Chapter Summary:.Christine overhears a conversation between Raoul's sisters and his cousin, Henri, that prompts her to desperate action.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

Charlotte Mahler stood at the open door of the conservatory - rigid and unbending - staring out at the brightly colored summer gardens, remembering happier times. She closed her eyes, memories playing out in her mind's eye. Visions of three children running and screeching as they chased each other over the graveled pathways slowly merged into young adults chasing after a golden-haired toddler. Charlotte watched as the laughing toddler grew into a curious adolescent who grew into a gentle young man. She could feel the tears begin at the corners of her eyes and reached up to dab at them with the lace handkerchief she had been pulling through her hands. Charlotte opened her eyes, her heart falling as she realized her visions were truly now memories, the only thing she had left of the young brother she had loved; she sniffled back her emotions.

"Oh, do stop, Charlotte," a female voice told her. "If you are going to cry, please do so." There was a note of resigned disgust in the voice. "You have been living with that unyielding husband of yours far too long."

Charlotte turned around to see her older sister, Desiree, sitting on a velvet chaise, her arm tucked through her cousin's. "Have a care as to what you say regarding my husband," Charlotte warned her sister.

"You used to be able to cry and shout and carry on when your heart moved you," Desiree continued. "Now you sigh and sniffle back your emotions. I know that is your husband's doing."

"I am not a out-of-control child any longer." Charlotte carefully closed the open door to the conservatory and took two steps back into the glass-enclosed room. "You have been screaming and crying as if your lover has died."

Desiree's blue eyes grew stormy. "I should warn you to have a care, dear Charlotte."

The man sitting at Desiree's side let out a very audible, very long sigh. "Please," Henri pleaded, his eyes downcast. "We should not be fighting amongst ourselves."

Desiree squeezed the arm she held. "Poor Henri," she said.

Charlotte quickly crossed to their sides, a hand going to Henri's shoulder. "We forget that you are in mourning, as well."

"And with such a burden now upon your shoulders," Desiree finished.

Henri kept his head down, his gleaming eyes hidden. "It is a burden I wish I did not have." He slowly shook his head. "But I shall do my best." Henri finally raised his head, staring off into the distance. "I shall do it for Raoul's memory."

Desiree patted the arm she held as Charlotte sat on Henri's other side, slipping her arm through his, the two women comforting the young man sandwiched between them. "I have no doubt that you shall do admirably."

"As do I," Charlotte assured him.

Henri straightened his shoulders. "I shall set Philippe as my example. He has guided this family well; I wish to do the same one day." He smiled sadly at the women seated beside him. "And I shall find an elegant woman to marry and give me children using you both as the embodiment of this ideal woman."

"Dear, sweet boy," Desiree whispered as she patted his cheek. "It is too bad that Raoul did not use his head when he married."

"Desiree!" Charlotte scolded.

"You know you felt the same," Desiree told her.

Charlotte lowered her eyes. "May Raoul forgive me but I did." A frown crossed her features. "Why Philippe ever abetted him I shall never know."

Desiree stood and began to pace back and forth. "He did it because he could not have Monique; you know such as well as I. He let Raoul have what he could not and look where it has gotten us - our brother murdered and in his grave!"

Charlotte was a bit shocked. "This is not Philippe's fault! It was those ... those ... horrible men!"

"And that little strumpet Raoul had the misfortune to marry!" Desiree stopped pacing to look at her sister. "If they had not been fighting, he would not have gone riding alone that day." She turned her attention to Henri. "Is that not correct?"

Henri shrugged and sighed. "It was what I saw."

Desiree resumed pacing. "And to think he left her everything! The bank accounts, the Paris home." She threw her hands up in disgust.

"She was his wife," Charlotte reminded her sister.

"I suppose." Some of the anger left Desiree and she sunk into a chair, leaning her head against its high back. "We should just be thankful there was no child. Can you imagine what would have happened had Christine been left with a child and eventual control of the accounts for the entire family? She was never bred or schooled for such a thing! There would have been nothing left!"

"What could we have done?" Henri wondered.

"We could have gained guardianship of the child," Desiree told him. "Taken it from her to be raised in the manner expected of Raoul's child and the heir to the family fortunes. We still wield enough power to do such a thing quietly and without scandal and there is enough money to buy her off since we know she only married Raoul for his money." Desiree glowered at her hands. "That has always been obvious to even the most casual observer."

"Except Philippe," Charlotte reminded her. "He has such a soft heart."

"Just like Raoul," Henri said and bit his bottom lip.

"Oh, but not you," Desiree said as a small smile crossed her face. "You are stronger than them. It is all that English blood in your veins. You will not make the same mistake as our brothers."

