Chapter 4
A Sickness of Two Sorts
Jocelyn did as she promised Lacy, she didn't wake her until very late.
At one in the afternoon, Jocelyn came awake, but was still absolutely exhausted after having a dream she didn't understand and could barely remember. What she could remember were bright, flashing, swirling colours and lights and people, everywhere, there were people. Dancing and laughing and cheering, and she herself was someone she did not recognize.
And there was a man. A man she knew she would recognize if she could only get one full glimpse of his face. He was trying to tell her something, yelling at her, but he sounded so far away, and all she could do was go along with what everyone else was do. It was psychotic, and she was terrified, but all she wanted to do was grab onto this man she could barely recognize...
The moment she finally got her dream to pause, she walked through the frozen atmosphere. People were motionless, like statues, in whatever position they were her dream finally came under her control. The dancers were still, their faces wreathed in gigantic grins and their skirts were twirled and the colours almost blinding. The men had their top hats in hand, and hair was flying in the air, and laughs and voices echoed in the huge room.
She walked around in what seemed slow motion, in this room of human statues. The man she was trying to recognize was standing alone with his back to her. She was reaching out, trying to get to him, saying his name but she couldn't hear her own words. She was about to touch his shoulder when in very slow motion, her mind sunk back into reality, and she awoke.
Groaning, Jocelyn opened her eyes. She rolled over onto her side, reaching up to rub her eyes. Her dream ran over and over in circles around her mind, still fresh. "Por le amour de Dieu," she muttered when the sun hit her eyes through the windows where she had forgotten to pull the drapes over.
She had a terrible headache, and all she could do was pull the string that rang a bell in Lacy's room. A few moments later, Lacy came in, up and dressed, all smiles, holding some fresh linen in her hands. "Are you up, miss?"
"Yes, Lacy, could you help me up? I fear I don't feel very well this morning."
Concern crossed Lacy's face, and she set the linens down on the padded chair next to the door. "What's the matter?" She pulled the thick comforter and duvet away from Jocelyn, who let Lacy grip her arm and help her sit up. She gripped her head, "Oh, dear, I have a terrible headache."
Lacy let go of her arm for a moment and went over to close the drapes. "Let me get you some powder." She rushed out of the room and came back with the medicine and a glass of water. She spooned the aspirin into the water and mixed, then handed it to Jocelyn, who drank the bitter brew. "Are you alright?"
"Yes, Lacy, thank you." Jocelyn handed the emptied glass back to Lacy. "Will you get my father?"
"Yes, ma'am." Lacy hurried away.
Jocelyn lay back against the pillows, gasping in breath at the sharp pain in her head. "Ow," she mumbled, and lay back against the pillows. She was absolutely fine until... until that dream... and that man...
She closed her eyes and began to wonder about her dream when the door opened and Lacy and Henry rushed in. "Darling, what's the matter?"
Jocelyn looked up at her father. "Papa, I think I'm terribly ill."
"What's the matter?" He reached out to stroke her hair. "Do you need anything?"
"Tea, and sleep." She said, already drifting off. A picture floated across her mind. Home. "I want to go to the country..."
"The country?" Henry looked at Lacy who was hovering behind him. "Is she delusional?"
"No, I don't think so. I think she means home."
"Oh, home. Home! Home. You want to go to home?"
Jocelyn stared up at her father. "The country, home, yes."
"Lacy, go fetch your mistress some tea," Henry admonished, and Lacy gave Jocelyn one last glance before rushing out of the room to do as told. "Darling, why do you want to go to the house?"
"Air. It's so suffocating here." She explained. "We've been here for weeks."
"But I can't go now, dear," Henry said, perplexed. "I'm working with-," he stopped when Jocelyn interrupted.
"Aunt. Tell Aunt Caroline, she'll come with me. Please. I'll come back when I feel better, I don't want to miss the Season, and I'm sure Aunt Caro won't want to either."
The Season was barely just beginning, and Jocelyn still had to be fitted for new ballroom dresses and sitting dresses, all sorts of dresses, and there were parties to attend, parties to plan, but right now, all she could think about was the pain, and how she felt suffocated. She didn't understand it exactly, but her head was pounding and she could barely think.
