Chapter 6: Without Forgiveness

Raoul lay awake that night, stretched out atop the velvet coverlet of his bed, eyes boring into the dark ceiling. There was no sleep for him this night, as was often the case. He lay there, thinking of the evening, and of his new fiancée, and of the wretched life he was bestowing upon her.

He had revealed much more to her than he had intended. It was a terribly caddish thing to say to one's betrothed, that he could, and most likely would, never love her. She had tried to hide the hurt in her lovely blue eyes, but it had been there, plain for him to see. He had seen hurt in women's eyes too often to not recognize it.

How callous of him! How terrible! And yet she had accepted his proposal, held out her slender hand for his ring, and kissed him with far more passion than he had expected or desired.

His marriage to Meg would serve him two purposes. He needed a wife, and to his mind, the best wife was one that would infuriate his brother and cause society to whisper even more than they did already, which would only serve to anger Philippe more. Meg fulfilled all this. In exchange, he would give her that which no other nobleman would offer: marriage, and all the security and comforts therein.

It would be a marriage in every sense, no doubt of that. He desired children, and in no way did he desire celibacy, though he had not touched a woman since Giselle's death. But he had no taste for whores now, and extramarital affairs offended him. Nor could he bear the deception of sweet Meg, or the hurt in her eyes if she should find out. No, he would satisfy himself with his wife, and be a rare specimen of his class to do so. But the prospect did not fill his veins with fire and torment his dreams as the thought of bedding Christine had. Meg was desirable enough, and a possessor of no small beauty. But her hair was blond and fine, hair that would sift gently through his fingers and slide silkily over his hands, while Christine's hair had been dark and thick, hair that he could catch his fingers in and twine about his hands in the midst of passion. Meg was small and petite, so fragile that he would fear to be anything but gentle with her, lest she break under a forceful touch. Christine had been taller, with a body built for passion, built for furious lovemaking as well as the sweeter, sensual sort. Meg's figure was dainty, while Christine's had been voluptuous, her lips pale and thin while Christine's had been red and full…the list of comparisons went on and on, and in every one Meg came up short.

Christine…beautiful Christine…

How he had longed to seduce her with all the powers that he had! How he had longed to take her roughly in his arms and kiss her as she begged to be kissed! How he had desired to take her home with him one night, and ravish her upon a velvet bed, loving her so completely that no thought of any other man could ever draw her from his side!

And yet, he had bent to propriety, as ever, and he had played the gentleman with her. When he tried to kiss her more deeply, he saw her maidenly blush and pulled away. When he tried to stroke her breasts or touch her intimately, he heard her virginal excuses and ceased to touch her. And all the while she had been lusting after a beast, a phantom in the dark, and letting him touch her, kiss her and caress her as she had denied her own fiancé the right to do.

He had seen his folly at last the night he kissed her in the carriage, when he treated her as a woman and not as a girl, and he knew then that if he had given her what she desired, satisfied her carnal needs, along with all the love and devotion that he had offered, she well might have been his.

But there was another girl that haunted his dreams now, who floated in his mind like a hazy vision and tormented him ceaselessly.

Giselle…poor, pitiful Giselle.

Her fragile beauty tormented him more than his dreams of Christine, for in his nightmares her blood was red upon his hands again, and her final, choking gasp sounded in his ears so harshly that it jarred his bones and tore at his heart.

He glanced across the room, to where his sword leant against the stone of the fireplace. Inside the well-oiled leather sheath, he knew, rested a gleaming blade of silver, cleaned and polished and honed.

But in his mind's eye, he saw blood oozing from the leather and dripping down the sides, encrusted on the blade, dried on the hilt as it was streaked on his hands.

God, he wanted to sleep peacefully again. He wanted…he wanted things he couldn't even name, hopeless longings when he thought of Christine, a fanatical desire to turn back time and take back Giselle's death. He would rather be dead himself than live a lifetime looking down at his hands and seeing the imaginary streaks of innocent blood.

-

How many times had he visited Giselle's grave? He didn't know, but he found himself there again, looking down at the small, leaf-covered plot of earth. He laid the flowers down that he had brought, a spray of warm autumn color over the drab place where the seventeen-year-old girl had been buried.

Raoul felt the tears rise in his eyes, spill over his cheeks, and he made no effort to stop them. They were unmanly, he knew, but he felt that he could never, never shed enough tears for this girl who had lived far too short a life, and yet had been made old long before she should have.

"I'm sorry." he whispered. He had said it so many times, and yet, he felt no peace, no forgiveness.

Was this how Erik had felt? This constant torment of guilt, the nightmares, the endless longings to change the unchangeable? And if so, did he not deserve that peace wherever he could find it?

Raoul felt a spark, a chance to forgive the man who had taken so much from him, and then he extinguished it. It was Erik's fault that he stood here now, Erik's fault that Giselle was dead. It was all, all Erik's fault. That beast should never even have been born. If not for him, Christine would be here now, married to Raoul.

He thrust away all forgiveness, and in so doing, perhaps damned himself as well.

-

Dear Meg,

I am overjoyed to hear of your upcoming nuptials to the Viscomte. The description you sent me of your ring sounded truly lovely, and I wish I were there with you now.

Give Raoul time, Meg. I'm sure he did not mean that he could never love you, only that he will have to make room in his heart. He has endured much pain, some things that you do not know of. I will not tell you, for it is his place to confide when and how much he wishes.

Spring weddings are lovely, and I am glad that you have chosen that season for yours. There will be much planning—I can promise that you will not be wanting for things to do!

I will do my best to come, but I will be obliged to bring Erik with me, naturally. Please tell me if this will cause any difficulty.

Love and best wishes,

Christine

-

Madame Giry positively glowed at rehearsals that Monday morning. All the ballet rats reaped the rewards of Meg's good fortune, for her tone was less biting and her reprimands less harsh, and as a treat for their hard work, she let all the girls go without the usual hour of fine-tuning after regular rehearsals were over.

"I'm ever so glad you are marrying the Viscomte!" Lisette crowed as they crowded into the dressing-room. "Things are so much better for us now!"

Marjory rolled her eyes. "Think of Meg, Lisette, before you go dreaming of lace and bells." She turned to face Meg. "Your life is going to be hell, don't you know that? It's a struggle at best fitting into the upper crust when you're from our class, but having a husband who supports and loves you makes it a good deal easier. But you won't even have that. You'll be alone, in a world of people who would sooner see you dead than wearing the same clothes as they and living in the same circumstances. Even worse, you'll have a madman for a husband."

"Raoul is not mad!" Meg cried.

"Yes, he is, dear, and I don't mean to hurt you by saying it. The details are sketchy at best, and there is no knowing how much of it is rumor and how much is truth. But there are horrid events surrounding Christine's reuniting with Erik, and Raoul's part in it has caused him madness, as well it should."

"What happened! Everyone has alluded to it, but no one will tell! They say it is his right to tell me!"

"That it is." Marjory nodded. "Only he can tell you what is truth and what is not. Marry him if you will, Meg, but do not expect an idyll. Expect hardship that has nothing to do with poverty. It is a hard thing to love a man who looks at you with only desire, at the most, and perhaps caring, as one would give to a pet dog. When all your heart and soul is his, and you have nothing in return, that is the worst sort of poverty."

Meg saw a flash of pain in Marjory's eyes. "Jory…you?"

Marjory's eyes closed briefly. "Yes, I. There was a man…" Her face twisted, as though in incomparable pain, and then hardened. "But it means nothing now. Be careful, little one. Life is rarely as simple as it pretends to be."