In all of her wildest dreams, and there were some that went past even the definition of wild into full-blown fantasy, Christine never imagined that her wedding would rate a paragraph on the front page of the newspaper, but that is what she finds the next morning.
We are pleased to announce that yesterday the nuptials took place between our own Marshal Erik Lamonte, and one Christine Daaé, a lady of unknown provenance who arrived in town on the stage from Cheyenne a mere seventeen hours before. It is rumoured that the happy couple met in Cheyenne last spring, though the lady is known to have recently resided in New Orleans. The short ceremony was officiated by Judge Reginald Brown. In attendance were Deputies Aman Hariri, RQ Trevelyan, Raoul De Chagny, and Maxwell Halloran accompanied by a Miss Bethany Harris, and former marshal Philippe De Chagny, who readers will remember resigned his position as a result of wounds sustained at the hands of the late Bob May last year. We wish the Lamontes a long and happy union.
She can't decide whether she is amused or surprised that a story has already gone around about how she and Erik allegedly met in Cheyenne, though she is certainly bemused that they know she came from New Orleans. They must have interviewed the Western Union man.
It's a little exciting to see her name in the paper, even if only reporting her wedding.
Erik gives her a very slight smile over his coffee before he leaves for the day, and Aman buys her a second copy of the paper. She clips out the paragraph to send to Sorelli in her next letter.
And so begins her first full day of married life.
Married life rapidly begins to seem much the same as unmarried life. In that first week, she sees Erik at breakfast, and occasionally at lunch. He is only at dinner if he is not working that night, but they rarely speak. He gives her a hesitant kiss on the forehead each morning before he leaves, always wearing either his black mask or a grey one, and never approaches her at night.
That first night, mere hours after they were wed, after the taking of a single photograph and a dinner at which little was said, his ring still an unfamiliar weight on her finger, she kept expecting him to come. She waited up for him, could hear him talking quietly with Aman though their voices were muffled and words indistinct. But even after the house fell silent no disturbance came to her door, and eventually she fell asleep.
The day is hers to do as she wishes. She reads the newspaper, learns quickly the details of the election that is still five months away. Erik is the Republican candidate to become Marshal in his own right, after being appointed to the role in hushed circumstances after the attack upon Philippe De Chagny. He is being challenged by two men, the Democratic candidate Walter Woods, and an independent, Johnny Rogerson. Woods has a lot of support, served as a Marshal down in Arizona for a time, and from what she can piece together he is Erik's strongest competition.
She decides she doesn't like him on principle.
She devotes a day to going through her bookshelves, organises them by surname of author, reads the book of poetry that Sorelli sent her off with, and the contents are enough to make her blush. She dusts, and sweeps, beats the curtains for something to do. Four days into her new situation, she spends the afternoon watching out her bedroom window at the darkening storm clouds rolling towards town, the flashes of lightning forking to the grass and rumbles of thunder above, and her heart thuds so hard it almost stops at what she swears is a funnel twisting towards the ground, but she blinks and it is gone when she looks again.
When Erik and Aman arrive home that evening, their clothes and hair soaked, water running in rivulets down their faces, she has a blazing fire in the grate and a soup made. Their clothes steam when she hangs them to dry, and Erik has already replaced his mask with a dry one even as his hair continues to drip.
She asks them about the storm, needing to prove to herself that she did not imagine what she saw, and Erik's expression is grim as he says, "Twisters are common sometimes on the high plains. One tore through the Larson ranch house last spring."
It is on the tip of her tongue to ask about it, but some part of her decides that she might not want to know.
Beth comes for lunch on the fifth day, when she is reading a book of poetry she pulled off a shelf by a man named Tennyson. One of the poems is about a lady named Godiva, who rides naked through the streets of Coventry so her husband will reduce taxes for the poor, and when she tells Beth about it, Beth quietly admits that she's never been able to read much.
"Would you like me to help you?" Christine has the question asked before she has time to think about it, and Beth's face lights up.
"You would do that?"
"Of course!"
And so Christine gains a standing appointment for Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.
And yet, she's out of place. She feels it in her bones. This is not where she belongs, where she fits. This nice house with a distant husband and his best friend. Would it be different if Erik would talk to her? Something more than a good morning and good night? If he would reach for her, if his kisses were more than chaste pecks to her forehead? If he came to her at night? Or is it simply that she is still settling in? Still adjusting to the new path in her life? Surely every new bride needs time to adjust.
Does every new wife feel as out of place as she does?
Erik's friends are nice to her, that's true enough, though she has barely seen each of them a handful of times. Trev asked her what she was reading, so she told him about Tennyson and held back on the poem about Godiva, and he praised her for having good taste. And Max thanked her for being kind to Beth. When she cooked a stew on her sixth night, Aman praised it. And Raoul mentioned it the next evening when he dropped in, and gave her a soft smile.
