Chapter Three: My All
Disclamer: Moulin Rouge is Bazzie's. "My All" is Mariah Carey's. Yep, that's about all... :P
Author's Note: Yes, I know it took me a long time to get this out… *ducks rotten vegetables* But life just totally got in the way. And I had many drafts for this chapter… *sighs* Anyway, enjoy. J
* * *
Snow had begun to fall again outside, tiny snowflakes clinging to the carriage window. It almost seemed that they begged to be let into the carriage, into the hot, oppressive air that had built since they'd all climbed in; Christian sitting between his sister and uncle, his parents facing him. He was keeping a tight hold on Emily's hand and gave her a brief smile as the carriage started. After that, he'd started explaining just what had happened in Paris that made him behave so oddly backstage. There were holes in his narrative, Emily noticed: He didn't elaborate on how he and the courtesan had first met, only saying that it had been through "mutual friends".
"… And, well, the actor playing the Sitar Player, he has narcolepsy, he fell asleep just before the last scene. I was the only one who knew his lines and actions, so I had to go on…" He smiled again, his eyes empty. "And you know the rest." His voice trailed off as he gazed around at his family's expressions, all of them somewhat surprised and touched by his story. Algernon, however, seemed to bristling with some contained emotion.
"Well," he said shortly. "Congratulations, Christian. You got what you wanted. You fell in love." The tone of his voice when he said love made Emily cringe: there was a barely checked contempt laced in that tone, like poison. Christian stared at his father, his eyes wide and as glistening as the drops of melted snow that began to slide down the windows.
"I did not ask for this," he said. "I did not imagine it would-"
"That's precisely the problem!" snapped Algernon, his voice rising. "You did not think! You never do!"
"Algernon," said Victoria admonishingly.
"Do not hush me, Victoria! I am not a child-"
"Neither am I," said Christian quietly. "You have no right to interfere in my affairs like this."
"I am your father. I have every right in the world! Especially when you do something as stupid as-"
"As what? Fall in love? I cannot help the way I feel!" Christian was slowly leaning forward, his voice rising to match Algernon's.
"Yes, you can! For god's sake, boy…" Algernon trailed off, apparently in despair.
"I am sorry if I have displeased you, father," said Christian after a pause. "But I love Satine."
"You have been seduced by her," said Algernon. Christian started to reply, but Algernon cut him off, leaning forward in his seat. "Tell me, how did you meet her? Through your friends? What friends are these – brothel keepers, whores, alcoholics – freaks!"
"No!" cried Christian. "They are good people, if only you would look past your prejudices and see that-"
"I do not care about the gutter friends you have made!"
Emily felt quite breathless. She had heard Christian and her father argue many times before, their raised voices trembling throughout the house, leaving plenty of gossip for the housekeeper and gardener to dissect. She had never witnessed it before, and it was obvious from the uncomfortable expressions on Lolol and Victoria's faces that they hadn't either.
"They are not from the gutter," said Christian, oblivious to the carriage's other occupants.
"I am not concerned with them, wherever they are from!" Algernon stopped suddenly, as though a thought had just occurred to him. "This woman… this whore…" Emily saw Christian's hands curl into fists at the mention of that dreaded word. "You have… spent the night with her?" There was a faint note of desperation in Algernon's voice, a plea that what he suspected was not true.
Christian looked at his father for a moment, biting his lip. "What I do in my bedroom is my own business," he said finally. Algernon buried his face in his hands; even Victoria was looking reproachful. There was an exceedingly uncomfortable pause, where everyone avoided each other's eyes.
"Maybe," murmured Algernon finally, removing his hands from his face, "it is not too late. I don't know what… debauchery you have lived here, Christian, but perhaps if you confess now…" He leaned forward earnestly. "Perhaps we can wipe the slate clean… Take you back to England. Forget about this nightmare."
Christian stared at him in disbelieve. "I-I don't believe I'm hearing this," he said finally. "You're telling me to forget the woman I love?" Algernon rolled his eyes, but Christian pressed on, his voice becoming louder and shakier with each word that passed his lips. "You're telling me to forget about her, when she is lying in hospital dying?"
"Christian," began Lolol, "your father doesn't mean that-"
"Yes, I do," interrupted Algernon.
