A/N: Thank you so much for the wonderful feedback! Ready for more? (This has only been looked at by me, so please forgive any mistakes...)


Chapter XV

A short time after her tense altercation with the Count's servant, Christine found herself riding in a closed carriage down narrow dirt roads of the village, with Gregor glowering behind the reins. He had not refused to take her, so she supposed she should be grateful for that, but he made it clear he was only following the Count's directive and gave Christine no more attention than he would a snail crawling across the ground. She assumed he was simply territorial - loyal to his master and naturally suspicious of the woman he had never before met, who in the blink of an eye, had suddenly become the Count's wife.

Christine carefully studied the wooden placards that hung suspended from chains on horizontal iron rods above doorways, announcing the business each shoppe offered. While the village was nowhere near as large as Paris, she was nonetheless astonished by the myriad tradesmen and plentiful services offered. She spotted the sign for which she'd been searching and relaxed back in the seat, having told Gregor first to take her to the other side of the village, and the vicarage there.

Upon their arrival, she studied the small, simple cottage with its thatched roof. Several black and white geese pecked along the grounds, giving the place a certain charm. Gregor did not move from his seat to give her aid, not that she needed it, and Christine thanked limber limbs as she jumped the short distance down from the high step of the carriage. A matronly woman with grey curls tucked beneath a blue kerchief answered her knock and verified that she was Mrs. Polliner. Christine delivered the minister's message, and relieved to hear Father Kiley was well, the woman effusively thanked her, inviting her inside for tea. Christine considered but politely declined, wishing to tend to her final errand and hasten back to the castle before the Count could conclude with his business and return. She had no idea when that was, as he'd never even told her he left.

Once they arrived to the shoppe of the seamstress, Christine again managed the small jump down from the carriage and entered the building, surprised not to see what she needed in the sparse front room. Shelves that contained bolts of material in various types and colors ran floor to ceiling along the back wall and a door stood open to a back room. The fresh aromas of new cloth, lemon, and sawdust filtered through the air. A different woman than had fitted her for Lucy's dress stood behind the counter. Prim and slender, she reminded Christine of Madame Giry, with her black silk dress and hair done up in a pinned braid, but especially her piercing gaze. She dropped her gaze from Christine's face to her attire, as if taking in every detail and sizing up her potential customer by wardrobe alone. Christine glanced down, taking note: A navy frock with a small rip in the sleeve at the seam after her reckless escape from Montmarte. Once used as a commoner's costume in an old opera, later delegated to a day dress. The wool sturdy and suitable for a member of the working class.

"May I help you?" the clerk asked, lifting fair brows and dripping tones of superiority.

"Have you no day gowns for purchase?" Christine looked at the bare walls, where only two chairs stood, having expected a rack of clothing as the Opera House furnished for its members. Castoffs had been allotted to the chorus for daily wear for a modest price, usually subtracted from their wages. Christine had purchased four upon leaving there, three of which hung in the wardrobe at Montmarte.

"We do make dresses. Are you here to purchase this for yourself, or have you come to make arrangements for your employer?"

"Oh, myself," Christine quickly agreed. "This is all I own at the moment, and I feel I should have a spare."

"Mm," the woman said with some disinterest. "Circe," she called, and another woman came hurrying from a back room. "I shall need you to take measurements." She looked back to Christine. "Go with Circe. She will measure you and we will go on from there." The woman went back to a ledger open before her.

Accustomed to costume fittings, Christine shed her gown in the chill back room and stood motionless on a stool in her chemise and corset, while the young girl, who at least offered a kind smile, brought a ribbon with markings around Christine's shoulders, bust, waist, and hips, writing each with a pencil into a ledger, and then measured her height from shoulders to ankles.

Once dressed and returned to the main room, the older woman retrieved bolts of black scratchy wool and a sturdy brown linen.

"Are any of these what you had in mind?" she asked with a little sniff.

"I…suppose." Christine reconsidered. "Actually I was looking for something a little brighter? Perhaps in a dove grey."

"I have nothing of that color in wool or linen. Only silk. And light colors such as you described are best suited for evening wear."

"May I see it?"

The woman's brows arched as she cast her disparaging gaze on Christine's dress. "I should state that half of the payment is required in advance."

