Author's note: Thank you to my loyal reviewers- it makes me unreasonably happy to see your comments and suggestions. I love feedback.
I want to see this resolved as much as you do, but unfortunately, there's a little housekeeping to be done first. Charles has to return home, Raoul has to come out of his room, and little Charles- well, little Charles should probably stay out of the market for awhile.
The standard disclaimer applies, although I do certainly own the character of Charles William, and would appreciate you not stealing him. Thanks!
I closed the last trunk and sat on the edge of my bed with a sigh before summoning a porter to bring my things to the lobby in preparation for my departure. Walking over to the window, I watched for the signs of the carriage that I had come to know so well over the past two weeks.
I missed my son and father very much, but I hated to leave Italy. I had come to love the country that seemed so alive compared to Paris, and the fact that my work was very well-received here didn't do much to put a damper on my affections. And of course, there was Josephine. I had come to love her more than I thought possible in this short time, in a way I had not known existed.
Of course I had loved Rosalind, in the only way I knew how, but it paled in comparison to the tremendous hold Josephine had on my entire being.
The dinner after that concert, which seemed like years ago, had not been the last time Josephine and I saw one another. She attended another two concerts, and there was no shortage of dinners, lunches, shopping and excursions, to the point where, after one particularly well-connected party, the society pages were speculating on our relationship.
They weren't the only ones speculating. Josephine was lovely, engaging and intelligent, and beautiful to behold. It was no secret she was just as attracted to me, and I longed to be with her every moment. I wanted to marry her, have children with her, never let her out of my sight, but I had no idea how to go about any of it. Every time I attempted to bring the conversation into an arena that remotely approached some sort of permanency, or even commitment, she would shy away from the subject. Even the voice that seemed to captivate her so held no sway in this regard, and I found myself more and more frustrated as the time of my departure grew nearer. I could not prolong things any more, I had received another letter from Father imploring me to come home – dear Lord, what has my son been doing to him? He sounded positively haunted in the last correspondence- and even more so, these weeks away were too many from my son.
I missed him, but more than that, I needed to get home. I needed to remember my responsibilities.
It's so dangerous, when you find yourself in a situation you did not expect, to find yourself enamored with whatever distraction comes your way. In this case, Italy reminded me of the life I could have had, had I not met Rosalind. I don't regret my son, in so many ways, he's one of the best things in my life, but I'd be a fool to try and ignore the kind of ramifications his condition had on all of us. I found myself fantasizing about a life where he – we - would not be so stared at, a life where my father's name did not draw surprised faces. I saw the looks in public, but I ignored them for both our sakes.
The thing I'm coming to realize is that ignoring it is like leaving a piece of fruit hidden behind a jar- you can pretend it's invisible, a non-reality, only so long.
Four nights ago, I walked Josephine home from the open-air café that had become a favorite spot. The night was quite pleasant, and we detoured through a park in the last lights of the evening.
"This is one of my favorite places," she said.
"It's beautiful," I agreed, taking hold of her hand. We had started including more physical contact at that point, though it had not gone past a kiss on the hand at the end of the evening, an arm about the shoulder or my hand caressing her beautiful face. I longed for more, still, but felt an urgency to make this perfect, give her no reason to fear me or deny my presence.
"When I was a little girl," she said softly, coming to a stop and standing close to me, the setting sun giving her hair red tones, "I used to come out here just to watch the sun set. I thought it was the most beautiful place on earth."
"Your father let you out alone?" I asked, surprised. I had yet to have a full conversation with Josephine's father, knew he would not have likely permitted that. Josephine's mother had died in childbirth, and the doctors considered it a miracle Josephine survived. Alessandro, who was fifteen years older than his wife, Sophia, was fiercely protective of his only daughter, concerned if he lost her, he should lose everything.
"Of course not," she laughed. "But I learned how to slip past his eye."
"You are so beautiful," I said, aware it had nothing to do with the conversation at hand, but unable to resist telling her.
"Thank you," she said, resting one hand on my chest. "When I'm with you, I almost believe it."
"In all cases, beauty is determined by the character of the subject," I said, doing my best to sound diplomatic. "In your case, my dear, it would be difficult to determine which, outer or inner, is more stunning." I was not lying, not even using hyperbole to keep that hand on my chest for another moment. She truly was the most beautiful woman I had ever known.
Two nights before, I had told her of Charles. She had heard gossip, of course, because an entertainer of even small renown does not come to town without some closet skeletons tagging along, but instead of being repulsed- and I did not spare her – her eyes held a profound sadness.
