A/N: Looks like I've run out of storyline - or nearly have at least. Well
a couple more chapters wouldn't hurt I suppose. Even if there isn't that
much going on.
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Chapter 26:
Madeline was flustered when she finally got Marguerite and Fleur into their winter coats, and began trying to make Gerard put on his boots hat and coat. The suitcases were out in the front hall, by the front door, and the carriage was waiting impatiently. The children didn't stop running around or complaining, or saying they'd forgotten something. It hadn't stopped all evening, since they had learned they were going to visit Isabelle's father overnight. Isabelle, who was staying behind, hurriedly took a pot of boiling potatoes from the stovetop, and moved to drain them into the sink.
"Fleur, don't you dare touch it!" She scolded the twin, her own face flushed from the heat of the kitchen. "That pie is for Erik!"
"I'm sorry, Isabelle." Madeline apologized quickly; standing and holding Gerard on one hip as she had Fleur and Marguerite go into the front hall and pick up the suitcases. "We should have been gone half an hour ago."
"Tonight wouldn't have gone much differently if you'd left after Erik got home." Isabelle replied gently, rubbing her eyes briefly. "Go on, I have to mash these potatoes, and make sure the roast doesn't burn, and . . . oh no! Where are the matches?"
"Right there." Marguerite came into the kitchen and pointed to the box of matches sitting on one of the dining set chairs. Madeline turned and shooed her out of the kitchen again quickly with a threatening wave of her hands, and then turned back to peer at Isabelle.
"Good luck tonight!" She whispered, and then was down the hall.
As Isabelle started to finish the potatoes, she heard the front door open, letting a welcome moment of cold air into the lower rooms of the house before it slammed so hard that she jumped into the air. With a sigh and a shake of her head, she continued at her work, knowing that she only had a few more minutes left before her husband got home. She still hadn't done her hair, or put her jewelry on, and God forbid she forget to take off the apron before he saw her all covered in flour!
"I'm never going to get everything ready on time." She breathed.
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As fortune would have it, Erik himself was worried about getting out of rehearsals so late. The performance for that evening had been cancelled early that morning so that anyone who wished might attend an Easter Mass and festival being held at Notre Dame. Then, of course, calling a cab home after rehearsals felt impossible thanks to the cold. It seemed that his fingers and toes would freeze off after only three minutes of unsuccessful cabby calling. For such a time of year, it was still extremely cold out, far colder than it usually was. Paris had endured three blizzards in the past two weeks.
When finally an open-air carriage - of all things in the middle of this cold - pulled up in front of him at the curb, he almost lost it thanks to a very rude couple that tried to get in before them. The language he'd used on them was enough to make the poor middle-aged woman faint into the arms of the man who seemed to be her husband. Yet Erik was beyond caring at that point. He simply wanted to get home.
It had not been one of the most successful days of rehearsal, considering everyone wanted to talk about Christine's daughter, whom had been born the evening before. There was little room for rehearsal beyond all the gossip and excitement. If it was one thing Erik was not fond of, it was gossip; especially gossip about Christine. Yet he couldn't very well have told them off, for fear of ruining her reputation with more gossip about the valiant Erik that was probably her lover in secret. No, that would not do at all.
"Driver, if you don't take me to the address I tell you in less than five minutes, I swear to God I will strangle you with my bare hands!"
The cabby certainly didn't take well to the threat. Instead of going faster, as Erik wanted him, he seemed to take his time, sloshing his two- horse team casually through the snow. He still had sleigh bells on his wheels, and the racket was giving Erik one incredible headache. Several times, he'd had to stop himself from carrying out his promise on the poor driver, who was probably just as cold, tired, and fed up as he.
"This the right address, Monsieur?" The cabby finally asked as he pulled the carriage up to the curb. Erik didn't answer, put tossed the necessary amount of money into the back of his head as hard as he could, and then leaped from the carriage, his dark blue cloak billowing behind him temporarily. Then, moving to the picket fence, he ripped the gate open, the hinges squealing terribly in complaint. With a wince, he slammed the gate shut again, and stalked up the steps into the house that had always melted his tensions away, no matter how terrible, within a matter of moments.
Opening the door and stepping in, he didn't notice for a few seconds just how quiet it was in the house. His cloak was hung on the nearby peg, and he began removing his boots before he realized there weren't four pairs of arms around him all at once, eager for his attention. Lifting his head, he looked around in confusion.
"Fleur? Marguerite? Gerard?" Standing from the stairs, where he had sat to take off his boots, he put the offensive cold and wet footwear over a grate by the front door, and then stepped into the parlor, finding it unusually empty. With a frown, he moved back out into the hall. Someone was here, that was for certain. The door was never left unlocked if everyone was out. "Madeline . . .? Isabelle . . .?"
"I'm back here, sweetheart."