"Oh…" Christine had only a few coins in her reticule. "I had hoped I might put this on credit?" she asked, having no true idea how such transactions were made, proposing the idea from a conversation once overheard. Perhaps she should just leave the shoppe and run the feasible risk of encountering the earl at Montmarte to collect the abandoned dresses. She wrinkled her brow in distaste at the thought.

"Can you not charge it to my husband?" Hearing the new title drop as a near whisper from her lips felt foreign and a bit frightening, but also oddly reassuring.

The woman sighed. "And just who is your husband, Madame?"

"The Count cel Tradat."

The woman blankly stared, her jaw dropping, her expression going frozen. Behind her there was an audible gasp from her aide. The older woman's attention dropped to Christine's bare and ringless finger.

"You are the Countess," she said, disbelief rife in her voice and hard in her eyes. "I have heard of the Count, of course, everyone in the village has. He is a recluse and unmarried and makes his home in an ancient castle in the middle of the forest."

"Yes, well, we were only just wed."

"Really." There was that supercilious tone again.

"Yes." Christine struggled to remain patient and civil. "If you don't believe me, his carriage is waiting for me outside. If there is more than one, his crest is on the door..."

The younger girl hurried to the front window and peeked out through the painted words that described the services offered. Another gasp, and she turned to look toward her mistress, giving a stunned nod.

"Oh, my…" The elder murmured, her entire attitude changing – almost comically - though Christine was not amused.

"Well, then, this just won't do." The woman whisked the wool and other inexpensive materials away and swiftly collected a light grey silk. "I agree with your selection - this will be stunning with your porcelain skin. Of course, one dress will not do, my lady. You will need five day dresses and as many for evening wear, and of course, a ball gown for the season, at the bare minimum. We have some delightful lush velvets, just arrived from Paris – this blue would complement your lovely figure and bring out the roses in your cheeks. But of course, for future reference you don't need to visit us here at the shop – only send a message what day to arrive, and we will come to you and serve you in the comfort of your home."

"I just need the one dress," Christine countered, doubtful that the Count would be too pleased if she came home with an entire wardrobe. She felt overwhelmed – a bird knocked out of the sky and forced to walk on land - uncertain how to deal with this ridiculous turnabout. At the Opera House, she had all such decisions made for her. Just another member of the chorus, she did as told and accepted what she was given.

"Perhaps you are not yet aware of the demands your new station will entail. There are certain to be parties and balls and teas – the grey silk is suitable as a day dress, but you will need additional garments to attend the society functions, and will certainly wish to be a complement to your husband."

"My husband doesn't like to socialize."

"Be that as it may, you cannot wear the same dress every day. It's just not done, my lady, not for one of your stature…"

The woman continued to gush and fawn and sweep a startling number of bolts with shimmering and plush material in a rainbow of colors for Christine's perusal.

"Of course you'll need the right gloves and stockings, undergarments, a nightgown - perhaps another cape? The one you own has become rather frayed at the hem, but then that sort of cloth does not repel water as it should. We can outfit you with a wardrobe suitable for a Countess and have it delivered to you by the end of next week…."

The woman merrily prattled on, and though Christine was tempted to just turn around and walk back to the carriage, she did need a spare dress. She really had no choice. This was the only seamstress she'd seen advertised among the signs posted outside.

Her repeated attempts to decline what she considered superfluous garments were as effective as a pebble disturbing a large pond. The young assistant quietly chimed in when asked, offering her smiling encouragement and agreement, and weary of it all, Christine surrendered to their manipulations, hoping the Count would not be too terribly angry by what was turning into a ridiculously exorbitant shopping venture.

xXx

The twilight of evening brushed heavy shadows across the broad canvas of land, the sun forgotten as it sank deeper into oblivion beyond the dark forest of trees. Christine moved away from the mullioned window, hoping the Count would soon make an appearance.

Supper had come and gone, Christine sitting alone at the long dining table and served by the perpetually taciturn Gregor. The food, no doubt, must be a product of his work - awful, dry, tasteless and bland - and after two tentative forkfuls, she pulled the napkin from her lap and threw it on her plate. She wondered why a man of such wealth with a castle so grand possessed only one servant. Why was there no cook, no maids, no driver? Gregor was clearly more suited as a personal manservant, but seemed to manage, or when pertaining to culinary efforts - mismanage - everything at Castle Dragan.

