It was the first time since she was four years old that Meg could remember waking up without the sounds of a dozen other girls getting out of bed, without the first pale, cold rays of dawn tickling her eyes instead of the bright glare of the late morning sun, without the scramble for ballet shoes and the hurry downstairs for a quick breakfast before practice.
For the first time that she could remember, she faced a day in which she had absolutely no idea what she would occupy her time with. It felt—strange.
A maid entered the room, and drew aside the lacy canopy of her bed. "Morning, milady," she greeted, and Meg's eyes opened wider in surprise, realizing that the maid was addressing her.
Of course. You are a Viscomtess now.
"Are you ready for your breakfast, milady?" the maid inquired, drawing the curtains aside and letting in the sunlight. "The Viscount is absent, so you may take your meal in your sitting room if you wish."
Meg nodded, her mind in a whirl. "I…I would like that," she managed, sitting up slowly.
The maid nodded, curtsied, and then left. Not more than a few seconds later, two more maids entered.
The taller, a plump, dark-haired girl, opened the doors of the armoire and drew out a fresh chemise and a lavender day-dress. The other assisted Meg in removing her nightrail, and together, the two maids had her laced into her corset, and dressed, in a matter of minutes.
The blonde maid helped Meg arrange her hair in a neat chignon, and then the two girls nodded. "This way to the sitting room, milady."
Meg took a seat at the writing desk, instantly thrilled to see that there was stationery and two fine quill pens in the drawer.
"Your breakfast will be here in a moment, milady." Meg nodded perfunctorily, and the two maids exited quickly.
-
When the croissants, jam, and pot of tea arrived, Meg thanked the matronly servant who had brought it, but she barely glanced at the food. She tapped the pen against the fine cherry wood of the writing desk, trying to begin her letter to Christine.
Dear Christine,
My first night with the Viscomte was not at all what I had expected.
It seemed so bland, so straightforward. The simple sentence, stark against the white paper, could not begin to express the depth of emotion Meg found herself drowning in. How, with mere scratches of a pen, could she explain this feeling of violation, the lingering memories of the Viscomte's hands on her that seemed almost tinged with impurity? How could she express her horror at discovering that she would not even share a bed with her new husband? And how, possibly, could Christine understand, through simple words, the hopelessness that Meg now felt, loving Raoul, and yet realizing, too late, that her new husband wished no more than a figurehead, to attend balls with him, to bear him children, to host his soirees, and to give him the last piece needed to complete the puzzle of ideal nobility.
He did not love her. He never would. And despite his honesty towards her, his clear declaration of his feelings—or lack thereof—Meg had not ceased to hope that on her wedding night, his true passions would show through.
She felt dirty, remembering his eyes on her naked body, his mouth and hands on her bare flesh, the feeling of him inside her. She had enjoyed it not because it had brought her any great pleasure, for indeed, it had been more painful than anything else, but because she had craved that joining, the merging of her flesh into the flesh of the man that she loved, and had prayed, sacrilegious as the prayer might have been, that the final act of matrimony would at last make him hers, and no longer Christine's.
But he remained as distant as ever, as aloof as always, a stranger to his own wife, with secrets and sorrows that she would perhaps never know.
She envisioned lying with him again, and felt a small moue of disgust. How could she give her body to him again, knowing that he would as soon lie with a whore as with her, if she were not the most available, the most proper flesh available? She felt that she could not, but she knew she must, as his wife.
She crumpled up the fine paper and began again, on a fresh sheet.
Dear Christine,
My heart is so full of emotions, I scarcely know where to begin. Nothing could have prepared me for the shock of my first night with the Viscomte. I had expected all the things you had told me—pain, at first, and awkwardness, but finally, passion, and yes, love.
The pain and the awkwardness were there, to be sure, and curiosity, on my part. But passion there was none, and certainly no love. It was over quickly, but the worst part was yet to come. When he was finished, he lay there for a moment, and then he got up and said that he would show me to my room.
I did not know that nobility shared separate rooms. It still hurts to think of it, that, propriety or no, he did not wish me to share a bed with him. I am more alone now than I was prior to my marriage. It is a loveless marriage, to be sure, Christine, and though I suppose I had my suspicions, I expected at least affection from him. I care for him dearly, but he cares nothing at all for me. I am here, and I am grateful, but I cannot help but wish for that which I can now never have—a man who loves and cherishes me, as you have. We cannot have all that we desire, and I am, truly, grateful for the blessings I have been given.
It is not so bad, I suppose. In time, perhaps I will grow accustomed to it. We may even become friends, and that would be a truly wonderful thing. But in my dreams, I must admit, I will wish still for a man such as you have, and envision passion and love which I will never know.
Write soon, Christine, and tell me how things are there.
Love,
Meg.
P.S. I have hung Erik's watercolor in my sitting room, where Raoul is unlikely to see it. The cathedral is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, tell him that I like it very much indeed, and no wedding present could have been better.
Meg continued smiling bravely as she folded the paper and slid it inside a linen envelope, and then laid it on the silver tray to be taken out with her untouched breakfast.