"I won't," snapped Christian. "I can't. Don't you understand? I love her. I l-o-v-e h-e-r. I love her. And I will never leave her! No!" he cried, seeing his father's mouth open. "Not now, not ever! I will spend the rest of my life with that woman, and the next life-"
"Christian," began Lolol again.
"I would rather spend eternity in hell with her by my side than face heaven alone!" shouted Christian, his eyes wild with anger.
"Christian!" cried Victoria, her eyes wide with horror.
"Don't be a fool, boy," hissed Algernon. "She is a whore – she cannot love you! She is paid to make men believe that!"
Christian started and seemed temporarily struck dumb. He shook his head, as though to clear an image or memory from his mind. "I do not pay her. Love cannot be bought – it can only be given freely!"
"A woman like that knows only the value of material things."
"Stop this!" cried Christian, looking so wounded that Emily wanted just to fling her arms around his neck and comfort him. She did not dare, though, and instead only took his hand again. She was trembling from head to toe, feeling as though the echoes of the words flung about would forever resonate in her head. "Why can you not understand this?" continued Christian. "I love her. She loves me-"
"What about this Duke, then, hmm? Is she not supposed to be in love with him? How do you know that she is not simply toying with you in the same way?"
"I know her soul. She has shown me her true self, undisguised-"
"She is smoke and mirrors, Christian! A woman like that is nothing but disguises!"
"Will you stop calling her that!" cried Christian, gripping Emily's hand so hard that afterwards she would find bruises like dark deadly flowers creeping across her fingers and palm. "She is a person! Her name is Satine! Her favourite colour is red. Her favourite actress is Sarah Bernhardt, her favourite play, Salomé. She wants to be an actress and leave the Moulin Rouge forever. She wants two children, one boy, one girl. She wants a small house on the edge of town. She wants to grow old with me, to sit out and watch the stars and whisper in her dying breath that she loves me!" Christian sat back slightly, looking grimly satisfied at the expression on his father's face.
Emily sat, looking from one to the other. It was so strange… Christian had never looked like his father: he had always looked like his mother's son. But now, in the light of a single oil lamp and the light streaming in from outside, father and son had never looked more alike. The determined set of the mouth, the flashing eyes… For the first time, Emily saw very clearly how two men so different in their beliefs and temperament could be so alike in their anger.
Christian turned to glance out of the window. Suddenly, he sat up. "The turning," he said, "we missed the turning! The hospital is back there…"
"We're not going to the hospital," said Algernon grimly.
"What?"
"Christian, darling," began Victoria, reaching to take his free hand. "You're tired, you need some food and rest… Just come back to the hotel, have a quick rest and then you can go see her." She smiled gently at him, but Christian did not smile back. He looked as though he'd suffered the most appalling betrayal.
"You…" he whispered, looking from his mother to his father and back again, obviously groping for words. "I have to be with her," he said finally.
"And you will be, dear," said Victoria soothingly. "Just as soon as you've had a good rest. You've been under a great deal of strain…"
Christian carefully pulled his hand from her grip and looked around at his family, searching for an ally. His eyes rested on Emily and she looked away, shutting her eyes against his bewildered expression. Please understand, she thought. We just want what's best for you, that's all…
"You still do not understand," Christian murmured at last. Emily opened her eyes and saw the hurt that still glimmered in his eyes. "I have to be with her."
"Christian, we only want what's best for you – Christian, no!" shouted Algernon as Christian leant over Lolol, opened the carriage door and sprung out into the busy road. Emily screamed and scrambled over her uncle to look out the window. Their own carriage stopped sharply as the driver turned around in his seat to see what had happened. She could just make out a dark shape against the white snow, rolling and narrowly avoiding a horse and cart going in the opposite direction.
"Go on then!" howled Algernon, leaning out of the swinging door. "Go to her! Ruin yourself! I have done with you! Drive on!" he snapped to the driver, and pulled himself back inside, slamming the door on the cold night and his wayward son.
"Algernon!" cried Victoria.
"The boy is a fool, Victoria! He needs to learn-"
"You were too harsh," said Lolol, his mouth set in a narrow line.
Emily tuned out the adult's conversation and looked out the window. She thought she could just make out a figure scrambling to its feet, racing around a corner and out of sight. "Good luck, brother," she whispered, shutting her eyes and resting her head against the cool glass.
Even later, after everything was over, the clearest image Emily would have of her brother was the look of total betrayal in his eyes when he had searched for a friend amongst his own family.
