A/N:
Apologies for the length of time in updating--Christmas holidays and all of that.
Merry Christmas to all of you who celebrate!
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Chapter 11: The Demons Of The Night
Meg quickly found that, asides from the endless proprieties, life as a Viscomtess was not nearly so trying as she had expected. True, she had to accustom herself to a way of life that insisted she was entirely helpless, and unable to do so much as dress herself!—she, who had been doing quite well for herself since eleven years old.
And, of course, every two or three days, sometimes more often, Raoul would look at her in a certain way across the supper table, or he would pointedly gaze in her direction when he excused himself for the night, and she knew that he would require her presence in his bed.
It pained her greatly, to realize that she knew her husband's expressions so well, that she could deduce from the way he looked at her whether he desired her that night, and yet be so far separated from him as to hardly converse when not in the company of others. Even their couplings were cold and silent; his fevered pace and muffled groans met with steely silence and endurance by her.
She garnered fleeting pleasure from these meetings, for, loveless as their encounters were, at least on his side, Raoul was a considerate lover. He took time to arouse her body, and touch her both gently and tantalizingly, and she could not help but respond to him. But just when she began to feel the flickering fire, just when she thought that their coupling—for one could not call it lovemaking—would erupt in passionate flame, he would be finished, and roll away from her, kiss her on the lips with a muffled "good-night" and she knew then that she was dismissed.
She would often not see him until supper, for contrary to the beliefs held by the ignorant middle and lower-class, the nobility was not always idle. Raoul was often gone to business meetings, and overseeing the affairs of the many de Chagny estates, a task that fell to him as the industrious member of the de Chagny family, not given to wine and women as his elder brother was. Meg got the impression quite often that Philippe gave little thought to the duties of his position, only the carnal benefits garnered thereby.
She, on the other hand, was quite often idle. She passed the time in writing letters to Christine, and penning short notes to her few close companions in the corps. Embroidery was not something she had ever learned, nor the pianoforte, or drawing, all accomplishments of born ladies, which she was not. Instead, she had found her way into the mansion's library, and therein entertained herself, all the while longing for an empty hardwood floor, and a pair of ballet shoes.
It was a request that she found herself wishing quite often that she might present to Raoul, but she knew instinctively that it would be denied. A nobleman's wife did not pass her time with such things as dancing. She should be turning her mind to learning more useful talents such as hosting balls and parties, entertaining nobility, and managing the servants, among other things.
It was, to her great consternation, only two weeks into their marriage when Raoul announced, over supper, that the de Chagny mansion would be holding a ball in three weeks.
"I'll leave the preparations to you, my dear," he said congenially over veal. "I'm sure you will do a wonderful job."
Meg was left speechless.
-
Surprisingly, the ball went very well. The noblewomen flocked around Meg as if she were an expensive new piece of the décor, an idea that Meg felt entirely appropriate, considering her elaborate violet silk ballgown.
She greeted and curtsied, welcomed and was introduced, danced with her husband, and played perfectly the role of the doting wife and born Viscomtess.
It was all a ruse. Inside, her emotions were roiling, a terrible feeling of being far outside her element warring with a desperate longing to fit in, to belong with these overdressed, boorish people, and at the same time, a terrible gladness that she was not born to their class, that she retained character, even if she came from what these people would consider little better than a gutter. And that thought brought back a very real fear that they would see through her, peel away the shiny silk and the expensive powder, and see the frightened little ballerina, desperately in love with a man who cared not a whit for her, and laugh her straight out of the fine mansion that had become her home…and her prison.
Meg was never more grateful for an evening to end.
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"You did very well, my dear."
He must be pleased with her, Meg thought, for he continued to lie beside her, instead of rolling away from her, the silent signal that she was to return to her own chambers. His hand slid down to interlock with hers, thumb stroking the soft, pale skin. He was very quiet for a moment.
"I don't pretend to understand how hard this must be for you, Meg," he murmured softly, turning his head to look at her. "You've entered a world you know nothing about, with no one to help you, and no one here who loves you. You must endure my touch night after night, and you do so without complaint. You've given me everything, Meg, your trust, your body, I daresay even your love. You've become my wife, and given me the last thing I needed to become a truly respectable member of the nobility. What can I possibly give you in return?"
Your love, she wanted to answer. Let me sleep a night in your arms. Make love to me. Give me what is due me as your wife.
But she could say none of these things to him. Instead, she voiced the only other desire she had thought of in the past few weeks.
"Let me dance again, Raoul. Let me have the ballroom for an hour or two every day to dance in."
His brow instantly creased. "God, Marguerite, can you not be like other noblewomen and ask for some ridiculously high-priced piece of jewelry or a new dress? Why must you always ask for what I cannot give you?"
"I don't need jewelry or dresses. Why is this so hard, Raoul?"
"Because if someone were to see you, I would be the talk of the town! To let my wife dance, like a common ballerina!"
"Not so long ago, I was a common ballerina!"
She hadn't meant to yell. Whatever kindness had been in his eyes was gone now. "Absolutely not." His voice was hard.
She fought to keep the tears from her voice. "Please, Raoul," she whispered. "I miss it so much."
"That is my final word on the subject." He rolled away from her. "I think it's time you went to bed."
She tried to hide her tears as she slid slowly from beneath the covers, wrapped her silk robe around her naked body, and fairly fled from the room.
-
She lay awake for what seemed like an eternity, wanting sleep, desiring sleep, but sleep would not come. Her eyes remained firmly fixed open, demons of a thousand natures tormenting her as she helplessly relived every moment since she had first come to the estate de Chagny.
What nightmare was she living? What had possessed her to leave everything that was familiar and dear to her and enter a world that she was never meant to be in?
"You are a fool, Marguerite Giry," she told herself aloud, her voice harsh in the silent night. "A fool!"
A fool of the worst kind, to believe that a man who had loved and been jilted by her closest friend could ever, ever love her. She must be a constant reminder to him of Christine. Perhaps he even imagined that she was Christine in the dark, when he…
She cut off the thought as one too painful to comprehend. He would never see Christine's lush curves in her petite, frail frame, Christine's fiery eyes and dark locks in her pale blue eyes and thin, cornsilk hair. Men would have killed to have her, but the one man who did compared her to a woman to whom she would never measure up.
The night closed in around her, thick, silent, and suffocating.
A scream rent it.
"Giselle!" The voice was a man's, shattered and full of pain. "Giselle! Giselle! Giselle!" It was Raoul's voice, coming from the next room, ragged with screaming, desperate. Meg leapt from her bed as though scalded, her feet tangling in the sheets. She fell to the floor, untangled herself, leapt up and darted through the door to see her husband writhing on his bed, eyes scrunched tightly shut, tears streaming down his face. His hands were veritable claws, tangled in the covers, and Meg knew that he was caught in the grip of an awful nightmare.
"Giselle!" he cried again and again, the same unfamiliar name. "Don't…don't…kill her!" He stopped writhing, and his ragged voice became a hoarse, whimpering moan. "Giselllleee…"
Meg leapt back. Kill her… What sort of event was her husband reliving? Whose death had he witnessed?
Not daring to wake him, she backed away, now that he seemed to have returned to a semi-peaceful sleep, though his breathing was still ragged.
She felt a sudden urge to wipe the sweat away from his brow, to take his hand and kiss him gently, but she resisted it, having no idea how he might react. Surely not with pleasure…
She returned to her own room, confused and distraught, and fell asleep finally, escaping her own demons—demons that haunted her in daylight, while Raoul's visited him at night.