Thank you very much to Gabriezzu, Angeliastar, FlawlessLuna, Ricardo Bravo and Ilustrariane-the fic reader for your kind comments and ongoing support. Hope you enjoy this new chapter!
Christine woke. And then, she noticed something. Erik was gone.
She saw a figure at the door. Erik in his black mask, wrinkled white shirt and trousers.
"Erik!" she moaned.
He was holding the chamber pot. "Erik won't be gone long," he whispered. She watched as he quickly exited.
He took care of the housekeeping. He emptied that. He then served her a cup of coffee and porridge. But Christine was niggled and mortified when he brought water.
Erik turned his back, of course, while she was washing.
However Christine was very timid. She dried with the threadbare towel. Awkwardly she slid her chemise over her head. "I can't do this," she whispered.
"What can't you do, love?"
"I can't show you this water. I'm sorry. I am so embarrassed. I am bleeding."
In a moment he was on his feet and coming towards her. He wrapped his arms around her. "Oh, my love, what's wrong?"
Christine felt slightly reassured.
"It was... it was... the termination," she said, as if it was a dirty word.
She noticed he was trembling.
"Please don't tell Erik you need a doctor. I am very, very concerned. Oh, darling, are you hurt?"
"I am uncomfortable," she sighed. "But the blood... I should have told you... is normal."
"Then why are you so worried?"
"I'm just embarrassed."
It was from a certain part of her anatomy. Goodness. This was like having her monthly courses. How could she let him see?
He gazed into her face. Christine gulped. She was still getting used to seeing her husband's face in the full light.
"Erik does not think badly of you. He will not be disgusted to wash in water you have used. He will be delighted."
He smiled, and turned around to use the water.
Christine realized she was being ridiculous. As ridiculous as he had been last night, come to think of it.
She sat down and folded her arms. Erik had not gotten breakfast for himself. Typical. Of course she would feed him. But she had to make sure, somehow, that he also ate normal food.
She watched him as he bathed. She didn't see any reason why she shouldn't. She watched her husband, whose back was turned to her. She didn't think his body so horrid now.
She got to her feet. She gently took the cloth from him, and squeezed it over his back.
Erik just smiled. He seemed to think she would stop any moment, like he did every time she was nice to him.
She didn't, though. Later she dried him and helped him dress. As they laid on the bed, she sighed as he said the inevitable.
"Erik is not letting you out."
Christine drew breath. But she knew she must not protest.
"You have nothing to wear but that expensive ball gown, costly furs and that fine cashmere coat. If you emerged from the third class cabin in that outfit it would arouse too much suspicion."
Christine sighed resignedly. He patted her arm.
"Look at what happened," he said wearily. "Erik let you go. And six months later he finds a very sad Christine, with the weight of the cynical world on her shoulders. Erik will preserve what tender girlhood is left."
"Oh... Erik."
She smiled.
"Do you love Erik?"
She knew that was a brave question. She pressed her lips firmly against his. "Yes, I do. Never doubt that."
Erik groaned. He nestled against her breasts. She took up the position she had last night, of a mother comforting a lonely child.
His lips reached for her nipple. Christine smiled. Feeling brave, and a bit silly, she undid her chemise.
She exposed one breast. Erik moaned and reached for it. And the pleasure that gave her was sinful.
She loved the feeling of his flesh on hers.
It made her feel... not like she had with Dury.
Something much sweeter.
After all she was meant to be with Erik. She did not dispute that now. When she was not with him she was always aware he was thinking of her. Could always sense him.
They rolled over, their limbs combining. Her body moved rhythmically against his. She could feel his lithe legs against her, his erection digging in. She felt his warmth and his sunken, moist skin, and smelt his unique scent.
She sighed. She watched as he worked his magic. Her nipple was warmed by his lips. She writhed. She stared vacantly up at the ceiling, lost in langour.
"I don't understand how it happened!" Raoul faced his friend Milot Barthelemy. They were in the latter's commodious home on the outskirts of Paris.
Raoul was inconsolable on this subject. It was niggling him as much as Dury's death. Christine and Erik were lovers. Raoul was not sure how long it had gone on. But the child had been conceived four months ago, so it had been at least since then.
Maybe they had first made love in those two weeks Christine lived with Erik. He did not want to think of when it had started. He had been bested by a hellbound monster.
What sort of reflection was that on him? Did Christine think Erik's charms were greater? Raoul would have laughed if it wasn't happening to him.
It must have occurred during one of Raoul's two absences with the army. So Christine had turned out to be a slut. She had not honoured him for wrenching her away from that monster. She had rushed back to it, most horribly. Raoul knew he must tear the monster apart.
"So, your fiancee was unfaithful to you."
"Stop reminding me, Milot."
"That's what happens when you are engaged to an opera rat," said Milot gently. "We all advised you against that. She is just a fickle woman, like any other, with the tarty thighs of a ballet dancer."
Raoul imagined Christine's pink, sacred body entwining with Erik's yellow, cheesy one. He retched in disgust.
"Well, what are we going to do?" Raoul's rage was scarcely controlled. "The gendarmes are not hearing anything about this. They consider it a lost cause because that scum, and Christine, so obviously got away at the docks."
"There was one ship that left that night. I've done my research. And it was the Yseult. Bound for Portugal."
Raoul gasped.
"I agree that Dury should be avenged. We can grab this scum. The gendarmes won't chase him. But we can hire men to do so. We have the money, after all."
