A/N: So this was one of my least favorite chapters to write, it's sort of a bridge between the last and the next. I struggled to make it work - which, is why it took so long to put up - and hopefully it passes muster. It's a long one, at least. Incidentally its successor was one of my favorite chapters to write, so go figure.
As always thank you for your reviews, I look forward to reading more (hint, hint). ;)
12 May - Departure from Tortola
A 'tropical storm', they called it, the force that morphed the waves into living mountains. Nothing to be concerned over, came their swift assurances, the ship would weather the foul spell with ease - she was designed with rough seas in mind, after all. Granted, it was a tad early in the year for this type of tempest, precursor to a hurricane, according to the more experienced mariners. Yet all in all there was no need for alarm, at least that was the consensus.
As for Christine, she was dubious of these claims.
Some of the sailors and braver passengers even welcomed the storm, glad for the chance to observe what they had only read or heard about. In her decided opinion they were all of them mad, every single one. To her it was a scourge plain and simple, the thing responsible for the horrid nausea plaguing her body. Never had she, the progeny of a shipping magnate, expected to lose her sea-legs. But, alas, here she was cleaving onto the toilet as if it were a lifeline.
They had disembarked—Letitia in tow—at five o'clock that afternoon under a canopy of menacing grey, herald of the bad weather to come. Whispers of an impending squall fell like raindrops about Road Town long before the morning sunshine had died. Hysteria built upon itself until the port was empty, everybody departing in a frenzy. It was owing to pure chance alone that they managed to find passage amidst chaos.
However, as the saying went: where one door closes, another opens.
Said opening swooped in, a Jovis ales in the form of a large ship. One far nicer than the typical tramp steamers that came and went, not only a paradigm of luxury but also a crown jewel in the famed fleet. The Norddeutscher Lloyd ocean liner had suffered a problem with her water tanks shortly after beginning the voyage from New Orleans back to her native Germany. Both Cuba and Florida were closer but with her dwindling water supply and the brewing storm the captain had elected to take a safer route, a route that led them past the Virgin Islands.
Too massive to berth in an island port, the ship was forced to anchor offshore and send forth her boats to gather water and supplies for repairs; it was on one of these runs that Erik approached the crew and procured a suite: two bedrooms, a parlor, dining room, and private bath.
Christine had been thrilled by this, the grandeur found in the modern transatlantic liners was said to be unparalleled. She was barely able to curb her girlish titillation as they were rowed out to the waiting vessel. It did not disappoint. Stately, bigger than anything she had ever seen before, the ship was a floating majesty. At last after weeks of living like a vagabond she could laze in splendor. Already her troubles seemed to fade, gone was the threat to her safety, out of mind were the strange and novel emotions that had been brewing for the past two weeks.
Little did she know it was a curse disguised as a blessing.
Were she an augur of Ancient Rome this would have come as no surprise, an eagle flying left-to-right was a favorable omen, right-to-left was the opposite. The ship had sailed from the west, a menacing portent.
Only in retrospect did she recollect this bit of information from her Latin studies - not that it did her any good, the damage was already wrought. Even in her pathetic state her mind was quick to dismiss this fleeting thought for the tosh it was. Superstitions were as factual as witches or goblins. She was a creature of science, of concrete evidence and proofs; her current predicament was just a random fluke not a forecasted misfortune.
They had boarded before a captive audience, stepping onto the First Class promenade deck as if on parade. Whether this contagious curiosity was merely due to their being new arrivals or because of his mask, she didn't know. Regardless of why they were objects of fascination. Christine latched onto Erik's proffered arm tighter than was merited applying gentle pressure in a show of solidarity-cum-camouflage for her own unease. Her breath caught in her chest, blood pounding in her temples; her nerves crackled anxiously. It was a ghastly sensation, the wall of gazes hemmed them in from every side - why wouldn't they stop staring?
Disconcerted, she looked to him for reassurance. A momentary flash of empathy alighted in his eyes before it gave way to resignation. His expression was that of a wild beast, beaten, caged and put on display; it was heartbreaking. Good God, was this what he was made to endure each time he ventured into public? Now she understood what two nights ago had mystified her. Suddenly his attitude of astringent contempt made sense. She could scarcely conceive of the toll a lifetime of such attention must have taken. Really, it was a miracle he had retained an iota of goodness and compassion where most would have been driven to insanity. The knowledge made her ill. Christine gave his bicep another squeeze and interlaced her fingers with his in commiseration.
The walk below felt as though it stretched on for miles, lengthened by the presence of the crowd. When they reached their cabin she was awash with ebullient joy. Never had she been so glad to be sequestered away from sky and open air. Their accommodations were as grand as she had dreamt, perhaps more so, better than a majority of the homes or hotels she had visited. It almost made up for the manner of their arrival, almost.
