Chapter 2 - The Perfect Wife

The slender golden hand had circled once, twice around the perimeter of the clock. As it made its third pass, Christine rummaged around in her beside table for a handkerchief to throw over its reproachful face. It was an improvement, but still each minute ticked inexorably away, only now slightly muffled. She rolled over and pulled the covers up under her chin, squeezing her eyes shut and willing sleep to come. Vaguely, she wondered what the servants must think of her, still in bed long past noon. She decided she didn't much care; she didn't see any point to being awake, not when sleep could so effectively dull the pain that was throbbing in her chest. Asleep, she could finally quiet her tormenting thoughts. In her dreams, she could relive happier days. If she could just get one more hour's sleep, she might be better able to face the rest of the day. But it's always the same – the more you attempt to force something, the more likely it is to elude you, and bleary-eyed and rumpled, Christine dragged herself from bed in defeat.

It was probably for the best, anyway. Raoul was sure to be back soon from his visit to his parents, and the last time he had caught her in bed so late, he'd fretted over her for two days. For his sake, she would try to pull herself together enough so that he wouldn't suspect any lingering melancholy. It was quite enough to deal with her own unhappiness without adding guilt from Raoul's distress over it.

Hiding her pain was beginning to become a full time occupation.

She slipped into the ivory silk dressing gown her maid had laid out for her. On a marble-topped dresser sat a silver tray of cold tea and pastries that Raoul must have ordered to be brought in while she was still asleep. As unappetizing as it was, it was more appealing than sitting by herself under the judging eyes of the servants, so she choked down a few tepid mouthfuls and picked apart a sweet roll, silently thanking Raoul for his thoughtfulness.

That unfailing thoughtfulness was one of the many things she cherished about her husband. Behind closed doors, other women would complain endlessly about their selfish, boorish husbands, while Christine smiled and nodded in what she hoped would be taken for sympathy. She'd learned early on that with gossiping women, the rule was that if you couldn't say anything bad, then it was best to say nothing at all, and the truth was, she really didn't have anything bad to say about Raoul. He was kind and considerate, loving and loyal. Sometimes she wished that she could find fault with him. Maybe then she wouldn't have this aching feeling that she'd failed him so terribly...

Last night was the closest she'd come to breaking down in public. For most of the five years that she'd been married, she'd endured endless hints that everyone was anxiously anticipating the arrival of a de Chagny heir. At first it was amusing. She and Raoul had been eager to start a family, and often entertained themselves by plotting out a future that involved a country house overflowing with sun-kissed, golden-haired children. As the first year became the second, the hints and winks became slightly irritating. After all, it was clearly no one's business but Raoul's and her own, and besides, plenty of couples took a year or more to have their first child. By the end of the third year, each mention cut like a well-honed knife.

Raoul had been understanding yet practical, as usual. Last spring, when the situation began to look dire, Raoul called in a visit for her from the family doctor, a white-haired and thickly-spectacled old man who had served the de Chagnys loyally - and most important, discreetly- for generations. After his uncomfortable and humiliating poking and prodding failed to turn up any obvious defect in her, he recommended plenty of rest, fresh air, and perhaps a visit to Vichy's mineral baths, none of which appeared to have any effect.

She'd returned from her trip to Vichy so full of hope, and the eventual disappointment had nearly crushed her. Raoul had done everything he could do soothe and reassure her. He swore that he would love her whether she could have children or not, and would never want anyone but her. She believed him, but somehow it didn't make her feel any better. He was always adamant that it would happen for them someday...but she she was starting to see the doubt she felt reflected his eyes. There was something that lay between them now. A broken promise, a crushed dream. An unspoken knowledge that if this wound were not closed, it would fester and rot, spilling its poison into their hearts and eating away at them until there was nothing left but bitterness.

