Dear Faithfuls:
This chapter is a rather long one, please be prepared. I'd not the heart to separate it into two as there was much that I wanted to have take place in this one evening. In part, it may be my unconscious way of trying to repay the debt I owe you for not updating as regularly as I had been. By the end of March, life should be on much more of an even keel, and I will once again be back to my regular schedule of updating and replying to your reviews. For the time being know that I am reading them, and they mean the world to me.
Thank you sincerely for your patience, and your outpouring of concern over some of the things that have been going on for me in recent weeks. You know, some of the nicest people I know belong to our Phamily, and some I don't even know their "real" names, or will ever lay eyes on them. Just the same, you've all become quite dear to me. A friend doesn't have to be physically present to be a friend. Remember it is what we feel that is most important, and that is what we take with us into the great hereafter! Again thank you, and I hope you enjoy this chapter. You may recognize bits an pieces of things that you've mentioned in your reviews littered throughout the chapter, so if you see something that tickles your memory, and you think I might have been referencing something you once said….you are most probably right!
The winter house lay quiet. Weeks had passed since a single soul had been anywhere in the vicinity, save for the occasional traveler passing by on the distant road. The figure crouched in the shadows watched and listened with a trained eye, and keen ear. Proceeding with brazen assuredness, he crept into the furthermost stretches of the property, inch by inch. His horse, with cart, remained hidden off in the woods far behind the house, lashed to a tree, but at the ready.
There were but a few precious things, the most important things, he hoped beyond hope to still find tucked away in the depths of the carriage house; beneath the trap door in the corner of the stables. He and Sebastian had dug the cellar themselves, concealing its entrance discretely inside the hay bin. During the winter it would never be noticed as the bin was always kept full. During the summer, he and Sebastian would remove the walls of the bin to reveal the outline of the door cleverly built beneath it. He could only wish that it had never been discovered.
If he could make this final retrieval, he'd be able to spare his own neck, for they were the very items his most demanding buyer had waited for. If not, he'd be on the run for the rest of his life. He'd have to cross the ocean to get away from the woman's tentacle like grasp. She'd been the most generous customer in the beginning. Now, he'd learned in spades, she was by far the most treacherous living soul he'd ever encountered, and he loathed the day he first laid eyes on her. A soul? No, he thought to himself as he prepared for the journey to the stable, belly on the ground, hands grasping at the dirt. He didn't think her to have a soul. A creature so vile certainly couldn't co-exist with something so precious as a soul inside her.
Pyotr slowly, stealthily, made his way across the ground. The lawns had not received their thrashing; the long grasses helping to conceal his movement. He knew, just like clockwork, Monsieur Courtland's staff would be there the day after the morrow making use of their sickles to groom the yard. On his belly, movement by movement, he slowly inched his way to the carriage house. He'd a small lantern, but he'd not light it until he was beneath the trap door, where all would be concealed.
He hoped so desperately that the artwork was still in good order, the coral sponges they'd placed there some months before should have protected against the collection of moisture that would have been certain to collect on such things beneath the ground. True, they'd been carefully wrapped, but the length of time had been much longer than usual. If the pictures were there, then the cache of monies that they'd stowed would be there as well. His resources nearly depleted, the funds would mean the difference of getting out of the Country comfortably alive, and having to scrounge and squabble every inch of the way.
It felt like hours to Pyotr before he arrived at the side of the carriage house. Carefully pushing open the small door reserved quite typically for small animals; making his way inside. He sighed. He'd made it thus far, seemingly without notice.
His mind wandered momentarily to Sebastian. It was a shame that the man would bear the burden for the pair of them, but that had been the agreement, should either be captured. His guilt was outweighed by his sense of self-preservation. His commitment to Sebastian included looking after what little family the man had. Somehow knowing he'd see to that softened the blow of leaving Sebastian behind to rot in the Parisian jail. But that was the plight of both. The one caught paid the price for their deeds. The one free was to take care of the loose ends of making final deliveries, and seeing to the safety of the other's family. The final thing…that would be years off. If the free man were still alive when the other was released, he was to retrieve him. He shook his head. This all remained to be seen. He'd have to secure the funds, and the artwork first. If they were gone, his fate would be far worse than Sebastian's.
Pyotr, crawled along the floor, until he came to the North-Western corner of the structure. A hay-bin had been erected over the door, in part to conceal the outline of the door, and in part to provide cover for light when they were in the cellar beneath it. There had been many obstacles to move before he finally climbed inside the bin, carefully removing the large steel spikes that held the walls in place. That done he began searching until he found the handle. He sighed deeply. So much depended on the next few minutes; it truly was the moment of truth. If he found the room empty….no…he'd not allow himself to think of the consequences now, though he may look on the pistol in his pocket with fond affection. At least he knew that death would be swift and painless.
XXXXX
Nicole plunged into the deepest recesses of her wardrobe beyond what she'd tossed in of her winter clothing. Normally the changing of the seasons had warranted a cleaning, sorting, and washing, but with the cares of her mother, and helping John Paul, had left time for little else. She pushed aside several hatboxes, several pairs of shoes so worn now they should have been discarded.
