XXIII
"I can't believe he's dead. My father, I mean. Not that I ever heard from him growing up, but my mother talked about him quite a bit. She loved to talk about how I resembled him and how it was mad that they didn't see it. I had his eyes, his build, even his crooked little toe. At first, I thought it was because she loved him, because she wanted us to be a family. In the end, I found out it was just for the bloody stipend he gave her. A stipend she often used to buy silk and lace instead of food. That's where I know the crest from. I always thought it was pretty."
Damn him, she thought. Raoul made it so hard for her to hate him. How could she when his upbringing was bereft of anything resembling love and he had clung to his brother's good opinion so fiercely? Their pace trailing the de Chagny carriage was brisk. Beyond the necessities of travel, the de Chagny driver had not shared any information.
"I'm sorry, Raoul." He gave a tense, uncomfortable shrug.
"Did Erik ever talk about our sisters?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder at her.
"He did." Speech was still slow, slurred and difficult, but Christine was managing. Slowly, haltingly, she offered a quick sketch of their personalities and passions. Elise's picture was clearer and more vivid; he had held a special fondness for his youngest sister. In many ways, she was the daughter he had never had, and a vessel for all of his frustrated love. Jacqueline, by inference, was more Claire's creature. An odd smile toyed with Raoul's mouth, as if receiving an unexpected gift.
"Do you think they know about what happened to Erik?" Raoul asked quietly once she was finished. Christine controlled her wince.
"We'll find out, I suppose."
She and Raoul made a solemn pair after that, each wrapped in their own private thoughts. By mid-afternoon, both carriage and wagon stopped for the occupants to stretch their legs or tend the call of nature. Christine clutched the edges of her sling, waiting for the surging echo of travel to ebb.
"Would you like to step down, Christine?"
Swinging in her sling had become wearisome and disorienting, so Christine nodded. Raoul was really very considerate, in his own blunt fashion. Laboriously, she crawled to the rear of the wagon and swung her legs over the lip. God, her whole body ached, right down her marrow. Taking his proffered hand, Christine stood spindly-legged like a newborn foal. Raoul's spare boots were heavy and loose on her feet, but adequate. The Madame's nightgown was stained and ragged beneath her makeshift shawl of horse blankets and she self-consciously tightened the knot.
Her squinting gaze wandered over the road, then up, endlessly up, to the open sky. Sudden, screeching panic froze her joints and clawed at her throat. Like a rabbit beneath a hawk's remorseless eye, she felt only the blind urge to run and hide. Over a year trapped in a handful of locked rooms had crushed and flattened her into a wan shadow of a woman. Her heart hammered in her chest and she crumbled into sobs. Space and light and air bludgeoned her senses, making even the walls of the wagon preferable to all of this . . . this freedom. Christine suddenly found herself pressed against a thin chest, wiry arms wrapped around her.
"Christine, Christine," Raoul murmured, stroking her wild hair. It was his horse-gentling voice, a low, sweet croon that soothed human nerves as easily as equine ones.
"Ssshh, hush. It's all right, hush now, little one . . . hush, you're safe." Raoul said, cradling her until the panic loosened its grip and dissolved. Safe . . . safe. She felt safe? Her lover had made her feel safe. But he was gone . . . Numb fingers wormed beneath her shift. The locket was warm against her heart and she gripped it tight.
"Breathe . . . breathe . . ." Raoul urged, and she obeyed, in and out, in and out until her heartbeat slowed.
"It happens to some whores who don't see daylight much. It's all right, it gets better." Christine peeled back far enough to peer at his face, set carefully blank. This man had saved her life, nursed her wounds, soothed her terror . . . he did not deserve her hate.
"I don't want to hate you," she whispered. Raoul's blank expression melted away and he embraced her with heartbreaking tenderness.
"Thank you," he whispered into her hair. Up the road, Elise was waving manically. Raoul cleared his throat and stepped back.
"Shall we?" he asked. A brave tendril of hope wormed its way through the ash and detritus of her old life. Brave and tender and oh so fragile. She would cling to it.
The Château de Chagny in the wan, colorless twilight was the place of cold, looming grandeur that her lover had described. As the gravel drive meandered toward the manor on the hill, Christine glimpsed a frozen pond with a long wooden dock that had seen better days. Was that the same pond where Thomas had fallen? She shuddered, huddling deeper into the scratchy comfort of her horse blanket shawl. The memory of green eyes shining with grief's tears flitted through her mind's eye. Green eyes closed forever . . . Christine closed her own eyes against the sudden rush of pain.
Raoul whistled low, in naked, awed admiration at the opulence. Christine was in complete agreement with him. She had never truly grasped the breadth of her lover's wealth and social standing. Her heart took up a loud, thudding rhythm, cold sweat dampened her palms.
