Nothing But Love

A/N: At the end of Ch. 13, Erik asks Christine if she is feeling all right-- she hasn't seemed herself...

Chapter Fourteen

Christine said nothing, staring at everything in sight except Erik, until he caught her chin with his fingertips and forced her to look at him.

"Christine?"

Without warning, her eyes flooded with tears that immediately flowed down her cheeks. With a sob, she buried her face against the curve of his neck and soaked the collar of his shirt. Moving his arms so that he held her more securely, he stood slowly and walked the few feet to the sofa.

He sat and turned so that his long legs stretched out on the sofa, with Christine lying atop him. Her sobbing continued and he rubbed up and down her back slowly, murmuring, "Shh, mon coeur, it's all right! Whatever the problem is, we will work through it together."

That much is certain, the irritating little voice in her head chimed in.

Gradually she quieted, taking a couple of deep, shuddery breaths. "I'm sorry," she whispered, raising her head to look at him. "Everything just . . . seemed to crash down on me at once."

"Hmmm." Keeping his own counsel, he pressed her head back down on his shoulder and added, "But is that all that is troubling you, love?"

Pushing against his chest she sat up and moved a short distance away. "Yes, of course," she said brightly, again refusing to look directly at him. "What else could possibly be worrying me?"

What else, indeed, he wondered.

That night and each succeeding night Christine fell asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. Although Erik was also tired, one night a week or so later he could not find a comfortable position, and finally he gave up, slipping from the bed without disturbing her.

Picking up some staff paper and his new fountain pen from his desk, he went to the low table in front of the fireplace and sat down on the floor. A new melody had been nagging at the back of his mind all day long. Perhaps finally I will be able to get some of it written down. To the accompaniment of the logs snapping in the fireplace he wrote furiously, racing to get down all the notes of the melancholy tune playing in his head.

He heard Christine murmur in her sleep and rose to check on her. Still sound asleep, she had thrown all the bedcovers aside, and he carefully pulled them back into place. "I believe I know a portion of what is bothering you, love," he whispered, his hand lingering low on her abdomen.

He returned to his work for a few minutes then realized he had hit a snag. Drumming his fingers on the table, he considered several options but discarded them all. Leaning back against the sofa, he pulled a crocheted throw across his upper body. Perhaps if I close my eyes and sit here a moment . . .

"Nooooo!"

Erik woke with a jolt, uncertain of how long he'd been asleep, the agonizing wail raising the hair on the back of his neck. He sat up and saw Christine thrashing around in their big bed.

He tossed aside the throw and moved quickly to her, the thin cotton sleeping pants he wore riding low on his hips. Carefully he eased down on the edge of the bed and caught one of her hands in his, holding it tightly. "Christine," he spoke to her quietly. "Wake up, mon coeur, it's just a bad dream."

Turning her hand so that the palm pressed against his bare chest, he reached down and cupped her cheek with his other hand. "Christine," he said, louder this time, "wake up."

Her eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first, huge and swimming with tears. Her fingertips dug into his chest. "Erik?" she whispered. "What happened?" She tried to sit up. He slid an arm around her and pulled her to him.

"Another nightmare, I'm afraid," he said quietly. Rocking gently, he held her as she sniffled and told him about the latest in a long line of disturbing dreams. Each was a variation of the same theme—finding Stephen, but always too late.

Pulling back she wiped her eyes and cheeks with the backs of her hands. "Oh, Erik, it's been so many weeks and nothing! In less than a month it will be Christmas and . . ." Her voice broke and he pulled her back into his embrace.

"We must continue to believe that he will come home soon," said Erik, steadfastly ignoring the ache in his own heart. "Jack has only been gone a week this time; I have a feeling he is going in the correct direction now."

"I—I keep thinking about Thèrése. Something about her just . . . nags at me." Christine's voice was pensive and Erik glanced at her. "Something . . . woman to woman, I suppose."

He cupped her chin and dropped a light kiss on her lips. "We'll drive to the orphanage today, if the weather cooperates, and speak to her again, ma doux." He started to move off the bed but Christine caught his hand in a fierce grip.

"Please, Angel?"

Tracing her cheek with his fingertips, he leaned down and followed the same path with tiny kisses. "Please, what, love?" he asked, fairly certain he knew what she was going to say.

Christine took his face in both hands and stared deeply into his beautiful blue eyes. "Please—make me forget all of this—even for just a few hours?" Falling backward on the bed she pulled him down on top of her, felt her heart begin to pound in anticipation.

His weight pressing down on her had always been the most exquisite sensation. But ever since she had lost a baby when Nicky was not quite three years old, Erik had been extremely protective of her, often treating her like porcelain. This will not be one of those times, she thought fiercely.

"Christine," he murmured in between the kisses she pressed to his mouth, his neck, his chest. Finally wrenching away from her, he levered himself to one side and caught both of her hands in one of his. "I insist that you answer a question for me, love, before . . ."

Immediately she stiffened and tried to pull away. "If you don't want to . . . simply tell me," she muttered.

He kept her hands imprisoned and grasped her chin with his free hand. "Just answer my question, mon ange. We are expecting another child, are we not?"

When Victor and the boys returned that evening, Jolie still had not awakened, and immediately her papa sent Richard to town to fetch the doctor.

A young man recently graduated from the Sorbonne, Doctor Felix Bolduc firmly insisted that everyone but Sara Jane leave the room while he examined his patient. Gently he probed the lump on the girl's head as he asked, "How great a distance did she fall? What did she hit when she fell?"