Her mouth was dry, her eyes burned. Lacy came back in, carefully making her way around Mr. Williams to set the tea tray on the antique nightstand. She poured the hot chamomile into a china cup decorated with yellow flowers, then handed it to Jocelyn, who took it with a grateful smile and sipped at it. "Oh, Lucy, you're wonderful." She sat back against the pillow, cradling the warm cup. The pain was subduing a bit, but the pain was still fresh in the front of her skull.
"Aunt Caroline?" Henry was saying, then sighed. "All right, sweeting." He took the cup from Jocelyn, tucked her back in. "Sleep, and I'll have a message sent straight to her..." Jocelyn drifted off to sleep.
**
Christian stared once again at Mr. Taylor's blue front door. It had, once again, been shut in his face.
Anger seethed through him, and he continued to knock and ring the bell. All he could think about was that script. It was quite simply, his life. His memories. The only thing that kept Satine with him, other than the dreams that frequently visited him at night.
"Mr. Taylor! I only want my script!" He was yelling, and was surprised when the door opened, and a young woman in a simple blue cotton dress with a full skirt and small white apron tied over it answered.
"May I help you, sir?" The pretty, but harried young maid asked.
"Yes, I want my script."
"Script? Oh, you must be here to see Mr. Taylor," Lacy began to step away from the door to invite him in and offer him tea, but stopped when he said:
"No, I'm here to see his daughter. I ran into her in the hallway and she switched our damn scripts." His voice had risen four pitches higher than it should have been, and Lacy half stepped outside with him to close the door a little bit. "Sir, please, be quiet. What are you talking about?"
"A script. The script. I need it," he said, sounding almost as if he was whining instead of pleading. He ran his hand through his already untidy hair. "I need it back."
Lacy knew what script he was speaking of, but Lacy knew that Jocelyn had probably hidden in, and she had no idea where, and she couldn't very well ask her now. "Miss Williams is rather sick, Monsieur... Monsieur?"
"Taylor."
"Ah, Monsieur Taylor. I apologize for her. But she is sick with a migraine and is about to retire to the country for a couple of weeks. Please. Come back at another time, and I'm sure she will gladly give it back."
"You don't know where it is, miss?"
Lacy smiled at him, the dimples in her cheeks winking, trying to keep him in his calm state. "Non, monsieur, I am sorry. But I will tell her when she is awake that you have come looking for it."
Christian stepped back, one hand resting on the small of his back, one resting mid motion of running it through his hair again. "All right, then. All right. Thank you, miss. I'll check back in a few weeks. Thank you..." In a rather dazed state, he walked away, and went back home.
Once there, he sat at the table and stared at the wall. Everything he had devoted his life too was missing, and it was driving him absolutely mad. He needed Satine back, he needed... he needed... the words clogged his brain and he began to sob. He hunched forward in the chair, gripping himself around the waist with his left arm and fisting his right hand in his hair.
He thought these feelings were over. He thought he could go on. But he wasn't ready. He didn't know what to do, what to say to anyone, how to live without her by his side....
"I don't want you to sleep with him."
Christian had grabbed Satine on her way off of the stage after a fatal mistake he had just made by yelling at the duke in front of everyone 'She doesn't love you!' as he questioned why the play was ending with the courtesan marrying the penniless guitar player instead of the duke, who could support her financially. As it had been in real life.
And Christian had slipped. He had let their secret out.
But all Satine could do was hold him against her, nuzzle her face into his. "You promised you wouldn't be jealous, Christian. I have to."
"No, please... No." He had pleaded with her, begged, he had cried, held her face in his hands and pleaded. "You can't."
"Christian, I'm sorry..."
Christian sat now, still crying and hunched in the chair. "Satine," he murmured. She had been here. He could almost smell her, and he could still feel her presence. She was always with him.
Always, always with him.
And it was driving him mad. Absolutely mad.
She had promised him she would always be here, even as she died. And in a way, she was.
He was terrified to let her go. He loved her so much.
