Hello all. I am so sorry there has been such a long time in between chapters. Almost a year since the last one. I've had a health issue that's prevented me from doing much of anything productive. I am doing better now, though. I hope some of you are still out there willing to read more of this story! This chapter has been written for years, and just needed a tiny bit of editing. As always, a heartfelt thanks to my beta reader and friend, MarySkater, without whom this story would not exist.

The Countess

Chapter 45. August 1887.

Erik crept silently up to the open kitchen door and peered in. Christine was bent over with her back to him, poking at something in the oven and muttering to herself. Clearly not a situation which it would be prudent to intrude upon. He withdrew and got himself a book to read until she wanted him to come to the table.

Their Sunday dinner, however, was not a success. Christine had overdone the roast lamb, and sat sniffling at the other end of the table as Erik valiantly attempted to carve it, insisting that she had done an excellent job on the meal.

"I haven't and you know it!" she wailed, and leaped up to run out of the room in a flood of tears. He set down the carving fork and knife, wondering what on earth else he was supposed to have said, and followed her. She was sitting on the bed weeping. After some petting and comforting, he suggested that she go to bed.

"You are over-tired, my dear. You know you need more rest now than before. Take off your dress and relax, and sleep as long as you like." Once she was tucked up and sleeping soundly, he went back out to the dining room and removed the offending roast with relief. Overdone lamb was a dreadful thing. He would get rid of it now while she was asleep. Best not to let her see it in the dustbin, though; he collected it and other assorted trash up, and went out to dispose of it. When the lamp outside his front door flared to life, its glow revealed an irritatingly familiar figure coming toward him.

"Good evening, Erik. And where are you off to tonight?"

"I am taking out my rubbish, daroga," Erik snarled. "I was not expecting an audience while doing so."

"My apologies. But I have something important to speak with you about, my friend."

"Oh? What?"

"Only that the police are getting interested in that old case about the LeVeque murder."

"So?"

"Erik, that sounds very much like you."

"Are you accusing me, daroga?"

"No. I happen to know that you are innocent, as you were in my parlour playing chess that particular afternoon. I remember it, because no sooner did you leave than a boy came to my door and demanded that I come to headquarters immediately, because there had been a ghastly murder. I recall thinking that he had just missed you. The body in question was only an hour or so dead and it can not possibly have been you. Besides, that was three years ago. And, Erik…Buquet was the only innocent whose death you've been responsible for since your promise to me."

Mihr's voice held a slight question to it. Erik scowled.

"Yes, daroga. We have been over this. Either you believe me or you do not. If you do, then stop haranguing me about it, and if you do not, then call in reinforcements and have me arrested."

"As if I could hope to survive trying such audacity," said the Persian with a wry half-smile. "No, Erik, this crime I know perfectly well you did not commit. My concern is whether that could be proved. There is only my word to go on, after all."

"Would your colleagues not be satisfied with it, then? You work with a group of boors, daroga."

"Once, yes, they would have been satisfied. However – " And the daroga's shoulders slumped a bit. "It was thought by some that I was…cracking up, shall we say, over the affairs here. I am not certain that my word counts for much at the moment with some of the higher-ups in the Paris police force, now that they think that my senses had deserted me."

"Then resign. Why should you tolerate that?"

"And what would I do then? Erik, I am a policeman. That's all I've ever been. What would I do with myself if I did not have that? Spend my days hanging around the Opera and bothering you?"

"No doubt. You pester me too much as it is."

"Erik, all I am saying is to be cautious. It was one thing when you were 'the ghost,' and stayed mostly hidden except during evening hours. But now you are setting up housekeeping, moving into a house and going about in the daytime. There was a great crime committed, against an important dignitary, and by someone who resembled you to an astonishing degree. Be careful. The description that is circulating amongst the police force sounds one hell of a lot like you. I should not like to see you dragged in over a crime which you did not commit, for once, and I am not sure that I could get you off."

"And why, pray tell, is this old case being dragged up now, after this many years?"

Mihr sighed. "There is a young pup who is trying to make a name for himself by solving old cases that everyone else has already given up as hopeless. And I will say he has rather a knack for it; he's already sorted two or three that I thought would never be unravelled."

"And what shall I do instead, daroga? Stay here, living like a mole? I promised my wife that if she would have me, I would try to lead a normal life, for her sake. I must keep my promise."

"As you will, then. I only wanted to warn you."

"Thank you. But nothing shall happen. I am the most virtuous of men now, remember, daroga."

"I hope so. I shall take my leave of you, then."

They shook hands, and the Persian departed; Erik went about his task. He was already thinking of the next section of the score for the Divine Comedy, which he intended to set to paper that evening. The daroga was just being an old woman again. Mihr would worry excessively about things which would not happen; he always had. Erik was not responsible for this crime, and so he would certainly not be asked to answer for it. The idea was not worth considering. And he had much more important things to think about.

