Title: The Vicomtess de Chagny
Disclaimer: Phantom of the Opera and its darling characters belong to Gaston Leroux, firstly. Secondly to Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber. All credit to them, of course. Because, if I did own this, I wouldn't be sitting here on this website, now would I?
Rating: PG
Summary: Christine dies, leaving Raoul with a daughter and a promise to marry again. But what happens when the Phantom mistakes this new Vicomtess for his beautiful angel? R/OC …not E/OC at all, I promise! Hints of the eternal E/C, of course.
Author's Notes: This is my first attempt at proper 'phic'. I do like to think my story is original and that some people might enjoy it. If you have any questions, please do ask and I'll always respond to my reviewers.
Please review, even if it's a flame. Flame away! I really don't care. But do leave your thoughts please.
PhantressPrologue
"But how long?" I asked the physician as he closed the bedroom door.
The man ignored my question for a moment, walking over to his coat and hat thrown over a hall table, only fueling my anxiety. After what seemed hours, but could have only been a few seconds, he turned to me, giving a sigh of resignation.
"I am no fortune-teller, sir, but I would say Madame has," he raked his fingers through his sparse peppered hair, "I would say she has less than a month, perhaps less then two, at the most, Monsieur. How long is left up to her and how long she'll fight it. Tuberculosis is a fiend that few have the will to outrun."
I was angry. His phrasing of the biggest ordeal of my life made it seem like nothing more then a game.
"The housekeeper will see you to the door, thank you for your services," I murmured, hurriedly. Nodding to the maid, Jane, I went straight to Christine's bedside.
Going into that room was like changing the clock 12 hours. Day to night. The curtains were drawn tightly, only two gas lamps lit: one on the bedside, the other from the ceiling towards the corner. She was simply lying there, looking like a misplaced doll. Her blank eyes scanning the painted ceiling absently. I drew a chair from the corner and sat next to her, vaguely remind me of a vigil once held at my Father's bedside many years ago.
After a few moments she turned to me, and smiled in immediate recognition.
"Raoul," she struggled to sit up, quickly giving up and simply reached for my hand.
I quickly stood, letting the chair fall back on the richly carpeted floor, to assist her. Placing my hand at the small of her back, I straightened the satin pillow and then let her fall recline against it.
Such sudden movement was an obvious mistake. She was immediately overcome by a coughing fit that I'm sure rattled her very bones. Pulling down my shirt sleeve, I wiped away the blood that gathered around her lips. She grabbed at my arm and rest her head against it, closing her eyes.
"I'm so tired," she whispered.
"I know, Christine, I know," I sank down on the bed next to her, letting my head hit the edge of the bed's headboard.
"Did Dr. Meacham tell you? Did he tell you I only-" she cut herself off and began to cry.
"Yes, Christine," I said evenly, burying my face in her hair. Oh, the sound of her crying hurt me more then anything else ever could or ever would. I turned on the bed and faced her, pressing my forehead against hers. "That is why," I began, with the most sincere smile I could conjure, "we are going to make these last times together the most precious. You, Victoire and I."
Christine smiled at the thought. I laid back again and let my smile fall. Glancing down at her head, I shook my head in frustration. Nine years of marriage…Christine had never matured. It seemed she would die the little girl I had first met in Brittany.
She cleared her throat, and then looked about.
"Victoire? Where is she, Raoul? Will you fetch her please? I do believe we should start now."
I stood and nodded at her. Yes. My Christine has, is, and will be until the end, a simple child.
I walked into the nursery, and smiled at the sight of my daughter. She was sitting at a table, a shaky lead pencil in her hand, hanging on the every word of her governess.
"You must remember, Miss de Chagny, it is important to always go back and cross your T's. For your name is most certainly not Vicloire's, is it now?"
"No ma'am, Vicloire's is not correct," she whispered back to the stern Governess.
"But, I would love you, whether or not you were Vicloire's or Victoire," I walked over to her briskly and scooped her into my arms.
The governess walked over in one motion and picked up the pencil Victoire had dropped in her excitement. She also managed to shoot me a reproachful glare to me for the disturbance of her lesson.
"Mademoiselle Burnett, would you mind terribly if we cut Victoire's lesson short today?" Victoire squealed with delight and threw her arms around my neck.
"Your daughter, not mine, my Lord." She continued picking up the papers and books used from that morning's lesson. "Though, I expect, Miss de Chagny be prepared for a lesson tomorrow, and an additional one as well to make up for lost time."
With six-year old charm, Victoire began to fruitlessly protest.
"Yes, yes, yes," Adelaide Burnett shot back, mimicking Victoire's exasperated plea, "I bid you good-morning and until tomorrow, Sir," she said, turning to me with a changed tone.
I gave a curt bow, tossing a glance at Victoire who giggled at my formality and with could have been easily mistaken as a sly smile, Adelaide swept out of the room, her dress whispering down the stairs.
I looked down at my daughter, suddenly remembering the entire reason I had interrupted the lesson. I held my hand out to her, which she eagerly took and followed me down the hall to where her Mother, quite honestly, lay dying; consumption eating away at her lungs. It pained me to know that I led her to that room, where I fear, her childhood would be marred forever.
