A/N: Those who've read my other stories know I'm an author who sometimes goes where many fear to tread. Even in these fantasies, I prefer to deal with realistic issues that come up in marriage, at the same time (hopefully) not being offensive. That said, this chapter deserves the rating for this first scene. If you don't like where it's going, please skim. (We all have different views, and I respect your right to hate mine. lol) A lot happens in this very long chapter – two chapters in one really (hopefully the length makes up for the delay) …
A Narrow Escape
VI
.
In the dark night, Christine woke in terrible anguish. Her breasts felt heavy as stone, swollen and hard, near to bursting with milk. To her horror, they had leaked against the sheet, the linen wet against her skin.
With the glowing red light cast from embers of the hearth fire as a guide, she stumbled from bed to grab from the floor the discarded towel from the bath and press it against her bosom. The action only served to intensify her pain and she let out a helpless little cry.
Instantly Erik was awake, pushing himself up on one arm. "Christine?" His rich voice was groggy with sleep. "What is it? What's wrong?"
She slid back into bed, keeping the towel securely held with one hand, her fingertips brushing away the tears that had fallen with the other.
"I… could you help me?" she whispered, uncertain if she had the nerve to ask.
"Only tell me what you require." His hand touched hers that clutched the towel, his eyes brimming with concern.
Ever since Angelique required fewer feedings, there had been some discomfort, always fully alleviated when her daughter again desired sustenance – but Christine never suffered like this! The night she and Erik spent in the lair, Angelique took her fill before and afterward, and Christine now realized that nearly a full day had elapsed without her child's demands on her body.
"Angelique barely nursed yesterday. I know I must soon wean her..." She felt a little faint with the knowledge that she was again pregnant. "But my body desperately needs to find relief."
He studied her, a grim apology in his eyes.
"Christine, I would gladly walk the streets of Paris for you twice over, curfew or not, but I don't dare risk bringing Angelique back here without the safety of the carriage. It is housed at the common stable - though if you wish me to, I will break in and steal it away."
"No," she said quickly, fear of his capture spurring her words. "I would never ask that."
He regarded her, his eyes somber. "Nor will I take you to the tenement at this late hour. No matter how courageous you have proven to be, I will not put your life at risk."
Christine could barely stand the towel pressed softly against her breasts. She could not conceive the idea of lacing up into a snug bodice, could barely stand movement at all.
"That's not what I want either," she said quietly.
"Then, what is it you require?"
She struggled with how to ask and wondered if she should just remain silent and be the courageous woman he thought her, should somehow withstand this horrid, heavy pain…
Or perhaps courage lay within the asking.
"I wish you to take her place," she replied in a tiny voice, her eyes falling shut with apprehension to see his reaction and hear his answer.
Erik stared at his beautiful wife, bewildered by her curious behavior. Of all the delightful places his mouth had traveled over her body - including the ambrosia of her womanhood in which he frequently indulged and drank his fill – why should this trouble her so to ask it of him?
The answer came with her next self-conscious words.
"It's just that… I-I don't want you to think of me in a maternal way. Ever. Like, like I was your mother… "
His eyes widened in further astonishment and he was hard pressed not to laugh at such a preposterous notion, when every glance at her kindled desire.
"And I certainly don't want you to be…disgusted." She shook her head, clearly embarrassed, her face flushed. "Never mind. Forget I spoke."
Did she truly think he had never tasted of her before? Since Christine had given birth, even the most brief and gentle attention to her breasts often encouraged the flow, warm and sweet like every inch of her. He never indulged, not wanting to steal nourishment that belonged to Angelique alone, but their daughter was not here, and his wife needed relief he was quite far from "disgusted" to give.
"It's late." She squirmed, then winced in evident pain. "I'm not thinking clearly - I don't know what I was thinking really. Just please do us both the favor of forgetting this bizarre conversation. Or pretend it was all a foolish dream…"
Unwilling to allow her physical and emotional anguish to persist a moment longer, Erik slowly shook his head - to still the flustered words that again sprang to anxious lips - and gently pulled down the damp towel.
Her breasts were swollen, the flesh tinged a faint red, and he drew his brows together in remorse to witness his Angel's torment. Cupping a needy globe with careful fingers, he took the taut nipple deep into his mouth.
The soft cries that left her lips were ones of pain, not pleasure, but the hand that slowly lifted to twine her fingers in his hair begged him not to stop…
Prickles that stung like needles at last eased as blissful release came and soon relief was too pale a word to inhabit… maternal? No, there was nothing maternal about this, nothing close to her motherly affection toward Angelique, who's claim on her was so often hard and demanding and vital. Erik was firm, but tender and considerate, his suckling bringing with it an emotion she could now name. It was desire, and she could only hope that he felt its warm stirring too.