* * *
Christian barely noticed the pain that shot up his left side as he hit the ground: all he noticed was the sudden surreal view of hooves bearing down on him. He cried out and dived out the way, just feeling the brush of the horse's legs against his shirt. He heard a whinny and cries of alarm from his family and other carriage drivers; above it all he heard his father's voice. Well, he thought. At least now I have his permission. Smiling grimly at this, he struggled to his feet and dodged carriages, trying to get his bearings.
As he started running again, towards the hospital, he found himself replaying what had just happened, over and over. Why couldn't they understand? He had to be with Satine. Did they not believe that he loved her, was totally devoted to her? Even his mother – a rest, for goodness' sake? He thought she knew him better than that… And Emily… She didn't understand. She was too young. Christian squeezed his eyes shut. Was this what it came down to? That he would have to choose between his family and his love? He couldn't do that.
You have, he thought. And you chose Satine. You'll always choose Satine. They have each other; she has nobody, nobody who cares for her anyway…
He shook his head and glanced up at the moon, which lit up the snow on the ground like (the pale, pale skin of a dying woman) ethereal lace, spun from the moon's silver orb. The lamplight cast dark shadows (like the ones under her eyes) on the alley Christian was standing in (her limp body, hanging in his arms). He paused, remembering all those times when the moon had been the silent witness to their affair. Please… take my song to her…
"I am thinking of you," he sang, looking up at an ill-lit signpost. "In my sleepless solitude tonight. If it's wrong to love you…" He thought of his family and sighed, his breath hanging in the cold air. "Then my heart just won't let me be right, because I've drowned in you, and I won't pull through without you by my side."
St. Augustin's, said the sign, pointing east. Christian started running again, faster then he'd ever run before. There was a breathless freedom in it, but he had no time to relish the feeling. Satine was ill. She needed him. He didn't want to think about how ill she was, nor how desperately weak she had felt in his arms. He didn't even want to think about what a blasted idiot Harold was, not telling anybody, trying to hide it… As if it would go away.
"I'd give my all," he sang softly, pushing such melancholy thoughts out of his head, "to have just one more night with you. I'd risk my life…" He choked suddenly, a vision of Satine's bloodstained lips floating ghostlike in front of him. "Just to feel your body next to mine. 'Cause I can't go on, living in the memory of our song…"
He trailed off, all thought of song fading from him. The hospital loomed in front of him, and it finally dawned on Christian how tired he was: his legs ached, he could feel blood pounding in his temples and his lungs felt as if they would burst. It reminded him of childish nightmares, where no matter how hard he ran, he was stuck in the same place, feeling the breath of some terrible thing chilling his skin and bone. For a few moments, Christian honestly thought that he was in a nightmare of some kind. St Augustin's didn't seem to get any closer.
"Just as Christian began to feel that he had in fact completely lost his mind, the hospital entrance was there, right there in front of him. He barrelled in through the door, slamming full speed into the reception desk. Before even having drawn breath he asked the bewildered looking nurse behind the desk if she knew where Mademoiselle Satine was. She didn't. Nor did the wan faced doctor, the cleaner, or a whole troop of giggling nurses.
"Excuse me!" called Christian, waving his arm to get a bored looking orderly's attention.
The man looked up slowly. "Ye-es?"
"Do you know where – I mean, a - a dancer from the Moulin Rouge was brought here: do you know where she is?"
The orderly considered this for a moment. "Red hair?"
Christian's knees went faint with relief. "Yes! Do you know-"
"Came in with a fat man? Red hair as well?"
"Yes, now could you possibly-"
"They were dressed very funnily," continued the orderly, oblivious to Christian's impatient, anxious hops. "Like… all Eastern and Oriental. Was it for a play?"
"No," snapped Christian sarcastically, irritated at the man's slowness, "that's how they normally dress. Of course it's for a play!"
"No need to get touchy, like," said orderly, looking highly affronted. "I mean, how'm I supposed to know?"
"Look, I'm sorry," said Christian, restraining the urge to grab the man's white lapels and give him a good shake. "Just… do you know where they are?"
"Oh … Just down the hall, third on the left," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "But-"
"Thank you!" cried Christian, pelting off down the corridor, the orderly shouting after him, "Only family can visit!"
"I'm her secret lover!" tossed Christian back over his shoulder, barely aware of the absurd words he spoke.