Then she laid her head on the desk, and cried.
-
Christine could not help the tears that slid down her cheeks upon reading Meg's letter. "Oh, Meg," she whispered, touching the smeared ink with one finger. "Dear, dear Meg."
"What is wrong, my love?"
Erik reached over her shoulder and plucked the letter from Christine's limp fingertips. A small growling noise arose in his throat as he reached the end, and he flung the missive back down on the desk.
"Damn nobility!" he shouted, clenching his hands into fists. "How could the boy do such a thing? Why, even with you, he was nothing if not gentle, and yes, even loving! How could he treat her so?"
"He does not love her." Christine replied quietly, wrapping her arms about her. "And so, it is as you feared, Erik. She is trapped in a marriage that will bring her nothing but misery. And the worst of it is, we could have done nothing to prevent it, and even if we could have, she is better off there. She would have never found anything better."
"Perhaps a man who would love her."
"Doubtful. Few look past the stigma of the opera house, Erik."
He wrapped her in his arms as she stood, his long fingers caressing her cheek gently. "Not all are as lucky as we, hm?"
"I am lucky to have you, Erik." Christine pressed a kiss to his lips, and gasped as he deepened the kiss, pressing her back towards the bed.
"Very, very lucky." He smiled, and nimbly reached for the laces of her gown.
-
The dining room was quiet as the Viscomte and Viscomtess ate their evening meal, the shadows thrown by the firelight the only movement, the clinking of silverware the only sound.
"You will come to me tonight, Meg." It was not a question, but a statement, the irrefutable direction of a noble to his wife.
Meg nodded, her lip trembling slightly at the notion.
"Do you fear me, Meg?" The question was asked so gently that she looked up, startled.
"No, my lord!" she exclaimed, then looked down at her plate. "And…yes."
"Why, Meg? And what is this 'my lord'? Have I not instructed you to call me by my Christian name?"
"You have instructed me to do a great many things, my…Raoul."
"Why do you fear me, Meg?"
Because you do not love me.
"Because you are a man, Raoul, and men are to be feared."
-
He had seen the look in her eyes before.
The woman standing in front of him had been with a hundred men, at least. Perhaps two hundred. There was no knowing. She had been with him a dozen times, and yet, there was a look that bordered fear in her eyes tonight.
When he drew close to her, her eyes fluttered closed, and something within him twisted at the knowledge that she was only playacting, just as she did with every other man. Somehow…he wanted more.
He reached to run his fingers through her hair, and with a sudden, decisive movement, she undid the tie that held her silk dressing gown. She turned to face him, swaying seductively in the firelight, her nude body a glory of feminine curves and silky, glowing skin.
The fear had not left her eyes as she approached him, but for the first time, she seemed alive, brimming with passion untapped, and he moved towards her eagerly, his hands roaming over her heated flesh with an urgency that surprised him. God, she was soft, and glorious, her faint moans like the sweetest music as he picked her up and fairly threw her onto the bed, ripping his clothes off in an agonized need to be as naked as she, to feel her flesh pressing against his, to be inside of her.
Her hair spread about her, dark and tangled, like a wild thing, her nails digging into his back, the cords of her throat standing out as she struggled to repress her desire. He came alive at her touch, he had forgotten what it meant to be desired, to be wanted by a woman.
The fear never left her eyes as he drove into her with one motion, though it was blurred by desire, it remained as he thrust into her over and over again, his mouth and hands feasting on her body, the fires of their mingled passion rising higher and hotter, their moans filling the room. And then, through the fog of passion, her hands, beautiful, slender, delicate hands, came up to touch his face, and she whispered, her voice seductive and husky with desire: "Say my name, Raoul."
He knew her name, he knew it! But as he focused his passion-blurred vision, and slowed his desperate thrusting enough to speak, he felt her tighten around him, felt her hands tangle in his hair, saw her head thrown back and her eyes wide with pleasure as he moved within her, and he cried out through a haze of ecstasy: "Christine!"
And he saw the fear dissipate, but with it went every conceivable emotion, and she went limp beneath him, her straining, pleasured body completely unaroused, except for the remnants of their former passion, and he was left to finish alone, and the final pleasure, when it came, was cold and hollow despite its strength.
"Raoul?"
He came back to earth with a start, and saw Meg looking at him quizzically.
"Raoul, are you alright?"
"Yes…yes, of course."
He approached her slowly, and when they were lying on the bed, and he began the motions of the night before, he saw the fear disappear from her eyes. But there had never been passion or desire in her eyes, only resignation to the duties that a wife must perform. And now, she lay still and motionless beneath him, waiting only for him to be finished so that she might go, alone, to her bed.
And when his final pleasure came, it was cold and hollow.
-
When it was all finished, Meg lay in her bed, trying to ignore the lingering soreness where Raoul had been only minutes before, and she buried her face in her pillow, and cried.
She cried until she fell asleep, and then she dreamed. In her dreams she was visited by a faceless man who whispered sweet things in her ear, who touched her body in ways that she had never even thought of, and who kindled a fire in her until at last, together, he showed her what happened when fires raged out of control.