In Transition

All things considered, Dover did not seem remarkably different than Calais had been. A great many colorful English expressions, and a handful of French phrases, flew through the air as the passengers disembarked the steamer. Erik's first concern was seeing to Christine, who was still terribly pale and exhausted from the crossing. He at once fetched a hansom and inquired about accommodations, and they had soon found themselves deposited at the Gate Inn.

The carriage ride had not improved Christine's condition, and she leaned heavily against Erik's arm as they stood in front of the innkeeper. Mr. Bennett was a burly man with a cockney accent, and eyed the couple with a great deal of concern. His wary gaze fixated on Erik's mask before darting over to Christine, who had turned her face into Erik's sleeve in an attempt to stave off another bout of nausea.

"She alright, sir?"

Erik tried to keep the contempt from his voice, resisting the urge to threaten the man only for Christine's sake. "My wife is rather ill from our recent channel crossing. She is greatly in need of rest, if you would be so kind."

Bennett colored slightly, nodding to Erik. He rushed through the registration and personally showed Erik and Christine to their room. Once alone, Erik swept Christine up into his arms and deposited her gently on the bed. He brushed the curls back from her face, looking intently into her eyes. "Are you feeling any better now, mon ange?"

She drew a ragged breath, "A bit…but I am certain that I will feel much better once the room stops swaying."

Erik chuckled a little and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Is there anything you wish me to do for you, Christine?"

One delicate hand found his lapel, tugging slightly, "Rest with me awhile. I need your arms around me."

Erik shifted, shrugging off his coat and loosening his cravat before he gingerly settled himself next to Christine, careful not to shake the bed very much. He tucked her against him, his front to her back, one hand settling hesitantly over her belly. Her own hand came up to rest over his, pressing his palm more firmly against her.

A small smile curved her lips and she closed her eyes. Erik was still reluctant to speak much about her pregnancy. Christine knew it would take time, and patience on her part, for him to fully embrace the child she carried. Yesterday had been the first he had spoken of it…no, of her…with a trace of hopefulness in his voice. Yet she could see the fear in his eyes…fear for her…fear for their baby. She knew that in this one thing, at least, she could be his strength.

Sighing heavily, she asked, "Will you sing for me, Erik?"

Christine felt his breath tickle her neck as he spoke, "What would you like me to sing, mon ange?"

"You know…"

She could feel his amusement, then the press of his lips against her shoulder before his beautiful voice filled the room, eventually soothing her to sleep.

"Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation…"

xXx

Christine spent much of her first two days in Dover recovering from the wretched sickness that had overcome her during the crossing. Concerned for her health, Erik had asked Bennett to call for a physician, and Doctor Winston had soon arrived on the scene. After realizing her condition, the older gentleman had given Christine a thorough examination and a clean bill of health, prescribing a simple tonic to settle her stomach and ordering her to rest and to eat. He'd also told her he would happily take her on as a patient, and that she should come and see him again in one month's time for another exam.

Once fully rested, Christine had felt wonderful…even more so with the incredible freedom that being away from Paris seemed to bring. Though Erik was reluctant to face crowds, it was clear that even he felt some measure of relief at simply being able to sit with Christine in the parlor of the inn without the fear of discovery.

He quickly redoubled his efforts to polish her English, and she was extremely grateful for the few lessons he'd provided her before they had left France. Christine was steadily improving, but she tended to miss words easily in the rapid speech patterns and heavy accents of conversation. Luckily, Mr. Bennett and the other staff at the inn spoke sufficient French, so between the two languages, they all managed to understand each other eventually. Erik had no such problems, as his English was flawless and with barely a trace of French accent.

His mask had not gone without comment, and even missing snippets of conversation, Christine had found herself struggling to defuse his temper on more than one occasion. They both longed for a measure of privacy that one simply could not obtain at the Gate Inn…and Christine longed for a home of her own.

Erik realized this, just as he realized the need to secure some means of income to supplement his savings. He quickly settled on pursuing work as an architect, having learned upon their arrival that the city was rapidly growing with the increase in travel to France and the railway connection to London. Dover beach was becoming a popular spot for holidays. Though Erik was loathe to ask anyone for help, he did inquire where he might be able to find suitable employment, and Bennett pointed him in the direction of Mr. Crawford.

Andrew Crawford was a well respected architect in Dover, working a great deal with the coastal development in Kent. He was at least fifteen years older than Erik, with deep laugh lines crinkling the corner's of his eyes and dark brown hair liberally streaked with white. His small offices were near Admiralty Pier, and Erik called on him for an interview soon after arriving in Dover.

The older man had been standing in wait when Erik entered his private office, leaning heavily on a silver topped cane. His hazel eyes were assessing, yet welcoming. He offered his hand to Erik, who hesitantly accepted it.

"Mr. Rousseau, is it?"

"Yes."

"French?"

"Yes."

Crawford chuckled at the clipped responses, "Andrew Crawford. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Do have a seat, sir, and let us get down to business." Erik grimaced, but did as he was told, taking note of Crawford's pronounced limp as he circled around his desk. "Now then, first things first…have you any references?"