First turning on the left… Second… Christian wheeled around the corner, stopped, and slammed his back around the corner again. The Duke was pacing the little waiting area outside the room, his back turned to Christian, Warner sitting next to the door, scribbling something ferociously in a notebook. Christian held his breath for a few seconds. He heard Warner cough and the Duke mutter something unintelligible. Christian ran a trembling hand over his face.
Now what?
*
Satine had once heard from another can-can dancer that her worst fear was being buried alive. At the time, she had scoffed the poor girl, insisting that there were worse things. Now, she wasn't so sure. There seemed to be an impenetrable heavy darkness all around her. She tried to move her arms, her legs, even just wiggle her toes, but her muscles felt tight and painful. She tried to scream, but her lungs seemed unwilling to take a deep enough breath.
Don't panic, Satine, she thought, everything's fine, you're not dead… Focus.
Concentrating all her effort, she forced one eyelid upon, and then the other.
"Mademoiselle?"
Satine blinked, her eyes slowly adjusting to the light. She turned her head towards the man who had spoken, a rather young looking doctor. He had, rather unsuccessfully, tried to cover up his weak chin with a thin beard. He looked so childish that Satine suddenly felt very old and tired. She'd seen and done too much, and it had exhausted her. For a moment, she wished that she could go back, back to a time before Zidler, before the Moulin Rouge, and do things differently. I wouldn't have met Christian without the Moulin, though, she thought, smiling faintly at the irony of it all: if it hadn't been for that brothel, the one place where she couldn't afford to love, she never would have loved. She was interrupted from her thoughts… etc". Huh. That turned out longer then expected. :P I like it, though. J That was what was so wonderful about Christian: yes, he was young, but he'd spent the majority of his life in dreams… about as much time as she had tried to deny the same things.
She was interrupted from her thoughts by a sharp prick in her right arm. The young doctor smiled apologetically at her as he pushed the needle into her skin. She tried to ask him what he was doing, but her throat was red raw: it came out as a croak. He seemed to understand what she meant to ask, though, because he smiled again.
"Just a little injection, mademoiselle… Nothing to worry about." Satine hadn't been particularly worried until he'd said that. She had a sudden terrible idea of what had happened and what was wrong with her; but before she could question him further, he withdrew the needle, patted her shoulder awkwardly and disappeared into the shadows the oil lamp cast over the walls. The door banged shut on his way out.
Satine blinked and tried to look around the room. Any movement of her head made her feel dizzy, though, so she settled for a quick rove with her eyes. She recognised a painting of a church on the wall. She realised that she must be in St Augustin's: that damn church was in every single room. She'd never been a patient herself, but she'd been here many times with other girls, girls who feared they might be pregnant, or not pregnant, or sick, or… This room was much nicer than the other rooms they had been in, though, as evidenced by the oil lamp instead of a stubby candle. Strangely, the curtains hadn't been drawn: the young doctor must have forgotten in his haste to get out. She focused past the superimposed image of the room and looked at the stars breaking through the clouds. The moon hung just behind a wispy looking cloud, and Satine found herself remembering other times when she'd gazed from a bed at the night sky. She sighed.
She'd always claimed that she had few fears, that nothing could touch her, and to an extent it was true. The one wonderful thing about being truly alone was that no one could take anything away from you. And yet the last few months had revealed that there were many things she couldn't bear to have taken away… And most of them started and finished with Christian. If he came, she knew that he would bring her comfort.
He will come. And you will kill him.
Satine nearly cried out as this unbidden thought appeared to her. Consumption was very contagious, she knew that much. That was why everyone feared its outbreak: a Black Death for the new century. What if she had already…?
(Send him away… Hurt him to save him.)
She needed him though. Needed him to come and sit beside her and kiss her hand, smooth the damp hair of her forehead. "He'd probably try and take her mind off the tremor in her mind, try to wipe the images of whores spitting out their lifeblood onto cold streets, and bring her comfort. But what if during all those long, slow summer nights, when all she could hear was his voice, what if during those tender moments-
Stop it, Satine, she scolded herself. Don't be hysterical. He's in perfect health. Why, you've barely heard him do more than clear his throat! He is fine. She gazed back out the window, her thoughts still swirling. But out of all the confusion, she knew one thing for sure: she needed him, the way a drunk needs alcohol, the way Nini needed applause, Toulouse needed to paint. He was her obsession. She needed him. She pushed all thoughts out her mind except that one.