Raoul nodded slowly. He and Milot were both furious.
Dury could not have been thought of more highly by them. Or by everyone else in their circle, as a matter of fact. How could Erik have killed one who was bursting with all the best qualities?
Lighting rent the sky. Christine closed her eyes. She had just had the most delightful sensation streak up her body.
Now it was replaced by one rolling the other way. She slid rapidly down the bed, the sheet bunching heavily underneath her.
Violently she and her husband were flung against the wall.
"Oh, my God." He helped her to her feet. He clutched her to stop her sliding to the other side of the cabin.
"What is that?"
"It is an answered prayer. We were going to go for days with fear stalking every time Erik came above deck, and no change of clothes. But if we handle this right, we can dock at some inconspicuous port. Then we can buy new clothes. Once you are breathing fresh air and among people again, it will be good."
Christine gasped fretfully.
"See it as an answered prayer."
Another flash of lighting rent the sky.
"My God..." she gasped.
Erik gazed, transfixed, at the window.
He calmly picked up her corset, put it on her, and began lacing her up. Christine leaned forward, hanging onto the bedposts for dear life.
She let him finish dressing her. Her necklace and bracelet were spilling from his hand.
"Wear these," he said wryly. "Then no-one will doubt you are first class."
Christine knew the horrible truth. If the ship truly was stricken, what would they do? Third class passengers were last in the queue for lifeboats.
Another flash of lightning rent the sky. There was a terrible feeling of descent. Christine gazed at Erik, open-mouthed with sheer horror.
"There is no doubt," said Erik gently. He calmly took her hand. They found their way down the dark tunnel.
The screaming mob of people might not have even noticed the two in evening dress and jewels.
He led her onto the deck. The rain was pouring down. Christine screamed. Erik got her to the front of the queue. He gave her a gentle push forward.
Christine yelped. She was now separated from him. But as she screamed and fought through the crowd, trying to get back to him, she saw why Erik had done it.
"Get away from us!" said a crew member disdainfully to Erik. He was grabbed by the shoulders and flung onto the deck.
"Only first class passengers can go there. Repair to your section of the queue," said another, in a slightly more sympathetic voice.
The ship was on fire.
Christine watched the beautiful inferno. Her screams were echoed by the other passengers.
She passed out.
When Christine came to, a man was roughly lowering her into a lifeboat. There was little sympathy. Everyone was thinking only of themselves and their loved ones. She lurched up desperately, trying to see where Erik was.
Her hopeless wriggling didn't do any good. She jostled other women, frantically trying to get a view of the deck.
A lady turned her tearful face towards Christine.
"Left a husband behind?"
She and Christine clung to each other in mutual despair. Christine did not dare to think. Her mind shut down.
They got about twenty yards out from the ship. Their rowboat was bobbing around like a little cockleshell. And then, against the scary orange light, she saw him.
A dark figure leapt from the ship. The deck rapidly split and combusted. Black figures sped frantically back and forth.
She could hear various horrid noises. The moaning of the women, the crackle of the fire, and the crazy rumble of thunder. People still trapped on the ship darted around like ants.
But the one who simply spread his arms and leapt, showing no terror and absolute faith in providence, was her husband.
This was madness. Christine felt like the various parts of her were torn and split all over the place.
That place where Erik had fallen... she had had it within her sights! And then a mighty wave had roiled underneath them. It had flung Christine the other way and turned the boat around.
When she had righted herself there was no sign of him. She looked crazily for his head. There was no sign of him. No sign of him swimming above water. He had probably long gone under.
"Where is he?" Her head thrummed with nausea. Spittle trickled from the corners of her mouth, dripping on her bodice. "For God's sake, where is he?"
She fought and clawed people, trying desperately again to locate him. But he was gone.
Two women held her down. Christine wriggled like a fish, her only thought to get to him.
The bruising night wind, and the slash of the cruel waves, told a most horrid story. Christine gasped.
This was pain she was not prepared to feel. Her mind could not digest this terrifying knowledge.
The Yseult had gone down just due west of the Îles de la Manche. They were now making for Saint-Milo. But from what people were saying, there would not be any landing at a pier.
It would be a much humbler landing than that.
The afternoon marched into evening. Christine wondered what the next chapter would be in this horrific episode.
The sky turned so dark. The coast they made for was quite bare. Christine could just see the golden strip of sand.
The exhausted, grieving party made some dolorous noises that sounded like relief.
The women were helped ashore. Christine noticed two men on the beach. They came forward. They were talking in low voices to the pilot.
"Ten," said the pilot solemnly.
"About five will fit comfortably on my property," said the older man, in an equally serious voice. "I will hitch cart to horse and take the rest of you elsewhere."
But Christine hardly heard him.
There was a figure lying in the sand.
With no streetlamps, and no lights from a welcoming town, it was hard to make anything out. But she could see this dark figure. She tore from the group. He could not stand. He was very, very frail. He looked like he had swum for miles, maybe clinging to wreckage part of the way. And then hauled himself ashore.
His face was utterly exhausted. He looked scarcely alive. Her face tender, she sat down on the sand. She pulled the sick man into her arms.
She covered him in the cashmere coat and furs Raoul had bought her.
Within no time she had removed Erik's wet shirt. Terrified, she rubbed his cold, cold body. Her darling had always had such poor circulation. Would he die? She pulled the cashmere wool tighter around his body. She tenderly rubbed him with her furs.
"Erik. My God Erik, talk to me."
