XIII
Madame could sense a change in her newest girl. Something about her bearing was different . . . dreamy almost. Something fresh and stunning. Like a virgin with the dew still on her. Or new love. Madame watched as Christine ran a brush through her horrid mess of hair. Humming, for God's sake! After breakfast, there was a lull in customers, giving the girls time to primp and fuss before a row of mirrors in the sunlit rear parlor. Their chatter and giggles filled the quiet space.
"Did the Vicomte bed you well, dearie? You're nearly purring this morning," she remarked, trailing a gentle, proprietary hand down Christine's back, the column of silk-covered buttons smooth against her palm. Tension shivered up the girl's spine like a plucked violin string. Limpid doe eyes looked at her in the mirror's reflection, outlined with smudges of the previous night's kohl.
"He was most generous, Madame," she mumbled, slouching to make herself smaller.
Madame felt the scrutiny of several of the other girls and a slow grin bloomed on her mouth. Playing the petty catfights against each other was entertaining as well as providing Madame a greater degree of control over them.
"Hmm, he's a lovely piece of flesh, isn't he?" Pauline drawled, fanning her ample bosom, "lean and dark . . . and such a lovely tall fellow! How're his bits, Christine? You know what they say about tall men." Pauline uttered her loud, braying laugh.
"With that voice of his, I couldn't give a fig about how hideous he is under that mask," Juliet interjected, rolling her eyes in imagined ecstasy.
"I wonder what is under there. Louisa, did you ever see it?" asked Jeanne. Louisa tossed her black, silken mane of hair over her shoulder.
"I was always much too busy with his other parts to worry about that itty bitty mask," she purred, casting a glare of pure, murderous malice at Christine's bowed back.
"Give over, Christine! Enlighten the uninitiated," Pauline gibed good-naturedly to broad agreement. Madame swelled with pride. Erik was such a fine customer, all her girls vied for his attention. Christine cast a pleading look at her. Madame petted her head.
"Tell them, Christine. We all want to know," she said with the steel of a command. It wouldn't do for the Swedish waif to fill her head with dreams of love.
"He . . . he's very . . . well-endowed." The words emerged in a strangled whisper, Christine nearly writhing in embarrassed shame. Oblivious, or perhaps maliciously aware of her discomfiture, the other girls dissolved into coos and titters.
"Mmm, nothing like a good-sized stallion to ride," Cassandra sighed. One of the older whores, Marie, chimed in, dabbing cosmetics on the bags under her eyes.
"Humph. What use is a stallion's prick if he only lasts as long as one? I'd take a man who can last, any day of the week." There were murmurs of agreement.
"Such a pity that most men don't know what to do with a woman's body," Jeanne bemoaned.
"So, Christine? Did the Vicomte ride well?" Louisa asked, smoothing rogue on her lips. Silence stretched on painfully long. Finally, Pauline said, "Don't be daft, Louisa. Didn't you hear the Madame say our little Swede was purring this morning?"
"No one asked you, you cow!" Louisa retorted. Pauline and several of her compatriots took umbrage at this and increasingly lewd and vicious retorts volleyed between them.
"Ladies, please!" Madame said, knifing through the argument with one sharp shout. Bruno appeared in the doorway, all ropy muscle and gleaming black eyes. A surge of primal lust shot through Madame Sophia. There was a stallion worth riding. A wild, dangerous stallion she had yet to tame.
"Is everything all right in here, Sophie?" he growled, eyes narrowing on the now-silent whores. Twisted and tangled with her fear and desire for Bruno was a strange brand of jealousy. The girls might submit to her and obey her, but that didn't hold a candle to sheer, gut-wrenching fear they felt for her lover. Fear bought obedience quickly and thriftily. And the Madame was nothing if not thrifty, be it with coin, time, or intimidation.
"Everything's fine, Bruno. Thank you, darling," she crooned, her eyes promising untold carnal delights for his swift obedience. As Bruno left, Madame swiveled toward Christine.
