Disclaimer – See chapter one.  Even though we are visiting Scotland in this part, I'm not going to write the character voices in a dialect, its just too distracting. 

Serendipity

I would be lying if I said that Christian improved the minute we got off the train.  His aunt and uncle and two cousins were there to meet us and although he greeted them with complete civility, he said almost nothing else.  To be fair to him it was raining, but since it rains nearly year-round, neither of us ought to have been surprised.  And it was the middle of the night after a long and exhausting train ride so one could understand a certain lack of spirit at that point.  Still, his behavior towards his aunt was uncalled for.

Mathilda greeted us with her usual vigor, taking my hand in her soft plump ones with a smile that made one just glad to be alive.  Christian she drew directly into her ample bosom and squeezed him tightly, nearly forcing all the air out of his lungs in a single instant.  He gasped out loud and gave me a look of pure malice until she released him.  She pinched his cheek and laughed up at him, "Why just look at you young Chris!  Gone and gotten so tall!  But you've no got a spare ounce on ye!  Well that's no trouble, we'll feed ye up good and proper, put some meat on those long bones a'fore we send ye home." 

She patted his cheek and turned away. I could see her resisting the urge to pinch his cheek again while he was cringing in anticipation of it – all the while trying to look like he wasn't cringing.  I barely kept myself from laughing.

His cousins greeted him with nods and took his bags.  Murtaugh took his arm and towed him along in his wife's wake, greeting him in a more sedate though no less warm manner.  They did have a carriage to take us back to the manor house, but it was nothing like one in London.  While in good repair, the contraption was old and cushions inside thrice replaced.  We all crowded into the one small coach, and I could see Christian fighting to not make derogatory observations about it.

And that was how he continued to behave for the next week, civil, but clearly disapproving of the primitive surrounding I had dragged him off to.  I was beginning to believe that he was irredeemably lost, when one evening I had just come in to find him in the library scribbling in his notebook and looking up cautiously now and then to make sure no one was there to see.  Keeping myself in the shadows I made my way over to see what it was that he was writing.  Just as I was about to step out and peer over his shoulder, the door slammed open and Mathilda bustled in.  Christian closed his book with a snap, but wasn't fast enough to hide it from her.

"Now dearest, what have ye got there that you're workin' on?  I've seen you with that book wherever you go!" She put her hands on her hips and raised her brows, looking down at him expectantly.

He clutched the book to his chest as though it were made of gold, "Oh! Uh, Aunt I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"-Mean to what lad?  Do you think you're insulting us by writing?  What nonsense!"  She rolled her eyes dramatically and laughed.

"Well, no, but I didn't want you to think that I, well, you see…F-father always says-"

"Ha!  Bollocks to your father.  If there is a person in this world who can suck the life out of a room, its that man!"  She shook her head and took his hand, leading him over to the sofa, and then pulling him down to sit beside her.  "Listen to me lad, I don't know what that man has been telling you, but around here I want you to write every minute you find time for it.  Life is for the living!  If the things you write are unflattering to some, so be it, truth will always have value.  But you must learn to write about beauty as well.  Beauty is not just the mountain crags around here covered with green (she had doubtless see him outside watching the landscape and seen him fill pages on it), it's the smile a man gives to a wife he's loved for twenty years, the pride you see in a poor woman's eyes when she's able to give her child a treat, and the happiness that child feels to be given something that you wouldn't give a second thought."  Patting his hand she stood up, "You're young lad, so write about truth and beauty, write about the freedom you long for, but remember you can have none of those things, or they will be meaningless without love."  Before she could leave the room Christian leapt to his feet.

"Aunt Mattie –"

"Yes dear?"

"Thank you."

She nodded wisely, "You're welcome."

After that Christian improved rapidly, he spent less time writing gloomy poetry and unflattering observations about his cousins and more time exploring the countryside, riding with his cousins or working on the estate with them.  His smile and laughter came back and he once more chattered merrily at me every evening about what he was writing and what he wanted to do with his life.  His health and his outlook improving, I took my leave, letting his aunt and her brood take over his recovery.

Back in Paris…

After a quick visit with my bankers it was back to Moulin Rouge to check in on Satine.  She was one of my little projects over the years that kept me living instead of merely existing.  At the Moulin she flourished.  In just two years she had become the star, her natural talent shining through above all the rest.  I was glad to hear it because it saved her from the worst clients and Zidler was anxious to protect his little diamond investment so he made it clear that she was not to be hurt by her customers.  Still I longed to get her out of that place and onto the stage as a real actress.

A chance meeting at a coffee shop led me to Toulouse and my plan to save Satine was in motion.  The wicked little dwarf, as one of his many creative endeavors, was trying to get a play produced.  He had put together a surprisingly talented group of other Bohemians to write a show that would showcase their ideals and was now looking for a theatre to perform their show and a financier to back it.  When I suggested Satine to star in the production Toulouse went wild for the idea and I had a path for her to follow out of prostitution.  However, when I met his little group and listened to their ideas, (and met the writer – a more insufferable creature I never hope to meet again) I was more than a little worried.  There was the germ of a good idea in there, but with so many artists (and people who thought they were artists) giving their input, it appeared the aim of the show would be lost in silly plot devises and moronic songs. (( Author's note – and what the heck am I doing here?  Making fun of myself I guess. ))

The little group needed inspiration.  A single artist should be directing their talents.  That person should have been Toulouse, but his talent lay in inspiring others, not directing them to produce.  He had a vision for his own art, but not for others.  Where would I find the person to lead this little group?  That of course was the moment my weekly letter from Christian arrived, telling me he had returned to London and had had a huge fight with his father about the direction his life was going.  He wanted to leave London and go somewhere his father could not control him.  Serendipity, thy name is Christian!