She wondered if the Count took his meals in the village. That would explain his absence tonight, though she would have thought he might join her. Was he avoiding her company? She had been told that he'd been a virtual recluse in the two years since he'd come to the shire, rarely setting foot outside the castle, his sudden presence at the ball stirring up quite a clamor of shock…

With supper a decided travesty, not to mention lonely, she wandered into the music room. The chamber was dark, and she retrieved a taper, lighting it with the fire that burned perpetually in the throne room, then proceeded to do the same with the candelabra atop the grand piano.

Standing before the impressive instrument, she brushed one of the keys with her index finger, gently letting it slide down and giving weight to the edge to answer in a gentle note. She pressed another, then another, her idle touches stirring soft, sporadic tones, and she began to hum, using the last key struck as a guide to begin. The wordless melody had no true form, until it did, and she found herself softly singing Elissa's solo aria from Hannibal. A prickle of awareness needled at the back of her neck and Christine sensed she was no longer alone.

Turning to the door, almost as if caught, she noticed the Count standing on the threshold, watching her, and felt overcome as always by his commanding presence. Clothed head to toe in burnished ebony, save for his waistcoat of rich crimson silk embroidered in black, he was the quintessence of dark mastery.

"I – I didn't hear you come in," Christine nearly whispered.

His response was the twist of a devilish smile that made it difficult to breathe. He studied her a moment before covering the distance between them.

She forced herself to remain motionless as he drew near, so close they were almost touching. A strange case of nerves made her want to flee. She didn't fear him, not exactly; rather she feared how he made her feel… Helpless... but at the same time inherently… powerful. Uncertain, but unwavering in her resolve.

He held still a breathless moment then walked slowly around her, taking a seat at the bench.

"Your day was satisfactory?" he asked, and she heard the light strains of music as he fingered a series of keys.

Christine continued staring at the grey wall of stone a moment, taking deep breaths for calm before she turned around to look at him, remaining where she stood.

"It was…an experience."

"Oh?" He lifted his brow, evident with the way his mask moved a fraction higher. "A pleasurable one I would hope."

"I went to the village." How could he deem the day pleasurable when she was forced to spend it without companionship? "I spoke to the woman who works for Father Kiley, to inform her of his accident and assure her he was well…"

At this, she noticed how his jaw tensed.

"And then I went to the seamstress," she finished more quietly.

"I should think the vicar recovered enough by now to return to his vicarage. I would have thought he would have left this afternoon." His tone was less than amenable, and she looked at him in surprised disbelief.

"With the severity of his wounds? Why would you think that? He was injured only last night!"

He looked at her as if puzzled. "Then his condition has not improved?"

"Well…no," Christine recalled her earlier astonishment at how their patient's health had made such a marked improvement. Even after returning from the village this afternoon and visiting the priest a second time to check in on him, she had been amazed to see the man sitting up in bed, propped by a pillow, and reading from his missal. "I wouldn't say that. Except for being weak, he seems quite fit."

The Count nodded once and turned back to the keys, softly picking out more chords. "After his supper, he will have regained strength. I will speak to Gregor about driving the man to his vicarage in the morn."

"Not if he's served what I had, he won't," Christine muttered beneath her breath.

He stopped playing and looked at her. "Your meal was not to your liking?"

She blinked at him in wide-eyed incredulity. "You heard me?" How could he? She had barely spoken and he'd been playing – softly – but surely enough to cover bare whispers of sound. "You must have the hearing of a bat!"

His chuckle came out as a faint snort. "I do have acute hearing, my dear. But you did not answer my question."

Christine had no desire to instigate trouble, especially on her first day at the castle, and certainly did not wish to speak ill of others. At his insistent gaze, she sought for a satisfactory reply that would do no damage. "After tonight, I understand your preference for eating in the village. Your servant surely is adept at many skills for you to rely on him so heavily; unfortunately cooking isn't one of them. But then, I'm sure you must know that."

He turned his attention to the keys and stared, almost as if he did not see their white and black scales, only the information sifting through his mind.

"I had not realized," he said, half to himself.

