Chapter 64

Meg spent as much time as possible with Alex before she returned to London two days after Christmas. She took him with her walking around the city with another woman she knew from the ballet. I wondered what Meg said her relation was to Alex or if the other former dancer guessed my son belonged to Christine given his resemblance to his mother, but of course those types of conversations did not reach me.

Madeline was out of the house having two of my suits tailored. My weight tended to fluctuate greatly, and for the last few weeks I had lost a decent amount where my clothing no longer fit and I was down to the very last notch in my belt. When I was not in the mood to compose, I lost interest in food and sleep. It was truly an unholy trifecta of misery and I was in the throes of discontentment.

With Meg out for the day and Madeline running errands, the house was empty when the post arrived mid-morning. Normally I took little interest in the mail, but I had sent out two arias months earlier and hadn't heard a reply. I was anxious to sell another piece of work, particularly since I hadn't composed anything new for weeks. I attempted to convince myself I had no time to work on any new pieces of music, but truthfully I was not in the mood.

For years I would hear melodies in the most trivial of tasks. Sometime the notes arranged themselves and I played the music repeatedly in my head, grand symphonies taking place as I walked the servants' halls of the theater or dark city streets in the dead of winter. I grew accustomed to my thoughts being filled with full orchestrations and pitied those who roamed around with simple thoughts instead of the grand swell of music.

But I had become one of those frustrated dolts mindlessly wandering the halls of my own home without anything but my own fleeting thoughts. It was oddly quiet in the house with everyone gone at once, which made me acutely aware of how heavy the silence in my mind had become.

The mail slid through the slot in the door and landed in a soft splatter against the wood floor. I peered through the parlor window and saw the postman hurry along around the corner to the houses on the next street. He was short and teetered back and forth with each step, either limping from an old injury or possibly having one leg longer than the other.

With a sigh I went to the door, picked up the three envelopes and noticed the first one was from Christine.

I have no idea how long I stood in the foyer staring at the envelope in my hand addressed to Meg. I looked toward the door, then back at the envelope and wondered when Meg would return with Alex.

Once I swore I heard footsteps and a baby crying, I placed the envelopes on the foyer table and stalked down the hall, waiting for the jingle of keys and the turn of a lock. Seconds passed and so did the sound, and with no one entering the house, I returned to the foyer and grabbed the envelopes from the table.

The bottom two were addressed to me. I tore them open, read through the formal content of my work being accepted. While I was grateful for another sale, I continued to eye the lone envelope on the table. My heart pounded as I considered what Christine may have written to Meg. Perhaps a greeting meant for our son or regrets that she was not with him over the holiday filled the pages. Secretly I hoped she asked about me or wished me well even though I was certain my name would never come up.

I wanted very much for her to feel remorse for her decision to stay with the Vicomte. I wanted her choice to eat away at her, to make her want to flee whatever manicured estate they inhabited and return to me. Undoubtedly her husband gave her fine jewelry and a pristine life with servants, grand ballrooms, and every convenience he could offer. Despite all of that, I had music, the key to her heart. And our son.

Without thinking I grabbed the envelope and ripped it open with such haste that I tore the paper inside. I blinked at the note in my trembling hands and the ruined off-white envelope still damp from the falling snow. I could not harness my breathing or my thoughts, and the words on the page blurred.

Twice I attempted to read it in the foyer before I forced my eyes from the page and walked down the hall and up the stairs to my room where I quietly shut and locked the door, built up the fire, and sat on the edge of my bed with the envelope in one hand and letter in the other.

All too late I regretted my impulsive actions, but I reasoned that I acted out of love for my son and not malice toward Meg and certainly not toward Christine.

I read through the letter and foolishly clung to Christine's every word, but there was no mention of Alex. Quite honestly there was very little that could have been described as the least bit interesting. Every word appeared to be carefully chosen, a stiff correspondence detailing the weather, the types of birds in the garden, and what she and her husband had planned for a "delightful supper".

My intrusion was utterly fruitless, and since I could not simply place it back into the envelope and seal it, I crumpled both the envelope and letter in my fist and began to toss it into the fire.

While the envelope burned, I reconsidered destroying the letter itself. I looked at the envelope, which was really nothing more than ash at that point, then the letter. I held the page to my face and inhaled deeply, hoping for the slightest remnant of Christine's perfume. I wanted part of her, something tangible to stave off the loneliness I had felt from the moment I saw the letter addressed to Meg and not to me.