"There's no need to be such a prude, dearie. We're all ladies here." She heaped saccharine kindness onto the sharp words. The girl's wide brown eyes held a wealth of humiliated fear, tinged with hatred. The Swede hadn't learned the first of a courtesan's arts: to hide your true feelings. The smooth, swan-like column of her throat shivered as she swallowed hard.
"He has a stallion's prick and knows how to use it. Does that satisfy?" Coos and snickers rippled through the assemblage of whores. Madame's smile was as thin as Bruno's knife.
"Perfectly, Christine."
XXX
Raoul found her hiding in the kitchen, her newly applied coat of kohl slipping down her cheeks as her eyes watered. She wasn't crying. She wasn't! Christine huddled on the stool in the corner hoping for a moment's peace to order her thoughts.
"What's this now?" he said, grunting under the weight of the crate of vegetables he carried.
He set them down on Cook's worktable to be sorted, peeled and mashed later. Tugging at his baggy trousers, Raoul squatted down in front of her. The handkerchief he produced from his sleeve was worn and yellowed with age, but clean. The initials of A.F. were monogrammed at the corner in girlish curlicues with red thread faded to pink. A keepsake of his mother's? Christine blotted her face.
"I bet I look quite a mess," she croaked, the unbearable knot in her throat smothering her words. Raoul's rough hand patted her wrist awkwardly, accepting the damp, stained crumple of his handkerchief without demur.
"No. You're very pretty. Beautiful even." His earnest face and wide blue eyes were disarming and some of the tension ebbed from her shoulders. She smiled shyly.
"Thank you." Raoul offered a tight little shrug. A quiet moment settled between them.
"You love him, don't you? That's why it hurts so bad when they talk?" he asked. Christine absently rubbed the scab on her thumb.
"Yes, that's it exactly. Talking about it with them . . . it's obscene," Christine snarled, wrapping her arms around her chest. Raoul's grin was wry.
"Well, Madame Sophia is a right bitch. And Louisa's been wanting to sink her claws into Erik ever since he bed her." A dark, twisted surge of emotion writhed in her chest and Christine fought to suppress the urge to claw Louisa's eyes out. She was startled by Raoul's use of Erik's name. It was always 'he,' 'him,' 'the Vicomte.'
"Bitch," Christine seethed, oddly liberated by the taste of profanity. Raoul chuckled, an admiring glint in his eye that thankfully had nothing to do with her body. She felt the balm of his gruff understanding all the way down to her toes.
He gestured toward the door and the chattering brothel beyond.
"You cannot let them see you're hurt. Don't let them see anything but what you let them see. They can't get at you in here," he tapped his temple, then hers. The callused prod of his fingertip was oddly comforting. How long had it been since any man other than Erik touched her in a manner beyond the necessities of sex? The words sank in and Christine's heart seized.
"Do—Do you know . . . from experience?" she said delicately. A muscle fired in Raoul's jaw and he dropped his head, stray pieces of his golden hair falling forward to shield his face.
"My mother was a whore and I have a pretty face," was his terse answer. Christine longed to embrace him. The kinship grew and unfurled into friendship, a camaraderie borne of the same travesties and horrors.
"Men or women?" she asked.
"Men." How could he endure this horror? A more hideous question presented itself. How long had he had to?
"Oh Raoul," she said, gripping his hand tight between hers, trying to push all of her comfort and understanding into those two words. Again, that heartbreaking shrug. He refused to meet her eye.
"Like anything else, you get used to it. And it doesn't always hurt." Raoul broke off, a wary tension ringing through him. He expected her judgment, her disgust. While her stomach churned and twisted in disgust, her mind acknowledged it was hardly Raoul's fault.
"You did what you had to in order to survive, Raoul. There is no shame in it."
"He won't think so. He would have fought. He would have rather died than submit to that." She privately thought Raoul was probably right.
"Erik wants to protect you," she said. Raoul nodded, though she could tell that she hadn't reached him. The shame and misery in his soul wouldn't allow it.
