Chapter 5 – Say You Need Me

Honestly, he'd had every intention of telling her first thing in the morning. But she smiled so sweetly at him when he sat down to join her for breakfast that he began to reconsider, concluding that doing it later in the afternoon would be better. And then when she suggested a stroll around the park after lunch, he thought it best that he should wait until the next day, rather than ruin a pleasant outing. The next day there was an unexpected guest, the following a dinner party, and then Sunday she seemed so at peace after the church service...

A full two weeks later, Raoul was still carrying around his secret like a pocketful of jagged stones. Maybe it was his imagination, but it actually seemed she'd been happier lately, smiling more easily, and not even once bringing up their situation. He fantasized that she'd somehow learned the truth, accepted it, but chose not to reveal that she knew in an effort to let him save face. At times – the best times – he almost managed to convince himself of it.

Then, one night, as the reds and oranges of the late evening summer sky finally faded to black, instead of accompanying him to the library after dinner, Christine quietly excused herself without explanation and disappeared into the bedroom. Raoul's gaze lingered on the tray of spirits on the sideboard, but unwilling to take the chance that she might catch a whiff of the harsh burn of liquor on his breath, he gritted his teeth and followed.

He found his wife face down upon the bed – never a good sign. She didn't lift her head as he sat next to her and placed what he hoped was a comforting hand upon the small of her back. They sat in weighty silence for many minutes, her swallowed sobs occasionally swelling beneath his hand. At last, she pushed herself up and swiped damp curls away from her face.

"I'm sorry," she said, the word thick and raw in her throat.

Raoul could only stare back, dumbly.

She cast down her eyes. "I truly thought this time was different. It felt different. I felt so sure that this was it." She scrunched handfuls of sea green silk skirt in her lap, twisting and kneading. "I allowed myself to believe, to be happy..."

The standard words of comfort that usually flowed so swiftly from him now dried up in his throat. The silence stretched on far too long.

"Oh, God!" She sprang to her feet, whirling to face him with an expression of dawning horror. "You must hate me! Oh Raoul, please don't hate me, I'm so sorry!"

"Christine, I…" he began, but his useless mouth couldn't form the right words. He gave up and just shook his head, his face pinched in pain.

She blinked hard, as if she'd been slapped.

"Oh," she said softly. She took a step back, her eyes drifting over his face and around the room as if she'd never seen it before. Then, like a sleepwalker, she made her way over to the small stool in front over her gilded vanity, and sat with the practiced posture of a girl who'd spent many of her formative years training in ballet. She smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt and sucked in a shuddering breath. "Please, Raoul... Please promise me you'll be honest with me." Each word was measured and even, as if she were reciting from a script. "If you want a different wife – a wife who can give you children – I understand. I do. I couldn't bear you secretly resenting me. Hating me." Her face began to crumple, beads of moisture shining on her lashes. "Just tell me, please just prom-"

"It's not your fault," he blurted out.

Her mouth snapped shut. She sat stock still, eyeing him as if he'd thoroughly lost his mind.

Raoul took a deep breath. "I- I saw a doctor. An expert in the field." The words fired from him like bullets. "He examined me. It's me. Not you. I can't father children."

This wasn't coming out at all like how he'd rehearsed in his head.

"What?" Her expression hadn't changed.

"I'm...infertile, sterile...whatever..." Raoul's shoulders went limp, his arms dangling lifeless at his sides.

Her eyes went blank, unreadable.

"I didn't mean to keep it from you," he said, not entirely sure it was the truth. "I just...wanted to wait for the right time."

"How long have you known?"

"A few days," he lied.

Christine looked him straight in the eyes for the first time since he'd entered the room. "And this doctor, he's sure?" The barest hint of hope behind her words hit him like a kick to the gut. He swallowed hard and grimaced.

"Yes. Very." He answered her next question before it could form on her lips. "And...unfortunately...he says there's nothing that can be done."

"Oh."

Her face was smooth, composed, if a little colorless. Something was behind her eyes, though – something he didn't recognize and couldn't put a name to. And though he knew the right thing was to ask her how she was feeling and then fall, weeping, into her arms and beg forgiveness, that inscrutable gaze sealed his lips and nailed his feet to the floor. Standing in front of her, he felt exposed and raw, like a mollusk that had crawled out of its shell.

"So, ah, now that we know… Well, I- I thought maybe we could talk some more about adopting...?" He could feel his toes squirming in his shoes.

Her eyes swung up to him, unfocused and unseeing. She blinked once, hard, and when she opened her eyes again, she was back. A smile softened her lips. "Yes, it's something to think about," she said.

Raoul felt his face break out in a stupid grin. He gathered her up in his arms and just held her close, his heart light as air.

