Chapter Seventeen
I'm sorry, I know it's taken forever for me to update, and I won't bore you with the details as to why it's taken me this long. For having a very boring life, I sure do have a lot of stuff going on! Anyways, here's a short chapter, not a lot of action happens, just a lot of character analysis. Enjoy!
The following morning, Christine awoke on the sofa, and as soon as she opened her tired eyes, the events of the night before flashed before her. She couldn't believe this had happened to her, to them. How could she bear the child of a man who was not the man she loved? Would it be possible for Erik to love the child as if it had been created from his own being? Christine didn't know how Erik could ever forgive her. Her virginity was something sacred in his eyes. And now that it was gone, he could never be the one to claim it.
Christine tried to collect her emotions and rose off the couch. She walked to the French doors, and opened them, to look across the foyer into the dining room. She timidly walked into it, praying Erik won't be there. Unfortunately as she turned the corner, she saw him sitting in the chair and the end of the table, with his back to her. She felt a sudden urge to leave and silently run up the stairs unnoticed. But she couldn't allow herself to do that. She knew she couldn't spend the rest of her days avoiding Erik. They would have to resolve they're issues somehow, and avoidance of each other wouldn't further the resolution.
An assortment of breakfast foods, including exotic fruits and varied croissants, were laid out on the mahogany table. There was no indication as to where she should sit, no place set for her, no glass of juice, silverware, or plate. Once again, she got a sudden inclination to sit at the opposite end of the table. But she reminded herself of the importance to solve they're problems, so she held her breath as she stepped to the chair to the left of Erik. She could see him glaring at her out of the corner of her eyes. What was he thinking? Was he pleased that she had chosen to sit by his side? Or disgusted? She forced herself to smile, and pretend that nothing had happened the night before; that everything was the same as it had always been. She loved him, and he loved her. Nothing more, nothing less. But the look he gave back with his eyes did not convey the same message. The glare he gave her was of utter disgust and repulsiveness. He looked at her as if she were a dog who had taken it upon itself to sit on the golden laced furniture. He looked at her, then to the end of the table, repeatedly, gesturing that her proper place was at the opposite end of the table. She was astonished at his reaction; was he really reacting this way? She opened her mouth to protest, but he quickly raised his hand, motioning her not to speak. Embarrassed, Christine stood and walked to the other end of the table. The maid, Martha, brought her a tray of food, including a bowl of steaming cereal, topped with freshly cut strawberries and blueberries, two pieces of toast topped with orange marmalade, half grapefruit, and a tall glass of orange juice. Erik had no doubt informed the staff of her condition. "At least he isn't planning on starving me to death.", she thought.
Erik had not been able to sleep at all that night. After he had arrived home from the opera, he remained in his room, pacing back and forth. He couldn't count the number of times he craved to rush down the stairs, swing open the doors to the sitting room where Christine lay, wake her, kiss her body, hold her, tell her everything was alright and forgiven. But as soon as his hand touched the doorknob, the disturbing picture of Christine and the Vicomte, starring into each other's eyes as they made love to one another, slipped into his mind; their bodies moving as one in complete euphoria. No, that image was enough to keep himself locked away forever. Finally, the sun began to shine through the window, so he took that as his cue to dress, and he headed down for breakfast. As he reached the bottom of the staircase, he looked to his left and saw Christine curled on the couch. Without thinking, he turned the doorknob and stepped into the room. The fire had died out, so he placed another log in it. He then walked over to Christine. Her face was melancholy, lonely, yet still maintained a sweet innocence. He knelt down so he was level with her face. He hovered his hand above her head, hesitating about whether he dare touch her. He couldn't resist, and his hand timidly, and ever so lightly caressed her curls. They traveled to her face, and slowly brushed her lips. Erik felt as if he were having an out-of-body experience. No matter what images raced through his mind as the night dragged on, in its unending torment, nothing could compare to the melodious sound of her shallow breath, or the sugar sweet smell from her skin. Tear's welled up in Erik's eyes, and glided down his checks.
Once Erik finally collected himself, he realized he had been crying. Crying! After everything she did to betray him, he still cried merely at the sight of her exquisite beauty. He quickly left the room, not wanting Christine to awake and see him adoring her. He gently closed the doors, and stepped into dining room. Martha was laying everything on the table, as she was instructed to do.
"Martha, my wife is…" Erik's voice trailed off. It hurt him even more to say it aloud, if that were possible. "Christine is going to have a child." Erik cleared his throat.
"I would prefer it if you prepared her meals separately, so she is sure to eat healthy and nurturing meals for her and our—" Erik couldn't believe he almost said our child. It was not his, and never would be. How could he ever think of something coming from the Vicomte, as belonging to himself?
"…for her and the…baby." Martha nodded and left to prepare Christine's breakfast. Erik took a seat at the end of the table, and helped himself to a cup of coffee. He heard a rustling from behind, and he knew it was Christine. He didn't flinch, and pretended not to hear her. He knew she was deciphering the proper place for her to sit. He prayed she would sit at the other end. He was afraid what he may do if she were to close to him. When he was near her, he often found it impossible to resist from touching, caressing and kissing her. To his dismay, she gracefully took a seat to his left, as if they had not a care in the world. What was she doing? His hand began to tremble; he was physically getting sick from staring at her and not being able to hold her. She needed to move. Now. He tried his best to gesture for her to move, while grasping his hands together, out of sight under the table. She looked utterly shocked and embarrassed. He could tell she was about to say something, and involuntarily, his hand shot up from the shot of passion that raced through his blood when he heard her voice. She backed away, and slowly stood and walked to the other end of the table. After he was sure she had been given her breakfast, be quickly arose and left the room, tears streaming from his face, unbeknownst to her.