RAOUL
Over the next three days, work began on the house in earnest, and Erik indeed did make a more than competent foreman. He had this natural joviality that carried him through life and was much more skilled at communicating his thoughts than Raoul could ever hope to be. Erik could even understand vague statements Raoul made and run with them. Raoul was musing (more to himself than to anyone else) that when he was a child, the nursery had rabbits and birds in country clothes on the wallpaper, but it had since been either removed or papered over with a horrid puce colored paisley pattern. Erik, of his own volition, and on his own time, managed to peel off the corner of the puce wallpaper and discovered the pattern from Raoul's childhood was underneath, still mostly preserved and presentable. Raoul wasn't even miffed that Erik hadn't thought to consult him first, so pleased was he that he thought he might start crying as Erik touched up the faded portion by the door with a set of paints. But that would have been ridiculous, getting choked up like that.
Clémentine seemed to be adjusting well enough to her new home. She found endless amusement in exploring the house, and Raoul had to admit it warmed his heart to watch his daughter investigate the false step on the grand staircase (perfect for hiding treasure, Raoul delightedly told her) or falling asleep on the window seat in a pool of sunshine. He only wished he could find a playmate for her, one that was her age. But she appeared content enough with what she had.
She came running to him one day, all flustered excitement and red cheeks, tugging the much taller Erik by the hand. "Look, Papa, Monsieur Erik can make my dolls talk! He doesn't move his mouth but they talk! He's magic!"
Sheepishly, Erik shoved his free hand in his pocket. "I apologize, there was a lull in the work and Miss Clémentine needed me to fix her music box… then I suppose I got distracted…"
Raoul realized by the pained expression on his face that Erik half-expected a scolding or a dismissal for wasting time. That's right, he thought. I'm technically his employer. But, with warmth in him that he only felt sporadically, Raoul ruffled his daughter's hair and asked to see the trick.
Ever since then, Clémentine's greatest passion became preventing Erik from doing his work. She constantly cajoled the poor man into not only performing magic tricks for her but also telling clearly embellished stories from his time abroad or drawing her pictures of any sort of creature she could dream up. Although admittedly Erik didn't seem to mind all that much. Raoul, despite himself, was also fascinated by how the odd-looking fellow could make a handkerchief seemingly turn into a rose and back again or cast a shadow with his hand that looked like a dove (along with the accompanying cooing noises). Raoul considered himself a rational person (at least when it came to matters of science), but he truly could not figure out how all the tricks in Erik's arsenal were accomplished. He assumed Apolline was relieved to have less responsibility for entertaining her young mistress.
Raoul occupied most of his free time (when he wasn't writing checks or interviewing potential servants or spending time with Clémentine) reading. The library books were a bit mildewed, but still, there was plenty he hadn't read yet. He decided on a whim to learn Dutch, figuring it couldn't be much harder to teach himself than Swedish or German. Having retreated largely from public life, he had given up most of the entertainment most men of his status enjoyed. He'd never had much interest in going out and getting horribly drunk or going to the opera anyway, and since he had no interest in leaving his daughter behind to return to the sea, he contented himself by soaking up as much knowledge as he could, from languages to natural sciences to literature to philosophy. He'd even tried his hand at writing his poetry of his own, but found his work lacking and too cloying and sentimental. The less said about his attempt at a novel (which read more like a penny dreadful) the better. But today, his plans to study were abandoned as Durand informed him that his automobile had arrived. It had been such a pain to ship it from Paris, but he knew it would be worth it.
Raoul had very few vices. A glass of wine at dinner, perhaps, or a scotch to calm his nerves, but never more than that. He couldn't stand cigar smoke, although the smell of Philippe's pipe made him nostalgic. He had never tried opium or morphine or cocaine, after seeing how it affected his shipmates. Gambling had no appeal to him, after losing fifty francs at a horse race, he had no desire to test his odds again.
