Disclaimer: I don't own them.
A/N: This is a sequel of sorts to a one shot I posted recently entitled Changing the Course of History.I plan for there tobe a larger, multi-chapter story coming on the heels of this one...provided the muse stays put and keeps whispering in my ear...
The Vicomte Remembers
We made our home in the country.
My family, rich and ancient as they are, had many holdings spread throughout the whole of France. My brother had, in an uncharacteristic show of generosity, given us the use of one of the smaller ancestral chateau's in the south. Admittedly, it was one of the lesser of the family homes, but it was still beautiful.
Prettily situated atop a windswept cliff overlooking the ocean, with lush gardens and creeping ivies, it made the perfect home for us—not so large that it could not be managed by more than just a few servants, but not so small that we ever felt ourselves living below our entitlement.
Christine had fallen in love with the house as soon as she had seen it.
I had been far slower in sharing her regard, though I smiled widely enough for her sake. Country living was not at all to my tastes, and I had abandoned it with relish as soon as I was of an age to do so.
Soon enough, though, I grew content in our situation. And if I never forgot the thrill that had been Paris life, I made quite a good show of pretending that I had. I deliberately forced a blind eye to what I had left behind—parties, galas, salons, and the like—and focused all of my attentions upon what I had gained instead. And Christine was a gain like no other.
We lived well and easily, but I began to grow bored with my prolonged idleness, and so sought and found new distractions to occupy my time. And when, in one of Philippe's letters, he made mention of a long abandoned vineyard that had once thrived on the property, I told myself that I had found my Godsend.
Building a working vineyard was beyond the scope of my knowledge, but I determined to learn it. One of my innumerable ancestors had, I discovered, kept detailed diaries while running the vineyard, and I poured over them. I also made frequent visits to those of my neighbors who owned wineries; gleaning what information I could from their collective wealth of knowledge. And slowly, I learned.
It was hard work, especially—I confess—to one unaccustomed to anything of the kind. But I threw myself into it with pleasure; for hard though it was, it was undoubtedly good work, and I grew to love it far more than I would have ever suspected I could. It gave me a sense of accomplishment that had been too long absent in the life I had led in Paris. Being the toast of society is gratifying to the ego but does little to develop ones character.
And after the long years that it took to get the vineyard into even the semblance of workability, I had developed character in spades. Hard work and diligence proved more satisfying to my soul than the applause of the fawning elite. And when I looked out over the rows of healthy, growing vines, I knew that I was a better man—a stronger man—for my efforts.
I looked back upon my city-self in those days with just the slightest bit of disdain. What a vapid, shallow boy I had been in Paris, I chided myself, to look down upon those who worked for a living. Now, I can smile at the memory of the boy I was. A preening peacock, yes…but I'd had a good heart, if a misguided one.
But those first years in the country were some of the best of my life. I was happier than I had ever been, both with myself and my situation. And beside me, completing my happiness, there was my Christine.
She, indeed, seemed to thrive in our little house by the sea. During the long hours that I was at work in the vineyards, she had discovered a passion of her own—gardening. When we had first taken the house, the gardens were in a sorry state. Neglected for years, they were overgrown and wild in some places and sickly and dying in others.
And soon, the gardens became solely her domain. I offered on one occasion—and one occasion only—to hire a gardener, gently suggesting that such work was not suited to the Lady of the House. The look I received in return for that comment paired with her cold and patent refusal to entertain such a notion left me thoroughly chastened and insured that I would never err in making such a suggestion again.
I was soon glad that I capitulated to her demands, for truly, seeing her digging happily—cheeks pink with exertion and eyes aglow with enjoyment—would put a smile on my face and lightness in my heart. She was charming with her dirty hands, smudged face and muddy skirts…and had never been more beautiful.
But as lovely as she was…and as much as I still loved her…I was already beginning to see a change in Christine.
Her silences grew ever longer; her laughter became a rarity rather than a rule. Where once she had been vibrant and lively, she grew quiet and pale; her eyes distant, her mind strangely preoccupied.
And it was then, some four or five years into our marriage, that she began to dream…
They were not nightmares. She did not scream in terror or thrash about, but her muted sobs woke me nonetheless. When I would wake her in turn, gently shaking her to consciousness, I never read fear in her sleep-blurred gaze. Instead, it was always the same haunted sadness that stared out at me, the same agonized yearning that twisted my heart and knotted my stomach with a nameless fear.
For a very long time, I did not entreat her to share her dreams. I longed to, but instinctively shied from the subject. Perhaps if she had welcomed the comfort I offered in the wake of those dreams, I might have found the words. But she did not. She shrank from my embraces and grew rigid at the sound of my whispered attempts to soothe her.
And every time she turned from me thus, the more certain I became that my long held suspicions were correct. From the earliest days of our marriage, I had, in the deepest parts of my heart, doubted the true strength of her regard for me. The lingering product of what had transpired beneath the Opera, these fears plagued my mind…and always took the same shape; the shape of a kiss—freely given and ardently returned. For a very long time, I dismissed such reservations as foolish and attributed them to nothing more than petty jealousy.
She had, after all, chosen me in the end. She was my wife. We had made a beautiful home and a happy life together. That kiss had been nothing more than a means to secure my safety…a bribe, if you will.