For awhile she was able to forget everything. Then, all went kaput.
What began as an inkling of queasiness rapidly devolved into utter misery. The ship's charms soon lost their sway. Despite the surrounding extravagance she was heartily resenting the world at present, illness was no better in a gilded apartment than it was in a hovel and every bone-jarring retch brought Christine closer to swearing off sea travel forever.
Of the six hours that had since elapsed five had been spent gazing into a pool of her own sick. Thus, the literal eleventh-hour found her holed up in the bathroom, curled round the toilet like a familiar lover and convinced her organs would be expelled through her mouth.
Worse still the sickness showed no sign of abating.
And, with all remedies seemingly exhausted, the trip was promising to be an ordeal, a voyage through hell itself. No antiemetic, chemical or herbal, had passed muster. Eventually the ship's physician had been summoned, who—after administering a combination of effervescing powders, iodide of potatassium, and acetanilide dissolved in brandy—had declared the ailment simply had to run its course but not before suggesting to a wide-eyed Erik that she was in the 'family-way' - though spoken in German the gist of the comment was unmistakable. She was too forlorn to be mortified.
Poor Letitia had tried to offer what comfort she could but was starting to lag, beneath the soothing tone was an undercurrent of strain. In the shallow woe of illness she begrudged the seamstress for both treating her like a child and tiring of doing so. As for him, her 'husband', he had vanished promptly after the doctor's diagnosis.
—not that he could rightfully be blamed for that. She, too, had longed for the sanctuary of invisibility and she didn't even speak the language. Christine could only imagine how keen his discomfort had been. Lord, she would be surprised if he could ever bear to look her in the eye again! He would probably spend the night in hiding, she briefly pondered where before envy took hold - would that she had also been able to flee!
Letitia did not remain much longer, quitting the room on a yawned apology. Good riddance! decried that petty part of her. Finally alone with self-pity her sole companion. She was torn between relief and sorrow, that was until she heard the rumble of conversation in the background.
She would know that voice anywhere.
Well, well, well ... if it wasn't her escort, back from whatever dank hole he had absconded to.
From the whispers she inferred it was meant to be a changing of the guard. Christine made the grave error of turning her head at the sound of footsteps. Adrift in the subsequent despair his presence was almost forgotten, then the caress of a cool cloth at her nape.
"Oh, Christine..." he crooned gathering up her rebellious curls and working them into a plait. Erik said nothing else allowing the gesture to serve where words would have been trite. She was grateful for this insight. Slowly, his hand began tracing circles upon her spasming back, warming flesh that had since grown chilled in the seamstress' absence; it was among the few instances that he had willingly sought to touch her. Were she not so despondent it would have set her aflame from head to foot.
"It is hardly my greatest work but I've managed to cobble together a carminative tea of sorts, I did the best I could with the available ingredients; it should alleviate your symptoms."
"T—Tea...?" she croaked, dry lips cracking.
"Yes, something had to be done in the wake of that idiot physician's failure. Where he received his medical degree I couldn't begin to fathom, perhaps he found it stuck to the sole of his shoe." Christine tried to giggle but instead choked, her throat raw.
That's where he had been all this time, brewing her a special tea? Why had she been so hasty to assume he had abandoned her? She was suddenly struck with the image of him towering over a nervous, sweaty cook as he demanded various herbs and spices. A pang of guilt speared her through the ribs.
"Can you manage by yourself?" The inquiry was issued sans its usual sarcastic bite. Christine eased back onto her heels in affirmation receiving the mug with shaky hands. It had a herbal quality - not bad in the slightest, an improvement over the previous treatments; she took a second gulp.
This appeared to satisfy for he went on, "Naturally, owing to your sex the imbecile presumed you were either suffering a bout of hysteria or pregnant. God forbid a female patient present with a complaint inconsistent with one of those diagnoses, his entire world would come crashing down about his ears."
Over the next ten minutes Christine drained the mug with gradual surety. The miracle cure worked its magic swiftly. Already her stomach had begun to calm, the nausea ebbing somewhat. For the first time in hours her demise didn't seem imminent.
"You've regained some of your color," Erik muttered quietly as if embarrassed to voice the observation. "Has the tea helped?"
"I think so, yes. I feel a little better."
"Good, I was—we, that is the girl and I, were worried. Sea-sickness should not be underestimated, the prognosis can turn dire if it persists. I learnt the recipe from a Chinaman during my travels to the Orient." There was a flutter in her chest to learn of his concern, despite his grouping it with that of Letitia.