"Finally!" He murmured, letting out a sigh of relief as his wife's voice reached him from the kitchen. He moved hastily in that direction, not even taking in the sights or smells around him as he pulled out the nearest chair and sat down heavily. "Answer me next time, Izzy! I thought something had happened!"
"I'm sorry beloved." She replied softly, her voice coming from the corner on the other side of the table. "You sound so tense. Would you like me to pour you a brandy?"
She had never offered him a brandy before. He had never even touched the brandy he kept in the liquor cabinet for guests like Nadir. Curious, he lifted his eyes to look across the table at her. It was then he realized that eight candles adorned the center of the table, four on each candelabrum that flanked a steaming roast surrounded by carrots and other such vegetables as they soaked in the pan of gravy and natural juices from the meat. The table was set for two, the settings across from each other at the head and foot of it. All sorts of trimmings were set around the roast to make a fine little supper.
Empty wine glasses of crystal stood at attention next to each plate of fine china. Isabelle had taken out the silk napkins, and folded them underneath the expensive silver utensils. It was quite an extensive setting for such a meal. Having taken all of these things from her fathers' house, as all of the settings had belonged to her mother, they had never used it. There had never been occasion to.
His eyes lifted further, and what he saw took his breath away. Not that she ever failed to do so in the plainest of clothing. Yet she looked precisely as she had when he first met her. The conservative blouse of crème colored lace that held snugly to her frame, with the somewhat high collar, and pearl buttons that adorned the front for decoration alone. The long sleeves that came down to her wrists, ending in tiny V's just on the back of her hand. The crimson vest that she wore over it, which then gave way into a billowing skirt of the same dark red silk. The shimmering gold lacing that went up the front of the vest, and then adorned the hem of her skirt was just as he remembered. Lifting his eyes to her face, he saw those amazing amethyst eyes staring over at him, rimmed by her thick dark eyelashes. Her hair was worn up in a large braid that formed a bun atop her head, and several smaller braids that were pinned in waves around her scalp.
"It has been one of those days." He finally whispered, simply staring at her for a long moment. "I don't know if I need a brandy, though."
Smiling, Isabelle slowly came around the table, reaching out to gently massage his shoulders. Leaning down over him, she kissed his cheek from behind, making him smile and immediately relax against her ministrations.
"I'll get you one anyway." She whispered. Standing, she left the kitchen to find the brandy. "You may need it."
"Why?" He called after her suspiciously. "What is all this, my dear? I admit it's a wonderful little surprise, but why?"
"We missed our reservations last night." She came back into the room carrying the brandy decanter, and a tumbler. "When you went to see Christine in the hospital after the performance, we missed the reservations we had for a private dinner. I thought we could make up for it tonight. Madeline brought the children to my fathers' so that we could be alone. Besides . . . I have something to tell you and I wanted everything to be perfect."
As she spoke, she poured some of the amber colored liquor into the tumbler, and handed it to him slowly. Erik sniffed at it before taking a cautious sip, and then put it aside, looking up at her. He then realized she was wearing a necklace and matching earrings of rubies that he'd given her for Christmas and New Years. Staring up at her, he watched as she crouched down to his eye level, and took his hands tightly.
"What do you have to tell me?" He asked. She smiled, a hint of nervousness in her eyes.
"Not yet." She whispered. "Just hold onto your brandy, all right? I . . . I would like the moment to be perfect."
He stared at her in utter confusion. What on earth was she hiding from him? Yet he nodded, letting her take his tumbler and put it beside the tumbler on the counter that jutted out into the middle of the room, cutting the kitchen in half to make the cooking area and the dining areas separate. Then, she began to serve him as he sat forward in his seat. She put a bit of every single bit of the meal onto his plate, poured some fine burgundy wine into his crystal glass, and then sat down to serve herself. He had just taken the first bite of the moist and delicious roast when she cleared her throat.
"Erik . . . would it please you if I were to have a baby?"
The wine he'd been about to sip to wash down the fine meat almost spilled all over the table. Quickly putting down the crystal, he looked up at her. He licked his lips and cleared his throat, his eyes wide with shock. Was that what all this was about? Was Isabelle trying to tell him she was with child? Slowly standing, he came around the table to crouch in front of her, turning her chair so that she faced him more squarely. She looked down at him with that same nervous expression, uncertain joy shining behind her eyes.
"Please me?" He breathed. "Mon Dieu . . . Isabelle . . . It is better than anything else in the world. Is it true?"
"Vous serez un père." She whispered, seeming to relax. "Oui, it is true."
"Isabelle!" Standing, he grabbed her by the waist, and hoisted her up from the chair. His arms slipped tightly about her, and he pulled her hard against him. She squealed in shock, not knowing what to say. For a second, she probably didn't even know what he was up to. She knew, however, when he gave her a searing kiss. It was something more passionate and joyful than anything they'd ever shared together.