"He wants to protect you. He asked me to look after you. And I will, Christine. For your own sake as well as for him," Raoul said and in the steel of his tone Christine heard the juvenile vestiges of Erik's authority.
"Thank you, Raoul. Erik is lucky to have you as his brother."
Talking with Raoul had settled her, but she was still unprepared when Madame sought her out to present her to a customer. The wolfish gleam in Madame's eye made her belly tight and empty like a drum. Christine turned her vapid grin on her chosen customer. Short and balding, a great fist of a nose thrust between beady blue eyes, the man had the shape of a lumpy pear. His belly strained against the plum waistcoat studded with silver buttons. A fat red tongue slid out to wet his lips. Christine curtseyed prettily.
"Well, Monsieur? Does she suit your fancy?" Madame purred. The man, a rich tailor, judging from his sumptuous garments, chortled in his throat.
"Oh yes, Madame d'Avrigny. Once again, you've outdone yourself," his voice was thin and reedy, grating her nerves. The customer pulled a purse from his coat pocket to Madame's waiting palm.
"Will that cover it?" he asked. Madame weighed the purse and pursed her lips in a catlike smile.
"I believe that will do it, Jean-Paul. The Rose Room is open. Enjoy."
Pudgy fingers latched onto Christine's upper arm. She hoped he wouldn't notice her quivering. Was she still smiling? Her lips were numb. As Jean-Paul wheezed as he climbed the stairs, Christine fought down a wave of nausea. Bruno awaited her if she lost another customer. She had to remember that or she'd run screaming down the hall. She had to remember . . . images and sensations bubbled up, of Erik and the flavor of his kisses, the rich beauty of his love. No! She couldn't think of him and live!
Jean-Paul leered at her and gestured expansively toward the bedroom, a damp, possessive paw pressed against the small of her back, creeping down to squeeze her buttocks. Christine's frozen smile faltered as the door clicked shut behind them, clammy sweat dewing on her brow.
After what seemed like an eternity of heaving and sweating, ending with a high-pitched, pig-like squeal, she lay face down and trembling on the bed, while the man—monster—was tucking his stubby manhood back into his trousers. That small, stubby thing had violated every orifice of her body. Her entire body felt battered and her arse throbbed with pain.
She hid her grimace of disgust by pressing her face into the downy mattress, still damp and acrid with sweat. His words were an indistinct murmur, a slurring liquid purr. It was as if Christine had forgotten how to speak French. He patted her hair and shut the door with a crisp snap behind him.
Christine smothered her face into a pillow and bit it, hard enough to taste the fluff and grit of goose down. A scream and a sob emerged from her throat. She wanted Erik more than she wanted her next breath. She worried the scab on her thumb, the only tangible thing she had of him. Bruno appeared in the doorway.
"Get up, you lazy slag! There are customers waiting!"
Christine scrambled to obey.
That night no man chose her, so Madame locked her in her cell. Christine had never been happier to see that hideous wallpaper or feel the rasp of that coarse blanket. Tonight, the room's suffocating embrace hid her from roving eyes as the long soak in the Madame's tub had soothed her battered flesh. The cot was a mute witness to both her misery and her loneliness. Even his book of poems offered no solace. Instead of reading the familiar stanzas, she found herself caressing the shapes of the letters, longing for the fingers who penned them. Christine conjured the memory of Erik's hands—those pale, graceful, long-fingered hands!—and his beautiful voice and wicked tongue, her fingers following the familiar terrain of her own body to the moist center of her ache. Her climax was brief and unsatisfying and left her more lonely and shamed than before.
She wanted Erik like she wanted her next breath. And tonight it felt like she would suffocate.
XXX
"What are you doing, Erik?" Elise's bright voice interrupted him as he paced around the parlor. A restless perusal of the day's post found no word yet from Nadir. Once their acquaintances were assembled, they would liberate Christine.