Erik's hands tightened into fists. "No, I am afraid I do not. My wife and I have only recently arrived in England."

Crawford smiled in good humor, "Ah, an immigré fresh from the steamer. I bid you welcome to our fine city. Now, I assume that case at your side contains some of your work. Show me what you can do."

Erik laid his sketches across Crawford's desk, gritting his teeth and silently reminding himself that this was all for Christine. He was surprised by the tingle of nervousness he felt as Crawford looked over the papers before him. He certainly did not care what the man thought of him, he only cared about finding some respectable work so that he might provide Christine with some semblance of a respectable life. His savings could not last forever, and Erik suspected much of it would be depleted once they began the task of setting up a house.

Only when Crawford had looked over every sketch did he refocus his attention back to Erik. His eyes betrayed a glimmer of respect that caught Erik off guard. "You have a great talent, my boy. I've not seen such inventive work in quite sometime." A sudden grin broke out over the man's face. "Except my own, of course. I'd be a fool not to hire you on the spot, and I, Mr. Rousseau, am no fool."

Erik swallowed heavily, "You are…offering me a position, then?"

Crawford grinned broadly, "I most certainly am, along with a competitive stipend. Can you begin tomorrow?"

Erik shook his head slightly to clear it. He had just been offered a job. No references, no questions about his mask. It seemed too good to be true. "I…yes, of course."

"Very good, very good, my boy." Crawford stood, using his cane as leverage to do so, and Erik stood as well. The older man extended his hand, and Erik took it dazedly, caught in a firm handshake, "Eight o'clock sharp. I've already a project in mind for you."

Erik nodded, "Thank you, Mr. Crawford."

The words felt foreign on his lips.

xXx

Erik returned to the inn to find Christine talking to one of the other guests, a young lady named Ann Beaumont who was on holiday with her aunt and uncle. He hesitated at the doorway of the parlor. They had been in Dover little over a week, and Christine was already missing Meg and Madame, most especially Meg. He did not wish to intrude on her chance for some companionship, and he knew Ms. Beaumont was quite unnerved by him. It irritated him to no end that the girl could not seem to tear her eyes from his mask.

Before Erik could turn, Ann glanced up and saw him lurking, one hand fluttering to her throat nervously. He scowled as he watched the girl's reaction, even as Christine turned with a smile, and beckoned him, "Erik…come join us."

He bowed a little from the doorway, summoning his manners, such as they were. "I do not wish to intrude. Please…enjoy your tea." He spun away with a sweep of his cloak and headed for the stairs, cursing under his breath.

Still frightening innocent young girls…even on my best behavior. Imagine the terror I could inspire in young Ms. Beaumont if I really tried.

The thought was far more tempting than it should have been.

xXx

In the parlor, Christine frowned slightly as she watched Erik go. He'd not even told her how his inquiry with Mr. Crawford had gone. She set her teacup aside with a frown, turning back to her companion with an apologetic look. She spoke in French, as it was still easiest for her, and thankfully, Ann was quite fluent. "I am sorry, Ann. I really have been enjoying our talk, but I will have to excuse myself."

Ann smiled sympathetically at Christine. "I understand. I really must apologize, as well. I'm afraid Monsieur Rousseau realizes that he makes me rather nervous."

Christine's brow furrowed slightly, "You've nothing to fear from Erik." I hope.

Ann laughed lightly, "It is just that he is so…what is the word…?"

Christine smiled a little, seeing the blush creep up Ann's pretty face. Her own wicked mind could complete that thought in so many different ways. For Ann's sake, she chose, "Intense?" The blush turned crimson, and Ann nodded. "It is alright, Ann. I know he can be rather intimidating. You have no need to apologize."

Ann sighed, "Thank you, Christine. Perhaps we might have tea again tomorrow. I am dying to hear more about Paris. I so hope to visit there one day soon."

"Of course."

Christine excused herself then, climbing the stairs to the room she shared with her husband. Opening the door, she saw him straightening his sketches and carefully putting them away. Apprehension stirred as it occurred to her that his interview might have been unsuccessful. Hesitantly, she stepped closer to him, laying her palm against his shoulder. "Erik? What did Mr. Crawford say?"

He turned, reaching up to place his hand over hers, his expression remained blank and unreadable. "He wishes to see me tomorrow morning."

Christine's eyes clouded in confusion a moment, and Erik's lip twitched ever so slightly upwards. Her lips parted in a soundless 'oh' before curving into a smile. "He's hired you?"

His brow went up. "Perhaps I shall make you a respectable husband after all, mon ange."

Christine flung her arms around him joyfully, "Oh, Erik! This is wonderful! I knew he would not be able to turn you away!" She pressed a kiss to his lips. "Now all we need is a house."

Erik laughed heartily, lifting her off the floor. "Quite the demanding little thing, are we not?" He kissed her ardently, pulling back to promise, "You shall have your house soon, Christine."

She smiled seductively, "Shall we celebrate, my love?"

"Oh, yes…we most definitely shall."

A/N: In the risk of boring you all to death, I have to warn you that Dover does require some small set up (job...house...etc) before we start rolling down the road towards completion.