"Perhaps it was only a bad day in the kitchen," she excused.

"If matters do not improve with the next supper, let me know."

"You don't plan to eat with me tomorrow night either?" She had not meant her voice to sound plaintive, and he regarded her with surprise.

"My business does not conclude until the evening; it is rare that I would return to the castle before the evening meal is served."

"Then you will never dine with me?" The words slipped out before she could stop them. "I mean – I'm not accustomed to eating alone. But, of course, that wasn't part of the arrangement. Pay me no heed. This is all new to me and will simply take some time getting used to…"

He again turned those burning eyes of interest her way, and fidgeting under so intense a stare, she dropped her gaze. It was a moment before he spoke.

"You may visit the village whenever the mood takes you. I am certain you will find the companionship you seek there."

It teetered at the tip of her tongue to ask what his business was composed of, to spend so much time away from the castle – but she refrained and said instead, "The vicar's housekeeper invited me for tea; perhaps I will accept her invitation."

Though she did not look at him, she sensed his irritation with her announcement. It was a moment before he spoke. "You mentioned your visit to the seamstress. Did you find what you needed there?"

A second wave of apprehension brought heat rising to her face. "Yes, about that…I, um, went there to purchase a gown, only because this is all I have and I have no wish to go to Montmarte to retrieve the rest."

"Christine, you do not need to explain yourself. I told Gregor to take you wherever you wished to go."

"Yes, well…" With her hands hanging down meekly in front of her, she clasped her hands together in her skirts. "The thing is I may have arranged for more than one gown."

His lips twitched in amusement. "I am frankly astonished that you could find anything of true worth in that paltry village."

She shrugged and looked away. His eyes grew intent on her face.

"Something upsets you." It was not a question.

"It's just that…they didn't believe me to be your wife. At times, I'm not sure I believe it. Attempting to convince them was difficult. Only once they saw the carriage waiting for me outside did the women there finally believe me - and then the owner tried to convince me that I would need more than I came there for. I barely had a say in any of it – I only tell you this because I never meant to spend so much of your money."

The Count scowled at their unsurprising exhibition of greed but directed a reassuring glance her way. "Do not be concerned with such things, Christine." He waved a flippant hand. "It is only money. If you are pleased with your purchases, then give it no more thought. I could send Gregor to Montmarte to collect your things. Or perhaps a Parisian wardrobe from one of those famous boutiques women cater toward would be more desirable?"

She blinked in clear shock. It was a moment before she spoke. "You are offering to take me to Paris?"

He continued to regard her, neither agreeing nor declining.

"But what of your business here?"

"I can take a short amount of time away, if you wish it. Those fool clothiers were correct on one matter. As my Countess, you should have more than one additional dress."

"I have no wish to be a burden," she countered quietly.

"You are no burden," he said, his voice like dark silk. "You are my wife."

His eyes held contact with hers, their tenderness and his words causing her heart to skip a beat. She regarded him in confusion.

"I know this was never your choice, not really. You gave me your name and home only to protect me against my uncle. I desire no more than that."

The Count said nothing, pulling from his pinky finger one of two rings. He lifted his hand and beckoned her forward, crooking two fingers.

She hesitated briefly but obeyed. He held his hand out but she only stared.

"Give me your hand, Christine," he urged.

She found herself heeding his soft command, barely aware she did. The moment his icy fingertips touched her palm, a little shiver of warmth coursed through her.

"This," he said, setting the ring into her hand, "will correct any mis-assumptions that you are not who you say you are…"

She brought her hand closer to her, looking with awe at the carved gold band upon which were mounted small cut stones of emerald, above which was half a hand clasping a heart on each side of a raised setting that held an oval stone of dark emerald. Carved into the band itself were words in Latin, she presumed – Quod Deus conjunxit and as she turned the mastery of art to look, she inhaled an awed gasp to see on the inside of the thick setting, a small oval had been cut out and in its recess was the carving of a baby. She had never seen a ring like it.

"The babe stands for life." He followed her intrigued gaze. "And this…" he pulled the second ring off his pinky finger, "will prove to all who see it that you are mine."