Raoul can hardly be older than she is. Maybe, in another world, if there are other worlds, he would be the one she married.
The thought stings like a betrayal. Erik brought her out here, gave her this house with her privacy, saw to her every comfort when he laid out her room. How can she think of marrying other men?
She pushes the thought away.
They are a week married when Erik's arm is finally out of the sling. Part of her expects that he might suggest they start sharing a bed, but instead he comes to her and gives her a small bag of money.
For a terrible moment the world falls away beneath her, and all she can think is this is it, he wants me to leave, but instead he takes her hand and his face, the half of it she can see, is kind.
"The Cattleman's Ball is the fifth of July." His voice is as soft as she has ever heard it. "And I would appreciate it very much if you were to accompany me to it. There's enough money there that you can buy a new dress, and a few other things if you wish."
So begins a new daily ritual. He takes her to the house of a widowed woman named Anna Valerius, who once came from Sweden too. Mrs Valerius' eyes light up when she hears the lilt that Christine's accent has retained, and she insists on reducing her rates for her.
"You're the closest thing to family," she says, and leaves Christine speechless, equal parts flattered and touched.
Every morning after breakfast, Erik walks her to Mrs Valerius' house. There is something nice about walking through the street on the arm of her husband, as if she is a prized piece, as if he might be proud of her. He gives her a second kiss to the forehead as they part, and it warms her inside. Each kiss is one she treasures close, mulls over in the darkness of the night when the thoughts are at their worst.
He must care, if he kisses her. Mustn't he?
Sometimes it is Erik who is there waiting for her when she is finished getting fitted, and as they walk home he whispers to her in a low voice of the people they see, their families and their politics. On one such afternoon they see his chief opponent, Walter Woods, and Erik's grip tightens on her arm.
"He's dangerous," he whispers. "I've never been able to make anything stick, but he's a viper. You must never let yourself be caught by him, Christine."
"I have no intention of it," she whispers back, and his lip twitches just slightly.
Sometimes it is Aman who meets her instead, and he smiles and offers her his arm, apologising for Erik's absence. But often it is Trev, and he asks her about books, asks her, mostly, about Tennyson.
"Have you tried 'The Lady of Shalott' yet?"
"I enjoyed it very much." She does not tell him how Lancelot's coal black curls reminded her of Erik's hair, that evening he got soaked, when it dried out of its pristine hold. Or how the Lady's run to the window to see the knight makes her think of how she waits for Erik each evening. "I might try In Memoriam next."
"He wrote it for a friend who'd died." Something catches in Trev's throat, and Christine wonders if she might have accidentally touched a nerve, and his voice is soft when he whispers, "It's his best."
Odd nights, soft piano music drifts to her from the parlour, and she knows it must be Erik playing. The notes are gentle, as if he is intentionally softening them so as not to disturb her, but it does disturb her, every night, draws her to her door in her nightdress and robe for to hear it better. She has never heard music so beautiful before, not even in the theatre.
She will never know what possesses her, on her tenth night. She is contemplating her books, and the melody drifting through the keyhole of her door is soft, and gentle, and she knows it, feels it in her bones, and she rises, drifts to the door, She and Sorelli sang this to each other one night, between giggles and kisses, and her heart aches to be back there, back in Sorelli's arms.
Some unknown part of herself gains a foothold, and before she realises what she is doing her hand turns the doorknob and she is singing, softly, the words that go with the melody.
"From this valley they say you are going…"
The oil lamp is turned down low, and Erik is at the piano, his back to her. He has cast his jacket aside, and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, so she can see the livid red healing scar he gained the day she arrived, and the pale ridged flesh of older ones.
"For they say you are taking the sunshine…"
His fingers are long and elegant on the keys, powerful with a pianist's musculature, and she aches to grasp them, to hold them close, lips tingling for to kiss them. Such beautiful fingers. Why is he a Marshal? He should be on a stage, should be playing concerts, should be far from here and yet here he is, and his only audience is her.
"Come and sit by my side if you love me…"
She could touch him, if she wanted. Could reach out and trace her fingers along the line of his shoulder, caress his neck. But then a voice joins hers, soft and low, his voice, surely, it must be, like silk beneath hers, and she swallows, and sings the last lines, their voices twining.
"Just remember the Red River Valley, and the cowboy who has loved you so true." His fingers still on the keys, final note hanging in the air, as he turns, slowly, to face her.
"Christine," he breathes, golden eyes brimming, and she reaches for him, brushes away the tear that slips down his good cheek, and smiles.
A/N: It's somewhat debatable as to whether or not 'Red River Valley' was known in 1884. It was possibly composed in 1870, though the sheet music was not available in print until 1896. But after considering and discarding a variety of other folk songs of different origins, I decided to stick with it.
Plus it's used in one my favourite scenes in Tombstone (1993) which is set in 1881, so that's good enough for me.