"Did you ever get sea-sick?"
"No, I've always been blessed with a rude constitution. There was an acquaintance of mine, another boy, he inherited the condition from his mother and yet he was still resolved to join the Royal Navy."
Christine sighed and laid her head in the crook of her arm. If he was disgusted by her using the toilet's edge as a pillow he gave no indication. Thank God for that, she thought; she couldn't deal with his condescension, not tonight.
"I've never been sea-sick either," she said with a touch of petulance, "I believed myself immune having been on ships most of my life. On the voyage from England my health was sound, and on the trip to Tortola as well. I can't account for it."
"The weather is the most likely culprit. Your Atlantic crossing was uneventful and our previous journey took us through calm, coastal waters."
"I hope it will blow over soon."
"By my estimation we should be free of it tomorrow. We are travelling eastward and these storms always move to the west."
"How do you know?"
"They follow the trade-wind belt along the equator."
"Did you make a study of tempests in your time at sea?"
"I've encountered quite a few, some worse than others. In the Indian Ocean they are called cyclones rather than hurricanes. Do you recall when I told you of my experience with broken glass?"
"You mentioned it in the cave that night, the night I hurt my hand..."
"It happened during a particularly vicious cyclone, I had gone down to the hold to secure the cargo when one of the crates was dashed against the hull; I lost my footing. I had never realized the sheer volume of blood contained by the body until then." She grimaced at the nonchalant way in which he recounted nearly bleeding to death, at the way he made light of something so gruesome. His eyes narrowed into a thin band of blue in response to her disquiet.
"Obviously I survived the ordeal. The injury was not the worst I've endured, besides, far from it." Christine's features sagged in shock, she was horrified yet concurrently her morbid intrigue piqued. For the umpteeth time she wondered what kind of life he had lived. She was aware he was scarred, remembering in vivid detail the lines that scored his back - could this be what he referenced? Her lips parted in question but Erik cut-in before she could form the words.
"Enough of this ghoulish talk, the subject is not one conducive to your recovery. I have a more appropriate diversion in mind; I'll be back shortly. Will you be all right in my absence?"
She could have said no, could have made him stay but chose not to. There was no point, it wasn't as if he would expound. Besides, she needed the time to sort her own thoughts. Her rebounding health brought side-effects, with the fog of torment lifted there was nothing to mask her conflicting emotions. Now she would have to face them. If she did not there would be no peace to be had.
Ribs and muscles aching in feeble protest Christine reclined against the sink readying herself for the onslaught. She was never fond of introspection, even less so when it involved feelings, to be thrown into such a tumult vexed her. And, all because of a single pompous, insufferable man! Oh, how far she had fallen but fallen she had. It was undeniable, she was past the point of no return and there was no coming back, he was in her very soul. Her fate was sealed; she needed him, craved him like a drug. Last night was a testament to the fact.
Ah, last night...
Libertine nights followed by meditative days had become the pattern, last night was but an addition to an ever-expanding list. At this rate her virtue would be forfeit within the week. Strangely, this prospect did not elicit the horror it should have. Comprehension dawned that she was already and irredeemably lost but she couldn't bring herself to care.
She still did not know how it happened - by all that was logical it shouldn't have. Memories of the room shaking, of potent fear and vulnerability, of an ethereal voice and warm embrace spilled forth but none could claim to be the catalyst that had spurred her to immodesty. There was no explanation for the shameless request, long conceived of in theory, never made a reality.
Until last night.
Christine comforted herself by blaming the terror that clouded rationality; she would not have been so bold had she her wits. Hindsight was always useful in assuaging guilt. Somewhere between finding herself in Erik's arms and the last fading notes of his song she had asked the unthinkable.
It began as an aimless plea tinged with that beseeching note she sometimes employed with papa and Raoul. Never had she thought it would work on Erik ... but, it had.
Would you, could you, come to bed with me? I cannot sleep alone.
He had looked so helpless then, like a new father with a colicky babe; the glint in his storm-cloud eyes was one of surprise and mild fright.
—as well it should have been.
There was naught but impropriety in her appeal. He did not reply, not for several moments. The ensuing silence, awkward and unbearable, had her frantically wondering what he was thinking. Desperation drove her tongue once more.
I won't be able to sleep otherwise. I'm so afraid, I thought I was going to die.
His assent was no more than a sussuration.
Very well.
Her pulse raced to revisit it—just as it had then—the rhythmic pounding felt all the way down in her toes. The drumming had filled the empty quiescence, replacing the minutes-ago tremors, a symphony of anticipation where its predecessor had been one of destruction. When he did at last join her she worried her heart would stop.
