Chapter 45. Confrontations With The Family

A week had passed since Gregory and Cecille had announced their engagement. Seeing them together, both of them floating upon cloud nine for the first times in their life upon finding someone that loved them and wished to be with them forever, I could not be happier for either one of them.

The feeling of guilt over my actions towards being unfaithful to Gregory would probably remain with me until the day I die, but to realize that he had Cecille, who would love him in ways that I would never be able to, I know that everything that occurred happened for the best. Cecille finally received the love that she was destined to have since the day she met Gregory, and Gregory now understands that the one woman he had been searching for all his life had been with him all along.

"Mon amour," Christian kissed the side of my face as we sat in the carriage of a London street, awaiting our latest adventure. "I don't think I will ever grow tired of you. Want to vanish inside your kiss. Every day I love you more and more."

"I don't suppose that our host will find our actions very appropriate," I giggled. "We are not in the Moulin Rouge anymore, Christian."

"Pity," Christian grinned like a teenager contemplating doing something extremely wicked. "I could rather grow used to our habits of the Moulin Rouge by now."

"Enough," I pushed him away with a laugh. "This is entirely immoral for both of us. We are not even married yet."

"That sure has not stopped us before," Christian raised his eyebrows teasingly. "Especially last night in particular."

"Christian!" I gasped, hoping that the coachman did not hear all of our scandalous talk. "Just imagine the talk that will arise if every person in London becomes aware of everything that we engage in, just within a coach! Imagine what they would think of us outside of this!"

"I assume we will just have to wait to find out," Christian pulled me close to him, kissing me on the forehead. "Did I ever tell you how sweet you taste, mon amour?"

"I suppose so," I shrugged. "I might have forgotten all the past hundreds of times."

"Perhaps I will remind you more?" Christian hinted before we continued on with our affectionate actions within the compartment of our carriage.

Christian's home was a quaint home on a busy street of London. It was nestled between a few manors, making the seven bedroom housecomplete with a library, study, parlor, ballroom, music room, etc seem much smaller than it actually was.

Upon entering his home, I could smell the loftiness the lingered in the air, awaiting our arrival. Christian had explained to me that he had left his home on a terrible note, and so this came as no surprise to find one of the maids, startled by our sudden appearance.

"Christian!" she gasped, staring at him in bewilderment. "What brings you back here? Your father… he is not one to easily forget…"

"I know," Christian interrupted with a smile. "I have mailed my father about all that has occurred and my sudden arrival back in England. He is completely informed and is aware of our visit."

"Good luck then," the maid answered, giving us the sign of the cross before walking away down a corridor.

"So what do you think?" Christian asked me as we went up the stairs that allowed us to look down at the sitting room below us. "Can you picture me growing up in such an atmosphere?"

"No," I answered candidly. "It all seems far too… drab and dull… for your liking. I was picturing something more… lively."

And indeed his home evoked every shade of gray and brown there was to discover. So plain was the décor and completely bare of all ornamental tapestries, pictures, and statues, I felt as if I were sitting in a room designed for the deceased. As dull as salt and pepper, I clung to Christian, squeezing his hand, my one link to life in this house.

"I assume he is in his study," Christian grinned at the thought. "Father was always so studious, Isabel. When I was younger, my father's idea of a day out with me was taking me to his study to pick out a basket of books to read in the garden in the back."

"Better than being tugged around as your mother did what she well pleased with the world," I wrinkled my nose, remembering my childhood days at the Moulin Rouge. "Even as a child, I was exposed to the usual ordeals of the Moulin Rouge. I cannot believe I was surprised when I was sent to the Moulin Rouge after my mom's death. That should have been so obvious to me."

"As far as I'm concerned, you'll never have to go to the Moulin Rouge ever again." Christian promised, slowly opening up a door. "I am not sure how civil my father will act towards me, Isabel, but I am sure he will love you."

Looking into a great room, full of enough books to be a library for all of town, the armchairs that rested in front of a great fireplace remained empty. Perplexity came across Christian's face, who was convinced he would find his father seated either there or at his desk, enthralled in some book or new experiment. I wrapped an arm around him and kissed him lightly.