So much...
A Sickness of Two Sorts
Jocelyn did as she promised Lacy, she didn't wake her until very late.
At one in the afternoon, Jocelyn came awake, but was still absolutely exhausted after having a dream she didn't understand and could barely remember. What she could remember were bright, flashing, swirling colours and lights and people, everywhere, there were people. Dancing and laughing and cheering, and she herself was someone she did not recognize.
And there was a man. A man she knew she would recognize if she could only get one full glimpse of his face. He was trying to tell her something, yelling at her, but he sounded so far away, and all she could do was go along with what everyone else was do. It was psychotic, and she was terrified, but all she wanted to do was grab onto this man she could barely recognize...
The moment she finally got her dream to pause, she walked through the frozen atmosphere. People were motionless, like statues, in whatever position they were her dream finally came under her control. The dancers were still, their faces wreathed in gigantic grins and their skirts were twirled and the colours almost blinding. The men had their top hats in hand, and hair was flying in the air, and laughs and voices echoed in the huge room.
She walked around in what seemed slow motion, in this room of human statues. The man she was trying to recognize was standing alone with his back to her. She was reaching out, trying to get to him, saying his name but she couldn't hear her own words. She was about to touch his shoulder when in very slow motion, her mind sunk back into reality, and she awoke.
Groaning, Jocelyn opened her eyes. She rolled over onto her side, reaching up to rub her eyes. Her dream ran over and over in circles around her mind, still fresh. "Por le amour de Dieu," she muttered when the sun hit her eyes through the windows where she had forgotten to pull the drapes over.
She had a terrible headache, and all she could do was pull the string that rang a bell in Lacy's room. A few moments later, Lacy came in, up and dressed, all smiles, holding some fresh linen in her hands. "Are you up, miss?"
"Yes, Lacy, could you help me up? I fear I don't feel very well this morning."
Concern crossed Lacy's face, and she set the linens down on the padded chair next to the door. "What's the matter?" She pulled the thick comforter and duvet away from Jocelyn, who let Lacy grip her arm and help her sit up. She gripped her head, "Oh, dear, I have a terrible headache."
Lacy let go of her arm for a moment and went over to close the drapes. "Let me get you some powder." She rushed out of the room and came back with the medicine and a glass of water. She spooned the aspirin into the water and mixed, then handed it to Jocelyn, who drank the bitter brew. "Are you alright?"
"Yes, Lacy, thank you." Jocelyn handed the emptied glass back to Lacy. "Will you get my father?"
"Yes, ma'am." Lacy hurried away.
Jocelyn lay back against the pillows, gasping in breath at the sharp pain in her head. "Ow," she mumbled, and lay back against the pillows. She was absolutely fine until... until that dream... and that man...
She closed her eyes and began to wonder about her dream when the door opened and Lacy and Henry rushed in. "Darling, what's the matter?"
Jocelyn looked up at her father. "Papa, I think I'm terribly ill."
"What's the matter?" He reached out to stroke her hair. "Do you need anything?"
"Tea, and sleep." She said, already drifting off. A picture floated across her mind. Home. "I want to go to the country..."
"The country?" Henry looked at Lacy who was hovering behind him. "Is she delusional?"
"No, I don't think so. I think she means home."
"Oh, home. Home! Home. You want to go to home?"
Jocelyn stared up at her father. "The country, home, yes."
"Lacy, go fetch your mistress some tea," Henry admonished, and Lacy gave Jocelyn one last glance before rushing out of the room to do as told. "Darling, why do you want to go to the house?"
"Air. It's so suffocating here." She explained. "We've been here for weeks."
"But I can't go now, dear," Henry said, perplexed. "I'm working with-," he stopped when Jocelyn interrupted.
"Aunt. Tell Aunt Caroline, she'll come with me. Please. I'll come back when I feel better, I don't want to miss the Season, and I'm sure Aunt Caro won't want to either."
The Season was barely just beginning, and Jocelyn still had to be fitted for new ballroom dresses and sitting dresses, all sorts of dresses, and there were parties to attend, parties to plan, but right now, all she could think about was the pain, and how she felt suffocated. She didn't understand it exactly, but her head was pounding and she could barely think.