O-O-O

They began packing up the things from the house by the lake which they wanted to keep. It was slow going; Erik had accumulated quite a lot in the one place in his life he had actually stayed put for many years, and Christine also had her own things, which had already been moved, only a few months ago, from her flat to the underground house, and which now had to be moved once again. But it was summer, and there were no performances going on, and neither of them had anything else which they absolutely had to do. Erik acquired a number of packing crates, and set about hiring a delivery service to move them, once filled, to the rented house. When there was a wagon-full ready to go, they took the first load over.

Christine extended her hand for her husband to help her down out of the cab. Once out, she smoothed a hand automatically over the back of her skirts to make sure they were not in disarray, and turned to watch the delivery wagon pulling up behind them, laden with boxes and crates. The men riding in it leapt down, lowered the back of the wagon, and commenced hauling its contents into the house.

She had not yet gotten up the nerve to ask Erik about moving the furniture, and he had seemed rather on edge whenever they skated close to the subject. There was definitely something connected with his mother, or perhaps both parents, which he did not want to talk about, and she was sure that his mother's furniture had to do with it. Christine was inclined to feel that if it was that upsetting for him, it would surely be better to purchase new things for the house, and leave the troublesome Louis-Philippe items in the old underground one. But either way, they were planning to move fully into the rented house soon. They needed to discuss the matter of furniture, or they would be eating and sleeping on the floor. And they had not thus far, contenting themselves with packing up small items for this first delivery. Christine had boxed up her sewing things and her other hand-crafts, and Erik, having finished the automatons which he had buyers waiting for, had cleaned out his workroom and a good portion of the bedroom which had once been his. A few days before, she'd come upon him looking crossly at one of his suits, and then tossing it into a pile of more of them on the floor.

"What are you doing?" she'd asked. "Is there something wrong with those suits?"

"Yes," he said, giving her a foul look. "They no longer fit."

"Really? That many? Why?"

"Because my wife has been insisting that I eat constantly, and I have therefore suffered the predictable consequences. The last time I tried to wear that – " he indicated the suit which he had just thrown down – "I could barely fasten the waist buttons. You see, Christine, during the months when the disaster which constituted our courtship was in progress, I lost rather a lot of weight."

"Working yourself to exhaustion and fretting, I expect."

"Precisely. However, I wished to present myself to you in as pleasing a manner as possible, a wasted effort of course, and my old suits were now hanging on me."

"Oh, yes, I remember!" exclaimed Christine. "That was part of the description of you that was circulating among everyone here."

"Well, it did tie in to the ghost idea exceptionally well…" said Erik, with a flash of his characteristic cynical wit. "But when I overheard people saying that, I realised just how bad my clothes now looked. So I paid a visit to my tailor and had him make me several new suits, artfully fitted to see to it that I looked as well as I could. A foolish effort, but men in love are always fools."

Declining for the second time to take the bait, Christine kept quiet, and Erik went on, "But now, of course, these smaller suits no longer fit. I have no illusions that you will give up your efforts to stuff as much food into me as possible, and so there is no point to hanging on to them. And so on top of renting a house, building another one, and providing his wife with macaroons in the middle of the night, Erik must also suffer the annoyance of throwing out several nearly new suits. I do not think I even wore this one, for example."

He brandished a fine charcoal-grey frock coat at her. "Excellent workmanship, which cost me a pretty penny, and it is of no use to me whatever."

Christine put her hand over her mouth to hide her smile; an effort which appeared to be futile, given her husband's pique.

"As it happened, most of my older suits – the larger ones – were wearing out anyway and in need of replacement when I got this new lot. Now I shall have to be measured all over again and have yet another batch of new ones made, and soon, or else the Opera Ghost will be going about his official duties without anything on but his cloak."

Christine gave up, and laughed out loud. "That would – that would certainly be a sight to behold," she gasped, leaning against the door frame. "Imagine the reaction on the part of the ballet girls – Cecile, Jammes, Meg? How Meg would shriek!"

"I can imagine the reaction on the part of her mother, with no trouble," he said darkly. "I am quite sure that I would not escape Madame's wrath intact."

Christine snickered. "If you didn't, I would have something to say about it, as you'd be of no use to me then."

He gave her a sardonic smile. "At least I am some good to you," he replied. "Erik never had so much as the smallest chance to be of that sort of use to any woman before."

Being reminded of this had seemed to get Erik out of his irritated mood, and he had gone off to the tailor later that day in what appeared to be better spirits. Now he seemed tense again though, and was casting her strange looks as he directed the delivery men in their moving of the boxes. Christine could not imagine why. The day had started out well enough. She went toward him, slightly concerned, and he left the workers and took her by the hand.

"Come into the parlour," he said. "I have…something to show you."

She felt suppressed anticipation about him, and fear, too. What was going on? She followed him obediently through the front door, through the tiny foyer, and into the main room with the bay window, which they had decided would serve them as a parlour.

Standing under the bay window was…a sewing machine. A brand new one, its black metal polished and gleaming, and painted with many-coloured flowers. Its table was polished, the morning light shining on the fine grain of the wood. She stood stock-still, staring at it.