As for sex, it was not all it was cracked up to be. He had lost his virginity at twenty-two in Copenhagen to a local girl named Freja. He regretted it as soon as he had rolled off of her. They didn't speak any common languages, but his friend Alain had a rudimentary knowledge of Norwegian and that was close enough, so he acted as an interpreter. Raoul didn't need his help understanding her in the bedroom, she kept repeating some curse words (some that another Scandinavian girl he had known not as quite intimately had taught him) as if he was actually bringing her pleasure. He had found out later that Philippe had offered five hundred francs for Alain to arrange a meeting like this and another four hundred for the "lucky" girl who relieved Raoul of his embarrassing innocence. He had been quite angry at the time, but now only felt a dull ache when he considered what had happened to flaxen-haired Freja whose beautiful brown eyes only made him think that they were the wrong color.
His nights with his wife were more enjoyable, but their couplings were more of formality, something they both thought newlyweds should do. The act only appealed to the shameful part of his brain, after climaxing he felt a pervading sense of intense guilt only Catholics knew, despite the fact he had "made love" to his lawfully wedded wife. He had remained faithful to Manon, those eight months at sea, and in her memory, he would never lie with anyone again.
Still, he needed to get adrenaline somehow, to lift the fog even a little bit. The only time he felt like a real person was when he was around Clémentine, whose endless curiosity and love for life brought him his only real joy. His siblings kept trying to control his life, between Philippe parading endless opera girls in front of him and his sisters playing Emma Woodhouse in an attempt to get him married off again. What difference did it make to them if he should take a lover or wife or twenty wives (like those annoying Americans he met in the Pacific) or be alone forever? Yes, they were concerned for their brother who had become all but a recluse, only appearing in public when absolutely forced to. Constance had just about lost her mind when she had noticed the eye-shaped tattoo on his wrist (she didn't know about any of the other ones) and had been ready to kill him when she learned about the automobile.
He had always enjoyed mechanical marvels ever since Philippe had come back from one of his sojourns to Italy with a music box shaped like a golden birdcage. There was a little bird inside that actually moved when the crank was turned. He had even considered becoming a mechanic himself, before his father, in a rare display acknowledging his existence, had walloped him on the head and told him gruffly that Chagnys didn't work. But he had kept up his interest in machinery, even had subscriptions to several magazines on the topic, and of course, was enchanted by the concept of a horseless carriage. He had gone to an automobile race (betting no money, of course) partially to hopefully see that insufferable Comte de Dion lose, but that goal was quickly forgotten when he saw the Peugeot Type Seven come in second place. He hadn't felt that excited (or honestly felt anything that strong) in ages, so he found Monsieur Peugeot and practically begged to give him his money.
Driving was easier than it looked. Raoul had ridden horses as a child, although not for some time after a nasty fall, and he found using an automobile much simpler. A horse was an unpredictable animal, a car was easier to make sense of. Even when it broke down, he had a manual to refer to. On a good day, he could get the engine to go twenty kilometers an hour.
Even though the Type Seven could fit three passengers, he usually drove alone. It was too risky for Clémentine, and as her father, he had more regard for her life than his own. Philippe, adventurous as he was, declined his invitations after one particularly bumpy ride. Asking Constance would be the equivalent of asking her to swim the Channel and Amalie-Louise was something of a bohemian who might find it interesting if not for the petrol fumes upsetting her delicate senses during her frequent pregnancies. Raoul avoided spending time with his idiot brothers-in-law as much as he could, both regarded him as still a boy, much as his sisters did, but it was much less endearing coming from Armand and Henri. He had coaxed Durand into riding with him a few times, but he could tell by his valet's white-knuckled grip on the dashboard that he would rather not.
So, it was just Raoul and the open road, and to be honest, he preferred it that way. For one, he hated the silly looking outfit and goggles he had to wear to keep the dust and flies out of his face. The roar of the engine made it impossible to have a conversation at the speeds Raoul preferred to go at and he relished being alone rather than the silent judgment of whoever might be riding with him. The distressing thoughts that constantly plagued him melted away just a little bit and Raoul had to use all his focus on staying on the road and avoiding running into the peasants who would stare at him with slack-jawed wonder. Perhaps he should have invited the village boys to join him. They would run along beside the automobile as long as their stamina would permit, peppering him with questions that were barely audible above the engine.