Still irritable and unsettled from his argument with Claire, Erik had needed to work out some of his frustration. With the added benefit of sharpening his admittedly rusty fencing skills, he had wrangled a couple of livery boys into acting as his sparring partners. They had performed admirably, but Erik could have fended off their blows in his sleep. The result of their halfhearted spar was that Erik's blood now coursed hotly through his veins, a bottled vitality with no release that left him more ill-humored and tense than before.
"None of your concern, imp. Shouldn't you be at lessons?" he snapped.
Elise flinched at the sharp bite in his words, and her wide blue eyes blinked up at him. Erik immediately recanted his harsh words, hating the savor of her wounded silence. He squatted down in front of Elise, combing a wayward tendril of her hair behind her ear.
"Forgive me. I am in a foul temper." Elise nodded in swift agreement, small hands wringing in handfuls of her skirt.
"Monsieur Forel said I could come. I just wanted to talk to you. I haven't seen you in days. What's wrong? Is it something I did?" Touched, Erik gathered her gently into an embrace.
"Absolutely not, dear one. No, it's not you at all. I've missed you." Elise was never one to be soothed and placated. She peeled back and squinted into his eyes.
"But what's wrong? Did you have another fight with Aunt Claire?" It was Erik's turn to stiffen. God, had the children been privy to the disintegration of his marriage? No, not disintegration, that implied there was something whole before. His marriage had been doomed from the beginning.
"How do you know Claire and I have been quarreling?" he asked. Elise chewed on her lower lip, the curtain of her wild black hair falling forward to hide her face.
"I heard your voice and I wanted to talk to you. I . . . I heard you and Aunt Claire talking. Jacqueline told me not to tell you, she said it was none of my business and married couples quarrel all the time, but Aunt Claire was crying and you were upset and I was scared!"
"Oh little one," Erik said, sinking his head into his hands, digging his fingernails into his scalp until the nerves shrieked with pain.
Precious, inquisitive Elise privy to the hideousness of an unfaithful marriage! Anguished, Erik looked up at his darling little sister, whom he spoiled and cosseted as he would have his little daughters had they lived. An image of a girl with Christine's chocolate curls and wide smile drifted in his mind's eye and his heart seized in a paroxysm of longing. He grasped Elise's slender shoulders and looked deep into her unspoiled eyes, free of tears. His brave little girl!
"You did nothing wrong. I am so sorry you had to witness that. Your sister is right, married couples often quarrel, but it is wrong for a man to hurt a woman whether it is with his hands, his actions or his words. It is also wrong to say hurtful things when you are angry. Both your aunt and I are guilty of that." Elise nodded, assimilating what she had been told. Her slender brows drew together in a scowl that sat easier on their father's face.
"What's a brothel, Erik? Aunt Claire wasn't happy you were going to one. Is that where they make soup?" she asked in all seriousness. Breath rushed out of him in a strangled laugh.
"No. It is an establishment where gentlemen and ladies may . . . share each other's company. I have a . . . particular friend I visit there."
Understatement of the century, he thought dryly. Her eyes shone.
"Oh, I understand! What's her name?"
"Christine." His prayer. A secret pleasure welled in Erik, the eagerness to share the news of a beloved.
"Christine," Elise repeated, tasting the syllables, "That's pretty. I'd like to meet her sometime."
"I would like you to as well," Erik said quietly, touching his locket.
He needed to see her. He couldn't wait until it was seemly, he didn't fucking care if it hurt Claire! He wanted Christine! That made him a faithless bastard, forsworn and untrustworthy and cruel. The harsh energy ravaged him, unchecked and beyond solace. He rose, dropping a kiss on Elise's forehead.
"I need your help, Elise." She brightened.
"Oh! All right! What can I do?"
"I must visit my friend tonight. Will you run and tell Christophe to tack César up for me?" She was already running down to hall. His sweet, loyal girl!
"Tell Christine hello for me!
A/N: Sorry it has been so long my dears! College has a nasty habit of sucking away all my free time. Enjoy and look forward to more regular postings.
FieryPen37