They had lain there in hesitance, arms locked at their sides, stiff as two planks of wood, neither moving or speaking; it was Christine whose quivering entreaty broke the impasse.
Hold me, she whimpered, please.
Shyly, haltingly, he obliged. She snuggled closer and heard the catch of breath, his body stiffening and heartbeat skipping as her head came to rest upon his chest. In that instance of green nervousness she had uttered the first thing that came to mind.
Your shirt still smells of wood smoke.
Immediately thereafter she cursed her foolish tongue. A voice in her head countered that she was past such bothers and should instead be worried he thought her a hussy; she ignored it.
The smell can linger even after washing; I can change if it offends you.
No, I find it soothing.
She had nuzzled into him then, fisting a hunk of his shirt; his arm moving to encircle her only after an eternity had seemingly trudged by. The quietude lagged onward. Again she was the first to breech it.
You can sing - that is, you sang to me...
I believed it might provide comfort, you were in a terrible state when I returned; I heard your screams down the hall.
I was certain I would die... the tremors, I thought them part of another eruption. Oh, Erik, I was petrified! Her declaration broke on a dry sob and she snuggled closer still.
Shh, little princess, be still; there's not a volcano for a great many miles. Tortola is susceptible to earthquakes, it lies on a fault.
No eruption? she inquired shakily, Just an earthquake?
Yes. You are safe; sleep now, Christine...
And, she had.
She had slept and slept soundly, the best she had slept in well over a week.
So, surely her indiscretion wasn't all bad. It wasn't as if it had been motivated by lust, any terrified young girl in her position might have done the same. Really, her actions were not imprudent. If she hadn't been insensible with fear she would have never even made the suggestion. The lie placated her conscience and brought a smile to her face.
"Ah, on the mend at last it would seem..."
Christine's eyes flew open upon hearing his voice. Damn his sneaking! Was she forever doomed to be caught out? Half-hysterically she considered fitting him with a bell as one would a cat and tried her best to school her expression into impassivity. He couldn't possibly know the topic of her musings, for all his bizarre abilities and talents Erik was no mind-reader but his diverted smirk said otherwise.
"Yes, my stomach has almost settled." was her prim retort; she picked at a speck of lint on her sleeve.
"Good, though you should have another cup before bed should you wish to avoid a potential relapse. There is a pot in the parlor and some bread as well, I'll not force you to eat but it will help."
"Thank you." He held up his hand.
"It was the least I could do, your well-being is my responsibility." Christine's mouth pursed into a dour line at his phrasing, the flame of giddiness that had arisen within snuffed out. She had believed his regard for her transcended duty by now, or rather, hoped it had. Clearly a mistake on her behalf. Still, she endeavored not to let her disappointment show. After all he had gone out of his way to provide aid and for that she was appreciative - even if it wasn't rooted in passion.
Again she thanked him, the words wooden.
"There is one last thing," Without giving her opportunity to contemplate the cryptic statement, Erik produced a novel from behind his back with a flourish. It was immediately recognizable.
"Mrs Lombaard's book..." she gasped, "But, how—"
"Andries gave it to me the night we departed, he wanted you to have it but knew you'd refuse." The grin broke out before she could contain it, deference tickling her insides. Bless the good captain and his endless kindness! She resolved to write him once she was in a fit state.
"Oh, he shouldn't have..." Erik shrugged.
"He was of a mind that books should be read not left to gather dust, it's an opinion I'm afraid I share. Shall I continue where you left off?"
"Here?! In the bathroom? No, the parlor is far more appropriate." She went to stand but moved too fast, the entire room lurched; she fumbled for a steady surface and found his arm. Before she was afforded a chance to process this development a paroxysm ripped through her gut and she doubled over the toilet gagging. It turned out to be a false alarm. Blessedly she was spared the further indignity of an 'I told you so'.
"Maybe the bathroom is the best place presently..." Christine mumbled attempting to catch her whirling head. She fell back onto her bottom with an undignified thump. "I understand if you'd like to go."
He fixed her with a steadfast stare. "I have no intention of leaving."
Argument at a close he sank down beside her, his legs too long for the awkward space and folded at odd angles. "Now, where were we? Ah, yes..."
Yes! he knew how she would love. He had not loved her without gaining that instinctive knowledge of what capabilities were in her. Her soul would walk in glorious sunlight if any man was worthy, by his power of loving, to win back her love.
And so went the evening, a spectacle peculiar as it was comical, the pair of them crowded in a bathroom while he read to her. The velvet melody of his voice cosseted her as she sipped her tea and nibbled some bread. He continued until her sleep-heavy head fell against his shoulder. Gently, he gathered her into his arms and carried her to their shared bedroom.