If I had been honest with myself then, as I am now, I would have admitted that what she had offered my rival had hardly been as simple as that. I had seen her face as she moved toward him…I had seen her eyes as she leaned up to capture his lips…I had seen how she hungered for him. She had kissed him with a passion that I had never seen in her since.
And, in this honesty that I so stringently cling to now, I can admit what I hid even from myself then—that he had returned her caresses with greater passion than she ever received from me.
We were, both of us, so young. And very, very foolish.
But I never questioned her on the subject…never allowed my doubts to see the light of day. I buried them deep inside of me and forced myself to forget them. For her part, Christine did the same. She hid herself away so entirely sometimes that I hardly knew her.
But outwardly, and to all the world, she remained the perfect and adoring wife to my happy and devoted husband. They were roles we each of us perfected in our way.
It was in this way that we lived for years, each of us harboring ever-deepening secrets…and ever-mounting regrets. And bit by bit…piece by piece…our marriage began to crumble. We could have gone on forever with our games of pretend. But finally, on a brisk autumn night some eight years after we had made our vows to one another, I realized I simply could not go on anymore.
A night like any other, I still cannot credit why, when her dreams came yet again, I decided that that would be the night that I ended our games. But I did…and I asked…
I asked her what it was she dreamt that saddened her so…made her weep as if her heart were breaking. And once the question lay in the air between us, she stared at me with wide-eyed shock. I stared calmly back, not angered or irritated at her reaction in the slightest…I had, after all, broken an unspoken yet tacitly understood rule.
I do not think she had ever expected me to ask that question. And I do not think she knew how to answer it.
Instead of answering, she merely turned her face from me, allowing the veil of her hair to fall between us and hide her from my view. But I could see her turmoil in the tenseness of her posture, in the pale hands that twisted in the bed sheets till the knuckles showed white. I watched her with a patience that surprised even myself—though I both longed for and dreaded her answer.
And when the words came, spoken in a soft yet resolute voice, I knew that every fear that had ever eaten at me…every doubt that had ever danced through my head…was absolutely, and entirely, true.
She told me, in her clear, gentle way, that there were some questions better left unanswered.
In the seconds immediately following her answer, I lived a lifetime. I could hear every word she had not said as clearly as if she had shouted them from the rooftops. I looked back over the life we had made together and saw, as if for the first time, the great truth I had hidden from for so long.
She had never been mine.
And suddenly, I was as angry as I had ever been. Pure, raw fury swelled through me, sucking me along and tossing me about upon the brutal waves of pain and realization. I raged at her for what felt like hours, though it could not have been more than a few minutes. What I said…what I accused, I still do not know. She never did tell me. And I never did ask.
But she withstood my anger well enough…too well, in fact. She said nothing while I stormed about, her face a placid, unflinching mask. The eyes that watched me pace the room and shake with my fury held no spark of remorse, no flash of contrition.
She was so wholly unmoved by my fit of temper that I felt my ire die a much quicker death than it would have otherwise. And when it was finally spent entirely, she merely folded her hands into her lap and tilted her head to the side, her eyes as serene as ever.
"May I go back to sleep now, Raoul?"
I will never forget those words, spoken in a faintly annoyed voice that told me quite plainly that she was merely indulging me as she would a very small child. My anger could not touch her…my frustration could not move her…because her heart was too far away from me. We stood on opposite shores of a stormy sea now, and I had no hope of ever reaching her again without drowning for my efforts.
She continued to stare at me, waiting for an answer—and I had none to give her. All coherent thought had fled my mind and I could only return her stare blankly. And after a few more tense moments, she sighed deeply. Settling herself back against her pillows, she bid me goodnight, as calm as if nothing untoward had happened between us.
I watched with an embittered tenderness as she slid into slumber, a soft smile upon her lips. And when, after sleep had claimed her entirely, that smile brightened, turning upwards into the most glorious smile I had seen touch her lips in years, my throat constricted almost painfully. But it was when I heard her sweet voice murmur faintly…adoringly…in a sleep-heavy tone, that I felt my heart turn cold in my breast.
For in one whispered sigh, I saw my entire world crumble to ashes; any hopes for our future, any dreams of what we may still be able to build together were swept away on the soft exhalation of a single word—
Erik.
It was over then. I was done with make-believe. I was tired of lies.
The greatest truths of her heart had just been laid bare before me, however unwittingly. And though I had been certain that such was where her affections lay, hearing it so plainly cut me to the quick and left me raw and bleeding inside.
A part of me howled in my wretched pain, screamed for vengeance. And I very nearly shook her awake again, desperate in my need to confront her with the evidence of her own loose tongue. But a greater part of me held me in check; forced me to just look at her. And in looking, I knew I had not the heart to wake her again. Not now. Not when she was so beautiful in her dreaming…so obviously happy.
It had been a very long time since I had seen her smile so easily…and so truly…
So I left her to her dreams…to him.
But only for this one night, and this one night alone. For I refused to play the cuckold in my own house—in my own bed!—marriage vows and societal taboos be damned. I determined then and there that I would confront her, once and for all, on the morrow.
And that night, for the first time in a very long time, I wept.
My days, for the past eight years, had begun with her smiles and ended with her kisses. She had given me greater joy than I could ever hope to find again in this lifetime. She had been my world…my life…my everything.
And though I knew I had to let her go…I could not imagine my life without her.