Christine gave up on her cold tea with a sigh and sat down at her vanity. The face reflected in the mirror looked more like it belonged to an old, worn portrait than to a living thing, faded and indistinct. She pinched some color into her cheeks; it spread like twin pools of blood on a white linen sheet. One by one she opened crystal bottles and porcelain jars – dabbing the contents onto her wrists, dusting sheer powder smelling faintly of lilies over her forehead and down her nose. Each curl was twisted up and secured with a hairpin, not perfectly, but respectable enough. She tried on a smile. Again, not perfect, but it would do. She picked up an oversized powder puff for one last touch-up, and when her eyes met that of her reflection she felt a little ripple of electricity flow through her. If she didn't know better, she would swear she was back in her dressing room in the Paris Opera, powdering her face and rubbing rogue onto her lips and cheeks. Her eyes peered back at her as they did then, wide and uncertain, but missing was the jittery exhilaration sparkling from their depths. Missing also was the little half smile that would keep popping up no matter how hard she tried to suppress it. But her heart...her heart was thumping away in her chest just as it had after she'd swept off the stage, dizzy with triumphant joy, dazed by the wave after wave of applause still ringing in her ears.

She closed her eyes and let the forbidden memories trickle in. There was the scent of roses – lush, thick, and heady, at once glorious and suffocating. A forest of glossy green blossoming with pink and white and yellow. And red... A single red rose, stripped of thorns and tied with black satin. Its creamy petals brushing against her cheek, her lips, soft as skin. The smooth, cool surface of the mirror under her fingertips. A breathless feeling, like all the air suddenly left the room, and the deep thrumming in her chest that she always felt just before...

The voice. Hard and cold and razor-sharp - a jagged shard of ice plunged into her belly. She listens with head bowed, skin prickling along her arms, teeth about to pierce her trembling lower lip, hands pressed together to quiet the tremors, almost as if they were in prayer. An angel's voice, terrible and beautiful. But now...melting into something rich and warm, filling the room, filling her, vibrating right through her bones. Her head tilts back, eyes sliding shut in ecstasy, breaths coming slow and shallow. And the voice, now a man's voice, unbearably soft and gentle, little more than a whisper, so close she can almost feel warm lips against her ear. Her own lips part-

"Christine! Are you alright?" Raoul was hesitating in the doorway, one hand still on the handle.

"Oh! I...yes. Yes, I'm fine." Christine sat stunned as if he'd upturned a pitcher of ice water over her head.

"Are you sure?" asked Raoul, searching her face with uncertain eyes. "You looked...strange."

Christine stood and held out her arms to him, shaking her head with a small, reassuring smile. "Darling, really," she said, folding her arms around him and pressing her cheek against his warm, familiar chest, "nothing's the matter. I must have been daydreaming a little, that's all."

There was a pause. "Oh? What about."

Another pause. "I...really can't even remember! Nothing in particular, I suppose." She stood back and looked up into his uncertain eyes. "You know how silly women can be."

She pressed her lips into a smile that only wavered a little at the edges. His eyes softened and he responded with a smile and a sigh that sounded like relief.

Christine was quick with a change of topic. "How were your parents? They weren't angry I wasn't there, were they?"

Raoul's clear blue eyes went dark. "No, it was fine. My father was out, so it was only my mother anyway." He settled onto the edge of the vanity and began tugging at a little thread on his cuff. "It was a nice visit."

"Are you sure? You seem a little.."

A grimace distorted Raoul's face and his hands gripped the edge of the wooden table. "You know how she is, it was the same old ridiculous ranting. Consider yourself very fortunate that you weren't there." A half-hearted grin replaced the grimace, and he hopped off the vanity, brushed himself off, and planted a kiss on the top of her head. "Are you going to finish getting dressed? I was thinking we might take a walk down to the park before dinner."

"Oh yes, that sounds lovely."

"I'll leave you to it, then. I'm just going to fetch my overcoat." He turned to leave. "Ah yes! I almost forgot, you received a letter today." He pulled a small envelope from his pocket and handed it to her.

She turned it over unenthusiastically, expecting to see the return address of one of the many so-called friends she cared nothing about. For once, she was pleasantly surprised. "It's from Meg!" she cried with delight.

"Is it?" called Raoul from the adjoining room. "How nice! I wonder how she's liking married life!"

She tore open the envelope and fished out the letter. She hadn't seen her friend since her wedding, six months ago. Despite Madame Giry's very vocal disapproval, Meg had given up the stage to marry a Swiss banker, a pleasant - if a bit dull - man more than a few years her senior who could keep her in reasonable comfort and, as Meg had said, off her poor, abused toes. Shortly after the wedding, Meg was whisked off to Switzerland, and while Madame Giry claimed to be mourning the loss of her dream of seeing Meg as a world famous prima ballerina, Christine knew that the old woman was too proud to admit that she simply missed her only child. She understood very well, she missed her friend terribly too. And so with hungry eyes she devoured the letter.