"Will you come to bed with me?" The query left her lips even before he set her down on one of the two beds. He obliged wordlessly, shifting to make room for her - these beds were quite a bit smaller than the one at the inn. Christine nestled at his side like a puppy and sucked in a lungful of his heady scent. She was glad she'd had the foresight to don her nightgown but worried about him, save his shoes, jacket, and waistcoat he was fully clothed.
"Would you prefer to change into your bed clothes?"
"I'm fine."
"Erik?"
"Yes?"
"How can you do it? How do you cope with the stares?" Christine blurted, not meaning to speak aloud. A moment passed before his carefully modulated reply.
"There are certain times when I enjoy them, though they are few and far between—instances where I derive perverse satisfaction from their discomfort, from the shattering of their normality—and others where I wish to pluck out the eyes that gawk and cut the tongues from their laughing mouths. Sometimes I am filled with such a rage that my fingers twitch longing to wrap about their throats and the thirst for annihilation flows through my veins." Erik paused on a pensive hum, "You grow accustomed to it."
"I could never..."
Rather than see she felt the weight of his gaze then, boring into the top of her head. "Yes, you could. You are stronger than you give yourself credit for, little princess."
"T-Thank you,"
"Why are you thanking me?"
"Well, for—" she began, frowning, unsure herself. Why was she thanking him?
"I only spoke the truth." His words soaked through to her heart, filling her chest with a warm sensation; she beamed like an idiot - darkness thankfully the lone witness.
"After all, young Daaé, you were brave enough to brain and truss me when first we met." Her grin deepened, a chuckle on its heels. "Now get some rest, you've had a trying evening."
His hypnotic command brooked compliance and she willingly relaxed, fatigue crept into her every limb. Sleep took Christine quickly - small wonder given the day she'd had. Erik lay awake for some time afterwards.
He felt bereft of the companionship for the barest instant but understood it was for the best. The silence and stillness afforded him a reprieve, a chance to pretend he was anywhere else. He almost laughed to acknowledge that it had come to this. Pathetic, sounded a voice in his brain. Pathetic, indeed, but necessary.
For if he gave himself over to his desires, then God help him...
Funny that she should seek the shelter of his arms when in reality she'd be safer slumbering in a lion's den. She was ignorant of the fact and the danger she innocently courted; she hadn't any idea of the hunger devouring all reason and sanity. Nor would she ever. He attempted to cultivate distance—a farcical notion with her practically draped atop him—from the things he wished to do to her, from the places he longed to kiss and touch - now within tantalizing reach. Her treasures were readily accessible, ripe for the taking. Were his hand to move a foot downward it would be resting upon her hip, from there it was a scant journey to her...
Lascivious visions scrolled by like a film reel, explicit in their detail. Suddenly he was atop her, skin-kissing-skin, his mouth at her earlobe, his fingers interlocked with the hands he pinned above her head... Erik could nearly taste the faint tang of perspiration and scented oil adorning her skin; could feel the pebble of her dainty nipple between his tongue and teeth; could hear the lyrical lilt of her pleasure—her legs bent, toes curled, nightgown rucked up—from his place between the ivory pillars of her thighs.
Ah, Christ—
He was going mad with yearning. Hapless, he groped for thoughts, images, removed from her.
Eventually he succeeded in wresting control from his rampant, unchecked imagination and forced himself into a place of reflection. Revisiting his past did the trick. Memories were the most effective lust retardant there was. He thought back to that afternoon.
They almost hadn't made it off the island. Had the crippled steamer not arrived precisely when it did, they wouldn't have. Desperate, he put aside discomfort and propositioned one of the ship's officers; the flustered sailor had grudgingly accepted - though, his fluency in German and willingness to pay double likely helped. The whole affair smacked of that first, long-ago time he had gone to sea. He fell asleep on the recollection.
He was putting a song in his head to paper when there was a sharp rap on the door.
It was the housekeeper, Mrs Dobson.
Over the years he had meticulously catalogued every servant's knock, pairing each with a purpose: the maids to clean or stoke the fires; the nanny to dress him; the tutor to begin his lessons; his mother to read or play. Predictability was one of humanity's most common threads and one that Erik exploited to his benefit - he quickly learnt whether to answer or slip out his window before the second knock.
The housekeeper's presence meant only one thing, and it was his least favorite. He fleetingly considered escape but knew it would be moot, running in this case would be futile.
"Come," he growled through clenched teeth, at once lamenting his rudeness, Erik had no quarrel with the woman but rather who sent her.
"Master Erik, his Lordship would like a word with you; he wanted me to relay that it is an urgent matter and he is not to be kept waiting."