"To tell you the truth, Doc, I don't know. The boy Stephen carried her to the house. You need to ask him these things. But I can tell you that her breathing has been regular and her heartbeat steady."

"Have the boy come in here, then," said the doctor as he opened Jolie's eyes one at a time and tried to check the pupils. "Wait—hold the lamp closer; yes, just there. Now move it away." Apparently satisfied with the results, he himself went to the door and called to Stephen.

Hands stuffed in his trouser pockets, the boy entered and stood at the foot of the bed, clearing his throat. "How is she, Monsieur le Docteur?"

"I cannot say just yet. I need information that Mlle. Sara Jane tells me only you have." Dr. Bolduc fired questions about the distance of Jolie's fall, what she struck when she fell and whether or not she had made any sound since her fall. Grunting as Stephen answered, the doctor uncovered Jolie's feet and picked one up, running his thumbnail up the sole. She flexed her foot away from the touch but did not wake.

"Hmph." His mouth a thin line, he tucked her foot back under the blanket. Going to the door he motioned for Victor and the boys to enter. "Except for the lump on her head, I can find nothing wrong," he told them. "I am afraid there is nothing to do except wait for her to awaken."

Victor reached out and shook his daughter's shoulder firmly. "Jolie Annette," he said in a stern voice, "wake up this instant!"

A pin could have been heard striking the floor, but there was no response from her. Blowing out a deep breath, Victor turned to the doctor. "Is there anything we can do besides wait?"

Shrugging, Bolduc replied, "Talk to her as much as possible, all of you. Perhaps . . . try to stimulate her senses—hot and cold, smell, touch . . ." He paused a moment then continued, "I believe that she will be fine, but only in God's good time."

Victor offered his hand and the doctor shook it firmly. As he followed Richard down the stairs, Bolduc called back over his shoulder, "Notify me as soon as there is any change."

By unspoken agreement, the majority of the attempts to wake Jolie fell to Sara Jane and Stephen. Victor and the boys each sat with her a few minutes after the doctor left and talked to her briefly. When Sara Jane saw how uncomfortable they were, she shooed them outside.

She and Stephen tried things with a strong odor first, among them ammonia and a rotten potato. These produced no results, but Sara Jane adamantly refused to consider Stephen's suggestion of bringing in a small amount of manure from the barn.

Frowning, he stared out the window. "May I bring Martha and her kittens inside, then?"

Pursing her lips, she considered the idea for a moment before snapping her fingers. "That just might do the trick," she said with a grin. "Think Martha will let you near her?"

"I will find a way to persuade her," retorted Stephen as he left the room. Within minutes he returned, carrying a kitten in each hand, Martha and the others not far behind him. Every few seconds an indignant 'mrow' came from Martha's throat, each one louder than the one preceding it.

When he reached Jolie's room, he placed the kittens on the blanket, chuckling as they chased each other up and down the length of the bed. The remaining kittens clambered up a corner of the blanket that hung over the edge of the bed and ran up Jolie's leg, pouncing on each other as they went.

Martha leaped gracefully onto the bed, automatically curling up near the girl's shoulder. Almost immediately her purr rumbled through the room, making Sara Jane and Stephen smile. From time to time she reached out and gave Jolie's cheek a lick with her sandpapery tongue.

"Well, nothin' to do now but wait and see what happens," murmured Sara Jane. "You stay here with her; I've got to go tend to supper."

The boy inhaled appreciatively. "It smells like . . . what did you call that dish? Chicken and du— Chicken and dom— Well, whatever it was, it was wonderful!"

"Just you keep that cat outa my kitchen til the meal is ready—I don't feel like fightin' her for the chicken, you hear?"

Gently he eased down on the side of the bed and picked up one of the kittens, who immediately began to claw his way up the boy's arm. "Ouch, that hurts, you little diable." Carefully he disengaged all the claws and set the kitten back on the blanket, whereupon it curled up on Jolie's chest and went to sleep.

Soon all the others were dozing as well and he sat down in the chair, slumping backward. Before he realized it, his eyes had drifted closed and he slept also.

It seemed only seconds later when Martha jumped into his lap and swatted his nose with her paw. "Why did you do that?" he mumbled, wiping the sleep from his eyes as the cat jumped to the floor.

A moan and movement from the bed had him surging to his feet. "Jolie! Wake up!"

"Ste—Stephen?" Her voice was thin and reedy, but at that moment it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. "What—what happened?"

"Don't you remember?" He stuck his head out the bedroom door and yelled for Sara Jane. As she pounded up the stairs, he said, "You fell through the rotten boards in the loft and hit your head. You've been unconscious for almost two days."

The housekeeper burst into the room and gathered Jolie up in her arms. "Oh, honey, oh, baby girl, we were so worried about you! How do you feel?"

"My head hurts!" she replied, wincing at the pain. "And—I feel a little dizzy, too."

None of them realized someone had followed Sara Jane up the stairs until a strange voice said sarcastically, "Well now, isn't this the cozy little picture?"

Instinctively Stephen moved in between the new arrival and the womenfolk, bristling at the man's tone. "Who are you, monsieur, and what business do you have here?"

The man, who barely came to Stephen's shoulder, sneered up at him. "You need to learn your place, boy. As to who I am, why, I'm Louis Chalfont—Victor's brother. And just who the hell are you?"

A/N: The 'role' of Martha, and any other cat that I might include in my stories, is inspired by 21 years' worth of wonderful memories of my Tabby-- July 28, 1984 - August 5, 2005.