Her head cocked to the side as she pulled a small bag from the closet. Her eyes opened wide, an expression of aghast crossed her face as her hand rose to cover her mouth. It was the man's bag! She pressed her eyes closed, gasping. How could she have been so thoughtless? He'd left it at the Inn that day when her grandmother died, and somehow, in all of the tumult that followed, its very existence had slipped her mind. After the funeral, and John Paul's unbidden diagnosis of her mother, she'd tossed the bag into her closet for safekeeping.
Nicole slid to the floor in front of the closet; her legs tucked neatly beneath her. She moved the bag about under her hands. The guilt she felt would not be easily assuaged; he'd done so very much for her family. To have treated his personal belongings with such slightness, bode poorly of her gratitude. Certainly he would have missed his belongings, though she wondered if he'd even recall where they'd been left. He was in little shape himself to recall such things when he departed that day.
She turned the bag over again and over again in her lap. The contents was a mystery of sorts, and had she not already felt guilty for still having it, she might have ventured a peek inside the bag. She simply could not bring herself to add yet another trespass to her behavior already so remiss. She could tell simply the outline, without ever examining the articles, that they were a collection of books, and seemingly nothing else. She sighed. Someone as cultured as the man appeared, would be missing such things. She sighed again, this time putting the bag on the floor.
She rose, staring down at it. Monsieur Courtland and his household had moved to their summer residence not long after the incident. His house just beyond the City, now lay empty, with the exception of the visits his staff had to have made in order that the yard not look like a forest when they returned in late autumn. If only she knew their schedule.
Her eyes lit up. She recalled the shopkeeper at the mercantile saying that someone from the household checked with him each time they were in the City so as to be certain nothing had been delivered, or any posts were waiting. She smiled. On the morrow, nay, for the morrow was Sunday, Monday then, she would venture to the mercantile and inquire. She'd much prefer to deliver the bag in person, but in lieu of such apologetic recompense, she might deliver it to a member of his household instead. Tonight, after dinner, she'd fashion a note to be sent with the bag. She could only hope that she'd be forgiven for her negligence.
Nicole turned, the kettle on the stove had begun to tink. The water was hot, and the hour grew late. She'd a dinner to attend…her very first alone with John Paul since he'd come into their lives like an angel. A fleeting look of melancholy memory crossing her face; she knew his grandfather would be so very proud of him. She hurried in her preparations, dressing in her finery, dotting on perfumed oil, and a dab of powder to her cheeks. A fashion plate she was not, but she was certainly far more presentable than she'd been that afternoon.
As she drew the door to their flat closed behind her, she heard the door at the lower entry open and close. She turned, assuming to lock eyes temporarily with the woman who lived in the lower levels, but to her pleasant surprise, it was not the woman at all. There, at the bottom of the stairs, stood John Paul, a collection of the most extraordinary flowers in his hand. She froze as he rose step by step to greet her.
"These are for you Nicole, though they pale in comparison to your beauty," he reached out touching her hand, placing the flowers in it.
She looked up into his eyes. She was entirely certain that even in the dim light of the stairwell, she could see them glittering. She wondered if he knew, that after the months they'd spent together, that he could still take her breath away. She exhaled. It was times such as these that she'd have to remind herself to breathe.
XXXXX
Nadir escorted Madame Giry out of the carriage. The Starboard was overflowing. Saturday evenings were by far the busiest, and one DeChagny encouraged them to dine there as oft as they could possibly manage. Rubbing elbows with society could only do them good, as questions would most certainly come about the opera house, and as the newly appointed historian, Nadir would be the one they'd come to for information. Carefully crafted responses of course. were the order of the day, at DeChagny's behest. Not that they weren't true, for they were, it was simply his means to control the flow of inaccurate gossip, if that were possible.
The maitre' de nodded to Nadir as they arrived at the door. Their table was reserved, and would be ready for them, complete with a bottle of Beaujolais and two stemmed wine glasses. The evening had cooled slightly, but was still pleasant enough that many a Parisian stood about on the wide, opulent veranda, tibbling champagne and boasting of this accomplishment or that. Aside for the courteous nod Nadir and Madame Giry, usually reserved their conversations with others until after dinner. The later the evening grew, the more the lower ranks of society faded, until finally the serious patron's were all that remained. They were the one's that DeChagny most wanted Nadir and Madame Giry to rub elbows with, which is precisely why they never arrived for dinner before 9:00 p.m.
Nadir slid Madame Giry's chair in beneath her, as he nodded to the waiter to uncork the bottle. "Would you prefer the mascarpone and crudités, or the sampling of hard cheese with our wine?" He said as he joined her in his own chair across the table.
She watched thoughtfully as Nadir sampled the wine, nodding to the waiter to pour both of their glasses. "This evening I think the mascarpone would be wonderful. I understand that this evening there is a wonderful creamed lobster bisque," she glanced at the waiter who tried not to scowl, she'd unintentionally taken his next words quite literally from the tip of his tongue.