He was brought down to earth by the feeling of two warm palms pressing against his chest. "Darling," she said, a note of apology already in her voice. "I think I'm getting a headache...you know how I get them when I cry."

He stepped back, holding her at arm's length, still savoring the warmth of her skin beneath the fabric of her dress. "Oh, no! I'm sorry, my love. Can I get you anything? A glass of water?"

Her gaze drifted to the floor. "I think if I could just lie down in the dark for a bit..."

He gave her hands a squeeze, and released them. "Of course. I'll be in the library if you need me."

"Raoul?" His hand froze, gripping the doorknob mid-turn. He looked back at his wife. Perched on the edge of the bed, her limbs hung from her like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Her mouth stretched into a thin smile. "I'm glad we know."

…

Raoul sat down his book and readjusted his feet on the tufted leather ottoman. Only a sip or two remained in his glass. He swirled the amber liquid, inhaling the smoky-sweet scent of the cognac. He drained the glass, but the alcohol did nothing to quiet the words still ringing in his ears.

'It is - and always will be - impossible for you to father children. Do you understand me?'

Raoul slammed his palms against the desk, launching himself out of his chair. 'Do I understand? No, no. I'm afraid I don't.' His voice was rising higher and higher. 'You assured me that you were the best in your field, but now you're telling me you can do nothing?'

The doctor measured out his words through clenched teeth. 'There's much I can do for many people, but that doesn't mean there aren't still hopeless cases.' He threw up a hand to deflect Raoul's interjection. 'I'm sorry to have to be the one to inform you that you are one such hopeless case, but perhaps you can take some comfort in knowing? You and your wife can move on now. And, Monsieur, there are other roads to becoming parents. The orphanages are overflowing with children, beautiful children who-'

'Out of the question!'

'Fine," said Simmons with a flick of his hand. "Then perhaps you'll learn to appreciate the joys of a life without children. Think of all the unencumbered travel and leisure time. I have no children, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Your wife may even be relieved that she won't have to deal with the hardships of pregnancy and childbirth..."

Wait...Was it relief? Was that the unfamiliar look in her eyes, the one he hadn't been able to put a name to? It had to be...if for no reason other than that he didn't want to think too long on what else it might have been.

And really, she would have to be relieved that it wasn't her, wouldn't she? She'd been so sad for so long, but now she knew it wasn't her fault! She could stop blaming herself and move on.

And come to think of it, was it possible that she really only wanted children for his sake? She knew how important having an heir- Oh, god. Raoul rubbed a hand over his face, a new realization dawning. His parents. Since he'd first gotten the news, his head had room for nothing but worry for how Christine would react. He hadn't even considered having to tell his parents...his mother. No, no. That was something he could worry about later...if at all. No, he was going to enjoy this lovely sensation of weightless, for tonight, at least.

Buoyant, he tipped a little more cognac into his glass in celebration. His mind was buzzing with possibilities. The doctor was right about one thing: It was true, unencumbered, they could travel the world, maybe buy another home by the sea, in the town they first met as children. He made a mental note to bring up those points to Christine in the morning.

That night, for the first time in weeks, Raoul slept soundly.

…

It was the cold that he noticed first. The chilled air of the early morning hours, snaking its tendrils around his bare feet, sending them searching for the familiar warmth that...that had always been there. The cool sheets stinging him fully awake. A numbing void next to him. And there, at the edge of the bed, a silhouette assembled from gentle curves.

She was there, but she was gone.

…

Sunday nights had always been special for them.

Christine was already reclining against the overstuffed pillows when Raoul came to bed, glossy curls spilling across her bare shoulders, her eyes heavy-lidded. A single lamp burned low, and her skin was incandescent in the semi-darkness. In their quest to create new life, they'd fallen into each others' arms again and again until it became a matter of course, yet the tips of Raoul's fingers still tingled with anticipation as he slipped into bed beside his wife, eying the creamy flesh above the ruffled neckline of her nightgown as it swelled with her deepening breaths. He let one finger glide down her exposed arm, buttery soft and rich with heat; it stiffened under his hand. Her barely parted lips drew him in, and he covered her mouth with his. Inflamed, he sucked and nipped at her unmoving lips. He drew back, gulping down the humid air, and descended upon her mouth again, his lips crushing against her jawline as she jerked her head to one side.

He searched her face in the half-light, following her unseeing gaze off into the distance. "Sweetheart, what's wrong?"

"I don't know, I suppose I'm just not in the mood," she said, her voice indifferent.

"Oh." Raoul blinked. "Okay then." He sat up and scrubbed a hand over his face, covering his eyes.

Christine rolled over beside him. He could feel the weight of her eyes on him. Finally she spoke. "Are you upset with me? I mean, we still can, if you really want to."