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Chapter 26:
Madeline was flustered when she finally got Marguerite and Fleur into their winter coats, and began trying to make Gerard put on his boots hat and coat. The suitcases were out in the front hall, by the front door, and the carriage was waiting impatiently. The children didn't stop running around or complaining, or saying they'd forgotten something. It hadn't stopped all evening, since they had learned they were going to visit Isabelle's father overnight. Isabelle, who was staying behind, hurriedly took a pot of boiling potatoes from the stovetop, and moved to drain them into the sink.
"Fleur, don't you dare touch it!" She scolded the twin, her own face flushed from the heat of the kitchen. "That pie is for Erik!"
"I'm sorry, Isabelle." Madeline apologized quickly; standing and holding Gerard on one hip as she had Fleur and Marguerite go into the front hall and pick up the suitcases. "We should have been gone half an hour ago."
"Tonight wouldn't have gone much differently if you'd left after Erik got home." Isabelle replied gently, rubbing her eyes briefly. "Go on, I have to mash these potatoes, and make sure the roast doesn't burn, and . . . oh no! Where are the matches?"
"Right there." Marguerite came into the kitchen and pointed to the box of matches sitting on one of the dining set chairs. Madeline turned and shooed her out of the kitchen again quickly with a threatening wave of her hands, and then turned back to peer at Isabelle.
"Good luck tonight!" She whispered, and then was down the hall.
As Isabelle started to finish the potatoes, she heard the front door open, letting a welcome moment of cold air into the lower rooms of the house before it slammed so hard that she jumped into the air. With a sigh and a shake of her head, she continued at her work, knowing that she only had a few more minutes left before her husband got home. She still hadn't done her hair, or put her jewelry on, and God forbid she forget to take off the apron before he saw her all covered in flour!
"I'm never going to get everything ready on time." She breathed.
///////////////////----------//////////////////////////
As fortune would have it, Erik himself was worried about getting out of rehearsals so late. The performance for that evening had been cancelled early that morning so that anyone who wished might attend an Easter Mass and festival being held at Notre Dame. Then, of course, calling a cab home after rehearsals felt impossible thanks to the cold. It seemed that his fingers and toes would freeze off after only three minutes of unsuccessful cabby calling. For such a time of year, it was still extremely cold out, far colder than it usually was. Paris had endured three blizzards in the past two weeks.
When finally an open-air carriage - of all things in the middle of this cold - pulled up in front of him at the curb, he almost lost it thanks to a very rude couple that tried to get in before them. The language he'd used on them was enough to make the poor middle-aged woman faint into the arms of the man who seemed to be her husband. Yet Erik was beyond caring at that point. He simply wanted to get home.
It had not been one of the most successful days of rehearsal, considering everyone wanted to talk about Christine's daughter, whom had been born the evening before. There was little room for rehearsal beyond all the gossip and excitement. If it was one thing Erik was not fond of, it was gossip; especially gossip about Christine. Yet he couldn't very well have told them off, for fear of ruining her reputation with more gossip about the valiant Erik that was probably her lover in secret. No, that would not do at all.
"Driver, if you don't take me to the address I tell you in less than five minutes, I swear to God I will strangle you with my bare hands!"
The cabby certainly didn't take well to the threat. Instead of going faster, as Erik wanted him, he seemed to take his time, sloshing his two- horse team casually through the snow. He still had sleigh bells on his wheels, and the racket was giving Erik one incredible headache. Several times, he'd had to stop himself from carrying out his promise on the poor driver, who was probably just as cold, tired, and fed up as he.
"This the right address, Monsieur?" The cabby finally asked as he pulled the carriage up to the curb. Erik didn't answer, put tossed the necessary amount of money into the back of his head as hard as he could, and then leaped from the carriage, his dark blue cloak billowing behind him temporarily. Then, moving to the picket fence, he ripped the gate open, the hinges squealing terribly in complaint. With a wince, he slammed the gate shut again, and stalked up the steps into the house that had always melted his tensions away, no matter how terrible, within a matter of moments.
Opening the door and stepping in, he didn't notice for a few seconds just how quiet it was in the house. His cloak was hung on the nearby peg, and he began removing his boots before he realized there weren't four pairs of arms around him all at once, eager for his attention. Lifting his head, he looked around in confusion.
"Fleur? Marguerite? Gerard?" Standing from the stairs, where he had sat to take off his boots, he put the offensive cold and wet footwear over a grate by the front door, and then stepped into the parlor, finding it unusually empty. With a frown, he moved back out into the hall. Someone was here, that was for certain. The door was never left unlocked if everyone was out. "Madeline . . .? Isabelle . . .?"
"I'm back here, sweetheart."