The roads near Perros were a bit rougher than the ones on the outskirts of Paris and the wind was harsher too. Still, he felt a huge breath of relief to get behind the wheel again, feel the wind in his face and the bad memories melt away, even for a fleeting moment.
He had probably set out too late and Raoul was so consumed by his thoughts and the passing scenery that he hadn't realized it was nearly dusk and he out to turn around before he ran out of fuel. That thought, of course, distracted him from the woman walking towards him in the middle of the road. He nearly swerved off the road to avoid her, but she removed herself as an obstacle by diving into the ditch on the side of the road:
He pulled over, shutting off the engine. "Are you all right, madame?" he called, getting out to offer a hand. The woman was sprawled out in a heap and cursing.
A steely gaze met his and he felt taken aback until he removed his goggles and the features on Christine's face softened.
"Raoul?" she furrowed her brow.
"What are you doing, jumping into ditches, Christine? Here, take my hand, and let's get you out."
"What on earth are you doing, riding whatever contraption that is? I was afraid I'd be struck by it" she spluttered, quite charmingly though, despite her irritation.
"It's an automobile, Christine, and one of the greatest loves of my life, so far," he laughed. She finally took his offered hand, yanking hard enough to pull herself upright that it brought their noses within two inches of each other. She averted her eyes and let go of his hand to brush off some dirt.
"Well, it frightened me. It sounds like a steel dragon and I've never seen anything like that before," she adjusted her hat. "My god, Raoul, why would you ever get on one of those things!"
"It's much faster than a carriage, won't you please let me give you a ride home?" he was almost giddy with the prospect. "I've got a hat with a veil to protect your eyes from the dust, and a coat as well, although it isn't very stylish and meant for a man."
"You think I give one jot about looking stylish when I could die on that thing?" Still, she looked curiously and hesitantly touched the seat.
"I'll go as slow as I can, I promise. It's not dangerous at all, or I wouldn't invite you."
She seemed to consider her options for a moment. "I suppose I could try… but if I don't like it I'm getting off."
"Preferably you'll alert me first, instead of jumping off?" he gave her a small smile.
She laughed and allowed him to fit her with the hat. He ignored the stirrings in the pit of his stomach when she grasped his upper arm as if her life depended on it. She shrieked with excitement when he started the motor and Raoul remembered what it was like to be young and innocent again.
CHRISTINE
She'd never had many chances to ride in regular carriages, but this was truly something else. Raoul animatedly discussed the specifics and mechanics of the "automobile" but she could barely make out what he was saying over the racket the engine was making. She kept casting what she hoped were furtive glances to see the smile on his face, remembering the boy he once was.
Poor Raoul, a widower whose wife had died the same way as his mamma. Christine wasn't sure why her sadness about Raoul's loss was tinged with another, nearly unrecognizable emotion. Poor, motherless Clémentine, as well.
The Raoul she used to know would have come bounding up to her and given her a great big bear hug. He would have spent hours catching up with her, instead of quick conversations here and there. Things had changed. He was no longer the gangly, yet round-faced boy she knew. Poor dear.
Riding in the automobile was much easier than walking, even if it was bumpy, and before long they reached the cottage. Raoul dutifully helped Christine down, taking her embarrassingly worn gloves hand. She felt self-conscious as he opened the gate, which needed to be replaced ten years ago.
"So little has changed!" he remarked. "It's just like it used to be. It's even painted the same yellow."
Christine felt pained. She knew Raoul didn't mean to come off as insulting, and in fact, was completely oblivious to the possible implication, but the reason it was still the same color was that it had never been repainted in the first place. If he had looked closer he would see the paint was peeling.
Not wanting to say goodbye quite yet, Christine racked her brains for a reason for Raoul to stay longer. Why couldn't things be like the way they were?
He was halfway to getting back in his strange carriage when she blurted out he should come in for supper. Christine felt immediately foolish and couldn't remember if she had anything to eat in the house.
Raoul paused. "I'm sure there's something for me at home, I couldn't trouble you for that."
Just come in, she silently begged with her eyes. "Well, you could come in… just to see what it looks like on the inside."
It probably wouldn't be proper for a widower to enter the house of an unchaperoned unmarried woman. But when had she ever cared for what was proper? And for that matter, when had the old Raoul?
