Author's Note: There seems to be a cosmic conspiracy to keep me from writing and updating my story as often as I would like. Mainly this has to do with my dying computer at home. However, I shall continue updating from my computer at work. But weekend updates may not as frequent as they were until I can either get my computer repaired or buy a new one.

Thank you and enjoy.


Erik's eyes widened with the shock and disappointment that I alone had caused with my clumsy confession. My gut wrenched at the sight and I could no longer bear to look upon him that way.

Collapsing into one of the wooden chairs, I tried to compose myself as Erik paced the room like a caged animal.

"I am so sorry, Erik," I sobbed. "I suppose I should have told you sooner."

"That would have been the practical thing to do," he said, the familiar coldness returning to his voice.

"Please don't make sport of me!"

"Believe me, Mademoiselle, there is very little of this situation that I find amusing...Or should I say Madame?"

"I have no excuse except that ever since I have come to Paris, I have tried everything in my power to forget my marriage. It is not easy to talk about."

"You owe me no explanations, Madame," Erik said as he started to pick up his cape and hat, apparently preparing to leave.

"No!" I slammed my hand against the table. "I will tell you and you will hear it!"

With a sigh, he sat down again, placing his hat on the table and his cape draped over his lap. "As you wish..."

"If only I knew where to begin..."


I knew of no way to explain this horrible debacle to Erik without giving him some idea of my family background.

My father, Gerard DuBois, was a most unusual man. He had settled in Tennessee for mysterious reasons that have never been explained to me. An inventor, a poet, a historian...admired for his knowledge but feared for his eccentricities. The fact that he was a foreigner did not help matters. For in Memphis social circles, if one was not a God-fearing Christian Southerner with a respectable pedigree, one was immediately prey to suspicion and ostracism. However, this never bothered my father as he was not a man to follow anyone's rules.

Isabella Hamilton, my mother, fell in love with him at once.

She was rumored to have been one of the most fetching debutantes in her day, although I have never been able to imagine her as such. She was raised to be the perfect Southern belle.

At a fateful party, Gerard asked Isabella to dance. From that moment on, theirs was an inseparable union. It was not hard to see why they were so infatuated with each other. My father was not only a genius in his own right, but a burly bear of a man with long golden locks and a deep husky voice made even more romantic by the French accent. He was quite attractive in a primitive sort of way and utterly unlike any suitor my mother had ever known. As for Gerard, he must have been captivated by my mother's beauty, innocence and grace. All qualities which he lacked. The opposite natures fused together in an unbreakable bond.

With all of the heady romance of youth, they agreed that they must elope at once. So they did.

My grandmother, Daphne Hamilton, was infuriated. To the Hamilton clan of Memphis, social position and wealth meant everything. She had felt that Gerard was a laughingstock and a disgrace because of his strange ways. Thus, she cruelly cut off my mother from the family fortune. My parents were not the most practical people when it came to matters of economy. Especially after I had been conceived, the strain and hardship of their plight caused their marriage to decline.

To the shame of my mother, I had grown up to become every bit as eccentric as Gerard. It was only natural. He was the only adult in my life who bothered to spend time with me. For my mother, I was a pretty little doll to be dressed up and coddled and shown off to her friends; yet, in the privacy of our home, I was a nuisance that she wanted little to do with. My father, on the other hand, would sit with me every day and read to me. He would endeavor to teach me as much as he could about as many subjects as possible. He was my best friend.

Yet, he was not infallible for the poverty and marital decline had taken a toll upon him. He began to drink heavily and often. His drunkenness resulted in his death. Having joined his friends on a hunting expedition, he had imbibed too much, fallen off his horse and broken his neck.

I was only sixteen when he died and felt as if I were adrift in a storm without a compass. I was consumed with anger and hurt. If my father had loved me as much as he had claimed, how could he have allowed himself to decline so? Life became too harsh for me to bear. I kept to myself a lot, no longer willing to tolerate the sympathetic looks of our acquaintances. I could not continue with my studies as they only reminded me of father. But my grief was so intense that I had to release it somehow; thus, I began to write. At first, they were small little poems. These blossomed into stories which grew into books. This opened up a whole new world for me...a kinder world with no death. For some time, I lost myself, writing like a fiend in the shelter of my room, making up all sorts of fanciful romances.

My mother had her own hell to bear after Gerard's death. Not only was she wracked with grief and guilt, but she also had the burden of paying off our debt as well as supporting me. It was some time before my mother began to notice the behavior of which she heartily disapproved. I was a young lady and I had no business closing myself off in my room dreaming all of the time. I needed to find a husband. I suspect her haste in getting me married off was out of the hopes that her own responsibilities would lessen.

