Chapter 28. April 1887. Second week after the wedding (concluded).

At home, he threw himself into starting work on some new automatons. Christine had demanded a few days ago that he cease extorting funds from the Opera House, and he had decided he would turn to selling his creations for an income instead. Money was not an issue just at present, but women, he had already learned, cost a good deal, and he would not have her wishing she had married that snivelling boy, with his wealth and his title, and his perfect face. Erik would provide her with jewels and dresses and dinners out instead, though a gift of a handsome countenance was beyond his skills.

So for that purpose, and the additional and not inconsequential one of providing a distraction from desiring his wife until such time as she was no longer indisposed, he shut himself up in his workroom for two days and nights and worked like a fiend. Maybe if he exhausted himself sufficiently he would be able to lie down virtuously next to Christine and go to sleep without dying of need of her. But this plan did not meet at all with Christine's approval. By the second day he was fatigued enough to forget to lock the workroom door after going to get a glass of water, and she began to flit in and out irritatingly, bringing him food, bringing him wine, asking questions and getting in his way, nagging, sniping, and then eventually pleading with him to pay attention to her. It was the pleading that finally filtered through to his brain, obsessed with his task as it currently was, and at her insistence he reluctantly gave up working to come sit by the fire with her. This only resulted in his falling asleep in his chair, and when she said peevishly, "What is wrong with you?" he jerked awake.

"I am tired, Christine, that is all. Stop whining; you chose to marry an old man."

"I'm not whining! Why do you think it's all right to ignore me and do nothing but work for days? I do not know many young men who could work as long as you have! Why must you do that?"

He was too exhausted to be circumspect with his words.

"To avoid you," he said snidely, and went back into his workroom to sleep on the floor. That remark earned him nearly a full day of furious silence, and between quarrels and feminine troubles, in the end it was a week before he was allowed his rights again. But ultimately his fears about her choosing not to resume their intimacies proved, mercifully, groundless.

O-O-O

July, 1887. Three months after the wedding.

Now, months later, Erik was once again barred from such delights, though this time by his own uncertainties. He wished she were there on his lap right now. But she was not. Instead she was in bed asleep, with her body harbouring his child. He had never thought a woman might do that…

But there was still the looming possibility that it would come out a monster, like its sire, and he shrank from that prospect. If he had burdened her with a demon for a child, she would feel quite differently about him than she did now. Her sweet words of assurance that she would stay with him were soothing, but he could not help but think how dreadful it would be to be deprived of her love at some future time. If anything, the more sympathetic she acted, the more frightened he became of being without her.

Without her... and there was still the hideous fear that she might die. He wanted very much to believe the daroga's assertion that that was not very likely; but the Persian was, as he himself had said, no physician. Erik would have to consult some medical manuals, and perhaps a doctor or two as well. More than anything, he hated being ignorant of the characteristics of a potential danger. Safety was to be found in power, and power was to be found in, firstly, knowledge, and secondly, skill. The latter he did not have in the field of obstetrics, but the former could be acquired with relative ease.

But he was too tired to do any reading now. Tired enough that he could perhaps manage to lie chastely next to Christine? She would be upset with him if he slept on the couch all night. Slowly he rose off of it, and returned to their bedroom, changed into a nightshirt and slid between the sheets with a sigh of relief – and resignation, as he kept an honourable distance between himself and the enticing form of his wife, waist and hip outlined by the bedcovers as she slept on her side with her back turned to him. Just as well that he was this tired…the ability, long held and practised, to exercise restraint over carnal desires had once been nearly second nature. But it seemed to have departed with shocking swiftness, and the years of self-control had fallen away from him as if they had never existed. Keeping his hands off her was often an impossibility, and he had to admit he rarely tried very hard. Best not to curl up with her, tonight; better, sometimes, not to tempt oneself, fatigue or not. At least now he could sleep while in the same bed as her.

That first night they actually spent lying together in a bed, which was of course not their wedding night but some days later because Erik had been such a blockhead on their actual wedding night, had been a sleepless one for him. Christine, strung out from their quarrel in the parlour, had fallen asleep fairly soon. But between the unfamiliarity of being both in an actual bed and with another person, and the desire that had reawakened the second he saw the shape of her body through her night-dress, Erik had spent most of the night lying awake. He wasn't particularly tired just then; during the period of their estrangement he had slept rather a lot in his room. His body had still been exhausted from the events of the previous few days and his having gone without sleep during most of them, and there was also not much else to do in there other than compose. So now he did not even have fatigue to help him drift off. Instead he lay there watching her and obsessing, his mind running in circles. He had allowed himself the liberty of caressing her hair, fanned out over the pillow as it was, and had indulged in things he would have been humiliated to have her see him do, winding the curls around his fingers and gathering up great golden masses of it in his hands so that he could rub his face against the silkiness.

Eventually he had dozed a little bit, early in the morning hours, but woke up instantly when she sat up in bed. The awkwardness had returned, neither of them really knowing what to say. After a few failed attempts at conversation, Christine had gotten up and gone into the bathroom, and he lay there and listened to her running the water and moving about. And then she came back in…and their eyes had met…and marvellously, unbelievably, she'd come back into bed with him. He'd been torn in two directions, between the cringing fears of hurting her and humiliating himself both, and the violent need of her that raged in him as though it had never been satisfied. But she hadn't objected when he drew up her night-dress, or when his hands, his hands, crept uncertainly over her, in an awkward, trembling fashion which he hated. He was used to being a master at the arts he practised, making them look like magic, whereas in this, he was as unskilled as the most callow of youths, and it was mortifying.

