Chapter 11: The New Normal
[featuring and "Erik Runs Away from Home" and "Keeping Up the de Chagnys"]
Erik was over the moon when he received an unanticipated letter with a Parisian return address. He marvelled at how the curvy feminine handwriting turned the harshness of his name into something soft and delicate.
The Girys noticed Erik's giddiness as dashed into his study with his mail, and the two women didn't need to exert energy on guessing the cause: Erik had received a letter from Christine.
Meg poked her head into Erik's study, expecting to find the man bouncing off the walls from excitement, but instead Erik sat deflated at his cluttered desk, staring sadly at his letter.
"Is something wrong?" Meg asked. The man's head shot up from his letter. He hastily shoved the paper into his envelope and tucked it inside his jacket.
"No. Everything's fine," Erik said stiffly. "Thank you," he added as he brushed past Meg and hastened out of the room.
Meg stood in the doorway as the brooding man trudged away. When Erik was out of sight, she breathed a long defeated sigh and wandered away to find her mother, her only companion in the loneliness of Erik's isolated manor. As Meg walked into the parlour, she wondered what could have been in Christine's letter to trouble Erik so much. Had she shared some earth-shattering piece of news, or was a simple reminder of Christine's existence enough to upset him? More importantly, what would correspondence from Christine mean for Meg's pursuit of the man?
Meg grumbled to herself and irritably crossed her arms over her chest. Her ex-best friend didn't even need to be on the same side of the Atlantic Ocean, and yet the angelic and regal Christine always outshined a scrappy ballet rat like herself.
Erik was not seen again until dinner that night when he wandered into the breakfast room while the Girys were in the middle of their meal.
"I hope you don't mind that we started without you," said Madame Giry. "We weren't sure you were coming."
"Oh, not at all," Erik said. He carelessly collapsed at the head of the table, but didn't reach for the food. "I only came to tell you that Ayesha and I are leaving for Phantasma the day after tomorrow."
"What?" Meg gawked in surprise.
"The season is about to begin!" said Erik happily. "I must be there to make sure everything's running smoothly."
"I'm sure Fleck, Squelch, and Gangle can keep things under control," said Madame Giry.
"I know." Erik sighed. "It's just been so long. I want to go back." He was bored of playing master of the house, of walking around a manor like a gentleman when he belonged in Phantasma with all the other oddballs and freaks.
"Perhaps you'll want some company?" Meg suggested.
"Don't worry about me." Erik chuckled. "Ayesha is very pleasant company, although I don't think she'd say the same about me." Erik rose from the table. "Oh, and, Madame Giry, you're in charge while I'm gone...if you don't mind, of course."
"No problem at all," the ex-ballet mistress replied. It was about time Erik let her do some of the work around here. Lord knows no one else did because Erik was too consumed by music and Christine to put his foot down with the servants.
Meg bit her lip sadly as Erik left the room. She'd been hoping to spend time with him now that he'd shipped Christine back to France, but she couldn't if he wasn't going to be home anymore. When Christine had been around, Erik didn't care how much work he neglected; he'd drop everything and rush to her side if she desired it, but now that Christine was gone, work was the only thing that could distract Erik from his sorrows.
Though Christine had grown up poor, she'd quickly adapted to being lady of the house; but her least favorite part of the job was gossiping with the boring aristocratic women of Parisian high society. After her long absence from France, Christine had a great deal of catching up to do with all the old acquaintances she never liked in the first place.
"I'm so glad you're back, Christine. I missed your pleasant company," lied a wealthy comtesse as she offered her guest a plate of pastries. "I understand you were taken ill in America. What sort of illness did you suffer?"
"I was shot," Christine replied bluntly. And also stabbed in the back by the man I love, which arguably hurt more. China clattered as Christine roughly set her teacup on the saucer in her hand.
"Shot?" The nosy comtesse's eyebrows rose in surprise. "What a dreadful accident!"
"Oh, it was no accident." Christine took a haughty sip of tea.
"Ah. I see," the comtesse lied again. She frowned, wondering what sort of place America must be if innocent noblewomen were being shot at left and right.
After she'd wasted an afternoon with painfully polite conversation, Christine breathed a sigh of relief when she returned home from tea in the comtesse's lavish drawing room. She'd officially caught up with each of her old acquaintances, and the tea would be the last of its kind for the time being. Christine didn't know how she'd amuse herself in the coming days, but she predicted her future would involve a great deal of solitary activities such as reading and embroidery.
Raoul emerged from his musty study and found his wife on a sofa in the parlour, gazing out the window and wondering if gardening was a new hobby she could pursue.
"Hello, Christine," he said gently. "Did you enjoy your visit to-remind me who you were visiting?"
"Just another wife of one of your friends," Christine grumbled as she stood up. Looking at the decaying garden always depressed her, and her husband's presence only worsened her mood.
"No, please don't get leave," Raoul said quickly as he sat on the sofa. Christine pursed her lips and resumed her seat.
They sat in mutual silence before Raoul found the courage to speak, "Christine, Little Lotte," he began hesitantly. "I think it's quite clear our marriage is not what it once was."
"Yes, I would agree," she said stiffly, hoping Raoul would offer the one thing she desired most: a divorce.
"Yes...well…" Raoul continued awkwardly. He let out a long sigh. "Christine, inside the house, you may interact with me as much or as little as you wish, but outside the house, we must...keep up appearances."
"Oh?"
"Yes, Christine," Raoul said, trying to emulate the commanding tone of a husband. "I don't care whether you love me, but you are still my wife, and I expect you to act like it." He stood up clumsily and hastily scurried to his study, slamming the door behind him. Christine stood up from the sofa and stomped her foot in the direction of Raoul's study.
"Keeping up appearances…" she muttered under breath as stormed upstairs to her bedroom.