But, of course...
—the preeminent Lord Chiltern could never be expected to wait, especially for the son he despised, the disgrace to face and name.
Erik pushed his chair away from the desk, the indignant shriek of wood-dragging-against-wood music to his ears, and stood to face Mrs Dobson; her dark, crinkled eyes radiated sympathy. She had always been fond of him. Where the other servants were afraid, avoiding him and whispering behind his back, the housekeeper treated him as a grandmother might.
"I'm sure it's not as bad as all that, dear boy." He loosed a dry, throaty chuckle.
"You may lie to a man bound for the gallows but in his heart he knows he's going to be hanged."
Mrs Dobson tsked under her breath. "Such doom and gloom from one so young! Then, the young master has always had a way with words, perhaps he should become a novelist."
"Yes, and perhaps my father should employ a dog whistle the next time he seeks me, it would spare you the walk."
"His Lordship means well, I'm sure."
"No, he doesn't - not where I am concerned, never where I am concerned." The words were not those of the cocky young master, but belonged to the vulnerable boy within, the boy who would never earn a father's love. Mrs Dobson said nothing, the look she gave him was all the confirmation required - had he required any at all.
The journey downstairs was a quick one, he was eager to have the unpleasant task done with so he could finish composing in peace; Erik did not knock, entering the study without pause.
"You summoned me, father?" he asked, placing emphasis on the title he had come to detest.
Irises reminiscent of an iced-over pond coldly surveyed him, their disapproval unconcealed. Erik was not bothered by this blatant hostility - he had grown used to that in childhood - but rather was unnerved to see such venom directed from eyes identical to his own.
Almost like gazing into the looking glass.
Lord Chiltern was an insufferably vain man, he abhorred discrepancies of any kind, regarding ugliness or infirmity among the deadly sins. Here was the man who had ordered the servants to withhold food from his pregnant wife so she did not become, 'sloppy and round'. To him appearance was the sum total of one's worth.
There was no greater eulogy to his pride than a son born in his image and no greater indignity than disfigurement. Erik was execrated the moment his father had laid eyes on him; his mother made a valiant effort to hide it, conjuring excuses on her husband's behalf.
Mephistopheles was more deserving of his saintly mother than Edward Grey had ever been.
Oh, darling, he does love you in his way, he's just unused to showing affection.
Indeed, as a child he had wondered whether the Earl's opinion would have been altered had he resembled his mother. However, with time he had ceased to care and grew to loathe the man who sired him with equal fervor.
...truly his father's son.
"I did, yes, although it appears I did not summon the respect I'm owed as Lord and Master of this estate."
"If slavish loyalty is what you expect maybe you would be better suited with a spaniel."
"A dog would certainly prove more easily dealt with - an abnormal pup can be drowned without a second thought, a child, however..." Lord Chiltern's mouth settled into a wicked leer. Erik just shrugged; these barbs no longer fazed, he had been long-since accustomed to hearing nothing but from the lips of the man whom should have been his beau ideal.
"What is it you require of me?"
"As I hope you are by now aware there is nothing more paramount to a man of position than his legacy. Titles and the estates that accompany them are passed from father to son therefore security of the line is imperative; the Grey family, my family, stretches back to the first Tudor King - which was whom?"
"Henry VII."
"When did he reign?"
"He ruled from fourteen hundred eighty-five to fifteen hundred and nine and succeeded Richard III of the House of York, the last of the Plantagenet dynasty."
"How did a Welshman, foreign as the first Plantagenet kings and with no obvious royal connection become King of England?"
"His claim was cognatic, it came through his mother; Lady Margaret Beaufort was the great-granddaughter of the Plantagenet King Edward III through his fourth son, John of Gaunt, first Duke of Lancaster and his mistress-turned-wife, Katherine Swynford. However, Henry VII did declare himself king by right of conquest and was the last king to win his throne in battle."
"Correct, boy. Henry VII descended from a bastard's line, legitimized by King Richard II and Papal Decree. The imbecile, Richard, was too myopic to see the foolishness in endowing his grasping relations. Luckily his cousin, the future King Henry IV, John of Gaunt's legitimate son, did and added a clause preventing a Beaufort from inheriting the throne." He scoffed. "Thank God the peerage is spared such nonsense or we would have chamber maids of the Earl's third son's cousin's brother queuing up to inherit our fortune, every title could be held in abeyance upon the word of a whore!"
"Pardon, sir," Erik interjected, his neck prickling with anger, "but if not for Henry Tudor's victory at the Battle of Bosworth and a bastard becoming king the Greys would not have been granted a peerage."
"Our family's prestige would have lent itself to a title regardless of dynasty. Do you know how long there has been an Earl of Chiltern?"