"Baby, can you hear me?" she whispered, staring at the lace-white moon. "Imagining I'm looking in your eyes?" She shut her eyes and smiled faintly, for an instant forgetting the ache in her body and the sharp effort it took to breathe. "I can see you clearly... vividly emblazoned in my mind."
She opened her eyes and felt all the aches and pains flood back harder than ever, cementing his absence.
"And yet you're so far," she murmured, gazing back out the window. "Like a distant star, I'm wishing on tonight…" She scanned the sky for shooting stars but none appeared. Tonight, the heavens didn't want her to wish.
Her eyelids felt heavy again, and Satine wondered very vaguely what it was that the doctor had injected into her. She tried to fight the strong wave of darkness overcoming her. She felt like a child, needing its good night kiss before drifting off peacefully – she wasn't sure if she could sleep with no goodnight sign from Christian.
"'Cause I can't go on," she sighed, sleep prickling her skin, "living in the memory of our song…I'd give my all… For your love… Where are you, Christian?" she whispered finally, stars dancing before her as she slept.
*
Christian had been so desperately searching for a plan that he didn't notice the doctor walking past him, nor the strange look he was given. He didn't even hear the doctor greet the Duke: all he heard was the Duke's indignant hiss.
"What do you mean, I can't see her?"
Christian jumped and pressed himself flat against the wall, trying to edge forward without being noticed from around the corner.
"I'm sorry, monsieur," said the doctor. "But Mademoiselle Satine's condition is-"
"How serious is it?" The Duke's voice was quieter, concerned now.
Pause. "Very."
Christian put his head in his hands. How could he not have noticed? She'd told him that she was sick, but he'd done nothing, assuming it wasn't serious… Assumed that she was trying to protect him from what she did with the Duke. How could he be so self-centred?
"Another doctor will see her in the morning… He is very experienced with consumption. Please, come with me."
Christian had just enough sense to realise that the hallway was not exactly the most ideal hiding place and that there was no Satine around to distract the Duke from his presence. He dived across the hall and fell in through the door into a supply room, only partially shutting it. Through the thin crack he watched the Duke until he was around a corner and out of sight, and suddenly became aware that he was not alone in the room. Slowly, Christian turned around; a woman and a man, whom Christian recognised as the slow orderly, stared at him, looking highly affronted and only partially dressed.
There was an exceedingly uncomfortable pause.
"Sorry," said Christian, before slipping back out the door and closing it firmly behind him, reflecting that there were certain things that he would never have seen had he stayed in London, and that this was most certainly one of those times.
Shaking his head, he stole across the corridor and, checking that the coast was clear, he opened the door a fraction. The room was lit with the gloomy light from an oil lamp and soft moonlight falling through the window. It would have looked the perfect setting for a romantic liaison but for Satine's expression. She did not look peaceful. Her brows were furrowed as if in concentration and her nose wrinkled as Christian entered the room. Dark crescent moons ringed her eyes, and the curve of her cheekbones seemed more pronounced. All this Christian had noticed for weeks now, but thought that it was just nerves and the strain of their secret finally showing: he knew he looked the same. And all the time it had been disease and not secrecy that made her ill.
Gingerly, unwilling to wake her, Christian sat beside the bed. Hesitantly, he reached out a hand and gently brushed the damp curls from her cheek.
"I'm so sorry," he murmured, staring at her face. He took her hand in his and held it against his lips, shutting his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to block out this nightmarish scene. It seemed impossible that so much could happen in such a short length of time: surely something like this took weeks to come about…
It did. You just didn't notice it. And the people who did ignored it… No one wanted to help her.
"Christian?" He jumped a little and opened his eyes to see Satine staring at him sleepily. She smiled faintly, and Christian felt his own lips curve up into a smile.
"Yes," he whispered, kissing her hand again. "I'm here."
"I knew you would come." She paused, searching his eyes for a moment. "Am I dying?"
"No!" whispered Christian, squeezing her hand tightly. "No, darling, you'll be fine, the doctors will…" He trailed off at the expression on her face.
"Don't lie to me, Christian. Please… promise me you'll never lie to me."
Christian swallowed. "I promise," he whispered leaning in to kiss her. To his surprise, she turned her head away from him. "What's wrong?" he asked, hurt and doubt creeping into his mind.
(I choose the maharajah.)
"I'm… You're endangering yourself."