I missed her terribly. I felt as though a part of me had been amputated and the longing threatened to make me physically ill. She was the reason I could not bring myself to compose, the source of my melancholy. Christine was the reason I took my next breath and undoubtedly the reason why my heart would stop beating. I mastered her voice, but she commanded my life and I wanted nothing more than for her to dictate my every waking moment.

If I was allowed nothing else, I had her letter. Carefully I smoothed out the crumpled page, lovingly straightened it as best I could as though her words were some living creature I had inadvertently wounded.

Once again I looked through the letter, this time grateful that it was sunny and warm by the fire where she wrote her letter. I was glad she had a good meal even if I was not satisfied with her company. Her words were not dull; she wrote of a boring, unfulfilling life. Her heart needed music and her soul needed me.

I needed her as well. She would improve me, repair the broken facets of my life. I would eat full meals if I had Christine in my life. I would sleep at night if I knew she was in the house. I would compose the most beautiful music ever heard if I had her voice to sing for me.

But I had none of that, not yet. I had only a one page letter about the frost on the windows and the sun beams across the floor. I had a seven-course meal and the chatter of birds in a winter garden. I could picture her then, radiating beauty but lonely. We had that in common, I knew, the swell of loneliness deep in our hearts.

I had so little of her and I knew she would not want me to have anything at all, but still I clung to her letter. I held the page to my chest and felt the deep ache of my grief.

"I love you," I said quietly. The last words I had ever said to her made me shudder. They had gone unanswered, not even acknowledged with a smile or a nod.

The front door opened and I heard Meg telling Alex to hurry inside. The sound of them returning jarred me from my miserable thoughts and I realized I had tears in my eyes.

"It's so cold out there, isn't it?"

Alex agreed with Meg and together they stomped their feet on the rug before Meg told him to sit so she could remove his boots.

I folded the letter from Christine with great care and placed it into the bottom drawer of my desk. It was the only drawer I kept locked as it contained my contracts for my music that sold, a decent amount of petty cash, and whatever else I did not want Madeline rummaging through when she pretended to clean.

"Daaaaa," Alex yelled.

"He's working," Meg cooed in her sing-song voice she reserved for Alex. "Why don't you help me make cookies and we will bring them up to your father once they are finished? I think you could sample one or two if you are a very good helper today."

Alex enthusiastically agreed and the promise of freshly made cookies made me regret stealing the letter from Meg.

I sat alone for a long time and listened to Meg as she made up a song about their baking. It made absolutely no sense, but the two of them giggled and sang the same verse over and over.

Alex would be asleep when she left Paris to return to her husband. She had purposely planned to take the last train out of the city, allowing Alex a full day in her company. Given that they had spent most of the day out together and were now happily in the kitchen together, I had no doubt he would enjoy a blissful night of sleep.

He would miss her in the morning. I assumed he would wake up yelling for her to come rescue him from the crib he was almost able to climb out of on his own. I wasn't sure if he yelled for her because the nursery was next to Meg's room or because he simply wished to wake to the sound of her voice and boundless show of affection for him.

"Should I bring a cookie back to Charles?" Meg asked.

"No."

"No?" Meg gasped in feigned horror. "Not even one?"

Alex conceded and agreed to a single cookie.

"He was the one who picked out the soldiers."

That earned him a second cookie, apparently.

"When you are older, perhaps you will come visit us."

"Où à?"

"Where we live. In London."

"Pourquoi?"

"Because that is where Charles is from."

"Maison?"

"Yes, that is our home. In London. One day you will come stay with us, Alex, and I will show you all of the sites."

"Pourquoi?"

"Because I will miss you." She made an exaggerated kissing sound and Alex returned the gesture. "But I will come visit you. As often as I can so that you do not forget me."

"May," Alex said firmly. "Oublier?"

"Forget what?"

"Moi?"

"No, no, my sweet Alexandre, I will never forget you. Not ever." Her voice cracked then and I heard her sniffle. "Did you enjoy yourself today?"

"No."

His response made me grunt. I gave the bottom desk drawer a firm tug to make sure it was locked and then left my room and walked into the kitchen.