"Three hundred and nighty-eight years this October."
For a moment the steely smugness etched onto the man's face might have been mistaken for impression, but he knew better. Hatred ran deeper than awe.
"You are correct. Admittedly, intellect is not amongst your numerous ... deficiencies. Do you know what is needed to perpetuate an ancient bloodline and keep it extant in the centuries to come?"
"English peerage practices agnatic succession; the title can pass only to heirs-male by law, thus the birth of sons is required as women are excluded from inheritance. If there is no male issue nor agnates of which to speak the title and estate revert to the Crown, but not in Scotland..."
"What was that, boy?"
"In Scots law a female can inherit, had uncle not been born mother would have been a Countess in her own right. Since he will never marry I am his vested remainder, heir to Holborn Castle and the Earldom of Thurso through his sister, a woman."
"Yes," his father sneered, "and bastards are legitimized ex post facto if their parents later marry by the same 'laws'. And, do not speak to me of your filthy degenerate uncle! Were he in any civilized part of the world instead of that wild, barbarous country he would have hanged for his proclivities long ago. Now, tell me, what must an Englishman do to ensure the continuation of his line?"
"He must produce legitimate male heirs." Erik recited dully.
"Precisely! A man must have multiple capable, robust male heirs of sound body and mind to maintain his dynasty. I have two sons—a secure lineage by all appearances—however, your brother is a sickly boy and you..."
"... am an aberration?" he finished with helpful derision, "Yes, father, I see your dilemma. What grief must plague you having to choose between frailty and deformation!"
"Quite so... Although, I daresay given your mother's family it should come as no surprise that the pups took after the bitch." Erik's hands curled into fists at his sides, his nails leaving crescent-shaped wounds in the flesh; his eyes burnt with sheer hatred. "Which, is why I've decided to remarry in the hopes that I may yet be blessed with worthy heirs."
Apathy shattered with the remark, creating an outflow for the ensuing rush of rage. He was well-aware the Earl was cruel and self-serving but this went beyond.
"HOW DARE YOU?! Mother, your late wife of fourteen years, mother, the woman who gave you two sons and died birthing a third, is barely cold in the ground! You weren't even possessed of the decency to be by her side when she needed you most! No, you were at the card table or in the arms of your perfumed French whore while the life drained from her body. She would have done anything for you, father, Lord knows why, and THIS is how you honor her memory?! It is not I who disgraces the name of Grey!"
Erik was leaning over his father's desk, knuckles white and trembling with the burden of his full weight, tears poured down his cheeks. He wanted nothing more than to lash out and strike the haughty, humorless face that his own (nearly) perfectly mirrored.
"YOU WILL HOLD YOUR IMPUDENT TONGUE, BOY! I will not be addressed in such a manner!" His father rose to stand toe-to-toe with him, the desk acting barrier between them.
"And, if I do not?" The Earl laughed then, a sound almost as black as his soul.
"Your mother is no longer here to protect you, Erik. You've no champion, thus it would be in your best interest to do as you are instructed and show deference."
"You will have neither that nor my approval of your designs to remarry."
"I do not require the approval of a worthless offshoot. Did you honestly believe I'd allow a meeting? My God, you would cause any woman to catch the vapors and flee once she regained her sense. No, I've found you a place at a school in Cornwall - not an easy feat given your record. However, these indiscretions can be easily enough overlooked by the wealth and prestige afforded by an ancient name. I've already made the necessary arrangements for you to spend any holidays with your uncle in Scotland; you depart within the month."
"No."
"What did you say?"
"No, father, as in I refuse." Blue-grey eyes narrowed, "Once I'd have given anything to escape you but that was the whim of an angry child and would only serve to please you. I choose to stay at Ley Hall, your misery will prove the sweeter reward; nothing would make me happier than to haunt both you and your pretty new pet for an eternity. And, on the day you draw your last breath I will remind you that I am your son, your eldest son and heir; I will stand by your death-bed alongside the Devil and remind you that I will continue the Grey family lineage and it shall be me, Erik Grey, who erases all memory of the sixteenth Earl of Chiltern."