Henri laid a hand over his heart. "I promise."

"Good," Charlotte said with a sigh and rose to her feet, her hands reaching for Henri. "Why do we not take a stroll in the gardens?"

Desiree, too, rose to her feet, a hand going to her head. "That is the first intelligent thing you have said all day. The atmosphere in this place is stifling."

Henri and Charlotte crossed to Desiree's side, Henri taking her arm, before they walked out the door and into the gardens. So intent had they been on their anger and grief that they had not taken note of the woman who stood quietly by the bookcases at the back of the room. She had come to the conservatory searching for peace amongst the green plants and bright light and had risen to her feet when she heard other voices in the room. She had wanted to join them, thinking that the peace for which she had been searching could be found in the company of family. A single hand had gone over her mouth as she listened to their words before carefully hiding herself in the shadows behind the bookcase, her black gown allowing her to fade into the corner. She had heard them leave for the gardens, remaining still and in the shadows. When certain they were not coming back, she emerged from behind the bookcase and sank weakly into a chair.

"What am I going to do?" Christine whispered to herself, hands going protectively over her abdomen. "What are we going to do?" She sat quietly for several moments, her dark eyes flashing as she tried to think. Christine remembered the letter Raoul had given her the morning he had gone riding and disappeared from her life. She bit her bottom lip as a desperate idea crossed her mind. "I do not wish to do this," she said softly, closing her eyes in pain. "But I do not know what else to do." She rose to her feet, smoothing out the wrinkles of her gown before walking from the conservatory and down the hall, stopping at the door to Philippe's study. She raised her hand and paused before knocking lightly.

"Come," a voice called out.

Christine opened the door and looked in to see Philippe seated in the chair behind his desk. He had his back turned to the room and was staring blankly out the windows into the front drive. "May I have a moment?" Christine asked.

Philippe rose at the sound of her voice, turning to her, his eyes red and swollen from crying and lack of sleep. "You may have all the moments you wish," he told Christine as he crossed the room to meet her, taking her hands in his own and drawing her into his arms. "I do not know what I would do if you were not here."

"That is what I wish to speak with you about," Christine told him as Philippe drew back, concern on the face that looked so much like her husband's. A tiny voice of warning echoed in the corridors of her mind but Christine could not hear it through the blackness and desperation she was feeling. She allowed Philippe to keep her hands and lead her to the sofa where they both sat.

"What is it?" Philippe wondered. "You want to leave? Do you wish to return to Paris? I will do anything you ask. Go anywhere with you. "

Christine swallowed down her doubts and misgivings. "I am not yet ready to return to Paris," she lied and could feel a crack form in her soul at the look of relief that crossed Philippe's face.

"Thank God," Philippe breathed. "I was frightened for a moment," he continued. "I know I am being selfish but I need you here with me. My sisters mean well but they do not understand." Philippe looked puzzled. "How could they? They were not here; they do not know what you and I know." He gently squeezed the hands he held. "I look at you and I see all the reasons my brother loved you. I look at you and I can remember my brother as happy and content in his life. I look at you and it is like having the best part of my brother here with me." Philippe shook his head. "I am being quite selfish, am I not? Please forgive me; I just miss him so."

Another small crack formed in the cold ice that had replaced Christine's soul. "There is nothing to forgive," she assured Philippe. "We both miss him." She lowered her head knowing her request would hurt Philippe but the small lie she was about to tell was far less painful than the truth behind it. "That is why it is so hard for me to ask this but I should like to spend a week with Meg and Val." Christine lifted her eyes, almost abandoning the desperate idea she had formed; but then she felt the familiar nausea begin to wash over her and knew she had no choice. "You say you see Raoul when you look at me and I tell you that I see him in every corner of this house. I hear his voice on the breezes that blow through open windows. I lay my head down at night and I can smell his cologne on the linens." Now it was Christine's turn to shake her head. "I am going to go mad if I open one more door and he is not there."

"I had not thought ..."

"I did not wish to be a burden ..."

Philippe was shocked. "You are my brother's wife! How could you ever be a burden?"

"I do not know." Christine sighed. "I am just so confused and so lost and I do not even know how I get through the day." She winced at her next words. "The nights are worse for then come the nightmares. That is why I would like to go to the guest house to stay with Meg until she and Val return to Paris. She is the sister of my heart and I need her right now. She can do for me what no one here can for she knows me better than anyone but ..." Christine's voice drifted off. "But Raoul."

"Can you not ask her and her husband to join us here?"