She felt dizzy with the hint of possession in such words that did not fit with his claim that this marriage was in deed only. He set the second ring in her palm next to the other. Where emeralds adorned the first ring, rubies had been crafted, the raised stone rectangular, also a ruby. Nemo Separet was inscribed on this band, the other half of a hand that held the heart on the first one. Where the baby had been carved in the first ring, in the second, a skeleton rested as if in a grave. The background for it was black and not green as the alcove in which the baby rested.

She blinked questioning eyes toward him.

"The skeleton symbolizes death," he explained quietly, "When put together, it signifies the memento mori, life and death…" He proceeded to fasten the two rings like a puzzle, using a fragile hinge on the side of each. "The first is yours, the second mine, and when joined together, the pattern is fulfilled."

She gasped to see that indeed, the ring had attained a completeness not apparent before, an intricate perfection. The memento mori was concealed within the two halves, knowledgeable only to the wearer of the ring. She was amazed to see on one side of the two raised gems another picture had formed in the shape of a small engraving – what she had thought might be the fingers of a hand when looking at the first band alone was instead the crest of the dragon and the rose when paired together – mirroring the emblem she had seen in the tapestry of the throne room and the insignia on the ring he always wore on his index finger.

"And the words?" she barely managed to ask.

"Quod Deus conjunxit, Nemo Separet – What God hath joined together, let no man tear asunder."

She felt hot and cold at once, the meaning of the puzzle ring heavy with significance; the crest on the side proving it must be a family ring, an heirloom. If he wished only to keep their bond intact for a year, why give her a ring that promised eternity? Why had he not furnished her with a simple band of gold instead?

He watched her face intently as he held the linked rings up to her, and she tried to mask her baffled uncertainty that rose at such inner questions.

"You need have no cause to fear," he said, his tone achieving a slight edge. "I will honor the vow I made to you in a year's time. You have my word."

Christine swallowed hard that he seemed to read her mind, though strangely his promise brought none of the comfort it should. She looked at the ring he held out to her. "It is quite beautiful and unique. Has it been in your family long?"

"Since the Middle Ages," he remarked offhandedly. Her eyes turned up to his in surprise. "It is called a Gimmel ring. Very popular at that time period. Each set crafted by custom and unique in design. By tradition, the bride would wear the first band and the bridegroom the second in the time preceding their nuptials. During the ceremony, the rings would be joined as their lives would be joined and both be given to the bride to wear as a sign of their vow."

Her expression filled with wonderment as he shared the history. She looked at his family ring then held out her hand that slightly trembled, her fingers spread.

"Would you?" she asked softly.

The breath caught in his throat as he looked at her pale ivory hand. Ghosting his fingers under hers, he slid the band along her finger, unprepared for the surge of emotion that clutched the center of his chest as the twin bands of linked metal found their resting place. Had he a heart that beat, it would be pounding. He lifted his eyes to her dark ones, noting a tenderness glimmered there he'd not seen before. He held her warm hand a moment longer, clutching it gently in his cold grasp…

Wishing this moment meant more to her than it did…wishing that fate had, for once, been kind…wishing for something that could never be...

Realization brought with it the quick release of her hand, and he turned abruptly away, again facing the piano. He sensed rather than saw her injured confusion.

He had married her to protect her, planning to share her company solely for lessons and keep himself distant the majority of the time. Once he learned the identity of his Little Lotte, his Christine, there had been no choice, none that his battered sliver of conscience would allow. He had failed her once, long ago; he would not do so again.

"I promised to teach you to sing with the expertise any diva would beg to know," he said, keeping his voice low and unmoved. "If you are not too weary, we may begin your instruction." He offered no more than a brief glance in her direction.

"Yes, alright..."

The Count ignored the uncertain confusion in her tone as with determination he proceeded to play the scales, watching while Christine chimed tentative notes and twisted his rings of ownership that now encircled her wedding finger.

What he offered her was so much less than he wished to give, what he would never be, but he could not extend the full promise of what he would never have. Nor must he allow enticement to lure him into seeking out all those pleasures ever wanted...

To do so, to give in to temptation, could expose their hidden natures and destroy both of their lives.

xXx


A/N: Poor Erik...I think they both need some time in gay Par-ee...Who's with me on that? What happens in Rome, stays in Rome, but what happens in Paris...ah, no, I won't tell... ;-)