Alex was much cleaner than I expected with only a light dusting of flour on his hands and a few smudges on his cheeks. Of course, that was secondary to his hair, which was cut close to his scalp. The sight of him threatened to stop my heart.

"What happened?" I asked.

"We're baking," Meg answered brightly.

"I meant to his hair."

"Oh." Meg turned away from me and shoved the tray of cookies into the oven. "He would not sit still. The barber ended up cutting the front short and then had to make sure the rest of his hair was even."

Surely she had taken my son to a butcher, not a barber. Alex smiled as I stared at him and patted his head, looking somewhat confused when he could not run his own fingers through his normally long locks.

The small scar on his forehead was now quite evident, a thin, silvery line no bigger than the width of my fingernail. Alex looked less like his mother without his curls cascading to his eyes, which angered me.

"You did not ask my permission," I said, attempting to keep my tone even despite the resonance of indignation I felt at my very core.

Meg stiffened. "His hair was in his eyes."

Alex nodded and covered his eyes with his right hand, which left his cheek with a white dusting of flour.

"I do not care if his hair was in his eyes," I said through my teeth. "You do not decide what is best for my son."

Meg took a step back and found herself with the table blocking her path of retreat. "You are correct. I apologize." She turned from me to Alex and used her apron to wipe off his face before she kissed him on the top of his head. "You are handsome no matter what."

"He does not look the same," I argued.

Meg looked at me from the corner of her eye. "He looks-"

"He looks nothing like he did before," I shouted. "He looks nothing like…"

I stopped mid-sentence once Alex looked at me, wide-eyed and perplexed by my anger. The smile slipped from his face.

"Like his mother," Meg finished quietly on my behalf.

I should not have been surprised by her words, but still I found myself gawking back at Meg, who had turned her full attention to Alex. I did not blame her for looking away from me, not when I stood five paces away with my arms straight at my sides and hands in fists.

"It'll grow back in no time," Meg offered. She whirled around, opened the oven door, peered inside, and shut it once more.

Most assuredly I would have said something I'd regret later if Madeline hadn't returned home that very moment.

"Meg?" she called.

"In the kitchen!"

"Ici!"Alex threw his hands in the air and yelled.

Madeline hurried in a moment later, her hair and clothing glistening with beads of melting snow. "The whole house smells wonderful. What are you making?" she asked as she nearly ran into me with two overflowing bags blocking her view. She gave me a look, silently reprimanding me for being in her way, before she turned and looked at her daughter.

"Alex and I are making cookies."

Cookies?" Madeline placed the bags on the table out of Alex's reach and briefly gazed at him before she paused and looked at him again. "Who cut his hair?"

Finally, someone else who realized my son's haircut was a disaster. I grunted and rolled my eyes in disgust.

Madeline ran her fingers along Alex's scalp before he tilted his head up to kiss her. "Alex, you look so grown up and handsome. And I can finally see your beautiful eyes again."

Alex grinned and giggled to himself while I fumed in silence. The three of them ignored me while Madeline put away the items she'd bought from the market and Meg warmed milk for Alex on the stove.

"You don't like it?" Madeline asked me over her shoulder once she bothered to spare me a glance. "He was due for a haircut. Overdue, if you ask me. He was starting to resemble one of those urchins begging on the corner."

"I do not like it nor did I ask what you thought," I growled indignantly.

Madeline's lips parted as though she were about to speak, but she shook her head and decided not to argue. She looked at me, exhaled hard, and muttered something under her breath that included the words utterly ridiculous.

"Da?" Alex said meekly. He ran his hand over his head and looked at me, his large, dark eyes questioning. "No?"

I hadn't considered that while my son's vocabulary was limited, he understood what we said not only around him, but about him as well.

The look on his round face left me speechless. I wondered if my own parents had ever seen the devastation in my eyes, if my mother ever realized how her silence cut through me and if my father ever considered how his cruel words would still echo in my thoughts even now.

"Alex," I said softly.

Both Meg and Madeline had paused, Madeline with her hand above her head reaching into the cabinet and Meg with a towel in hand and she checked the oven again.

Alex jutted out his bottom lip, his chest heaving as he continued to stare back at me and run his fingers over the top of his head. He looked as though he considered crying but wasn't sure why.

"Da?"

"It's fine," I replied as I took a step forward.