But Christine hadn't seemed to mind. Instead, she'd caressed him hesitantly as well, put her hand on his head when he bent his mouth to her glorious breasts. And when the fire in his blood became too much to resist any longer and he moved clumsily to take her, she yielded with a sweetness that made his heart ache so that he cried out from it. Once they were joined, it was as if all were made suddenly right with the world, and instinct took over. A good thing, too, as he was no longer capable of any rational thought whatsoever.

In retrospect, Erik considered, that…third, had it been?… time could not have been particularly enjoyable for Christine. He'd known, of course, that there were things one could do for a woman, but he'd been mostly unable to remember any of what he'd read and seen, and his magician's hands hadn't been working right at all, quivering and refusing to do his bidding properly. Waves of contradictory emotions washed over him till his head swam and he felt nauseous, and all his iron willpower had evaporated like so much insubstantial mist. He had probably hurt her a bit again. But if so, she had not shown it. And once the edge had been taken off his own desire enough for him to think, he'd turned his formidable powers of concentration on learning to please her. And succeeded…

He tucked an arm under his head, and closed his eyes.

The next morning, Erik rose before Christine did. He went to his bookshelves and took down every medical text he possessed. These had been all been chosen with one of two goals in mind; either research for the making of his automatons, the better to make them as realistic as possible, or information to have on hand in the unlikely event that he needed to doctor himself. That being the case, they were less than ideal in terms of enlightenment on childbearing. He put them back on the shelves, frustrated. He would have to go and purchase some new ones. It was certainly not that he planned on bringing the baby himself – Christ, he hoped such an emergency would not occur – but he wanted to be well informed as to what to expect, both for himself and Christine, and how best to help her through the months of her pregnancy.

As he was putting the last book away, he heard a heart-rending moan from the bedroom. With his own heart in his mouth, he rushed in, and found Christine lying in bed green-faced and grimacing.

"Christine, what is the matter?"

"I – I – get out of my way!" She leaped up and rushed past him suddenly, slamming the bathroom door, and he heard the sound of retching.

Ah. So they'd reached this point. He knew enough about pregnant women to know that being ill in the mornings was both common and unlikely to be fatal, and his fear eased a bit. When Christine lurched out of the bathroom, he helped her to lie back down, fetched a cold cloth, and laid it over her sweaty forehead.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "You must be disgusted by me."

"Hush. Stay in bed, my darling, and I'll fetch you something to settle your stomach."

"I can't possibly bear swallowing anything."

"I'll make you some tea," he said firmly, and went out of the bedroom, shutting the door silently behind him. In the kitchen, he set water on to boil, and stood before the spice cabinet, thinking. Ginger, certainly; perhaps some honey to soothe her throat? Peppermint was also useful in combating nausea, but it could not be combined with the other two; the taste would be vile. He would try the ginger first, and if it did not work, then maybe peppermint next. He peeled and sliced a ginger root carefully, and when the kettle whistled, he poured the hot water over the pieces. While it steeped, he searched through the cupboards for something else to comfort her. Normally sweets would be his first choice, but not now, with her stomach upset. Fruit? She was very fond of it. He cut some up and put it on a plate. The tea seemed strong enough now, and he strained it, added honey, and loaded up a tray with the teapot, a cup and saucer, and the fruit on its dish. Carrying it down the hall, he entered the bedroom again and surprised his wife in the act of hooking up the front of her corset.

"Christine! What the hell are you doing?!"

"Don't swear!" she scolded him. "You'll have to stop doing that before the baby comes!"

"Are you mad? You are ill! Get back in bed!" he bellowed, outraged.

"I'm not ill! I feel fine now, and I don't want to stay in bed all day, I've things I want to do!" She turned so she could see her back in the mirror, grasped her laces, and pulled.

"Stop that! What are you doing, putting that thing on? It can't possibly be good for you or the child!"

"Nonsense," she said briskly, knotting the laces across her front. "The doctor said there was no danger in wearing my corsets for a while yet, and anyway I can't get into any of my dresses without them. I ordered some new things when I was out yesterday. The receipt's on your desk. I bought several dresses that can be let out through the waist, and some new underthings. The dressmaker thought I ought to get three pairs of gestation stays, so I did."

"Pairs of what?!"

"Gestation stays," she repeated, looking surprised. She pulled on a petticoat and fastened it. "You know, corsets for me to wear when I'm bigger."

"When you're – you shall do no such thing. That can not be healthy."

"It is too! They're apparently quite comfortable, and they'll have openings over my stomach with lacings, so I can let them out gradually. Hardly any boning at all; just two at the back, and buttons down the front instead of a busk. I'm not going without any support at all, Erik."

She finished buttoning up her house dress, pinned on a brooch, smoothed her coiled hair, and went past him, glancing down at the tray as she went and saying, "Oh, I don't need that now, I want some real breakfast. And I'm going to practice some more cooking; you'll have to tell me what you want for dinner. And don't say you don't care, either." She went down the hall and into the kitchen.

Her husband stared after her, stupefied, and then down at the cooling teapot. It was going to be a long seven months.

O-O-O O-O-O