Nadir nodded and the waiter disappeared without a word. It was one of life's pleasures that the staff had become familiar enough with them, that often conversation was minimal as they provided just what they'd wanted without a long dissertation.
"Nadir, when you make your visit, are you searching primarily for the…" Madame Giry's conversation was interrupted abruptly by a man that had come to the table.
"Nadir, have you heard Dickens funeral has been planned for the 14th. I should very much like to see something written about him evocative of the man's life. Perhaps as the historian of the Opera Populaire, and as I understand, a rather fond devotee of his writings, perhaps you'd be able to…"
"Yes, the man's death is such unfortunate news to Paris. And I, as you so aptly stated, have a fondness for his prose, but I am quite afraid that business bids me away from Paris on the morrow and I shan't return until nearly the beginning of July." He glanced at Madame Giry with apology. They'd hoped to not speak of his departure during dinner.
"Hmmm…that is indeed troublesome." The man scratched at his beard. "I suppose there isn't a way that you could delay your journey several days so that you might be present? I should think such an event would be indeed worthy of chronicling." The man looked down thoughtfully. "I suppose business is business, and you shan't be persuaded by perhaps some artifact of significance on which you could build your display?"
Nadir looked up at the man, his interest renewed. "Let us be frank. If you've felt emboldened enough to approach the lady and I as we prepare for dinner, with such inquiries, let us cut to the heart of it. What is it that you wish for me to write, and of what do you speak as an offering of artifact?"
The man drew up a chair next to Nadir, nodding politely to Madame Giry, "Madame Giry, a pleasure to make your acquaintance." The man sat his snifter of brandy on their table. Looking over his shoulder this way and that before he began. "You see dear sir, I happen to be the surreptitious owner of not only the first complete set, but the second as well of the man's completed works." The man's eyes beamed with pride.
In an instant, it occurred to Nadir exactly who this man was. A wealthy, powerful man, who was an infrequent visitor of the Starboard, hence Nadir's inability to recognize him from the first. He owned the printing house where all of Dickens works had been published.
"Now, I've no mind to give you the first printed volumes, those are among my treasured things. But the second complete set, well," he sat back, his chest protruding like that of a proud male peacock, "the second complete set would pay due homage to the author, however scathing and telling his writings may seem now, I've no doubt they shall live on throughout the ages as a testament to the writings of our time. In order that we might be able to have our children's children recognize him, perhaps a sincere word, and a place of significance in the history of our City would allow for it."
Nadir was now scratching at his chin. Even Erik would have been tempted by an offer such as this. He needed to go to Chauesser, but….this opportunity might be far too advantageous to refuse.
"Ah yes," the man said, catching the glint of peeked interest in Nadir's eye. He nodded at the waiter who'd been waiting at the side for his cue. He came forward with a bottle of champagne and three glasses. "So have we a deal sir?" He looked Nadir squarely in the eye.
Nadir glanced at Madame Giry, then back at the man. He sighed. It would greatly delay his visit with Erik. "Let me see if I can make alternative arrangements…"
The man nodded, the champagne was uncorked and before Nadir could qualify his words, a glass was placed in his hand.
"Here's to a man who meant a great deal to this City, and to another who will help us to do justice in remembrance of him."
XXXXX
Andre sat at his desk having finished penning another letter to Misty. The last he'd written had been over a week ago, and though he'd yet to receive a reply, it did not cause him worry. Sometimes correspondence took weeks, and of course there was her work to consider. No doubt she was as busy in her duties as he so oft was with Lady C.
It just so happened that Lady C's house had settled into a rather quiet spell. During mid-summer, it was very typical. A time for much reading to be done, and relaxation for everyone was a must. There were months throughout the year when they'd little rest indeed; working until all hours of the day and night. When the warmth of mid-summer arrived, Lady C insisted they make up for it when they could. Therefore, it was oft the favorite time of year amongst the staff.
Other than her most recent inclination for Andre to look into erecting a house on a bit of land within the City, her demands on his schedule had been rather few. Carefully he cleaned the tip of the quill laying it aside, placing the dobber next, and affixed the cover on the inkwell. The letter lay before him, three pages in all, drying as he blew on them carefully.
He stretched his arms above his head, looking out the window. The storm that had threatened, produced nothing more than the few light showers late in the afternoon, and now a few bits of thunder, and lightning caused in part by the heat of the day.
Andre stood and walked over to his window, opening it a bit wider. It seemed every insect that found itself awake was joining in the sounds of a mid-summer's night. It reminded him of the last letter he'd sent Misty. He could only hope she would have by now received and read it, perhaps several times. If he closed his eyes, leaning out to take in the beauty of nature's music, he imagined her, hours away, doing the same. Though they were separated by a long distance, they still shared the same night sky. It helped him to think of that when he was missing her.
There was a gentle rap at the door, "Andre?" came a rather shy voice. "Have you retired for the evening?"