Christian frowned and turned her face towards him. "What do you mean?" he asked, honestly confused by her reactions. She caught hold of his hand.
"I have consumption." Her statement was almost heartbreakingly simple, wistful in a way that made Christian think that she was counting the mistakes she had made in her life, realising too late that there were too many of them. He swallowed.
"I know, darling-"
"Christian, I couldn't stand it if anything happened to you-"
"Shh," said Christian, silencing her protests by laying a finger against her lips. "If you think that you can get rid of me that easily, you're very wrong." She smiled faintly at him. "I won't ever leave you. Ever. I promise you that."
Satine shut her eyes. "Christian-"
"I won't get sick, I promise."
Satine smiled and opened her eyes. "Even you can't promise something like that." Christian laughed softly, but Satine frowned. "Maybe you should go."
Christian froze, feeling a cold stab of hurt and rejection in his heart. "I won't."
"Christian-"
"What are you saying?" cried Christian, desperation making his voice crack. "What do you want me to do? You don't want me around you? You don't want me to touch you?"
"It's not a question of wanting," she said angrily. "I have to think of you…"
"Then don't send me away. Please, Satine," he whispered, his voice shaky. "I love you. In sickness and in health."
Her eyes widened as the words left his mouth. She stared at him for a moment. "You're not going to listen to a word I say, are you?" she said finally.
"No," said Christian. "You're stuck with me." He smiled and squeezed her hand. She smiled at him genuinely.
"Come what may," she whispered after a moment.
"Exactly," said Christian, smiling in relief. "I never write anything I don't mean."
"I know." Christian almost leant in for a kiss again, but caught himself, kissing her hand instead. "Thank you," she whispered.
"You'll be fine. We'll be fine," he said, blinking back tears. Satine said nothing. "You will be," insisted Christian. "You're strong… I promise you. I won't let anything happen to you."
Satine shook her head, and somehow Christian knew that she hadn't meant any of it: she wanted him there. "As long as you're with me…" She coughed, turning her head away from him. "Christian," she whispered when her fit had subsided, "you're hurting my hand."
Christian blinked at her. "Sorry," he whispered, easing his tight hold of her a little. She smiled at him again slowly. "Get some rest," he said finally. "I'll stay."
She shut her eyes almost immediately, asleep a minute later as Christian hummed a lullaby his mother had sung him a long time ago. Once he was certain that she was asleep, he leant his head against the pillow and prayed for few moments of quiet, for a place without dying courtesans and angry fathers and jealous dukes.
*
Somebody cleared his throat. Christian frowned and tried to go back to sleep. Someone coughed. How was he supposed to get any sleep with this racket going on?
"Christian!" snapped a familiar, angry voice. Christian sat up very quickly, nearly toppling off the rickety chair. He blinked and rubbed his eyes against the bright morning sun.
"Uh… Father?" he said finally, resisting the urge to shrink back from Algernon's angry whiskered face.
"Have you been here all night?"
"Um-"
"Hmph." Algernon gave his son one last displeased look before turning to the doctor standing beside him, who appeared to be fighting back his amusement. Christian glanced at Satine, who was staring at Algernon with an almost morbid fascination. She looked at Christian and smiled, although her forehead remained crinkled in thought. He realised that he still had a grip on her hand.
"She needs to start the course right away," said Algernon, ignoring them both completely. "Once a day, every day."
"What course?" asked Christian. Algernon gave him a hard look before walking to the door, gesturing for him to follow. Christian hesitated, glancing at Satine.
"The doctor will explain it to her," said Algernon gruffly. He wrenched open the door. "Come." He marched out the door without a backward glance.
"Is he really your father?" asked Satine quietly, her wide eyes on the door.
"Yes."
She nodded. "You'd better go after him."
Kissing her hand hurriedly and giving the French doctor a brief nod, Christian followed his father out into the corridor, shutting the door quietly. Algernon stood looking at a painting on the wall, his hands clasped behind him.
"You were there all night?" he asked quietly.
Christian nodded. "I told you… I have to be with her."
Algernon sniffed and bounced on his toes a little. Christian knew from long experience that this meant that his father was trying to hide his emotions. Whatever emotion it was, he was doing remarkably well in concealing it: Christian began to feel a little nervous and very, very awake.
"Good," Algernon said unexpectedly. "Your mother was worried that you'd spent the night wandering the streets."