"Finally!" He murmured, letting out a sigh of relief as his wife's voice reached him from the kitchen. He moved hastily in that direction, not even taking in the sights or smells around him as he pulled out the nearest chair and sat down heavily. "Answer me next time, Izzy! I thought something had happened!"
"I'm sorry beloved." She replied softly, her voice coming from the corner on the other side of the table. "You sound so tense. Would you like me to pour you a brandy?"
She had never offered him a brandy before. He had never even touched the brandy he kept in the liquor cabinet for guests like Nadir. Curious, he lifted his eyes to look across the table at her. It was then he realized that eight candles adorned the center of the table, four on each candelabrum that flanked a steaming roast surrounded by carrots and other such vegetables as they soaked in the pan of gravy and natural juices from the meat. The table was set for two, the settings across from each other at the head and foot of it. All sorts of trimmings were set around the roast to make a fine little supper.
Empty wine glasses of crystal stood at attention next to each plate of fine china. Isabelle had taken out the silk napkins, and folded them underneath the expensive silver utensils. It was quite an extensive setting for such a meal. Having taken all of these things from her fathers' house, as all of the settings had belonged to her mother, they had never used it. There had never been occasion to.
His eyes lifted further, and what he saw took his breath away. Not that she ever failed to do so in the plainest of clothing. Yet she looked precisely as she had when he first met her. The conservative blouse of crème colored lace that held snugly to her frame, with the somewhat high collar, and pearl buttons that adorned the front for decoration alone. The long sleeves that came down to her wrists, ending in tiny V's just on the back of her hand. The crimson vest that she wore over it, which then gave way into a billowing skirt of the same dark red silk. The shimmering gold lacing that went up the front of the vest, and then adorned the hem of her skirt was just as he remembered. Lifting his eyes to her face, he saw those amazing amethyst eyes staring over at him, rimmed by her thick dark eyelashes. Her hair was worn up in a large braid that formed a bun atop her head, and several smaller braids that were pinned in waves around her scalp.
"It has been one of those days." He finally whispered, simply staring at her for a long moment. "I don't know if I need a brandy, though."
Smiling, Isabelle slowly came around the table, reaching out to gently massage his shoulders. Leaning down over him, she kissed his cheek from behind, making him smile and immediately relax against her ministrations.
"I'll get you one anyway." She whispered. Standing, she left the kitchen to find the brandy. "You may need it."
"Why?" He called after her suspiciously. "What is all this, my dear? I admit it's a wonderful little surprise, but why?"
"We missed our reservations last night." She came back into the room carrying the brandy decanter, and a tumbler. "When you went to see Christine in the hospital after the performance, we missed the reservations we had for a private dinner. I thought we could make up for it tonight. Madeline brought the children to my fathers' so that we could be alone. Besides . . . I have something to tell you and I wanted everything to be perfect."
As she spoke, she poured some of the amber colored liquor into the tumbler, and handed it to him slowly. Erik sniffed at it before taking a cautious sip, and then put it aside, looking up at her. He then realized she was wearing a necklace and matching earrings of rubies that he'd given her for Christmas and New Years. Staring up at her, he watched as she crouched down to his eye level, and took his hands tightly.
"What do you have to tell me?" He asked. She smiled, a hint of nervousness in her eyes.
"Not yet." She whispered. "Just hold onto your brandy, all right? I . . . I would like the moment to be perfect."
He stared at her in utter confusion. What on earth was she hiding from him? Yet he nodded, letting her take his tumbler and put it beside the tumbler on the counter that jutted out into the middle of the room, cutting the kitchen in half to make the cooking area and the dining areas separate. Then, she began to serve him as he sat forward in his seat. She put a bit of every single bit of the meal onto his plate, poured some fine burgundy wine into his crystal glass, and then sat down to serve herself. He had just taken the first bite of the moist and delicious roast when she cleared her throat.
"Erik . . . would it please you if I were to have a baby?"
The wine he'd been about to sip to wash down the fine meat almost spilled all over the table. Quickly putting down the crystal, he looked up at her. He licked his lips and cleared his throat, his eyes wide with shock. Was that what all this was about? Was Isabelle trying to tell him she was with child? Slowly standing, he came around the table to crouch in front of her, turning her chair so that she faced him more squarely. She looked down at him with that same nervous expression, uncertain joy shining behind her eyes.
"Please me?" He breathed. "Mon Dieu . . . Isabelle . . . It is better than anything else in the world. Is it true?"
"Vous serez un père." She whispered, seeming to relax. "Oui, it is true."
"Isabelle!" Standing, he grabbed her by the waist, and hoisted her up from the chair. His arms slipped tightly about her, and he pulled her hard against him. She squealed in shock, not knowing what to say. For a second, she probably didn't even know what he was up to. She knew, however, when he gave her a searing kiss. It was something more passionate and joyful than anything they'd ever shared together.