"Not at all, do come in." He went to his chair, slipping on his jacket. It was one of the women who worked in the kitchen. It was not usual for her to venture into this part of the house, so he knew it must be something of a serious nature.
The woman carefully came in closing his door just slightly. "Sir, I've come with some news. You see one of the other cooks had gone into the City to retrieve several things that we were missing for the dinner Lady C requested for the morrow. It seems a family had just returned by carriage from Paris late afternoon, carrying with them the sad news that Charles Dickens has passed on."
Andre turned to look at her, "Dickens is dead?" He glanced down at the ground, his eyes wide. He was one of Lady C's most favorite contemporaries. He spoke his mind in his stories, even broaching subjects politicians avoided. She respected his nerve. He looked up at the woman, quickly surmising why the woman had come to him. Not one of them wished to be the carrier of such news to Lady C. "Am I to assume that Lady C has yet to be informed?" He really didn't need to ask, for he knew the answer.
The woman looked down, "we thought it might be best received from someone with whom she shared her feelings more freely." She glanced up at Andre, before fixing her eyes with humility.
"And you are assuming that she speaks most freely with me do you?" Andre was a bit incensed. Lady C was a wonderful woman if only the others weren't afraid to come to know her as he had done.
The woman nodded. "So you'll tell her of Dickens passing then?" She'd need to be certain.
Andre sighed, he was already repositioning his cravat. "Out of respect for Lady C, and the man himself, I shall see that it is taken care of." He smoothed his hair slightly. "She is still awake is she not?" Andre looked over his shoulder.
"Yes, she is enjoying a bit of tea in the library." The woman bit her lip.
"What is it woman, if you know of something more, it is now that I should know of it also." Andre's ire was growing.
"It seems…it seems she's reading, with much pleasure, one of his novels at this very moment." The woman gave Andre a rather pained half-smile.
Andre looked down at the ground staring intently. "Which one?"
"Oliver Twist." The woman said somberly, suddenly fearing that Andre would perhaps decline now, just as a handful of others she'd already approached.
"Very well," he rose walking toward the door. "Here is what I must have you do. Give me ten minutes of conversation. At the end of that time, I'll cough, that shall be you cue to enter with two snifters of cognac."
The woman began to protest. "But Andre, you know she practices temperance other than wine with her dinner. She'll most likely decline…"
Andre stared at the woman until she quieted. "If I am to deliver such news in your stead, then the least you might offer is to do as I bid you." He sighed, "yes she practices temperance, but even Lady C believes in strong drink for medicinal purposes."
Andre walked toward the door. "If I were a betting man, which I am not, I'd suggest that you have the carriage master begin preparations of several of the finest carriages. I can say with a fair degree of certainty that there will be a trip to Paris for a funeral." Andre walked passed the woman and out the door.
She was quickly on his heels, turning in the corridor toward the kitchens. The cognac was kept in the cupboard by the fine china. It was seldom touched. A pair of snifters would have to be swiftly polished. Andre's request seemed only fair, considering the task that had befallen him. She'd sooner be outside feeding pigs, and she was Jewish, than to have the onerous task of telling Lady C.
Andre quietly made his way down the hallway, purposefully trying to maintain a steady yet relaxed stride such as he would on any normal evening. He spied her laughing as he came to the door of the library. A pot of tea, and a half-eaten cookie lay on the tray next to her chair. "Good evening my dear lady. What is it that you are reading that pleases you so?" He entered the room, awaiting invitation to join her.
Lady C smiled once more, sitting the book aside. "Oliver Twist young man. Though I do not prefer unruly children, I must say Oliver is so full of mischief, and trouble seems to follow him everywhere." She gave Andre a wary glance. "Does something trouble you Andre?"
Andre breathed a sigh of relief, she'd broken the barrier, now, all he'd need do, is walk in and explain.
The maid waited outside a ways down the corridor. She'd not want to be detected prematurely. The huddle of servants further still down the hall, peered out the of the parlor door, looking at the maid. She scowled at them. Their watching her every move did not make the wait less arduous. Then she heard it, the cough as he'd instructed. Slowly she made her way the remainder of the distance to the library. She kept her eye on the silver tray in her hands, preferring it over glancing at Lady C. She walked over and stood a few meters from Andre.
Andre rose, taking the two snifters from the tray. "Thank you, that will be all," he said, nodding his dismissal to the maid.
She quickly departed but not before catching a glimpse of Lady C. She was a bit ashen, and a linen handkerchief lay neatly unfolded in her lap. As she entered the hall she breathed a sigh of relief. She knew Andre had been the best suited for the task.
"Dear Lady, here take a sip of this," he said extending a snifter to her.
She looked up at Andre, and then at the glass, and the one in his other hand. She took it reluctantly. "It seems I'm not destined to drink this alone." She held the snifter between her hands in her lap, resting the pedestal on the white linen cloth.
"You do not think it too forward of me to have assumed…" Andre said, his words dropping off quietly.