"I need to get out of this house!" Christine said between clenched teeth. She relented at the look that crossed Philippe's face. "I know I am not expected to travel to anywhere but church for the next year and - at the moment - I do not even have the heart for that. I cannot even think beyond my next breath. I cannot even imagine tomorrow let alone another week, another month, another year. I cannot picture the rest of my life without Raoul. I would just like to go for the next week to a place where I did not spend time with Raoul so that I will not look for him at every sound."

Philippe let out a long, shuddering breath, biting back the tears that now always seemed to be so close to the surface. "I may have lost my brother but you have lost your husband, your friend. You have lost the rest of your life." He took back one of his hands, placing it gently on Christine's cheek. "You are still so young and I tend to forget that." He raised her other hand to his lips. "Go to your friends and do not think upon us or worry about us. Try to find some solace with the ones you love."

"I do love you," Christine told him as she reached out to hug Philippe before reaching back to study his face. "I will always love you," she whispered as she placed a kiss on his cheek.

"Go with God and my blessings," Philippe breathed back and watched as Christine stood. "And my assurances that no one will dare to say a thing to you regarding the fact that you have left this house."

"Thank you," Christine nodded as she turned her back to the room, feeling the cracks in her soul begin to multiply.

Within four hours, Christine had packed a carpetbag with the barest of essentials. She remembered laughing when Raoul told her that she should always pack black clothing when they traveled should the occasion ever arise for such attire. Now Christine thought how wise her husband had been and how gently he had taught her the lessons of the position in which she found herself. She had stood in front of her open wardrobe, staring at the brightly colored dresses she had brought with her from Paris, knowing they would never be worn again. She had run trembling fingers over the satins and laces, linens and silks, remembering the joy in her husband's eyes when she had worn each new outfit or gown. Christine had closed her eyes, desperately trying to block out the memory of her husband as he had helped her out of each outfit. She had closed the wardrobe and turned to the dresser, reaching in to retrieve a small velvet box hidden beneath a brightly colored shawl. "I have to protect her," Christine whispered as her hands had closed about the box and she offered up a prayer that her child would be the daughter Raoul had so desperately wanted.

Now she stood in the bright drawing room of the guest house at Chagny, watching as Meg and Val looked at her with compassion and confusion.

"But Christine," Meg was saying, "Val and I leave for Paris in the morning!"

Val was worried. "I do not think it is wise for you to be here alone. I should send for someone to be here with you."

Christine's hand went out involuntarily. "No, please!" She turned her attention to Meg. "I am not that far gone from the backstage of the opera; I know how to care for myself."

Meg crossed to her side, drawing Christine down to sit with her on a brocaded loveseat. "I know you do." Meg managed a small smile. "Maman taught us well, did she not?"

Christine nodded.

"But you have not even cried yet," Meg told her as she studied Christine's stoic face and pale complexion.

"I do not know where to find the tears," Christine admitted.

Val walked toward them, stopping at the side of the loveseat, squatting down, taking Christine's free hand in his own. "I am worried about you. I am worried that should we leave you here alone you something foolish may happen."

A look of such fierce determination crossed Christine's face that Meg and Val were both taken aback. "I am not going to do anything foolish," she told them and as quickly as the look had come over her, it was gone. "I just cannot stay in that house any longer. I cannot bear to walk into a room and not find Raoul. I cannot hear Philippe's voice for another moment and think it is Raoul." She turned to look at Meg, lowering her voice. "I cannot bear to sleep in that bed another night."

Meg nodded. "I understand." She looked puzzled. "I think." Meg turned to her husband. "It will be all right," she told him. "Why do you not go and tend to our luggage?"

Val nodded at her; he could take a hint. He turned to Christine. "When you return to Paris, I want you to come and stay with us. Raoul would not want you to be alone in that house." He managed a small smile as Christine opened her mouth. "And damn the proprieties. You know Raoul would say that, as well."

"He would," Christine agreed softly. "Thank you; I shall think upon it."

Val stood, taking one of Christine's hands to kiss it. "I am still worried about the wisdom of leaving you alone." He smiled as his wife glared at him. "But I relent beneath the wisdom of two women whom I hold in high regard." He turned on his heel and walked from the room, giving one last glance to the two women he was leaving. Val was truly worried about his friend's wife but knew her care would be better given by his wife than himself and he quietly closed the door.

"What am I going to do without him, Meg?" Christine whispered as she heard the click of the door.

"I ... I ...I ..." Meg stuttered, not knowing what she should do. "I do not know."

"The days are hard enough with every sound causing me to look for him; but the nights ..." Christine gripped Meg's hands tightly. "Oh Lord, Meg, the nights are worse! I can smell him on the pillow that I hold because I cannot hold him. I remember those beautiful hands and his breath in my ear." Christine looked panicked. "How am I to get through the rest of my life without him? How am I to get through the next night without him?"