"Don't worry. He might just be out."

"Only because he knows that I am coming back today," Christian sighed. "He can be quite stubborn. He had his heart set on me not leaving for France."

"Well…" I trailed off to think of something as I locked arms with him. "…while your father is out, we should seize the opportunity for you to provide me with a tour of your house. I would like to see the place that inspired the man that I love when he was growing up."

"See the place that inspired me?" Christian grinned. "I know exactly the place to show you then."

Christian quickened our paces, tugging me along down a hallway with a grin that broadened with each step forward. Exhilaration flooded our blood and I felt my heart racing with just as much excitement as his in anticipation for what had him so full of gaiety.

"As a boy, there was always just one passion for me." Christian explained when we stopped in front of a set of double doors. "I guess it was because my only memory of my mother was of her singing to me. Maybe not. I guess I just wanted to do something my father did not want me to do. Maybe I just wanted to do it so I would never forget my mother… so my father would never either. I'm not exactly sure, but the moment my mother died when I was young, I realized I wanted to pursue music. I would spent hours upon hours practicing various instruments. Becoming knowledgeable on all types of music. Trying to train my voice to be as great as my mother's."

"I thought you were a writer," I said jokingly.

"I am," Christian grinned. "Music was a passion of mine, but my father had raised me to be a practical person… or at least tried to. I knew that I could not simply pursue music alone. I began to go to the family library and found several books of my mother's that were her favorites. After reading them, I began reading more and more from her section of the library. My father never questioned the material I was reading. He was just glad that I had set aside my music to pick up a book. The more I read books, the more of an impression they made upon me. Eventually I reached the point where I wished to become a writer as well, so that I might one day make the same impression these authors had made upon me. My father never saw it coming. The day I told him of my intentions to go abroad to write in Paris, my father laughed at me. He thought it was just some infatuation of mine. But as time progressed and I began to talk more and more openly of great love stories I had read... of how wonderful it would be to love and be loved in return, my father suddenly grew agitated with me. My dreams were finally becoming a reality before his eyes, and he grew displeased, not wanting to see the day his son would go away to France, of all places, and join the Bohemians to become some writer that he believed I was bound to fail as. I left after a long scolding of him about my infatuation with love. He thought I would just go to the Moulin Rouge and marry some cancan girl. I guess he wasright in a certain aspect, but I have been lucky. I have found love that no amount of books could express its complete greatness… not once… but twice."

"I believe you captured love in all its splendor in your story of the Moulin Rouge," I said. "Your story inspired my own longing for something better in life. Your own writing inspired my own."

"Your own?" Christian raised his eyebrows in surprise. "And what have you been up to, mon amour?"

"I, too, wrote my own story of the Moulin Rouge." I told him. "Perhaps not as great as your own. It is not a tragedy. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just an ordinary girl meeting an extraordinary man and they fall in love. I must show it to you later."

"Is it completed?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"When?" I giggled, patting his shoulder as I spoke. "Many nights I spent alone in the Moulin Rouge. You could not possibly believe I would be allowed to sleep when I was so filled with the wonderful reality that surrounded me. Every moment in the Moulin Rouge alone I stole away to wrote my story. Our story."

"You are the extraordinary one," Christian embraced me and kissed me before seizing my hand. "Bear with me now, Isabel. I have not been in this room for awhile now. I know not what is in store for us."

The music room was bright white and the entire exterior wall was composed of glass windows. Small shelves full of music rested against a wall. Lights hung from the ceiling, illuminating the room in eternal light. Black music notes trailed against the ivory of the walls like vines against an edifice in a pattern around the room. Instruments were laid out in various spots beside pure white sofas or armchairs.

So enchanting was the room it seemed as if music were playing in the air around us and I closed my eyes to the sweet melody. It was only when Christian's grip on my hand grew stronger and I heard the music come to an abrupt stop that I realized that it was not my imagination.