She shook her head, nodding toward the chair across from her. "Do not worry, I know you've only done so out of courtesy to me. You are, my dear Andre, semper fidelis." She knew he was one of the few in her household that had studied Latin. It pleased her whenever she had opportunity to use it. She did so sparingly, lest the words lose their potency.
"Always faithful," he nodded, "indeed dear lady, I shall always be." He straightened his back just a bit looking at Lady C. "Would you care to propose a toast?"
Lady C smiled weakly, "I suppose that I should be the one to do so." She lifted her snifter from her lap. "Tonight we raise a glass in honor of a man whose literary contributions to this generation are as yet unparalleled. His work has touched many a social issue, and entertained many a young heart," she smiled, glancing at Andre, "and those young at heart. May his genius live on in his volumes, and may he never be forgotten for the man that he was, however obscure to those whom he walked among. When he is but a distant memory, and a novelty to generations yet to come, may he be an inspiration to those who have a passion for literature such as he, whether on the end of the pen or those who read the works. For he was a man who lived his life in the way he saw fit. Never succumbing to the taunting or trappings of a more ordinary life, but choosing to follow his inner urgings and share his thoughts through the written word. In his own distinct way, he has left his mark on the world, never to be forgotten." She tapped her snifter lightly against Andre's, carefully bringing her own to her lips.
Andre took a sip of the smooth liquor. It wasn't oft that he had opportunity to sip a fine cognac, nor listen to such a fine speech. With most people she was a woman of few words. With him, perhaps it was that she trusted him so, or perhaps he represented what a son might have been like to have had she ever married. Whatever it was, it was moments such as these that he was profoundly proud to be in her service.
There was a few minutes of silence as they supped from their glasses. Glancing down at the volume of 'Oliver Twist' that lay open on the table.
"It's quite a collection don't you think?" She smiled at Andre and then glanced at the bookcase that contained every volume that he ever had published.
"Yes, it is a fine collection dear lady. I suppose they shall have his works on display at his funeral." Andre glanced over at Lady C to see if she was inclined to speak of it.
Her face took on a bit of worry. "No doubt he'll have quite a funeral, he'd such a large adoring public." Her eyes were busily reading the spine of each book in her Dickens collection.
"Yes, I should think he would indeed." Andre sat his snifter down on the table. "Dear Lady, do you think you might like to attend?"
Lady C's eyes quickly shifted from the bookshelves to Andre's face. She must have had a look of horror in her eyes for he appeared to already be preparing to retract his inquiry. She glanced away, toward the door, "attend?" She felt her lips grow cold. It had been a long while since she'd left Chauesser. And Paris…she swallowed hard. She'd avoided that City all of her adult days, though no one had ever known why she'd such an aversion to it. She glanced at Andre. "I should think it would be best that I…" her voice trailed off.
Andre knew not what compelled him, though he felt inclined to urge her. "Dear Lady, you've not left this City for some years now. Travel to Paris might do much to cheer your spirits. Perhaps you could make a bit of a trip of it, visiting yourself some of the purveyors whose goods you so enjoy." Andre felt emboldened. "Paris would be at its peak this time of year, all array of flowers in bloom in the royal gardens…" He quieted. Clearly the suggestion had evoked some thought in Lady C.
Her heart was aflutter. She closed her eyes. Paris…he was likely dead now, married, moved away, and certainly, after the decades had passed, he'd not recognize her even if their paths crossed.
"Andre, this will take a bit of thought. I agree that it would be an honorable thing to attend a funeral for such a man…but I do not know if I am amenable to a trip to Paris, but I shall take it into consideration."
She glanced at him not really knowing why she'd not flatly refused from first mention of it. The last she'd been intrigued to go to Paris had been 1862, some eight years before. She'd let her fears stop her then. She inhaled, perhaps it was time to let the past be finally laid to rest. In truth she'd longed to see the beauty of the City he'd so intricately described to her, though it would be certain that many things would have changed. She smiled at Andre.
"Let me have the night to think on it won't you?" She patted him on the knee. "I shall inform you of my decision at breakfast."
She rose, walking toward the door, snifter in hand, 'Oliver Twist' under her arm. "Perhaps I shall take this with me to my bedchambers," she said as she turned to look back at Andre. "Thank you Andre, you are most thoughtful and kind. Everyone should be as fortunate to have someone whom they can trust." She nodded, "good evening Andre."
Andre smiled at her compassionately, "and you dear lady." He watched as she left the room, turning in the corridor toward her bedchamber. She was indeed an extraordinary woman. He was exceedingly pleased she'd not declined off hand. Though he wasn't entirely hopeful that she'd agree, she'd at least consider it, which was more than she would have done the year before. Perhaps it was the death of Victoria, the newest citizens of Chauesser, the man's heroic efforts…whatever it was, he'd sensed a change in her. A flicker of flame he nearly thought had burned just enough to keep her soul from passing from this world into the next.
The maid scampered into the room, a bewildered look on her face. "Andre?"