Her mouth was dry, her eyes burned. Lacy came back in, carefully making her way around Mr. Williams to set the tea tray on the antique nightstand. She poured the hot chamomile into a china cup decorated with yellow flowers, then handed it to Jocelyn, who took it with a grateful smile and sipped at it. "Oh, Lucy, you're wonderful." She sat back against the pillow, cradling the warm cup. The pain was subduing a bit, but the pain was still fresh in the front of her skull.
"Aunt Caroline?" Henry was saying, then sighed. "All right, sweeting." He took the cup from Jocelyn, tucked her back in. "Sleep, and I'll have a message sent straight to her..." Jocelyn drifted off to sleep.
**
Christian stared once again at Mr. Taylor's blue front door. It had, once again, been shut in his face.
Anger seethed through him, and he continued to knock and ring the bell. All he could think about was that script. It was quite simply, his life. His memories. The only thing that kept Satine with him, other than the dreams that frequently visited him at night.
"Mr. Taylor! I only want my script!" He was yelling, and was surprised when the door opened, and a young woman in a simple blue cotton dress with a full skirt and small white apron tied over it answered.
"May I help you, sir?" The pretty, but harried young maid asked.
"Yes, I want my script."
"Script? Oh, you must be here to see Mr. Taylor," Lacy began to step away from the door to invite him in and offer him tea, but stopped when he said:
"No, I'm here to see his daughter. I ran into her in the hallway and she switched our damn scripts." His voice had risen four pitches higher than it should have been, and Lacy half stepped outside with him to close the door a little bit. "Sir, please, be quiet. What are you talking about?"
"A script. The script. I need it," he said, sounding almost as if he was whining instead of pleading. He ran his hand through his already untidy hair. "I need it back."
Lacy knew what script he was speaking of, but Lacy knew that Jocelyn had probably hidden in, and she had no idea where, and she couldn't very well ask her now. "Miss Williams is rather sick, Monsieur... Monsieur?"
"Taylor."
"Ah, Monsieur Taylor. I apologize for her. But she is sick with a migraine and is about to retire to the country for a couple of weeks. Please. Come back at another time, and I'm sure she will gladly give it back."
"You don't know where it is, miss?"
Lacy smiled at him, the dimples in her cheeks winking, trying to keep him in his calm state. "Non, monsieur, I am sorry. But I will tell her when she is awake that you have come looking for it."
Christian stepped back, one hand resting on the small of his back, one resting mid motion of running it through his hair again. "All right, then. All right. Thank you, miss. I'll check back in a few weeks. Thank you..." In a rather dazed state, he walked away, and went back home.
Once there, he sat at the table and stared at the wall. Everything he had devoted his life too was missing, and it was driving him absolutely mad. He needed Satine back, he needed... he needed... the words clogged his brain and he began to sob. He hunched forward in the chair, gripping himself around the waist with his left arm and fisting his right hand in his hair.
He thought these feelings were over. He thought he could go on. But he wasn't ready. He didn't know what to do, what to say to anyone, how to live without her by his side....
"I don't want you to sleep with him."
Christian had grabbed Satine on her way off of the stage after a fatal mistake he had just made by yelling at the duke in front of everyone 'She doesn't love you!' as he questioned why the play was ending with the courtesan marrying the penniless guitar player instead of the duke, who could support her financially. As it had been in real life.
And Christian had slipped. He had let their secret out.
But all Satine could do was hold him against her, nuzzle her face into his. "You promised you wouldn't be jealous, Christian. I have to."
"No, please... No." He had pleaded with her, begged, he had cried, held her face in his hands and pleaded. "You can't."
"Christian, I'm sorry..."
Christian sat now, still crying and hunched in the chair. "Satine," he murmured. She had been here. He could almost smell her, and he could still feel her presence. She was always with him.
Always, always with him.
And it was driving him mad. Absolutely mad.
She had promised him she would always be here, even as she died. And in a way, she was.
He was terrified to let her go. He loved her so much.
So much...