Chapter Eleven

It was different at first, being around Christine after that fateful afternoon. In actuality, our routine did not change much; only we went about our daily business with the acute, sacred knowledge of how one felt about the other. I alone carried the added burden of the constant worry that Christine would come to her senses and realize how ugly I truly was.

No troubles seemed to befall her, though, for she bustled about the flat cheerfully, always either humming or singing softly to herself. I couldn't help but notice that now, unlike before, she always seemed to find some sort of task or chore to complete in whatever room I was in. I did not mind; her desire for my company touched me.

We talked sometimes as she cleaned, other times we remained in a companionable silence. But every evening we sat together in the parlor. She sat closer to me as she sewed and mended and as I read. In time I was brave enough to place my arm around her shoulders, and later wrap it around her waist. At the end of the evening, we developed a new ritual.

"Goodnight, Christine," I'd say after she told me she was going to bed. We'd both rise from the settee and I'd gently take her face in my hands. Before kissing her, though, I would require her to remove my mask, not of course because I wanted her to see my face -- quite the contrary, as I did not enjoy this at all. It was more my way of testing her, of making certain that she truly cared not for my face. If she truly could, if she truly loved me, I would be amazed…shocked…euphoric, for I loved her, really I did.

Surely I felt a measure of guilt for not loving Amelie this way, for not dreaming of marriage with Amelie as I now did Christine. At times the guilt would take hold of my heart and send me into a black mood. Amelie had been a good woman, and I'd cared for her. Why didn't I love her? She'd deserved it. There just seemed to be something there with Christine which wasn't with Amelie, something that made us mesh and lock together beyond a reason which I could comprehend.

And of course, I still grieved my little Georges. Perhaps I always would. I felt I betrayed him, too, when I wondered if Christine would ever carry my child in her womb.

My guilt was periodic though intense, but even so I clung to my reasoning that I'd honored my family and a new phase in my life had begun.

Marriage was on my mind, and though I never mentioned such things to Christine, I remembered our conversation about wedlock. To be Christine's husband and have her as my wife…but I could never be so bold. I was entirely unsure of what our relationship would be considered now.

But I loved her and I loved to kiss her, and I loved the feel of her in my arms. I could never let her go.

One night we sat together, she busily mending a tear in one of her dress, as I, despite the tradition, sat simply watching her rather than reading. Her pretty, nimble fingers quickly maneuvered the needle in and out of the pale green fabric of the skirt, gradually drawing the two sides of the fabric together and completing the stitch. She then folded the dress and with a soft, contented sigh, set it on the ground with her thread and needle atop it. She leaned against the cushioned settee-back and surreptitiously snuggled into my embrace, apparently assuming that since I was not occupying myself, I was in some sort of daze and would not notice her advances.

Subconsciously I wound my arm around her waist, bringing her soft, gentle curves tangent to the long leanness that was my body. She exhaled deeply and settled into the comfort of my arms. I felt very full, oddly content as we simply sat there together. I absorbed her cool, feminine scent and pressed my masked cheek against her curls. Without really realizing what I did, I pulled her into my lap by wrapping my fingers around her thigh. She complied readily and nestled her head against the crook of her neck. I could feel her breath pushing against my flesh as she exhaled.

An enumerable amount of time passed with us only being content with sitting in each other's arms. For that period I forgot all the troubles that plagued my mind, and simply experienced togetherness with her. I was torpid and content, only eventually becoming aware that she had reached her soft hand upward to remove my mask and now cupped my bare cheek. I dared to press my misshapen lips to her palm in a gentle kiss, and although the room was dimly lit, I could feel her smile.

"Erik, I love you," she whispered, pressing a kiss to my neck. "I love you," she repeated, this time a bit louder as she adjusted herself so she faced me. "I never want to leave you…" She pressed her lips against mine and kept them there for some time, before pulling away and smiling softly.

"I hope you never have to," I breathed in reply.

"I won't," she replied firmly. "I can't."

I kissed her cheek, followed by her shoulder. "Christine, you are so good to me…"

"Erik," she asked timidly as my lips sought out her pale neck, "would it be so dreadful to marry me?"

My gentle kisses ceased and I pulled away in surprise. "Dreadful? Not at all."

"Well, I mean," she replied, flustered, "I'm only a servant, after all, a maid."

"I don't view you as such. I see only Christine, the woman whom I love and whom I was able to know through some kind twist of fate." She grinned, and my lips found hers once more before I said, my tone assuming a paternal air, "You should go ready yourself for bed now, dear. It's getting late." She nodded submissively and rose from my lap.

It was the evenings like that which I lived for and dreamed of, and they were given to me without issue. That is, until that fateful day I decided to accompany Christine to the market.