Andre knew in an instant her confusion. Lady C never retired unannounced, nor without her evening ritual at the piano and window. The absence of such activities had nearly upset the equilibrium in the entire house. They'd all been waiting on pins and needles to hear of her reaction. Her affections for Dickens work was certainly no secret, nor was the fact she'd eagerly awaited the next volume he was said to have been just completing. It seemed she'd taken her sorrows, disappointment, and snifter of cognac to bed with her.
"Lady C has retired of her own volition. We are not to question the behavior of our employer are we?" He looked at her somewhat sternly.
She looked down from his gaze, "no of course not. Its simply that I'd have readied her bed if I'd thought she'd retire so early."
"Wait for twenty minutes or so, then go to her door and knock. Simply politely offer to turn down her bed. If she is so inclined she will permit you entrance. If not, you will at least have been dutiful in offering, and your conscience will be put at ease." Andre said, sipping the last of his cognac, placing the empty vessel on the silver tray the maid had in her hand. "Do not worry, I do not think she will find you remiss in your duties when it was she who deviated from the normal routine."
He walked down the hall toward the rear of the house. He'd go out and speak to the carriage master himself. He'd have the carriages discretely made ready lest she decide they'd not make the journey. But something in his gut told him, they might very well indeed find themselves in Paris in a few days time.
The maid watched him walk away shaking her head. He was most certainly respected, and the younger maids swooned whenever he was in the room. To her, he seemed a bit impertinent. She wondered if he ever remembered that he was part of her staff, not her family. Though he treated them all with respect, there was an air about the way he conducted himself that set her off just slightly. Then again, perhaps it was her own envy of the relationship he had with Lady C that colored her thoughts. No one else in the entire household was as close to Lady C as Andre, and try thought they might, they never seemed to be able to break through the imaginary wall that surrounded her.
She smiled as she retreated to the kitchen with the tray. She supposed she should be happy for her. At least there was someone with whom she was able to converse freely. And Andre's mother having died some years before…perhaps it was a match made. She'd no son, he'd no mother, and both had found in one another a surrogate for what they lacked.
Once inside her bedchamber, Lady C closed the door, going directly over to the small box she kept locked beneath her bed. The key was affixed to a small chain she kept with her at all times. No, there was nothing of value to anyone other than she inside that box, it was her treasure alone. She placed the box on her bed and was about to unlock it when she thought better of it. She returned to the door turning the lock. Now she felt secure retrieving one of the things that she held most dear in all of her valuables.
The key easily opened the lock. Lifting the cover she peered inside; the contents made her smile, and then frown. It contained both happiness and sorrow. She lifted a yellowed piece of paper from the box, carefully untwining it, and rolling the paper open to stare at the pencil sketching. It was a sketch of two young lovers, limbs intertwined as if at play.
She closed her eyes; she could remember the afternoon in Chauesser at the street market. They had wandered the park sampling of sweet things and the like when they'd happened upon a young artist doing sketches. Before they'd thought about it he'd put a silver piece in the cup and they were sitting, somewhat restlessly on a pair of stools in front of the man who bid them stay still. The afternoon had been hot, much like that very afternoon had been.
She opened her eyes simply staring at the picture until a tear grew on her cheek. If only her father had not been so unfair, her life would have been so very different. She swallowed hard, fighting a wave of tears that threatened her. She shook her head, rolling and reaffixing the twine. She returned the scroll to the box, nestling it into place. She reached for the lid, but hesitated, nearly closing the cover several times until she pushed it fully open once more.
Inhaling and exhaling slowly, she dipped her hand into the box, bringing out a much folded stained garment. Her lips began to tremble. She rubbed it against her cheek. It was the only connection she had with the baby; the bloodied garment from his birth. The one thing she'd retrieved to keep lest she'd forget years later, telling herself it had been nothing more than an elaborate hallucination. It was the only link she had to a life she might have known…a child she might have loved. She held it close to her face, imagining what he might have looked like. A tear ran down her cheek.
She sighed, her eyes still closed she returned the garment to the box, slipping the key in to lock it. She opened her eyes, running her index finger under each eye as she returned the box to its home beneath the bed. She lifted the snifter, tipping it slightly, taking a long sip. Perhaps it was indeed time. She'd ought to know of the City her lover, her friend, her confidant, had so meticulously described for her. One day she would grow too old to make such travels, and would be full of bitter regret. He had loved Paris, just as she had grown to love Chauesser.
She went about undressing herself, a pitcher of water already there she quickly washed and donned her nightdress. She turned down the covers and climbed into bed, reaching over to turn up the lamp just slightly. 'Oliver Twist' once more in hand, she'd decided to read until she was sufficiently tired to rest.
The evening had been a break in all of her normal routines. It was likely to be the first of many changes. On the morrow, she'd inform Andre, that they would indeed be heading to Paris for Dickens funeral, and perhaps an extended visit if it could be arranged. A small smile crossed her face as she removed the bookmark, turning once more to where she'd left the story. "Ah yes," she said in a satisfied tone. She could think of no better way to pay homage to the man than to read one of his finest tales while sipping the remainder of her cognac.