"No. I came straight here-"
"To be with her," finished Algernon impatiently, still staring at the painting. "I know, Christian."
After an awkward pause, Christian repeated his question. "What course?"
Algernon turned to him, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "You know that usually we would send her to a sanatorium, somewhere she can rest… Why that blasted doctor of Zidler's didn't send her when she first diagnosed, I shall never fathom. Idiot frog," he growled. Christian was not surprised at his father's anger: Algernon had always been very intolerant of fools. He was however struck by a sudden thought. How long had Zidler known that she was ill? He hadn't given the matter much thought up till now, too wrapped in worrying about Satine… How long had they known that she was dying and why didn't they get her any help? Christian put his hands in the Sitar Player jacket. He didn't want his father to see how they trembled.
"Yes," he said quietly. "I know."
"She will not be taken to a sanatorium. Not just yet anyway."
Christian stared at Algernon, aghast. "What? Not yet? You-you don't mean that-"
"No. There is another way."
"Another way?"
"Do stop echoing me, Christian."
"I'm sorry."
"It's very annoying." Algernon paused. "Whilst you have been… writing and doing god knows what over here, I and some others back in London have been testing a new medication. You remember Alfred Kingston and Mr Stevens?" Christian restrained himself from asking the obvious question and nodded instead. "Well, we've been working on this for a long time now – almost two years. It's relatively simple to make. I came here early this morning and talked to the doctors... They'll have some ready by tomorrow."
Christian stared at him, suddenly overwhelmed. "You did all that-?" His question hung unanswered in the air. "Thank you," said Christian awkwardly.
Algernon nodded slightly. "It's by no means a cure. But it will help her much more than just rest and fresh air will."
"She'll be alright," whispered Christian. He sat down heavily on a waiting chair, his legs weak with sudden relief.
"Possibly. Combined with rest and fresh air, she has a better chance of recovery. Later, if she gets stronger, she'll be taken to a sanatorium." Christian put his head in his hands, hope trembling through his veins. Algernon placed a hand on his shoulder. "I don't want you to get your hopes up. Her condition is very serious. The illness was left far too long without medical treatment-"
"But you think she'll live?" said Christian, lifting his head to look at Algernon. It was strange, but Christian realised that the only time he had looked his father squarely in the eye was now and when he had said goodbye before leaving England. A strange, weary kind of emptiness filled him, which felt oddly familiar. The same familiarity he had felt when he'd seen his family again. It was like he was greeting something that he had not seen or felt in a long time, but he knew it nonetheless. For the first time, Christian wished that things had been different between him and his proud, old-fashioned father. Algernon was silent for a long time, his dark eyes unreadable.
"I hope for your sake that she is." He made to leave, but Christian grasped hold of the hand on his shoulder fiercely.
"Thank you," he whispered. Algernon's eyes flickered and for just a moment his whole expression softened. It was only a fleeting image though: the next instant, he had stepped away from Christian, dropping his hand.
"I want you to go see the doctor… Get yourself checked."
"I'm fine."
"You can't be sure about that. Confirm it with a doctor. If he's busy…" Algernon hesitated. "Come and find me."
Christian nodded. "All right then."
"I still do not approve of your conduct during your time here. We have much to discuss later."
"I've said everything I can," said Christian.
"You do not repent of the… the disgrace you have brought upon yourself, and your family?"
Christian said nothing. Algernon stood very still.
"Then we have nothing more to say to each other." With that, he turned and marched off. Christian stared down the corridor long after his father had gone from his view.
* * *
Now before, you all start sending me reviews saying "but there was no medicine for TB in 1900!" I know that. I've done quite a lot of research with my beta reader for this fic, so just trust me. If there was no medicine for TB in this alternate universe (please note the word alternate. :P), then this fic would be about five chapters long. As it is, with a cure (of sorts), it's looking on about 10 chapters and three epilogues. :P
Besides, let's face it, MR isn't exactly the most historically accurate film ever made, is it? ;)
Roll Call! Thanks to all my reviewers so far – hugs and kisses to anonymous, Sarah (when is more "A Thousand Words" coming? I'm dying for more!), Divamercury, drama-princess (and when is more "All I Once Possessed" coming? ;) ), MR Rocks, lightning bug (see? It didn't take so long to get this chapter out… ;P), lauryn, wellduh, SummerRose and last, but not least, SatineJames. All you guys really made my day. Thank you! :D