"She said she had a lovely honeymoon," Christine called out for Raoul's benefit. "And she's been busy setting up her new home... She complains about the cold...and the Swiss cooking." She flipped the letter over with a little laugh. "And she- Oh." Christine's eyes were frozen on one of the lines hovering just over the carefully embellished signature.

"And she...what?" asked Raoul as he strode back into the room, fastening the buttons on his jacket. He looked up and caught sight of her face. It must have looked as bloodless as it felt, because his face immediately creased with concern. "What's the matter? Is she all right? Is everything all right?"

"She...she..." Christine wanted to continue, but tears were already leaking from her eyes. One more word and there would be a flood. She shook her head and thrust the letter towards her husband. She watched as he scanned the sheet with a knitted brow. Suddenly it went slack and he looked up at her, stricken. He was on his knees before her in an instant.

"Oh, Christine... I'm so sorry," he said, grasping her hands in his. "Is there anything I can do?"

"No - Don't," she choked. "I can't talk about it. Give me the letter, I haven't finished it."

Again she stared at the words - "And, darling, I've saved the most exciting news for last - I'm expecting a baby! Can you believe it? We're both just absolutely thrilled." She couldn't finish. She tossed the paper from her and buried her face against Raoul's shoulder.

"I feel so terrible," she said between sobs. "I want to be happy for her, but I just...can't. Six months! I can't believe it! It seems so, so...unfair! For once I'm happy she's in Switzerland, I don't think I could bear to see her!" Gasping and sobbing, she let the burning tears soak into the shoulder of Raoul's coat, as the bitter anger crumbled into raw, broken-hearted pain. Eventually, she was able to draw a few ragged breaths to steady herself. "And now I feel like a horrible friend," she almost laughed, shaking her head.

Part of her wanted to drop back onto the bed and sleep off the words that were threatening to pour from her. But it was like a valve had been opened, and now there was no closing it.

Dashing the tears from her eyes, she struggled to meet Raoul's eyes, and failing, settled on a little speck of lint just below his collar. "This is getting so very hard for me, Raoul. I want so much to give you a child, and I've - I've failed you." She held up a hand to silence his inevitable protest. If she didn't get this out now, she feared she never would. "No, you know it's true. I've...failed you as a wife. And I don't know how much longer I can go on like this. I feel like my heart is slowly breaking to pieces. It's like I can't imagine ever being truly happy again. I just feel so...empty." She bit her lip and then whispered, "Some days I wish I just wouldn't wake up... "

"Christine! Please don't talk like that!" Raoul nearly shouted with a horrified expression distorting his face. He held her to him again, smoothing her hair with a shaky hand. "Everything's going to be all right. We'll have a baby, it's just...taking us a little longer. Think of how much more you're going to love it when it comes."

"But, Raoul-"

"Shh... I mean it. It'll happen for us, soon. I promise."

Christine wanted to believe him, but in her heart, she knew that this was the one promise he might not be able to keep.

A/N:

So, I realize I forgot to mention something: I'm not really sure which version of PotO this is based on. I guess it's not based on any one, exactly. I know I've said in the past that prefer Leroux or Kay's Eriks, and that I definitely think that type of deformity is the only way to go, but...I changed my mind? As far as this story goes, it really needs a half-faced deformity, for what will become obvious reasons as we go on, and while a Kay Erik could work for this, personality-wise, Leroux is definitely out. (Though that's not to say some aspects of his personality won't still show up.) So for those who can't stand movie-verse, don't worry - this isn't definitely isn't an Erik the Stud story by any means, though again, touches have and will continue to show up. Maybe I didn't need to clarify all this, but I do want to explain what I'm going for here, and why I put it under the "Book" universe for lack of a better idea. Feel free to picture any sort of universe that makes you happy. And if you don't know what the heck I'm talking about in the first place, then just carry on.

Thank you to all of you who have been reading, and a special thank you to those who left reviews! This story really makes me second- and third-guess myself every time I post, so I appreciate knowing that it's being enjoyed. :)