Opening my eyes, Christian and I entered. A grand piano, a glossy black that contrasted with the white of the room, rested in the corner in front of another great fireplace. At the piano bench sat an elderly man with peppered gray hair. His thick gray eyebrows were furrowed together as he stared at the keys his hands rested on. I could see his chest rising and falling as we approached and I walked in apprehension towards how this man would react towards our arrival.

"Father," it was surprising how erect the man became, stiffening at Christian's utterance of that one word. "Father… I'm back."

"I can see that," he mumbled, in what seemed like agitation or… disappointment?

"This is Isabel," Christian pushed me forward, wrapping his arms around me protectively. "She is my fiancé."

"Fiancé," the man almost coughed the word. "What have you been up to, Christian?"

"I… I have become a writer," Christian's voice became soft and meek, as a child cowering before his parent. "I wrote a story. A story every person in Paris declares the best love story in all of…"

"A love story!" his father spat, his hands leaving the keys to rub his forehead. "My boy… I thought you would have given up on such an infatuation."

"My departure to Paris only further strengthened that," Christian confirmed. "What is there to be ashamed of, father? Have I become that much of a disappointment to you?"

"A disappointment?" the man looked up at Christian, such sadness sitting within his eyes. "The only disappointment in my life is myself. I am only ashamed of myself."

"Of yourself?" Christian left my side to walk towards his father. "Look around you, father. What is there to be ashamed of? Your life has been a success. Everything around you has been brought about because you thrived. There is nothing to be ashamed of."

"The only success in my life just walked in the door today," he replied. "Not a day went by when I wished I could take you back, my boy. You reminded me so much of your mother. So wild and wanting to find all the greatness in life. I just did not want you sharing the same fate as she."

"It all turned out for the best, father." Christian reassured him. "I am back and we have made our peace, I suppose. There are no disappointments now."

"My boy," the man stood up and hugged Christian, patting him on the back sternly. "I have waited for you arrival ever since the day you left. You are all I have left in life worthwhile, Christian."

Happiness towards Christian's reconciliation with his father only reminded me further of my relationship with my mother. Not once had we shared such a heart-filled moment. Was there such a moment that my mother ever reminded me of her love for me? Shown me such tender compassion and love? I could not help feeling the sadness overcome the joy I felt for Christian at the time as I mourned for the kinship my mother and I failed to possess in our lives.

"Father," Christian directed his father towards me. "This is Isabel. As I already told you, she is my fiancé."

"She is quite a pretty gal, Christian." I offered him a smile to make me seem less drab. "Quite a load of freckles. Let's hope your children don't get near so many…"

"Isabel is the most beautiful woman in my life, father." Christian saw my past insecurities emerge when his father frankly expressed his opinion of my appearance. "I love every freckle… every spot of dust or cut or flaw that you might find."

"How did you both meet?"

"In the Moulin Rouge," I put forward, trying to exert myself forward to seem affable. "My Uncle owned the place and I was to stay there after my mother died. I ran into him on the streets."

"The… Moulin Rouge?" he turned to Christian, his anger becoming apparent. "I knew you would find yourself some cancan girl… some…"

"Father," Christian set a hand on his shoulder and the old man immediately settled down. "Isabel only lived there. Not willingly."

"I am not a whore," I stated firmly, looking him straight in the eyes. "Contrary to most people's beliefs of every woman in the Moulin Rouge being some mistress for unruly men."

"I did not mean to offend…"

"I have heard worse," I smiled, showing him that the matter was over and no offense was taken.

"Come, come… let us hurry off downstairs." the man broke apart from Christian and scurried through the door. "Hurry. I will call one of the maids to send some tea down to the parlor… perhaps the garden… it seems like so long since I have entertained a guest. Come along now! We do not want the tea soon to come to be cold!"

Laughing over his father's merriment, Christian and I locked hands to follow him downstairs towards a bright future ahead, with a family- though small as it may be- that would welcome us with open arms and love.

AN: Not over quite yet. It is pretty close, but I am in no hurry to put an end to this romance. Hope you are all enjoying the story and don't find it too dreadful. Thank you so much to those devoted readers who had stuck through so far with this story. It means the world to me, truly madly deeply. Hope that you enjoy the next few chapters. I love you all!