Around the time of my eighteenth birthday, there was a large ball to be held in Memphis that my mother forced me to attend. Having purchased an elaborate gown for me, she would not let me leave the house until every detail of my appearance met to her satisfaction. I looked every bit the porcelain doll that she had always wanted me to be.

Although my mother had drummed into me all of the social etiquette and graces that she could, I bitterly hated attending social events of any sort. I never knew anyone that I wished to speak to. I never cared to engage in insipid conversations with shallow people. And even when I would sit silently alone, I could always sense that people were laughing and whispering about me.

I had been in just this sort of situation at the ball when I had the misfortune to make the acquaintance of Franklin Truman.

He was a comely young man with dark locks and chocolate-colored eyes. When he introduced himself to me and asked me to dance, I was relieved to no longer be under the scrutiny of the local gossips. Although we did not have much in common, he did make me laugh and could be incredibly charming.

The next day, he came to call upon me at home. I was stunned as I had not expected our acquaintance to surpass that night of the dance. My mother was beside herself with pleasure, going out of her way to make hearty meals for him and encouraging him to come over as often as he wished. After only a few visits, he proposed to me. I knew my mother would be pleased to see me married. So I agreed.

Perhaps if my father had been alive, he would have prevented me from making such a hasty decision. He would have told me to pause and to listen to my heart. Yet, I felt that my heart had been buried with him in his coffin.

So Franklin and I were married, but I had quickly become a bitter disappointment as a wife.

In the first place, because of the reputation of the Hamilton wealth, he was under the misconception that he would be marrying into money, not privy to the details of my grandmother's actions. Secondly, he had very little interest in writing or music or any of my enjoyments; so he was not as enamored with my company as he had pretended to be during our courtship. But perhaps the most significant upset occurred on our wedding night.

Although I was quite willing to do my duty by him, I had not expected such agonizing pain with our union. I felt as I were being torn apart and I could not hold back my tears. I had hoped that with the taking of my maidenhead, the horrid torture would be over. And yet with every move that Franklin made against me, my body screamed with pain. Afterwards, he lost his patience with me and said the most horrible things to me...that I had failed him as a wife, that I was as cold and frigid as ice, that he could not see how we would ever start a family if our consummation was such an ordeal for me...

Twice more, we had come together as man and wife, but each time was just as hurtful. I would bite my lip to keep from crying and try to silently endure.

Not even a week after our wedding, Franklin promptly took all of his belongings and disappeared. I had been out shopping for household supplies just to return to find our new home ransacked and abandoned by him. He left no letter explaining his actions. One was not necessary. I knew why he had left.

My mother could not have been angrier with me. She said that I was useless dreamer just like my father and an embarrassment to her. She said that she had done her best by me; yet, I had failed her. No longer willing to suffer my company, she suggested that I stay with her estranged mother, Daphne Hamilton. Rumor had it that she was ill and might benefit from the presence of a family member.

I was quite willing to go. After Franklin's betrayal, I had once again returned to my safe world of make-believe. All I cared to do was write and be left alone. At least, if my grandmother were so ill, she would not bother me as long as I did my duty by her.

Daphne Hamilton was not entirely the monster that I had believed her to be while growing up. Yes, she was set in her ways. Yes, social position and breeding meant too much to her. Yes, she had been horribly cruel to my parents. But as I attended to her, I saw that we had some common ground. She was quite fond of opera, music and ballet. She had spent the majority of her life giving donations to various artistic venues that had suffered with the aftermath of the Civil War. Perhaps her most bitter regret about her condition was that she could not longer all of the performances and recitals that she loved. While I would rub ointment on her wrinkled flesh, she would tell me stories of some of her favorite operas. While she would rest, she would have me play the piano for her.

One day, she inquired what I did with myself when not in her company. I confessed to her my compulsion to write. She was quite curious to see my stories and demanded to read them. As she was essentially my sole means of support now, I had no choice but to bend to her will. She became quite enraptured with my stories. Soon, she wanted to read everything that I had written. After that, she demanded I write more. We started to become quite fond of each other's company.

After her death, no one had expected my grandmother to leave me with the bulk of her inheritance, least of all my mother who was livid. Although the Civil War had depleted some of the estate, there was certainly enough money for me to be comfortable. There was also enough for me to follow my dream: to escape from Tennessee and all of the hurtful people and memories there.

As soon as I could, I arranged a booking for Paris. My father had often spoken to me of how grand Paris was and how someday we would go there together on a family trip. Although that dream could never be, I knew that this was the right course of action for me. I could truly explore my creative urges to my heart's desire. I could walk the streets without gossip and self-righteous sneers. I could be a new person. The person that I wanted to be.

After having related the whole of my sad tale to Erik, I was silent...with my heart in his hands...waiting for what he would say...