Raoul seemed to hesitate for a moment. "I suppose, just for a moment, two minutes maybe. And then, I really must get back to my daughter."
She led him inside, turning on the gas lamp. He was so tall now that he had to duck to cross the threshold. As her eyes adjusted to the light, Christine cursed herself for not picking up first. There was a pair of stockings tossed over the back of the chair, her breakfast dishes were still on the table, her bed wasn't made. She hoped he couldn't see her flushed embarrassment.
"It's like stepping into my childhood," he remarked, tracing Papa's carvings on the wooden beams with his finger. "It's as if I only stepped out for a few minutes and not over a decade."
She laid a hand on his shoulder. "Well, since Papa passed, I haven't had much heart to change things." Or money. "His clothes are still in the wardrobe."
He turned to her. "I am so sorry you had to go through that alone. If only- I should have kept in touch."
"I should have made more of an effort," she said. "But you're here now, and things could be like they used to be."
Raoul had a dark look in his eyes. "They can't go back to how they used to be. Not entirely…"
She wasn't sure if Raoul was angry, but she felt a lump in her throat.
"Well, of course," Christine said quickly. "I don't suppose it would be fitting for a vicomte to run into the sea fully clothed or to picnic in the attic. I just meant… I want to have a real conversation with you. Be friends and not acquaintances."
"Of course we're friends. As close as friends can be," he said, the miserable look on his face suddenly replaced by a tentative smile. "I value your friendship more than anything, and already you have proven yourself more sympathetic to my situation than even my family."
She tugged on her collar, which suddenly felt like it was strangling her. Perhaps she had revealed too much, for Raoul let out a gasp.
"What happened to your neck? Christine?"
She felt utterly humiliated, hot tears on her face. He had seen one of the scars she tried so hard to hide. She scrambled to think of an excuse, for the only other people who had seen them knew the origin all too well.
"It's a silly story you know how clumsy I am," she found herself blurting out. "And I managed to cut my neck chopping carrots for soup. Don't ask me how that's possible when you have slippery fingers like mine, you can't believe the accidents I've gotten into."
She could tell he remained unconvinced by her bald-faced lie. Raoul reached his hand out hesitantly, almost withdrawing for a moment, before gingerly putting two fingers on the long-closed wound. Surely he could feel her pulse, her heart beating as fast as a hummingbird's. She would have never thought him this bold, to touch a lady, or the approximation of a lady, like this. But it was because they were friends.
"Poor Christine," he said. "Whatever happened, I'm sorry."
She closed her eyes, trying to staunch the tears, but he took away his fingers, so suddenly as if he'd touched a branding iron.
"I really must go," he straightened himself out, adjusting his coat. "You must come to supper soon. And the piano tuner is coming on Thursday, would you come the next morning for a lesson?"
"Of course," she said, plastering on a smile as if they'd passed the last few minutes discussing whether it would rain tomorrow.
"I will see you very soon, Christine," he said, taking her hand and kissing it. With a nod, he left, taking one final glance before crossing the threshold.
Once he was out of sight, she fell onto the bed, although tears would not come. She was such a foolish, stupid woman. She thought she had left such feelings so far behind her. Daniel had taught her that.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
I know I haven't updated in way too long. Life has gotten in the way! But I wanted to get this up for Raoulstine week over on Tumblr. Hopefully, I can finish up my other one-shot WIP as well. Thank you to everyone who left comments in the meanwhile.
I am really looking for a beta as there were too many mistakes in the last chapter!
You can read about Raoul's car and the real race he attended on Wikipedia. The Comte de Dion, a real person, is despised by Raoul for his position as an "anti-Dreyfusard" (and holding vehement anti-Semitic views) during the Dreyfus Affair. If you haven't heard about that, I would suggest reading up on it because it will become a plot point in later chapters.
This story takes place in roughly 1896, I know there is a lot of debate on when the events of the Leroux novel and the ALW musical take place. I am kind of fudging the details so certain historical events coincide with my story, more on that later. Both Raoul and Christine are twenty-seven, I know that doesn't entirely line up with their ages in Leroux, but hey, it's my story and an AU besides that.