Surely they wouldn't lead us to the very door and turn us away?
A snide part of her mind whispered, Claire might. Raoul would stay, certainly. He was as much their blood as her lover had been, but Christine? She was nothing but a whore, and a battered, less-than-sane one at that.
As Elise, Jacqueline, then Madame Villon and three young men stepped down from the carriage, Raoul turned to her, a puzzled frown marring his brow.
"Where's Erik's wife?" Some of her ringing tension ebbed. Not a direct confrontation, then.
"I don't know," she said.
Stewards and grooms materialized from the manor house, outlined in brilliant gold light pouring from behind them. The wind picked up and Christine huddled closer to Raoul. With tidy efficiency, they began unloading luggage and tending the horses. At Madame Villon's distracted wave, two broke off and marched toward them.
The stewards, looking to be no older than Raoul, shared a glance. The taller of the two, brown hair parted and combed into shining waves, cleared his throat and said, "Madame Villon has instructed us to show you to your rooms for the night. There are baths being drawn for the lady and yourself, Monsieur." An awkward silence descended as Raoul groped for equanimity, probably from being called 'Monsieur' for the first time in his life.
"Uh, yes. Thank you. When might we expect to meet with the Comtesse? We have important news for her." The stewards shared an uncomfortable look, the younger blond one staring intently at the pile of horse dung near his shoe.
"The Comtesse Claire de Chagny was killed in Paris two days ago. Commune men ransacked the townhouse, killing a groom and our lady while the Comte was away." The taller steward's eyes blazed, but with rage or tears, she couldn't tell. The words sank into her along with the bone-numbing cold. Claire was dead too? God, had the past few days razed the de Chagny family to rubble, with only this cold monolith to comfort the children left behind?
"God rest her soul," Raoul said, crossing himself. Christine followed the gesture perfunctorily, still reeling from the shock of it. Dead? Would Claire be granted an eternity with him while Christine rotted on this plane? The ultimate injustice!
Lost in thought, Christine didn't even notice the stewards' small shadow until Elise peeked out from behind them.
"Raoul, Christine! Welcome home!" Christine summoned her crooked, pained smile. Pure compassion cramped her heart. The poor dear. She had lost so much, was so determinedly cheerful to keep the sorrow at bay.
"Hello, Elise," Christine said warmly. Raoul echoed the sentiment with something like wonder.
"Come on, let's get inside! There's supper!" her hands churned in a rapid ushering motion. Raoul swiveled toward the wagon bed and rummaged around until he found a . . . a book? Comprehension dawned and Christine swallowed hard. Another token from the man they both had loved. A pang struck her at the thought of her own book of sonnets now gone, lost . . .
Elise clutched her hand, tugging her from the wagon. As Christine found her feet, she was suddenly painfully aware of the torn shift, borrowed boots and horse blankets she stood clad in, of the evidence of her failed assisted suicide attempt marring her body. Shame was nearly as crippling as pain. Her heart flinched as she heard that name. Elise was dancing around her, walking backwards toward the house as Christine followed.
"-'Specially when Erik says it. He even makes my name sound pretty with his voice."
"What was that, Elise?" Christine asked. Elise's grin was quick and bright.
"Your name. I was saying Christine is such a pretty name, 'specially when Erik says it. Erik told me you were his friend at the brothel. I asked him if brothels were where they made soup, and he said no. I asked Jackie and she said that's where whores live. Are you a whore?"
Stricken, Christine stopped dead, the shame suddenly crippling. All she wanted to do was melt into the snow. This girl's simple question would destroy what was left of her soul. Instantly contrite, Elise threw her arms around Christine's waist and hugged her.
"Oh Christine, I'm sorry. Jackie and Madame Villon are always telling me to mind my tongue. I didn't mean to say bad things. It's just that Aunt Claire didn't like it when Erik visited his friends at the brothel and I wondered if it was because they were whores." Such a perceptive child, she thought.
"I . . . I was one. But not anymore," Christine stuttered. Elise's nod was solemn.
"That's good. Now let's go get some supper." Christine smiled tightly, gripping Elise's proffered gloved hand.
"All right. I'm starved."
The staff of the Château did not know how to treat her. They greeted her with a respectful 'Madame,' and served her with the decorum befitting a Comtesse, but their eyes shifted and their posture was tense. Christine fidgeted in the stiff, straight-backed chair, as uncomfortable as they. Every one of her bruised bones ached, her face throbbed, and a headache crashed against her skull like relentless surf. At the moment, she was invalid, guest, and mistress to their dead employer—a strange, ambiguous place that even Madame Villon did not know how to cope with. Thick, rich turtle soup sang on her tongue and built a merry fire in her belly, perfect after the endless, dreary cold. Eagerly, she devoured two bowlfuls as Madame Villon and Raoul sparred in awkward, stilted language.
