Copyright © 2008
H D Kingsbury
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system -- available today or in the future -- without permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
I have had these urges, now and then, to jot down little vignettes -- or slices of life -- about Erik and Christine duBois from my story, Variations on a Theme of Leroux. I started writing this one as a "get well" gift for my friend, Lizzy, and have decided to post it here.
The title of this little piece of fluff is "May We Sleep with You?" and introduces the newest member of the duBois household -- two-year-old Charles. There are no real plots to these vignettes, they are deliberately light and fluffy, and will make the most sense if you've read the previous two stories, Variations on a Theme of Leroux and The Gift: A Variations Sequel.
So without further ado, here is part one of "May We Sleep with You?"
May We Sleep with You? Part One
By HDKingsbury
October 1886
Erik laid in bed, listening to the sounds of the storm raging outside. Living so close to the ocean, storms such as this were not uncommon. Many of his neighbors, men who made their living by fishing, did not care for weather that churned up the waters and disrupted their livelihoods, but Erik enjoyed listening to the tempest. Closing his eyes, he imagined nature conducting a symphony as the drops of rain beat against the windows like little fists and gusts of wind rattled through the branches of the apple trees in front of the house.
He opened his eyes again and took in the soft golden glow in the room. Even though it was warm during the day, the fall nights were cool. With the rain falling, it was both chilly and damp, and so a small fire burned in the fireplace, one just big enough to remove the dampness and keep the occupants comfortable. He shifted his weight slightly, not wanting to disturb his wife who was sleeping peacefully at his side. He hesitated to wake her, remembering the long hours of work she had put in around the house that day, helping Mamma put up apples so they would have pies, spiced apples, applesauce and apple jelly, even in the winter.
Warmth of a different kind filled him as he looked at Christine and felt the delightful pressure of her back pressed against his chest. The loose curls of her honey-gold hair were alluring, and he couldn't resist the urge to inhale their fragrance. Even now, the faint perfume of apples and spices clung to her. Knowing how exhausted she had been at the end of the day, he laid still and, gently putting an arm around her waist, closed his eyes as he let his mind wander. Pleasant memories flooded his mind, but one in particular stood out. It was the day he came home and found Christine looking at The Book.
It had been shortly after their marriage, and Christine had recently learned that she was carrying their first child. Erik had been out that morning, paying a visit to their good friend and doctor, Visant Bret. When he'd returned, he had found his wife sitting on the floor of was to be his workroom, surrounded by piles of books.
Although he had enough money set aside from his years as "ghost in residence" at the opera house to keep them living in the lap of luxury, if that had been Christine's wish, Erik had determined to put aside all vestiges of his former life. With many wealthy Parisians now coming to Perros for their summer holidays, there was a growing demand for new houses, and Erik turned his talents back to one of his earliest loves -- architecture. He talked to Christine about opening his own business, and she in turn had been helping him get his office set up. While he was out, she had started going through the crates of books that had arrived from Paris earlier that week, books that had once filled the shelves of his house by the lake. Looking at her sitting on the floor, a loose tendril of hair hanging down in her face, her skirt tucked neatly beneath her, and her nose in one of his books, he thought her the most beautiful woman in the world.
She hadn't heard him enter the room, for she never looked up, but continued gazing intently at the book in her lap. He wondered what could be holding her interest, and then he saw the cover. It was a rare volume he had picked up during a brief sojourn into India while in the employ of the Shah, a book that explored physical love -- in very great detail.
He'd gulped in a breath, waiting for Christine to note his presence and literally throw the book at him, to revile him for possessing such a pornographic thing. Instead, when she raised her head, she was smiling -- mischievously. She invited him to sit next to her and asked for a hands-on demonstration of some of the book's contents. Their kisses had grown deeper, and their touching, more intense, when Mamma Valérius's voice rang through the house, calling them to dinner.
From that time on, they had kept The Book, as they called it, in the drawer of the nightstand in their room. "For late night reading and inspiration," Christine had explained. But it hadn't been long until The Book found its way out of the bedroom. It still made Erik laugh when he remembered the day he came home from visiting with a client and finding Christine and Mamma huddled together at the kitchen table, their heads bowed together as they looked at something, pointing and giggling like a couple of school girls.
"She looks bored," Christine said, almost snorting with laughter.
"He doesn't look all that excited himself," Mamma commented.
More giggles followed.
"I think she's trying to decide what color to paint the room," Christine suggested.
Erik had stood quietly in the doorway for a few minutes, and then cleared his throat, announcing his presence. "And what are the two of you looking at, that you find it so interesting?" he asked innocently, by then knowing full well what was going on.
Mamma's head jerked up, her face a deep shade of scarlet. Christine quickly slammed the book shut and slipped it under the table and onto her lap, all the while grinning like a cat who'd found the cream.
"Oh...nothing," Mamma said, trying to regain her composure.
"Just...a book," Christine said, fighting to keep from laughing again.
"I think I need to pick some vegetables from the garden...for tonight's supper," Mamma said, and bolted out the back door.
"I think I hear Etienne. The nurse is getting him ready for his feeding," Christine said, and dashed up the stairs to the nursery.
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