Alex attempted to grasp hold of what had once been longer curls and was now closely cropped to his skull. His face contorted from uncertainty to panic, and as his eyes filled with tears, he called to me again.

"You are fine," I assured him.

I reached out to pick him up, but he pushed my hand away and looked around the room, first at Madeline and then at Meg, all the while still attempting to pull at his hair.

"Alex," Meg offered as she reached out to him.

"No," Alex said softly. He looked from her to me again and felt the back of his head. "Da? Déteste? Déteste moi?"

His words made me shudder and caused Meg to gasp. If Madeline made a sound at all I did not hear it.

Did I hate it. Did I hate him.

I thought of all the times I had sat in the corner of the cellar wondering what I could do to make my parents like me. Love was out of the question, I realized, but I thought perhaps I could do something that would make my father less likely to strike so hard. Perhaps if I was quieter, he would hit me once instead of several times. Perhaps instead of grabbing my bruised arm, he would grab the one that had healed. Perhaps my mother would say my given name once instead of outright ignoring me.

Those were the thoughts of a boy under the age of twelve confined to a cellar, starving and thirsty and afraid to make a sound. I still wondered what I could have done, still blamed myself for my father's anger and my mother's neglect.

And now, before my infant son, I still blamed myself. I would not have my son ask if I hated him. I would not allow him to suffer as I had, not even for a second.

"No, Alex," I said, keeping my voice low in hopes he would not hear how it trembled. I took another step toward him. "No, of course not. Not ever."

Again I reached out, but this time I lowered to my knees so that we were nearly eye level. I placed my hand on the tray of his high chair and felt the granules of sugar and greasy texture of butter beneath my fingers.

"I am irrevocably apologetic," I said, barely able to look him in the eye.

He reached out then, his fingers splayed toward the right side of my face. I grabbed his wrist and set his hand down on the wooden tray before he touched my mask.

"Alex," I said, my voice more of a warning than the apology I intended.

My son slowly retracted his hand.

"I care for you deeply," I said to him despite how mismatched my words felt to my actions.

Confusion flitted through his wide eyes. He looked from my mask to my hand still holding his down then back again.

For a long moment we merely stared at one another before Alex mumbled something, then yawned and tilted his head back. His dark eyes were heavy-lidded and still distrusting.

I wasn't sure if he gave up on his attempt to touch my face or if he was simply exhausted and unwilling to pursue affection a moment longer. I started to stand, but I knew Meg and Madeline looked on, breaths hitched and every muscle tense.

I reached out to place my hand on his head, but this time it was his turn to deny me. He pushed my hand away and turned to look at Meg. He flexed his hands, requesting to be picked up as he yawned and then rubbed his eyes.

Meg hesitated. She looked at me with a bit of desperation in her gaze before she stepped forward and grabbed Alex. She smoothed her hand over his head and kissed his face, which made him smile.

"May? Aime-moi?"

I looked away as my son asked Meg if she loved him. The one person who would answer him without question would be leaving once he was put to bed and he had no idea it would be months, possibly even years before he saw her again.

Meg turned away from me with Alex in her arms. "Everyone loves you, Alex. I love you, your grand-mere loves you, Charles loves you too and of course your father loves you as well. You are very fortunate."

I waited for Alex to look over his shoulder at me, to confirm what Meg said was true, but he placed his head on Meg's shoulder and asked for his milk. He never looked at me again, not even when he faced me as Meg turned to grab the bottle from the stove.

"Would you take the cookies out?" Meg asked her mother. "We are going to read a story."

"Yes, of course," Madeline answered. She didn't bother looking at her daughter. Her eyes had hardened and settled on me. "He would like someone to read to him."

Meg lingered a moment longer, but I did not acknowledge her and Madeline said nothing further.

"Goodnight," Meg said to no one in particular before she left with my son.

"Erik," Madeline said once they were gone.

I waited until Meg closed the nursery door before I stood, walked past Madeline without saying a word, and returned to my room. In the darkness I unlocked the bottom drawer, removed the letter from Christine, and slept with the only thing I had left of her under my pillow.

I was failing my son. No matter how deeply I loved him, I knew I would fail. He needed more than I was willing to offer, and he deserved a much better man than I could ever be in his life. As I lay staring at the heavy curtains, I could not help but think of how satisfied my own father would have been to see the world slip through my fingers yet again.