"I am sure I do not know what you mean, Monsieur," the housekeeper was saying.
"You're implying that I am some kind of con man, don't even deny it! Well, all I have is my mother's word—which was good enough for my father, you said so yourself that I was in his will! Erik named me his brother and heir." Raoul paused his tirade to grope in his pocket for something. Slamming his hand down on the table mirror bright with polish, he gestured to the pistol and purse broadly. A look of belligerent triumph lit his face. Out of the tail of her eye, she saw Elise's eyes widen. Christine slanted a look between the two and wondered if that was one of his father's expressions.
"There it is! That's Erik's pistol, and the purse he gave me. I have no other proof than the blood in my veins and my own face. If you call me a liar, you call Erik a liar and I will not stand for that!" The old housekeeper seemed mollified, or cowed, depending on one's interpretation of her expression.
"I am calling no one a liar, Monsieur, especially Erik, God bless him. Perhaps it would be best if we sought out our beds and discuss this tomorrow with cooler heads?" Raoul sucked in a breath to reply and Christine chose to intervene.
"I think that is very wise. Thank you Madame, and goodnight," she said, her voice a dry croak. With a short curtsey, she looked to the girls.
"Goodnight Elise, Jacqueline." Elise grinned, waving shyly. Her elder sister . . . her eyes were hard and pitiless; the look sat ill on such a young, sweet face. Christine clenched her sore jaw. The stony judgment in that look was hard to bear.
Raoul rose and bowed stiffly, awkwardly, before following a maid toward the bedrooms. They encountered a problem at the grand, arching staircase leading upstairs. Christine paled, gripping the smooth marble banister. Her joints ached and her knees wobbled as it was, would she have to ride up in the dumbwaiter like a heap of starched sheets? With a muttered curse, Raoul swung her up into his arms, boots, horse blankets and all. The young maid gave them a startled look, but bustled along. At the top of the stair, Raoul set her down and sucked down hungry gulps of air.
"Are you all right, Raoul?" Christine murmured, unsure of whether to be insulted or charmed. He waved away her concern and straightened.
"Well? Where's her room?" he snapped, blue eyes afire. The maid scurried on, and soon they reached a door of dark, richly carved oak.
"Here is your room, Madame. Yours, Monsieur, is just down the hall, here." With a sweep of her arm she led Raoul down the hall, and Christine gave him a reassuring nod.
Christine turned the brass knob and entered the room. It was beautiful, and thankfully bereft of any maids. Though a minor guest chamber on the second floor, it still dazzled Christine with its simple opulence. The brothel's trappings, while fine, always seemed . . . cheap, false. Here, a cheery fire blazed in the grate, the walls papered a gentle cream. A wardrobe and bookshelf dominated two walls, a privy closet sat tucked discreetly behind an ornately carved screen. The bed, complete with dark green coverlet and hangings, looked temptingly soft and large enough for five.
But what caught and held her attention was the bath. A gleaming copper tub lounged before the fire, the surface of the water steaming gently. Beside it stood a small table holding towels, soaps and combs. Eagerly, Christine began shedding her filthy clothing, stained by travel and by blood. The locket lay warm and hard between her breasts, gleaming in the captured firelight. Easing into the blisteringly hot water was a wonderful, painful ecstasy. Her aches dissolved under the heat's persuasion.
Pouring out a palmful of hair soap, Christine carefully lathered her mane of hair, rinsed, then soaped up a cloth and scrubbed her body from head to toe. God, half her body was covered with deep, blue-purple bruises, some turning sickly green around the edges. A discreet probing with her fingertip found that her nose was indeed healing straight. The water and the cloth had a distinct brownish cast by the time she was done.
Exhausted from the meager effort of cleaning herself, she leaned back against the rim of the tub. Sweat dewed on her skin at the soft, sensual caress of silken water and the gentle, murmuring fire. She could feel her heartbeat in her fingertips, her toes, between her thighs . . . her hand slid over the familiar terrain of her own body to her core, slick and aching. His name slid from her swollen lips.
"Erik . . ." Ah, glorious abandon in whispering his name, her prayer! Knowing fingers kneaded her pearl, thighs clenched and hips bucking as the pleasure coiled, built . . . her eyes fluttered open and she saw him there. A ragged gasp left her lips and she sat up.
"Don't stop," Raoul rasped from where he leaned against her closed door. His dark blue eyes held an unbearable sensual sleepiness—unbearable because she recognized the expression on a darker, leaner face with green eyes. A quick glance down found him hard, jutting against his trousers. He had bathed as well, his hair was wet and sweat glistened on his bare chest and upper lip. Panting and achingly unfulfilled, Christine stood, snatching a towel to her chest.
