Little Sultina's Note: After publishing the first chapter of this story months ago, I decided to leave it as a one shot, however after re-reading it I have decided to expand upon it, and see where it takes me. I have no fixed plan in my head, so feel free to comment with any ideas you may have! Thank you for all the lovely reviews for the previous chapter, and I hope the rest of the story does it justice!
Christine's Narrative
Charles is three years old today, funny how quickly time passes, isn't it? Why, I can scarcely believe it, three already, why it seems just yesterday that …..
Anyway, what good does it do to swell on the past? My, what a happy, happy day it is! The sun's glistening in the August sky, casting a beautiful light over the gardens. How lovely it would have been for Charlie to have a picnic outside; plates of miniature sandwiches on a checked blanket spread out by the pond. Of course, no one else would hear of it, shocked they were that a fine lady should consider eating on the grass! Did I not care that my skin would tan? Did I not care what other people would think?
For that is all life is about in London, what other people think. Today is another social event, another contest to be fought for the approval of high society. Aristocratic children will be flocking with their spinster nannies and governesses to the nursery to get in some practise for all those dinner parties they'll be attending in not too many years from now. I would have much preferred a quiet celebration, perhaps just Raoul, Charles and I; but Raoul was quite insistent.
"Remember Christine, nursery tea parties soon become charity galas and grand balls, if we don't invite people for this, will Charlie ever be invited to any of them?"
I murmured and agreed. I seem to be doing a lot of that lately, for I'm always in the wrong. Being a lady of high society is far more difficult than I had ever imagined, for there are so many things one mustn't do! One mustn't show emotion, so no squealing and shrieking as I had done with the Corps du Ballet then. One mustn't perform task that are 'beneath her', the maids were shocked when I suggested that I would make Charles' birthday cake, appalled in fact. One mustn't care for one's children, I was persuaded to stop nursing Charles' after his first six months, and hand him over to a prudish creature named Elizabeth, who now occupies the fourth floor of our charming London residence.
But above all, one must never, ever let is show that one is not a countess, a lady of fine breeding; that one is a Swedish peasant made good some how, and that, no matter what, that is what this confused child always will be.
Silly me, going on like this! Today is not a day for upset and regret, it's a happy, happy day!
I have my Charlie do I not, my lovely little boy! Yet, recently whenever I look at him, I see someone else, in his chocolate brown orbs I see the reflection of a man, a man whose dark, dark eyes carried the same expressions, the same movements. My God, Charles is only three, what will it be like when he grows older? Will he have the same walk, the same gestures, and the same turn of phrase? Will his presence forever haunt me? Will the same child that fills me with joy and warm memories of the past become just another sign of my infidelity?
Will it become that whenever I look at my son all I can think of is my poor, unhappy Erik? Will his smile constantly remind me of where my heart really lies, remind me of my mistakes, remind me of what a horrible wife I am?
For a horrible wife I am indeed. A wife whose hearts belongs to a man who is not her husband, who dreams about this man, who wishes it was this man who lay next to her and her husband in the coffin … what a wicked creature I am! I am a disloyal wife, an adulteress who has allowed her heart to break the rules of the Catholic Church and the promises I made to my dear Raoul. I was unfaithful in body, and now I am unfaithful in heart.
I pray that God will forgive me, I pray that he will help me to be as devoted a wife I can ever be. I pray for forgiveness, but yet I am not sorry. I am sorry for my husband, but in my heart I know I would never change what I did. For the truth is, that I love Erik, my angel, the father of my child. I love him, and it is both my ray of light and my cross to bear.
Then what do I feel for Raoul? I feel love, but not the Eros that flows through my veins when I think of Erik. I love Raoul like a friend, a brother; I care for him and I adore him, but as a sister dotes on a sibling not how a wife feels for her husband. Perhaps if I had never known passion, I could convince myself that I loved Raoul as I am meant to, but I have tasted real love, I have felt it run through my veins and I know that is not what I feel for my poor husband.
My poor husband! Not only can I not give him my heart, but I can not give him my body. What a strange turn of events, such a terrible blow, such a wonderful relief. As he lay dying. I promised Erik I would always be his, now I suppose now I really am. His forever, my body belonging to no other man.
But how must more poor Raoul feel? Of course, in his way he is happy, he believes he has a son, does he not? A son whom he can mould in his image, the happy, healthy boy that every man wishes for. I know that Raoul is not always faithful … but how could I expect him to be, his wife a useless excuse for a woman at the end of the corridor. I should never want to punish him for his infidelity, for what else am I to expect him to do? Be chaste for the rest of his life? Nor shall I ever tell him the truth about Charles' paternity, for what good will it do? It will only -
Oh shush Christine! Why these tears, this sadness? Today is a happy, happy day! I should be looking to the bright future that lies ahead of me, not yearning for the past. Things are as good as they will ever be in the circumstances. I have everything I could ever want, wealth, influence, position in society and a wonderful, wonderful son; so why is it that in my heart, I would trade it all for the thing I sinfully crave above all others.
Erik.