"Never 'maternal,' my Exquisite Rose," he whispered before drawing the dusky pink bud and areola of her other breast into his mouth and again indulging in her sweetness.
Christine gasped with anticipation laced in torment, again pressing him close.
She was all that was perfection, every portion of her being, warm and infinitely sweet, belonging to him alone…
And arousing him to a point he could scarcely bear it. As he drained her punished breast of its overabundance, his own flesh swelled hard and demanding. But he would not presume to take his full pleasure with her after the great misery he caused her this night. It was because of his selfish desires that she suffered, both due to the child she had borne and the child she now carried.
And yet, despite all honorable intentions, Erik could not refrain from touching her. As he suckled, his hand drifted up over her stomach, to the soft globe he had emptied, his thumb and fingertips brushing gentle, tentative designs against the hardened nipple.
She let out a low, protracted moan.
Nearly two years her lover, he knew that cherished sound had no basis in pain.
Cupping his hand over the pliant curve, he tenderly squeezed. Her fingers grew further entangled in his hair while her nails grazed his upper back. He felt her legs slightly part and took the invitation, his fingers soon drenched in the cream of her wetness…
God, sooo wet…
Lifting his head from her softened breast, he stared deeply into her glazed eyes.
Christine gasped at the fire that burned so brightly in the blackened depths of his.
"Do you want me to make love to you?" he asked, a tremor to his words.
"Do you want to?" she answered, half afraid he would say no.
In answer he took her hand and brought it down beneath the coverlet, pressing her palm to his solid length that throbbed intensely at her touch. Her eyes widened to feel the strength of his desire.
"Does this answer the question that need never be asked?"
"I want you inside me," she breathed in a rush, overcome with love for him.
Instantly he covered her with his body, her own blissfully absent of all pain, and she relished the feel of her soft curves and sensitized nipples rubbing lightly against his lightly furred chest.
With tender power he filled her emptiness, letting out a low groan as he did. She clung to him, whimpering at the beauty of the act as they became one flesh. Not only the physical, but beyond, to the soul and combined beating of one heart. Hundreds of times they had shared such intimacy, perhaps a thousand, but the miracle of it never failed to astound.
"We belong to one another, Christine," Erik said before he lost all thought to the passionate music that demanded fervent expression. "I am yours for the taking. Anything you need, that you need me to be for you, you have only to ask."
"But…" Shyness melted away as hunger escalated and the need to know burned. "…did you like it?" she whispered, a little uneasy to hear his response.
The devilish smile that curled his lips was all the answer she required, and her own lips curved upward, her mind at last at peace.
"You must cease to ask such foolish questions of a man who loves you more than life itself," he purred and slowly pulled back, immediately to plunge into her depths again. "You are sweetness incarnate, Christine, and I am most fortunate to possess all intimate knowledge of your many womanly charms …"
Losing herself to his fire, Christine decided that such courage was an asset to be highly valued and a lesson most delightfully learned.
.
xxXxXxx
.
1838 – Canteleu, France
(thirty-four years previously)
A weak sun barely pushed through darkened clouds, doing nothing to scatter the encroaching mist and the chill that covered the land. Helena absentmindedly pulled her soft woolen shawl closer around her shoulders, the change in weather hardly a deterrent to her excitement as she wended through the maze of wild bushes, while plucking a berry here, a berry there. A number of them ended up in her basket, but a goodly portion of the plump red delicacies found their way into her mouth. Still, she wasn't there for the picking, but for another matter entirely…
A stir in the undergrowth had her spin quickly around to see who disturbed her solitude.
"Edward." A slow smile lifted her lips to see his tall form. "Did you bring it?" Her smile widened when he pulled aside his coat and she noticed the foil hanging inside. "You did!"
He chuckled at her girlish enthusiasm. "Dare I spirit you away from your present activities with a bevy of young maidens cavorting about the area?"
She scoffed. "They'll not miss me – we drifted off in pairs, and Della knows of our meeting. Della is the one who helped arrange this, remember. Now, come along." She took eager hold of his arm and hurried with him through the trees and to a small clearing where they'd met once before.
"A pity you brought only the one," Helena said. "I think I have graduated beyond branches, don't you?"
"What little faith you have in me…" From his horse tied to a nearby tree, he pulled another foil from where it was fastened to his saddle.
Helena clasped her hands together beneath her chin in delight. Her father would be horrified to learn his daughter had secured fencing lessons from Monsieur de Chagny, likely would send her away to a convent before the next sunrise. But endless hours of needlework and prim parlor activities bored her to tears. She craved the reckless adventure denied her only because she'd been born to bear willowy curves, and Edward had granted her wish to train her each Wednesday for the past month.
Clasping the hilt of the blade, she brought it upright before her face in acknowledgement. "En garde!"