Raoul's stomach contracted into a hard, queasy lump. "No, that's...no." He clamped his mouth shut to quiet his trembling lips. "Just, never mind. Don't worry about it."

He swung off the bed and shrugged into a heavy wine-colored brocade robe.

"Where are you going?" Christine asked, scooting up in bed, and assessing him with those new blank eyes which had replaced those he'd known so well. "Are you angry?"

"I'm fine, really." He pasted on a too-wide, tight-lipped smile. "I just want to have a quick brandy to help me sleep. I'll be right back."

He fled the room and didn't stop until the glass was in his hand.

Almost six years of marriage, and never had his wife turned from him like that. He wasn't sure if he was perhaps making too much of the incident, but all the same, he'd let her have the bed to herself, just for tonight.

…

It took five nights for him to quit hoping she'd ask him to stop sleeping in a guest room and come back to their bed.

…

It was too quiet. Raoul tried to focus on the book in his hands, but the words rang hollow in his head. There was nothing but his shallow breaths, his thudding heartbeat. Where the rustle of her skirt should be, there was only the rustle of the turning pages.

Raoul shifted in his chair. Inseparable. How many times had he heard that word tossed around in regards to Christine and himself? Each time he would smile and squeeze her hand, knowing that no one could truly understand the bond they shared. There had been a time where he thought that he might lose her forever, and he had been prepared to do whatever it might take to keep her with him. After that, he knew that only death could tear them apart. And yet...

Raoul flung his book onto the table and jammed his hands into his pockets. It was no use trying to put on this act, going through the motions of his day-to-day life, ignoring the ever-growing gulf between them. He was unraveling. His wife, on the other hand, seemed more composed than she had been in years. He hadn't seen so much as a single tear from her since the night of his confession, but her real, true smiles were also nearly as rare. Those had been replaced by the hard-edged, over-bright imitations that she had only ever used with others. Never had they been for him. But now, it was like watching her on stage. And though her performance could be convincing, it didn't change the fact that he had been relegated, once more, to the audience.

The most maddening part, however, was that the distance – both physical and otherwise – would occasionally be breached, without warning and without any notion as to how it could be reproduced. She would suddenly appear at his side after hours of isolation, picking up a book or her embroidery and carrying on as if she'd been there all afternoon. Or unexpectedly wrap her arms around him from behind as he fastened his cuffs, flooding his body with a warmth that turned to numbing cold when moments later she would release him and pad silently from the room. It was like walking on shifting sands, never knowing how the next step would land, never knowing if he would ever feel solid ground again.

Raoul ran his fingers through his hair and blew out a long sigh. He heaved himself out of his seat and crept over to peer around the door frame. Across the hall, he could see into the day room, luminous with the late afternoon sun flooding through its massive windows. Christine sat in silhouette at a little desk, her face darkened but still lovely, the little curve of her nose upturned above slightly pursed lips. A pen moved in her hand, making a series of careful, deliberate swoops and slashes on a piece of stationary. Raoul bit the inside of his cheek, daring himself to cross the hall and beg her to tell him that she still loved him – that she would always love him. At her desk, Christine finished a line, nibbling on her pen as she considered it. A hint of a real, true smile curved her lips. Heat pricked at Raoul's lids. He glanced at her once more through watery eyes, and then shut the door with a quiet click.

…

When the sauce on the fish began to congeal, Raoul decided it was time to have dinner taken away. A maid appeared, mercifully avoiding eye contact as she whisked away the dishes, including the untouched food on his plate. He drew a slim, silver-plated case from his pocket and fished out a cigarette. He rolled it between his fingers, re-accustoming them to the feel of it. He had given up smoking years ago for Christine, back when she sang; she claimed it was bad for her voice. He struck a match and let the flame sear the end of the cigarette. The first deep pull set his lungs on fire. He held in the scorching breath until he couldn't take it anymore, then released it in a long, slow hiss. In his head, images looped over and over – doors closing behind the swish of skirts, locks drawn that he hadn't even known existed, stacks of letters addressed in an unfamiliar hand - until he felt dizzy. He knew it was cowardly, but if he could do it over again, he never would have told Christine about his doctor visit. Even better, he wouldn't have gone at all. A month ago, he would have said that he would do anything to ease her guilt, including taking it upon himself, but in no scenario did he ever imagine this torment. He stubbed out the spent cigarette and lit another.

An hour later, as Raoul swirled the dregs of his second drink round his glass, a whoosh of street-sounds echoed from downstairs as the front door finally opened. He swept the small pile of crumpled cigarette butts out of sight, and straightened his spine. There was no point trying to smooth down the hair which he knew looked as disheveled as his thoughts.

