than the steely judgment in Stearns’s eyes.
“I didn’t want to come,” Kingsley protested. “I’m here against my will. I shouldn’t have to talk if I don’t want to.”
“You have a bright future with the Cistercians,” Stearns said, crossing his arms over his chest. “They take vows of silence, too. Although for reasons of piety and not obnoxious attention seeking.”
“Mr. Stearns,” Father Aldo gently chided. “We may be Jesuits, but we do practice the rule of Benedict here.”
Stearns exhaled heavily. “Of course, Father. Forgive me.” He didn’t sound particularly contrite to Kingsley, but neither Father Aldo nor Father Henry raised any further objections. They seemed as cowed as Matthew had earlier. Who was this Stearns person?
“Perhaps you would show Mr. Boissonneault the dormitories. Give him more of an introduction to the school than young Matthew did,” Father Henry said. “If you have the time.”
Stearns nodded, took one more step toward Kingsley and looked down into his eyes. Down? Kingsley had been measured in the hospital and stood at exactly six feet. Stearns had to be six-two at the least.
“I have the time.” Stearns gave him another smile. “Shall we?”
Kingsley thought about saying no, demurring, protesting that Matthew had given him a thorough introduction to the school and he needed no other, but merci beaucoup for offering. And yet, although Stearns already seemed to dislike him, loathe him even, Kingsley couldn’t deny that everything in him wanted a moment alone with this mysterious young man who even the priests deferred to.
“Oui,” Kingsley whispered, and Stearns’s sculpted lips formed a tight line.
Kingsley followed him from the kitchen. As soon as they were out of the door and alone in the hallway, Stearns turned and faced him.
“Père Henry est un héro,” Stearns began in flawless French. Father Henry is a hero. “You’ll have to forgive him for knowing very little about France. During World War II, he was in Poland smuggling Jews to safety and hiding women and girls from the Russian soldiers. I only know this because another priest here told me. Father Henry does not talk about the hundreds of lives he helped save. He talks about Italian food and mystery novels. Father Aldo is Brazilian. He and twelve others were held captive by guerrillas in 1969. Father Aldo was twenty-nine years old and, despite being from a wealthy and politically connected family, was the last captive to be
released—by choice. He would not leave until the others were safely freed. He forgave his captors and publicly asked the court to show them leniency. Now he cooks for us.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” Kingsley asked in English, feeling for the first time since his parents’ death that he could easily start crying.
“Father Henry asked me to introduce you to Saint Ignatius. That is what I’m doing. Coming?” he asked, still speaking French.
Kingsley said nothing, but followed him down the hall.
Stearns paused in the doorway to the dining room. Only two boys remained at the table, eating and talking.
“Ton ami Matthew,” Stearns said, inclining his head toward the small redheaded boy who had first given him a tour of the school, sitting next to a slightly taller boy with black hair and glasses. “He came here a year and a half ago. Although eleven years old when we saw him first, he looked hardly older than eight. His parents had neglected him to the point of starvation. A wealthy Catholic family in the neighborhood where Matthew was found digging through garbage cans is paying his tuition here. The boy he’s sitting with is the son of the people paying Matthew’s tuition. Neither of them knows that. They became friends on their own.”