They practiced for some minutes before he dropped his weapon to his side and shook his head in mild exasperation. "Keep your free arm behind you, Helena. Maintain eye contact that you might divine your opponent's next move. Never watch the weapons clash." After another few minutes he abruptly halted the lesson again. "Again, you lunge when you should parry to deflect the blade."
She also dropped her hand with her foil to her side, lifting her chin in mild affront that today he seemed to find nothing but fault with her performance.
"Perhaps you should be a gentleman and parry so that I may lunge," she retorted, only half joking.
He chuckled at such backward logic and advanced until he stood before her. "You wish to learn to fight." His knuckle brushed beneath her chin. "I am here to teach you."
A quiver went through her spine at his touch. "And I want to learn all you know."
"All?" He tilted her chin so that her eyes met his. "Even in matters of love?"
"Love?" she scoffed lightly. "As if I should wish that…"
"You do."
"Rather overconfident in your abilities, are you not monsieur?"
He put an end to their banter - his lips suddenly pressed to hers, sending little flames all the way to her toes. His free hand wove into the back of her loose curls, holding her still. She sucked in a breath, returning the intimate caress before deflecting his passionate attack and taking a step in retreat. It was not their first kiss; doubtless it would be their last. In the two months since they danced beneath the stars, he made her feel sensations no good girl should feel, and lately when she felt daring, she questioned if she truly wished to be decent.
As they stared at one another, something cold and wet landed on her cheek, another on her head, dripping down her scalp and making an icy path to her nape. They broke apart at the same time, tipping their faces back just as the skies opened and unleashed a torrent of water upon their heads.
"To the cottage, quick!" Edward instructed, sheathing his foil and grabbing her arm to hurry to the gardener's cottage over the rise. At some point she lost her grip on her own weapon, the undergrowth tearing it from her hand. She tried to pull back and retrieve it, but he practically jerked her off her feet to follow him.
"Never mind that – hurry!"
She allowed him to pull her along. "What's a little rain?" she called to him.
"More than a little," he shouted over his shoulder. "In this thick wood, it can be perilous."
A lightning bolt split the sky in the not too far distance, accentuating his somber caveat.
Thunder roared, the cold winds blew, the little rain evolving into a storm of mass proportions before they were halfway there. By the time they made it to the small cottage, they were both drenched to the skin. Edward pounded on the weathered door, which looked as if it should buckle under the weight of his demand. It remained stubbornly fixed – and closed to them.
"Should we…?" she asked but he already had his hand on the latch.
"Monsieur …?" Edward called out as they entered.
Unease trickled through Helena to barge into the gardener's abode. Perhaps if it was her family's gardener, she would not mind, or even his, but this residence belonged to neither of their estates. She was visiting her friend Della for a fortnight and would return after the spring ball the Delacroixes were hosting. Their estate was two hours' ride by carriage, and Della, who loved secrets and being part of them, was Helena's sole confidante. The girls devised the visit, seeking permission from their parents as a perfect foil for Helena to meet with Edward in the afternoons for further lessons with no one the wiser. Here, they could meet more than once a week and arouse no undue suspicion.
"He's not here," Helena said needlessly. "Should we stay?"
"You wish to go back out in that?" Edward motioned to the door he just closed, rain hammering against its surface. His brows drew together in concern, his eyes glinting a startling silver amid the frame of his black lashes. "I doubt he would mind us occupying his home for the interim, since you are the Delacroix's guest." He studied her head to toe. "You must be freezing. I'll start a fire. There must be a blanket in which you could wrap yourself once you've disrobed."
Disrobed?
"I refuse to remove one stitch of clothing." She pulled her dripping shawl close over her bosom, shivered, then sneezed.
"Be reasonable, Helena. You'll catch your death if you don't."
"I'll not disrobe in front of you, Edward de Chagny. You're a cad to even suggest it."
"Don't be silly, woman. I shall have my back turned as I tend to this fire."
As if to prove his point, immediately he crouched in front of the hearth and set about breaking and laying sticks from a box nearby, inserting them in the bed of dried, dead leaves and pine boughs that covered the hearth floor.
"You know how to start a fire?" she asked in surprise. She thought only servants were trained in such mundane chores.
"Oui," he said without turning. "I learned many helpful things from members of the household staff when I was boy. The cook had a son my age, and we would play together…"
Helena still had not moved when he reached for the flint, working to get it to spark. She had only ever seen long wooden matchsticks used, and curious, she watched, also waiting to see if he would honor his words or change position. When he remained with his back to her once the fire was lit, she looked around the cramped room, at the cot and the blanket folded at its end. Her clothing was cold and soggy and thoroughly uncomfortable. Helena would have to be a dolt not to take advantage of the gift of dry warmth.