Christine appeared in the doorway, clutching her little beaded bag in both hands. Her eyes flicked from the empty table, to the glass clutched in his hands, to his clenched-jaw smile.

"Darling," he said, suppressing the quaver that was attempting to distort his voice. "You've missed dinner."

Christine widened her eyes in what looked to him like an actress portraying surprise. "Oh, I did, didn't I! I'm so sorry – I hope you ate without me."

"I did," he lied. As if he could force anything into a stomach as tight as a fist. Raoul sat back in his chair, a faux-casual arm draped across the back. He cleared his throat to make way for an indifferent tone. "You were out late. What were you up to?"

He wasn't certain if it was just a trick of the candle light, but it looked as if a blush was working itself over his wife's face, creeping across her rounded cheekbones and leaving her lips looking bloodless by comparison. "Oh, I stopped in for a visit with Madame Giry," she said, perhaps a touch too fast. "Just for coffee, but then she invited me for lunch, and next thing I knew they were lighting the lamps." Her lips pressed into an apologetic smile. As he scrutinized her face, her eyebrows shot up suddenly. "Oh! I almost forgot!" She snapped open her bag and pulled out a small, sealed envelope. "She asked me to give this to you. I have no idea what it's about."

Raoul turned the envelope over in his hands. On the back was his name, written in Madame Giry's unmistakable block print. He unclenched his jaw and sighed out the painful breath he'd been holding in. "Thank you," he said, tucking the letter into an inner coat pocket as she watched him with curious eyes. "I'm glad you had a nice time." He smiled broadly at her, feeling suddenly light. "Can I have them fetch something for you to eat?"

She blew out a little breath and shook her head. "No, no thank you. We ate lunch quite late. I'd actually just love to go lie down. It's been such a long day," she said, taking a little step back toward the hallway.

Though Raoul could feel his lips begin to form his automatic 'Of course', his raised spirits urged him on, and he bit down on the words, stilling them on his tongue. "Actually," he said, smoothing a small wrinkle from one lapel, "I was hoping to talk to you for a minute."

Christine wavered for a moment on her short heels, her bag gripped tight in one hand, before joining him at the table.

"I'd been thinking..." Raoul began, just as he'd rehearsed. "We haven't really spoken about our future."

"Our future?"

"Well, I mean, we talked a bit about adoption, and I thought maybe we could, you know, revisit that." Her blank expression made his tongue feel thick in his mouth, and his words came stumbling out. "The- um, the orphanages are overflowing with uh, beautiful children, and..."

"Raoul." Christine laid one warm, gloved hand over his. Her lower lip was pinned between her teeth, the corners curving despite her effort to suppress them. She drew in a deep breath. "I know how much we both want children, but this is not the way for us. It's not that I couldn't love that child – you know I would – but you know how hard it's been for your parents to accept me; imagine that burden falling upon a poor child. It's awful enough for a child to be without their natural parents, but then to spend the rest of his life living in the shadow of the heir that never was? I couldn't do that. I don't want to. And I don't think you truly want to, either."

Raoul searched his wife's face. Her clear gaze was unflinching, her mouth set in a firm line. He slumped back in his chair.

"So that's it for us?" he asked, trying not to sound dejected. "We just give up and move on?"

"We move on, yes. And I suppose we'll just have to find a new way to create meaning in our lives." It seemed as if she would go on – he could almost see the words on the tip of her tongue – but instead she clamped her lips shut and arranged them into a gentle smile.

Raoul nodded, but he knew he didn't need to find anything: the only thing that had any real meaning in his life was Christine.

She looked like a queen, sitting shoulders back and spine straight on the glossy lacquered chair, her hands folded upon her lap, distant and untouchable. There was nothing on earth he wouldn't give to bring back the wide-eyed girl who had once dashed across a rooftop to fling herself into his arms, clinging to him as they whirled around, lost in the heat and sweetness of each others' lips. Absolutely nothing.

A/N: Thank you so much to all of you readers! It was such wonderful thing to see some familiar names from people who had started reading years ago. It means so much to know that you're still hanging in there. Each and every review brought me so much joy - extra big thanks to those who left one. Looking back to them always helps when I feel like I'm just slogging through. And, as always, big thanks to Nade-Naberrie, my editor and co-conspirator, who I practically sent each sentence as they were written, one-by-one. You're invaluable.

Since this took so much longer to get up than I'd planned, I rushed headlong into publishing. Any errors you find may be gone soon, after I've had a good night's sleep and a few cups of coffee.

About the story...I know we're seeing a lot of Raoul, and I hate to tell ya, but you're going to see even more of him in the next chapter. However, you'll also be seeing some You-Know-Who (hint: not Voldemort), so don't give up just yet!