"That poor little boy," she had said, and the compassion in her voice was enough to confirm every feeling I felt. I loved this woman. She was wonderful company, and she would not be afraid of my son. I had told her he would most likely enjoy meeting her – though I did not say he would probably equally love trying to slip a caterpillar onto her skirt or try to make her believe the clock was speaking (Father almost passed out at that one!) – and she looked down before she said that we would be late for our next engagement.
Standing in the park, I wanted to broach the topic again, but contented myself with looking at her radiant smile.
"You truly do have a way with words," she said.
"That's funny, most people seem to think I'm pretty good with a piano," I said. "You know, for parties and things."
"Then they clearly haven't heard you speak," she said, refusing to let me look away (as if I had any desire!), "because if they had, they wouldn't care if you had a complete inability to read music."
Have I mentioned I absolutely adore what my voice does to this woman?
"Well, as luck would have it, I can both play a Christmas carol and hold conversation," I said, allowing the register of my voice to become soft, but quite strong.
"A man of many talents," she said softly, drawing herself into my arms.
I have no idea who initiated that first kiss, but it was enough to convince me that I never, ever wanted to be without it again.
Now, watching for her carriage, I know what I have to do. I cannot, will not, live my life without her. Saying it to myself, if sounds so melodramatic, so much like a schoolboy crush, the kind I was seemingly immune to for so long. It isn't.
Finally, I see her stepping out of a cab, and I rush to meet her.
"My dear," I said, reaching in to kiss her cheek.
"I can't believe you're leaving today," she said softly.
"I don't want to," I said, "but I must get home to my father and son. He's probably driven him to the madhouse by now!" She laughed, and I took it as a hopeful sign.
"I wish there was some way I could magically transport them here," I said, as we began to walk down the street. I had a little time before I had to meet my transport, and I wanted to spend every moment with her. "It would really make this whole goodbye business much less of an issue."
"Yes, but the freight companies would go out of business, and we can't have that," she said.
"Yes, but then I wouldn't have to leave you," I said. "Truly, you have made this so wonderful."
"Your company was equally nice," she replied, but with an emotion that belied her formal words.
"Josephine," I said, stopping by a bench under some trees. "You don't understand. You've been a breath of fresh air, a light I didn't know I needed. How can you not even realize you're in the dark until someone lights a lamp?"
"Stop," she said, turning away, and I could hear sadness in her voice. "You must not go on."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I can't do this, Charles, I can't hear these things and say goodbye to you! You tell me of your life, your family, all you do in Paris, and I know we've had a wonderful time these past weeks, but in a few hours you'll be gone. I can't pretend I don't care, but I can't allow myself to be hurt again."
"Hurt? How have I hurt you?"
"You've done nothing, you're wonderful, and can't you understand that's what makes this so hard? But I loved once already, and thought he loved me, too. He was a cellist. He spent six months here studying something or other, told me he loved me…but in the end it was back home to his wife. His wife! He didn't even tell me he had a wife!"
"You didn't even tell me about him," I said, completely taken aback. Not that I expected her to be some vestal virgin- even if I had barely touched her – but the idea of her loving another man, giving her heart to someone the way I longer her to bestow it upon me, was shattering.
"I didn't want it to ruin things," she said. I took her in my arms. The past didn't matter, I told myself. It didn't. She was here now, and I loved her.
"Well, now you've told me, and it hasn't," I said, stroking her hair. "And I don't have any wife. I have an amazing son, and once I had a wife, but what I told you was true- she's no longer in my life."
"Stop," she begged. "You're still leaving, this doesn't change anything."
"Then leave with me," I said, reaching in my coat for the ring I had procured the day after our first kiss. "Marry me. Be my wife and I will spend my days making you happy."
"I love you, Charles," she said. "But I cannot go to Paris. I cannot leave Father, and he will not go."
"Please, don't say no," I said, still holding the ring. "Please. I will find a way, if I have to pack up my estate and move here, I will. I don't care. But please- don't say no."
"I cannot say yes," she said. "You have commitments in Paris, I have my life here. I have to take care of my father, there's no one else to do it. I'm all he has, and I love him."
"I know," I said. "I'm not asking you to leave him. But if I can find a way to make this work, will you marry me then? If I move to Italy, bring my family here, will you join us?" She smiled and took the ring from my hand, slipping it onto her right ring finger.
"I will wait for you," she promised.