"Is it…is it all right?" said Erik tentatively. "I got it for you because…well, I remembered that you were starting to make clothes for…for the child when I became angry about it, and we had that quarrel. I thought maybe…you would like a sewing machine to use, to save you some time."

Several potential comments ran through her mind at once. She could have said, Er-ik, no one puts a sewing machine in the parlour! She could have said, But I was planning to make all the baby's clothes by hand. But he was standing there looking anxious, and so she said none of them. Instead she stepped closer and pressed his hand, and said, "Thank you, dear. It was so thoughtful of you."

"I am glad you like it," he said, sounding relieved. The confidence which he vastly preferred to project settled over him again, like a coat of mail, and he went over to the machine and began telling her how it was the best model to be had and why. She merely listened and thought about how maddeningly contrary he was, and how touchingly sweet he could be when he took a mind to. He had gotten her this as an apology for his unpleasant behaviour, and so she would use it, despite the fact that the light would have been much better for sewing in the room upstairs which she had already picked out for a sewing room, the smallest of the house's three small bedrooms. She only hoped he would not mind the occasional dropped pin on the floor.

O-O-O

There was nothing, absolutely nothing, thought Erik luxuriously, pulling up the blankets, as wonderful as curling up to a warm, soft, fragrant woman when one was exhausted and chilled to the bone.

He'd been out of the underground house most of the evening, engaged in blocking off the various entrances and exits to it so he could move out of his home and still be assured that no intruder would manage to get in. When he'd returned late in the evening, fatigued, cold, and wet through with sweat and lake water both, Christine had already gone to bed. Erik had briefly contemplated a hot bath, but the desire to have his arms round his wife's enchanting form was too great. So he'd stripped, washed quickly with the aid of bowl and pitcher, and thrown on his warmest nightshirt before sliding into bed. He wrapped an arm around her waist now, and drew himself tightly against her, revelling in the bliss of it. Tucking what passed for his nose into her silken hair, he prepared to go thankfully to sleep. Every muscle ached, and his eyelids felt unbearably heavy.

Other parts of him, however, had taken immediate notice of their advantageous proximity to a desirable woman, and were now demanding to know why he wasn't doing anything about the fact. Erik attempted to ignore this. He was far too tired for that. And he ought not wake Christine, anyway; she needed her rest more than ever now.

His hand was under her night-dress. When had that happened? He stared reprovingly at the offending appendage, which paid no attention and commenced sliding its way up her lush thigh. A pause to cup fingers adoringly, and then upward again till the same fingers could curve themselves around a breast.

Well, that was all right. Sleeping like that was very nice as well. Her night-dress was all rucked up on his arm, though. He should really remove his hand and hold her over the gown.

Of their own accord, it seemed, his hips pressed themselves eagerly against her impossibly round backside. His own nightshirt had somehow become drawn up, too, so that naked flesh touched.

Stop, he said silently, and put his head back down, trying once more for sleep. Too late. Christine was waking up, doubtless stimulated by meddling hands and cold skin. He knew he should have kept himself under better control. She made a low, half-asleep sound in her throat, and he realised that she was amused. She pressed her hips back against him, and executed a slow, deliberate back and forth movement.

Well, if she were going to do that, he absolved himself completely of responsibility for the resultant male reflex, which in any case had been already well underway before she became an active participant in the process. Erik decided it was time to take steps.

"I am sorry I woke you," he murmured quietly. "I did not mean to."

"Oh, really?" He could hear the smile in her voice, and wished briefly that he could see it on her face.

"Yes. I am sorry that my…appreciation for your loveliness got out of hand."

She reached back and took him in hand, showing remarkable accuracy in the darkness. "Mmmmm," she said.

"Ignore that. I do not intend to disturb your rest."

"Oh, but it's my obligation as your wife," she said sweetly. "And you seem to be in quite a state."

"Not at all, I assure you," he answered, kissing her shoulder. "I am exhausted, in fact."

"Only above the waist," she replied, caressing him in a manner which was not assisting him to fall asleep at all. "Below it you are perfectly awake."

"Well, you're certainly not helping matters, woman," he grumbled. "I am trying to be a gentleman."

She took his hand, and moved it between her thighs. He was surprised, but most pleasantly so.

"I thought you were tired."

"I sat up waiting for you as long as I could," she answered. "Do I feel…tired?"

"Not in the least."

"What are you waiting for, then?"

Further resistance being clearly both futile and undesirable, he set about his task eagerly, letting his fingers do what they would now. She arched back against him and angled her hips just so, and he slid joyfully home. A long sigh from both of them; Christine draping one leg delightfully over his; hands entwining. Cold water and damp corridors and hard labour all seemed very far away to Erik as he moved within her warm depths, sighing with pleasure as he took up the instinctive rhythm. She pushed eagerly back against him, and he took his time about it until they both were satisfied.

Sleep came quickly, afterward. Being a ghost was all very well for a certain amount of amusement and financial gain, but it was also damned uncomfortable at times. Chill passageways and shrieking ballet girls could not even come close to comparing to…this. Erik put his arm back around Christine and held her close. Once he had wished to be something other than human, but not anymore.

O-O-O O-O-O