XXXXX
The undertaker had cleaned his last instruments as he readied to turn his business over to the young man who'd been apprenticing with him. True he was not fully completed, but nearly enough so he felt confident in leaving the work in his hands for a time. He'd be only hours away if he were needed to return. He planned to spend some of his time in Paris, even though his primary responsibility would be in Chauesser finishing the apprenticeship of the young undertaker there who was come into a business not fully completed with his own education.
He would miss much about the larger City, but looked forward to the relaxed pace a hamlet had to offer. He'd visited his own father there but once, and that had not ended well. He'd traveled to Chauesser to speak to his father about the funds he'd offered his own son for his education. Perdue had always hoped his son would follow in his footsteps, taking over the family business in time, but grandfather had prevailed, and the young John Paul had gone off to medical school, eschewing his own father's wishes. In the end he'd come to terms with it. His son would no doubt have a much happier life as a physician. The life of an undertaker was lonely…he was seldom invited for Sunday dinners.
Perdue sighed. He now looked forward to being able to spend time with his son. His grandfather had bequeathed his estate to his grandson, with his own son's blessing. Perdue had made quite a tidy sum in his own right, and had no need for that of his father's. What would have been his temporarily at his father's passing, would have found its way to his son regardless. At least in this way he'd be able to see his son enjoy it. He'd be on his way the day after next. A brief hiatus from his own work, and a rather enjoyable one at that.
He walked into the outer room, staring down at the last body he'd prepared. How very strange it seemed. The last flesh he touched before leaving Paris was that of the famous author. He'd not himself been much of a fan, but he knew of the man's significance, and had treated him with all the respect that he could. The funeral would be filled with the crowds he so loved to avoid.
He scratched his chin. He'd picked a rather fortuitous time to take the Lady's most generous offer. It would be a welcome change, with many benefits that had nothing at all to do with money.
He looked down, touching the man's cheek. The makeup was dry enough now to place the sheet over him. It was both a joy and a pity that one could not take their bodies into the hereafter he thought. In death you at once could leave behind everything that troubled you, but you'd suddenly lost all form of external identity. Perhaps the knew heavenly body one was given some characteristics of the one you had during your time on the face of the earth, and then again, perhaps not. Possibly one was finally able to be seen for who and what they were all along. For he knew what made a man or a woman, truly made them who they were, had nothing to do with the shell of flesh they walked around in.
Making an about face, he turned down the lamp to a nearly imperceptible glow. The first night he never left the body in utter darkness. It had been a habit he wasn't entirely sure where he'd started, but had never been able to break himself of. He shook his head, whatever it was, it was his custom, and he'd not be changing that now.
XXXXX
Raoul held Meg in his arms, watching as the carriage came into the yard. The carriage master went out to greet it, assisting his father down from steps. Raoul squeezed Meg's hand all the more.
Meg wanted to hide until it was over. Though DeChagny would not be entirely surprised by the news, there was something decidedly different about having that ring, Raoul's mother's ring, on her finger.
DeChagny was walking towards them, a curious look on his face. Raoul held Meg's hand fast in his.
Raoul began, we've waited dinner for you," he glanced at Meg, "and father, Meg and I have something of the utmost importance to tell you."
XXXXX
Misty had kept a bit of the roasted meats warm in a thin gravy on the stove. Had Erik not appeared, it would have become food for the dogs in the morning, along with their usual table scraps. She'd thought about changing into her nightclothes, but then thought better of it when she heard footsteps on the floor above. She wanted to be ready should her services be required.
Erik was beaming when he came into the kitchen. "Good evening Misty. I trust the household did not wait for us for dinner."
Misty nodded, "no monsieur, everyone has been well fed." She went about retrieving a tray and several plates for him. She knew instinctively what he sought.
As Erik dished the meats onto the plates, he said, "I meant to thank you for you help this afternoon. Your timing was impeccable. Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased to spend the afternoon there." He carefully lifted the lid on the second pot. It had several boiled red potatoes, with the skin still intact. He smiled, Misty had anticipated their late supper and had rolled them in olive oil to keep them tender and moist. He put several on each plate.
Misty was pleased to have been of assistance in making Elizabeth's afternoon pleasant. She'd watched as Elizabeth's tiny frame took on the characteristics of a mother to be, and felt for her discomforts. "You are most welcome Monsieur, I'll gladly do whatever you ask of me to provide Elizabeth some relief." She could scarcely imagine what it was like to carry one child, let alone three! She'd gone about slicing several pieces of bread.
Erik took a pitcher of water, putting it on the tray. He smiled at Misty.
She'd long since given up offering to take the tray to his bedchamber for him. Whenever they'd take a late dinner in their room, he'd be the one serving Elizabeth. It was rather endearing Misty thought. A man of his wealth need not do such things, but he seemed to take great pleasure in it.
He perused the tray, thinking of anything else Christine might like. "Do tell, did the carriage master make any mention of everything being in order for his departure to Chauesser to retrieve Nadir?"