Meg sighed. "Would you like me to stay with you tonight?"

Christine shook her head. "There is no sense in both of us being without our husband. Stay with Val and hold him close. Do not let him go, Meg. Promise me you shall never let him go!"

Meg was a bit startled when Christine pulled her close. "I promise."

Her words rang in Christine's mind through a long night in a strange bed where sleep still eluded her. Christine lay awake, staring at the empty side of the bed, a single hand reaching out to caress the undisturbed pillow and blankets. "You promised me," she whispered as her hand turned into a fist. "You promised me!" she hissed as her fist began to hit the pillow. Christine grabbed the pillow and pulled it to her heart. "You promised me," she said, still unable to find the tears she longed to shed.

Christine finally rose as the light began to creep beneath the closed drapes. She sat quietly on the edge of the bed as the spinning room slowed and the nausea passed. Christine stood and quickly dressed, slipping out of her room and down the stairs. She walked quietly out the front door, moving to sit in one of the many chairs that lined the covered porch. Christine sat motionless as she watched the dawn creep over the hills, slowly illuminating the summer countryside and briefly wondered if Raoul could see the sunrise from Heaven. Her attempts to find the answer were interrupted by the sound of wheels coming up the drive; it was why she waited silent and alone.

Christine rose and waited until the carriage had stopped before walking down the stairs to stand by its side, looking up at the man holding to the reins. "Monsieur," she began, "I have a favor to ask of you."

The man, his coach and team had been hired from a neighboring village and he did not know the young woman who stood before him. "If I am able," he replied.

"I know that you are taking the Baron and his wife as far as the Saint Joan Inn this day," Christine said. "Would it be possible for you to return in a day's time to ferry me to Lyon?"

The man was taken aback. "Lyon? That trip takes over a day with no stops." He stared at the young woman's black clothing. "I would need to change teams and have an extra driver. It would cost, Mademoiselle."

"Madame," Christine gently corrected him. "And money is not an issue. I wish to get to the train station in Lyon with as little notice as possible."

"Which train do you need to board?" he wondered.

"Any one that is going to Paris," Christine answered him.

There was something about the stoic woman who stared up at him and the driver found himself agreeing to the proposition placed before him. "If we leave by eight in the morning, I should be able to have you in Lyon for the noon train to Paris the next day."

"I will pay you well," Christine said and gave the man what she hoped was a genuine smile. "Thank you." She turned and walked up the stairs, disappearing into the small but elegant home.

The man sat still for several minutes, staring at the closed front door and wondering what had just happened. He sighed and shook his head, hopping down from his perch and tying the reins to the hitching post. He walked up the stairs and knocked on the front door. He waited for an answer, looking forward to loading luggage onto his coach, for luggage was something he could understand.

Two hours later he had loaded the last of the uncomplicated luggage onto the coach and resumed his perch, keeping an easy hand on his team's reins. He looked down at the two women who were embracing, a dignified man watching them.

"I am still concerned for you," Meg said as she pulled back from Christine's embrace.

"It shall be for just one more day and then I shall return to Philippe," Christine lied. "He will not allow anything to happen to me."

"And you promise to telegraph to let us know how you are doing and when you will be coming back to Paris," Val wanted to know.

Christine accepted his kisses on her cheeks. "I shall."

"I am so sorry," Meg told her. "I wish ... I wish ..."

Christine nodded. "So do I." She inhaled and straightened her shoulders. "Now go before I keep you here." She hugged Meg one more time. "Go and be happy. Please be happy."

"It is a promise," Meg whispered back, giving Christine one last kiss before taking the hand that Val held out, allowing him to place her in the coach.

Christine waved as Meg stuck her head out the window and watched as the coach slowly moved down the drive. She stood still, waiting until the coach carrying the ones she loved had disappeared from view before going back inside. Christine shut the door behind her and closed her eyes, listening to the silence that enveloped the house. She leaned briefly against the closed door before turning and entering the room to her right. She walked purposefully over to the shelves of books that lined one wall. Christine reached for a book and turned, flinging the book across the room where it hit the opposite wall with a satisfying thud. Two entire shelves of books followed the first one before Christine began to sway back and forth, her legs giving out as she fell to her knees.

"I hate you," she whispered. "I hate you." Her voice increasing in pitch and tempo. "I hate you. I hate you." Her hands began to beat against the hand-knotted carpet beneath them. "I hate you!" she screamed over and over until her throat hurt. Christine bent over and placed her head on the carpet. "I love you," she said.

But still the tears would not come.