A/N: This new AU comes courtesy of an ask that rjdaae sent me back in December that I straight up forgot about for a while, where Erik and Christine meet through a mail-order bride advertisement. I being me naturally made it into the western it was crying out to be.
This is the first of 20 chapters, which will be appearing on Saturdays, and possibly (eventually) on some Wednesdays as well. At the moment this fic is slated to be fully posted by the end of June, but for various reasons I'd like to have it posted a little earlier.
If you're looking for an in-depth fic full of nitty-gritty details, stop now and read Mary Doria Russell instead. It's my intention to work off the knowledge I already have and not do extensive hours of research, mostly because this fic is supposed to self-indulgent. In saying that, I do have a history degree and have been reading about the West for 10 years, so it will be reasonably accurate. Certainly more accurate than many things.
A single warning here and now for references to alcohol, gambling, and prostitution that will appear throughout the fic. It is a western, after all.
Fic title comes courtesy of a song by Chris LeDoux, whose anniversary is the reason I decided to start posting today, and who is largely supplying the soundtrack to the writing.
This is the 300th fic I've started on AO3, so here I will end the ridiculously long author's note and say I hope you enjoy this story, and please for the love of all that is good and sweet, review!
The whole venture is Sorelli's idea and, if it should go badly, there is some comfort in being able to lay the blame with her. The experience of last time is proof enough of that, and as long as Christine lives she will forever be thankful that when she went to Leadville she had enough money to get back to New Orleans and Sorelli.
But it's the possibilities of this time that set her on her edge, that make anxiety coil deep in her gut.
She might have nothing to worry about. He – Marshal Erik Lamonte, of Contention, Wyoming ("somewhere north of Cheyenne") might not like her picture. Surely a town's marshal could find someone better than her.
And if he does like her picture, if – dare she think it, and she dare not fully give the thought form because it makes her stomach churn – if he does like it, and things move on to the next stage, then it can only go better than it did last time, right?
A girl can hardly be so unlucky twice.
(If anyone can be, it will be her.)
Sorelli, in her infinite skills, is making it her business to ensure that Christine will not be so unlucky twice. Her fingers are nimble and delicate as they straighten Christine's curly waves and weave them into a delicate chignon, fighting to keep them in line. It was her suggestion that it be a new portrait taken to send on to him, and she forbade Christine from using the old one. Perhaps, if it had not been a Marshal, or not one who writes so precisely and whose letters sound so unfailingly polite, the old one would be finding itself slipped into an envelope again, wrapped safe in a letter, and they would be spared this trouble.
But of course they are not spared this trouble. Trouble is exactly what they are going to.
If only it had been Sorelli the Marshal had taken a shine to, Sorelli whose description he had decided to write to. Twenty-three (twenty-six), excellent cook (makes a good soup but everything else is only passable), skilled housekeeper (well, skilled at sewing. Her dusting leaves a little to desire), healthy (there was that concern over a sore, but everything is fine now and there was no need for mercury treatments), upstanding (leaving aside Dodge in seventy-eight), willing to host parties and will attend to all of a prospective husband's needs (all of them, even the ones he didn't realise he needed, multiple times a night if required), slim, dark hair, brown eyes (and she left out the less-than-white complexion that goes with it, legacy of a grandmother, she thinks).
Christine supposes she should be flattered, that the Marshal had to read Sorelli's description (and the others preceding it in the pamphlet) before her own caught his eye. Twenty (on the button), cooks, bakes, sews (all of them up to a point, though the sewing is her best thanks to years of experience), plays piano (badly, and very out of practice, she hasn't had a lesson in probably five years, and she and Sorelli had debated over including it until Sorelli declared, "They won't be able to tell the difference anyway!"), good with children (well, she's liked any child she's ever come across, not that there's been many), healthy (apart from the episode of bronchitis that almost cost her her chorus job while the theatre was still going), petite, blonde, blue eyes (she considered saying Swedish and then worried anyone might decide she's really a German, or assume she knows anything about cows which she very definitely does not. Best to keep it all as neutral as possible).
Was it the good with children that drew him in? Maybe he has several that he expects her to be a mother to. Maybe he's widowed! And he'll spend forever comparing all her flaws to the forever-perfect wife that was! And she'll be locked in a loveless marriage with a man who only wants her around because she's a woman but he'll always resent her as a replacement!
The thoughts whirl too fast for to grasp at.
Children widowed dead wife children widowed dead wife children widowed dead
They won't slow down why won't they slow down?
Sorelli's voice, soft, telling her to breathe, her brown eyes creased with worry before her but she can't breathe she can't breathe she can't breathe her heart is pounding too fast oh God he'll hate her he'll hate her he'll take one look at her and leave her and she'll end up working the cribs and backstreets after all.
The pale blue cotton of her skirt is oddly vivid. Hand on the back of her head forcing her down, oh that's why she's looking at her knees, that's why she can see her skirt, she never used to panic like this going on stage.