"Get out, Raoul." Her tone was all wrong, weak and breathy.
"Let me help, then," he said, surging forward. A callused fingertip followed the meandering drop of water down her throat to her breasts, slipping under the towel to circle her nipple. Her nipples were taut and aching, intensely sensitive. Maybe she could just close her eyes and imagine Erik . . . Raoul's wrist grazed the chain of the locket and pain knifed through the sensual haze.
"No," she said, snatching his hand away. Raoul's expression crumbled into pain and sorrow and naked, vulnerable longing.
"You said you didn't hate me." His tone was almost accusing.
"I don't hate you." Raoul sank to his knees, wrapping his arms around her waist, hands restlessly caressing her back and buttocks. Face pressed to the towel draped over her belly, his voice shred her heart with its pleading.
"Then let me make you feel good. Don't you want the pain to go away, just for a little while?"
"Not like that," she murmured, petting his cool hair, shining like golden wire in the firelight.
"I know what it's like to be with someone you love. It's so beautiful; I don't want to try and recapture the shadow of it. And you deserve better than that, Raoul. You deserve someone who loves you."
"Couldn't you love me?" His voice was thick, mournful. Christine's heart broke for him.
"Oh Raoul . . . You're brave and loyal. You understand what I've been through better than anyone alive. Maybe I could have loved you . . . before. But I love Erik." His name didn't hurt to say anymore.
"I love him too," Raoul rasped. How long she stood there, cradling him as wept against her, she didn't know. When he looked up at her, it was with the wide, innocent eyes of the boy he'd once been.
"Can I stay here tonight? I won't do anything, I promise. I just . . . I just don't want to be alone." Christine stroked the glitter of golden stubble on his cheek.
"Yes, you can stay." As Raoul turned down the bed, Christine dried herself and slipped into a shift of such fine cotton, it felt like silk. She felt Raoul's eyes on her as she did so, but ignored it.
"Do you want me to comb your hair? My mother said I was a deft hand with a comb," Raoul offered shyly.
"I think your work with horse's manes might be better experience," Christine said with a smile, surrendering the comb. Raoul grinned like a boy and spread his legs, inviting her to sit between them. Snuggled on the bed surrounded by the mound of pillows, Raoul began from the dripping ends of her hair and worked his way up. He is a deft hand, Christine thought sleepily as the comb ran through her hair. Soon her hair was free of tangles, and she snuggled into the welcoming down of the bed, wallowing in sensual comfort. Raoul curved behind her, draping an arm around her. There was a hard lump digging into her lower back and she shifted away from it.
"Sorry," he murmured sleepily into her hair. Christine reached for the locket and held it tight as she slipped into sleep.
XXX
It took every ounce of Erik's control to stay upright. His limbs felt like overcooked noodles, his head pounded, chills tore through his body. He staggered against the doorjamb of the cabin, shaking hands fumbling with the key. Maybe they had made it here before him . . . at last, the key found the lock and he staggered through the open door.
Empty.
Empty with a few dried leaves skittering from the open maw of the fireplace, the air smelled of musty neglect. With a groan, Erik's legs gave out beneath him. Where were they? They had a full day's lead on him. Surely he would have overtaken them, seen some small sign . . .
"Please God, let them be all right. Let them be safe." He would wait. He would wait forever for her. Perhaps he could wire the Château, though why Raoul would chose to go there instead of the cabin was beyond Erik's ken.
His head swam. Erik scrubbed his face with his hands. Let it be exhaustion, let it be exposure that made him weak. Not infection. If his wounds were infected, he would die. That was fact. In the wan dawn light, he peeled back the bandages. No sickly sweet stink, no streaks of redness, no blistering heat or fever . . . just scabbed lines from his cuts, and a ragged hole in his shoulder. Relief brought tears to his eyes. What an irony it would be to fight so hard to free her, only to die of infection.
Maybe stone-eared Fate would be kind to him, just this once.
"Rest. Rest and food," he told himself.
César was in his cozy stable, happily crunching on the oats stocked in the tack room. Erik would not be so lucky. Since the cabin was used so infrequently, it was not regularly stocked, or cleaned. Erik had meant to make preparations, but the madness in Paris had prevented him. With difficulty, he mustered coordination to his weary limbs. The pantry offered only a moldy paring of cheese and a wizened apple.
"Oats for me, then." Dry oats mixed water were about as appetizing as they sounded, but Erik choked them down. As sunlight streamed through the snow-sprinkled trees, Erik retreated to the cabin's lone bed. Tearing off the dust cloth, he climbed in boots and all, swathing himself in the heavy down coverlets. Warmth seeped slowly into his bones and Erik sank into a deep, restful sleep.
A/N: And up next . . . The Reunion.
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