Sorry this chapter is so short, I've been rather ill lately and haven't been exactly in the mood for writing, but here goes.
Chapter Two
We arrived in New York after a week at sea.
Raoul and I disembarked in a whirlwind of half packed trunks and hastily donned cloaks, and I was still so weak he carried me down the gangplank lying near to senseless in his arms. I only felt myself lifted into the waiting carriage before slipping into a sun-induced haze, listening vaguely to Raoul tell the driver the name of our hotel in accent laden English through a throbbing pall of pain.
The sun! It burned with the intensity of a million fires that day, searing my eyes and skin, reflecting off building windows and the silver harness of the horses, torching everything it touched. I felt the carriage shake as Raoul climbed in and I turned my head towards him, my tongue as sluggish as a load of wet cotton in my mouth. I forced it to form words.
"Raoul, please, the windows…cover the windows…it's too bright…oh, God, please…"
My words disintegrated into meaningless murmurs as I gestured my hand limply at the carriage windows, pleading wordlessly for him to cover them. It was so bright…it hurt so badly…cover them…
His brow furrowed as he let down the leather window shades. "Christine, I don't understand. The clouds are dark…it's beginning to rain. Why is it so bright for you, Lotte?"
I closed my eyes and prayed he would not see as he covered the windows and sat back to pull my head against his shoulder that I had begun to cry.
We stayed at the hotel for only a few days before Raoul arranged to purchase a small home on Fifth Avenue. I was improved, but barely able to make an appearance in the dining room during the day before walking slowly back to my small study and collapsing into an armchair, sighing in relief at the black draped windows. I remained pale, and although I convinced Raoul otherwise, I no longer ate.
I could not think. I only wanted to forget… But my mind would not let me. Paris haunted my thoughts, worse than a legion of ghosts and demons. I saw the Opera House whenever I closed my eyes, and woke screaming each morning, Raoul's arms about my shoulders, shaking me awake from nightmares in which water lapped at the prow of a boat, and words uttered only in song echoed through underground tunnels. I would sit in the study for hours, the windows open behind pitch black curtains, reveling in the sound of carriages blocking the sound of the incessant lapping of dank water that never left my mind.
We stayed in our home, hardly leaving, and as the time passed I gradually slept later and woke later, until Raoul finally hired a personal maid for me who was willing to work at night. We made no debut into society, and although the news that the Vicomte de Chagny and his fiancée had arrived in America had reached most of New York's high society, we accepted no visitors and soon the story of the circumstances of our hasty arrival had reached the ears of the gossips and spread through most society circles. I did not care, and though I received a vague impression that Raoul did, he made no mention of it.
We stayed for six years.