Something pinches her nose and she gasps, air cold in her mouth, and Sorelli's voice is low in her ear. "Breathe, Christine, just breathe. Slowly. Listen to me, listen. In, yes good, hold it a second, hold it, and out. That's it, come on you're all right, in, we'll dry your tears and paint your face, get a bit of colour back in your cheeks, and out, that's good and no one will ever know the difference, now in…"
It is oddly comforting being able to blame Aman for the situation Erik finds himself in. It was, after all Aman's suggestion (aided and abetted by both De Chagny's, true, and they must know by now that he finds it impossible to say no to Philippe after everything, that must be why they badgered him so) that he find himself a wife. He might almost be angry over getting pushed into the whole thing, if he had not begun to wonder over it himself.
If the whole thing goes horribly wrong, he need not feel terrible about it in his own right.
Aman purses his lips at the sight of his suit as he turns around. "The double-breasted would do better." It is the politest way he has of saying, you look like death warmed up and Erik sighs. The double-breasted is far from the best suit he has. It is certainly not his favoured one and if he has to go through this whole ordeal he will wear a suit he likes dammit.
"Which mask should I choose? The white or the black?" He will not dignify the suit remark with a reply. And in truth, the white mask would be his own first choice, it brings out his features very admirably, but Aman will be peevish if he can't have some input.
"The black. If you insist on looking as if you've just escaped from your own funeral, it goes better with the suit."
He holds both to his face as he turns back to the mirror, and sighs. Aman probably does have a point, even if he is being dramatic about it and only saying it to be difficult. "Why do I have to send my own portrait anyway? De Chagny Junior photographs so much better. He wouldn't even notice one missing!" On consideration of his reflection, he will concede that the black mask is more suitable on this occasion, and he regretfully sets the white aside, but really, there is no need for Aman to roll his eyes.
"Because that worked so well with that Carlotta woman."
He may be Erik Lamonte, town's marshal, former cavalry Major, still (probably) wanted in both Kansas and California for unrelated unfortunate incidents, but that tangle with Carlotta Giudicelli, well, there must be better men than he that she has left a mark on.
He was lucky to get away with only two gashes.
"If you hadn't insisted on this whole affair, perhaps it would never have happened," he mutters as he turns away from the mirror, mask secured in place, but clearly Aman has better hearing than he gives him credit for because his face is, if possible, even more pinched than it was a moment ago.
If it were possible to take back words, to erase them from existence and the record of them ever having been spoken, he would take back those ones, if only to spare himself from having to hear what will likely come next.
"Do you want to win this election?" Aman's voice is quiet, dangerously so, and Erik bites his tongue to keep himself in check. He is so very much not in the mood for one of these arguments.
"Of course I do." I owe it to Philippe, if nothing else. "But if this doesn't work—"
"It will work." Aman smiles, his rant burned off but surely it will come again when Erik least expects it. "They know you, they know what you're capable of, and with a wife to boost your image I don't know what Woods could hope to do."
"And if this one says no, with my own portrait?" It's a realer possibility than he wants to admit. He knows too well that some of the town's people are still revolted by him and the very fact that he needs to wear a mask, and they've never had to confront the possibility of seeing him exposed.
"Then we'll make a trip to Cheyenne, and you can find a nice woman to have a whirlwind romance with and marry her on the quiet. Like a dime novel." Damn Aman but he really does have an answer for everything.
"Maybe." They'll hardly be as pretty as she is, the thought comes unbidden and he swallows, his mouth suddenly dry and he fixes his cuffs, anything to keep his hands busy and his face as inscrutable as possible. He's studied the portrait of the girl (Christine Daaé, twenty years old, in New Orleans, and he's often felt old but he's old enough to be her father for crying out loud, he shouldn't be thinking that she's pretty, he should just find some nice widow woman somewhere, but the thought of constantly being compared to a dead man, and a widow would have expectations of him that maybe (hopefully) a twenty year old girl won't have. She'd be an ideal wife for De Chagny Junior for Christ's sake!) and the odd thing is he wants her to like him, he really does. He's never wanted someone to like him more in his life!
"What are you going to tell her about…" Aman makes a vague gesture but really there's no need to elaborate on what he means. It's obvious enough.
"The war." It's a reasonable enough explanation for a mask covering half his face. "Or possibly a scattergun accident. I haven't decided yet." Either explanation is as good as the other in the grand scheme of things. It's not as if she'll want much to do with him when she realises he's disfigured. "Join me in the portrait." It's a skill, making such a suggestion sound impulsive when he's been thinking about it all day.
Aman cocks a brow, arms folded. "Why?"
"Moral support. Keep me from running out of the place. Trev can hold the fort without the two of us." And he knows just how to sweeten the suggestion. "You can take tonight off."
Aman's brow goes, if possible, higher, and a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. "I was taking tonight off anyway."
"True, but this way I promise not to begrudge you." He says it with just enough lightness that Aman's face does crack with his smile, and he knows he's won.