"Misty nodded, yes, he'd wanted me to tell you all has been prepared to your precise instruction. He will leave promptly at seven."
"Very good." Erik said smiling and nodding, "I bid you goodnight Misty." He turned to leave the kitchen, "oh," he turned around.
Misty knew what he wanted; two chocolate drops from the box in the cupboard. They were Elizabeth's favorite. She walked over putting the small plate with the candies on the tray. She rather hoped Nadir would be bringing some with him from Paris, for it wouldn't be long and the lot of them would be depleted.
"Thank you," Erik nodded and departed.
Misty sighed, she could now retire herself. She'd a letter to write. She'd finish it so that it might be mailed off from Chausesser when the carriage driver went to retrieve Nadir. She smiled thinking to herself that perhaps she'd re-read Andre's letter first…it did such wonderful things to warm her heart. She scampered off happily to her room, as if a child going off to play with one of her many treasures.
Erik pushed the door open with his foot, smiling as he entered. Christine was standing near the window drinking in the fresh night air that always followed a summer storm.
She glanced over her shoulder, her long black tendrils flowing down the length of her exposed back. Her eyes were twinkling. "Erik, the air is, it is…I don't know, it is something like imbibing dew that clings to the leaves in the morning. And," she paused, a childish grin crossing her face as she glanced back at him, "shh…." she smiled as he took her into his arms, resting his chin by her temple. "If you listen Erik, you can hear the ocean."
Erik leaned forward, pushing the window open a bit wider, kissing Christine's cheek. "I believe you are right." He inhaled deeply. The air was so fresh. A hint of coolness froma gentle wafting breeze made him shiver.
Christine laughed, "are you cold my love?" She turned in his arms, rubbing her hands on his chest, nestling her cheek on his flesh. "I am warm enough for the both of us." She peered around Erik's shoulder and smiled. "And what have you brought for us?"
Erik smiled, kissing Christine's forehead. "Come and I'll show you. He turned to close the window, and then back again to watch as Christine walked to the divan. From that angle, in the glow of the fire, she looked like a painting he'd once seen of a fairy. An angelic like creature with deep blue colored wings, dark flowing hair draped over ivory skin. It had been one of the most elaborate and beautiful paintings he'd ever laid eyes on. He smiled. Christine was indeed as beautiful as an angel, as playful as a water sprite, but one he could love, and hold for his very own in his wanton arms.
She looked over her shoulder catching the glint in Erik's eye. "My dear husband, dinner must come first, lest your son venture out and start searching for something to eat on his own!" She sat down on the divan, attempting to pull the silken sheets around.
Erik joined her, carefully placing a white napkin across her lap. She looked into his eyes, the glance that told him that she belonged to him, and only him, and it warmed him through and through.
She leaned forward, kissing his neck, "I love you Erik." She smiled, and then bowed her head to pray.
Erik closed his eyes too. He was thankful, not only for the meal before them, but thankful every day, that God had entrusted him with her, and the lives growing in her womb. His prayers were never hollow or without meaning; he was sincerely thankful.
Erik watched as Christine took her first bite, and her second and her third.
She smiled at him, her eyes suddenly growing wide, her back arching slightly.
Erik looked at her with concern, "what is it Christine?" He reached out his hand towards her.
She glanced down at her middle.
Erik gently slid the sheet away from her flesh, looking at her stomach. He watched with wide wondering eyes as Christine's stomach moved this way and that, a tangle of what he assumed were arms and legs pushing out against her skin. He looked up at Christine and though she smiled, he could tell she was uncomfortable. His eyes traveled again to her middle, and without another thought he gently began to run his hand over her stomach. Then he began to hum. It was a lullaby she'd heard as a child, though its origin escaped her. Slowly the movement came to a halt, and Erik pulled the sheet once more over her, tucking it neatly beneath her arms.
Christine looked at him with such marvel. His music had always mesmerized her, enchanted her, enthralled her. Now his voice would have the same soothing affect on their children. She smiled, a grateful smile, saying nary a word, but running her hand over his cheek, her finger grazing his lips. She mouthed the words "thank you." She glanced once more at the plate of food on the tray.
Erik smiled, lifting the plate, bringing it to her. All manners and rules of etiquette were set aside in the name of being practical. If she were to eat, she'd have to do so when the children were sleeping. No doubt this was practice for what life would be like once the children made their way to outside of the womb. Forkful by forkful, Erik fed Christine her dinner, until she'd had all she could. He lifted her glass of water for her. Christine took a long drink. She sighed, and he knew she was content.
As he nestled in next to her on the divan, he nuzzled her neck. "You are the most beautiful creature I've ever laid eyes on my love."
Christine smiled, kissing the tip of Erik's nose. She'd wanted to embrace him, but she feared to move, lest the children awake.
Erik smiled at her; he knew exactly what she needed. Carefully he slid his arms beneath her, and carried her to the bed, tucking her in. They rolled about just a bit, but it took only several minutes of their father's soothing voice and they were once again sound asleep. And so was Christine.