"You know," his father hissed darkly, "I am often torn between wishing your mother had been killed when she fell from the horse and lamenting that she did not strike the tree harder. If had been the former, I'd have been spared the shame of two ill-bred sons and had it been the latter, mayhap you would have died; I wanted you to die - did you know that? During the days and months after your birth I prayed for God to take you. I couldn't dispense with you as my legacy so I hoped you would catch pox or whooping cough - so many afflictions are fatal to infants. I prayed but my pleas were not answered. You grew, strong and healthy but for the monstrosity that is your face, and I was forced to acknowledge you as my heir for I had no proof you were not mine. I dreamt of that too, of writing you off as a bastard with no due, of banishing both you and your mother to her wretched family in Scotland. Yet now that she is deceased, now that you are not a child anymore, there are new opportunities available to me. You threaten to blot my contributions, I can promise to obliterate your very existence. I have ever considered myself a shrewd and fair man of business so I offer you two choices: an education and allowance or a place in a gypsy carnival. Those foul miscreants and thieves are constantly searching for whatever attraction might fill their coffers and fuel their debauched lifestyle and I daresay you would draw quite the crowd, Erik; your potential value will not elude even their feeble grasp. How much would they pay in gold or horses for the Devil's child, the living corpse, I wonder. Come now, boy, you have a keen mind for sums, what do you think?"
In the end he had boarded the train to Cornwall. What other option did he have? But, it was staring out the window at the scenery of rollicking hills, cliffs and sea that he decided. It was time he made his own way, forged his own destiny. Lord Edward Grey would not be the arbitrator of his fate. He would take to the water, leave Ley Hall behind for good, become a ghost.
One day he would have his ultimate revenge; he would return for what was his by law.
One day the errant prince would come home and rule his rightful kingdom if only to spite the wicked king.
He made his way to the docks that evening, navigating the bustle of nighttime fishing boats until he found a merchant vessel.
"I'm looking for passage,"
"We're bound for the Indian Colony and Orient, best try yer luck elsewhere, boy." murmured the shabby mariner, his eyes never leaving the manifest he held; he turned and stalked off. Erik bounded after him.
"I don't mind! In fact, the farther from England, the better." The seaman had stopped then, his gaze lingered on the mask.
"You wanted by the law, boy? Is that what yer running from? Don' want none of that on my ship."
"I'm not a criminal. My face ... it was marred at birth." His voice dropped, partially in humiliation, partially in weariness, "I— I can't stand the stares. Please, sir, there's nothing left for me here. This place, it reminds me of my mother. I want to travel, want to forget. I can work as a deckhand or in any capacity you need." He blinked back the tears and squared his shoulders.
"Yer mum... is she dead?"
Erik nodded, an expansive lump had overtaken his throat.
"How old are you, boy?"
"Thirteen."
"Tall for yer age... You got a name?"
"Erik."
"Erik...?"
"Just Erik, sir."
"Righ' then... you ever sailed before, Erik?"
"No, sir, but I'm a quick study. I wouldn't need wages; I wouldn't even need a bunk!"
"You'll have both. Ev'ry man aboard my ship does honest work for honest pay, you'll be no exception. We'll not be returning to England for some time. You think long and hard on that, boy - it's not a choice made lightly. I'll be casting off at firs' light if you still want to join my crew, young Erik."
Come dawn he was watching the Cornish coast fade into the orange light. He turned away without a backward glance fixating on the endless blue ahead, on the next chapter of his life. The sea was his future now, his past no more than a collection of dust and ghosts.
Well, I got them in bed together. ;)
A/N: Again, not my favorite chapter to write - although, I did enjoy penning the ending bit. Fingers crossed it's not too terrible or boring. Regardless, let me know what you thought please! Now onto the tedious footnotes...
*I checked records of the 1902 Atlantic Hurricane season and it was a mild one, there were no storms that formed in May of that year; the season technically begins June 1st but storms can occur earlier. No, the storm won't pose any threat to our characters (here's looking at you Child of Dreams) it was just intended as a minor plot device.
*Jovis ales refers to an eagle, a common symbol in Ancient Rome. Augurs were Roman priests who studied and interpreted signs based on the flight patterns of birds. To oversimplify, if a bird flew from a certain direction it was considered either a positive or negative omen depending. I believe I made the correct translation regarding the eagle's direction of flight (it varies based on the different bird species) but if I haven't please correct me, my Latin is a bit rusty.
*Norddeutscher Lloyd or NDL was a German shipping company specializing in luxury transatlantic travel. It was a rival to the more well-known Cunard and White Star Lines. I chose NDL because they had routes to Galveston and New Orleans during the early 20th century - I had to select a route that would place the ship within proximity to the Virgin Islands. I did take a bit of artistic license with this as most of these were basic mail routes and I glammed it up a bit; I also decided on New Orleans over Galveston because the former was a wealthier and more well-known city at the time. I based the ship in question off S.S. Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse with some bits from the yet-to-be-built S.S. Lusitania (SMU has a great flickr archive of ship interior photos if you're interested).
*The novel in question is none other thanthat copy of North and South Christine had been reading. I thought that particular excerpt appropriate.