With the occasional wary glance toward Edward, she managed the buttons along the back of her day gown with little trouble. However, once she reached the ties of her corset she found the rainwater had made them constrict too tightly to work loose the knot.
She sighed and decided to draw close to the fire instead.
"I told you to remove that dress," he said without turning her way.
"How did you…"
"The amount of time it takes women to prepare, there is no earthly way you could have discarded that gown, unless by magic. And I don't credit you as being a witch."
She frowned at his dry explanation. "I normally have a ladies maid to help me. The ties are too tight. It doesn't matter."
He rose to his feet. "May I?"
"No, of course not." She took a small step away, warily staring at the breadth of his back and the lean lines of muscle beneath his damp shirt. Without the waistcoat, which he had doffed, she realized just how broad his shoulders really were.
"Helena, you need not fear me," he said quietly then turned to face her. "I hope you know that…"
With gentle fingers he smoothed the dripping shawl from her shoulders and she froze as a rabbit might, cornered by a wolf. The shawl fell to the planks with a heavy wet splat. Slowly he turned her around by the shoulders. Expecting to feel his hands at the ties, she tensed to prepare herself, stunned when she felt the sudden give as he sliced through the taut laces with a blade.
"Edward – what are you doing?!"
"You are correct." He stood close, his breath warm on her neck, making her shiver with nervous want. "The laces were too tight." At the faint brush of his fingertips along the curve of her shoulder, she closed her eyes…
"I think you can manage now."
She felt him draw away. Shaken by his touch, more by his retreat, she glanced back to see that he again stood before the fire, looking intently into the flames. Hurriedly she removed herself to the alcove and, hesitating only a moment more, shed the heavy wet dress, shoes and stockings. Her chemise was only damp not drenched, and she left it on, needing some protection, however minute, for her own peace of mind. Drawing the blanket tightly around her shoulders and letting it trail behind her, she moved close to the fire. He had taken a position near the sole window, looking out at the squall.
"Your clothing is wet too," she quietly pointed out the obvious.
"There is only the one blanket." He shook his head as if at an irksome thought. "I can manage the discomfort."
Outside, the rain continued to fall, hitting the roof like so many tiny stones.
"I'm sorry I dropped your foil," she said, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had sprung up between them.
"The rain won't damage it."
"Well, I'm grateful for that." She turned fully to look at him, ill at ease with his distant attitude. "I never truly thanked you for this. The lessons, I mean. I'm grateful for that as well. I know you must have better things to do with your time than to ride out to teach me every few days."
"Helena, do you not realize…" He turned as he spoke. "I would do anything – merde!"
"Edward?!
She yelped as he lunged toward her and tore the blanket from her shoulders. With huge eyes she watched in a bewildered daze as he stomped on one corner of the cloth – that she now saw had caught fire!
"Are you alright?" he asked in concern, his anxious gaze taking in where she stood shivering in her chemise. "Did you get burned?" He looked at her bare calves and tiny feet.
"No, I-I'm fine."
Flushing with nervous warmth, she crossed her arms over her breasts and the damp material that clung so tenaciously to her form, revealing far too much to his wandering gaze.
His eyes gleamed like molten silver. She felt lost in them as he approached…
"You're so special, Helena. I don't know what I would do if something happened to you…" His voice came husky. His hands cradled her face. "Perhaps it is magic."
His lips ghosted against hers. Heat coursed through her body having nothing to do with the hearth fire or embarrassment. His tongue brushed her lips and she opened to him, his passion inflaming her – he had never kissed her like this! He explored her mouth until she felt as if she'd drunk too much wine, dizzy from the sensations of all he did to her. She gripped his sodden shirt in both hands, twisting her wrists in the cloth to remain standing. Beneath the icy material, heat poured off of him in waves she felt close to drowning in.
Suddenly he pulled back from their kiss and pressed his forehead to hers, his eyes remaining shut.
"I want you, Helena, with every breath. Ever since I saw you run down the stairs at the ball, I have wanted you. But I'll not cross that line. Not unless you want me to…" He seemed as if he would say more, even plead with her to surrender - but then he shook his head.
Her mind in a flustered haze of desire and confusion, she watched him walk away from her and out the door into the rain.
His gesture to safeguard her virtue was noble and kind and extremely foolish, and in the short time he gave her to collect her wits and the charred blanket back around herself, Helena realized she had come to love him quite desperately. She - who scoffed at love - had been trapped within its folds.
If the revelation was not so ironically amusing, she might cry in despair. She did not want this! She did not wish to be trapped in marriage, having her parents' loveless one as a guide. She wanted to live like her bucanneer ancestor and see the world…
When Edward finally returned in a worse state than before her heart went out to him. She shared her blanket with him to help warm him and they sat in silence before the fire. He made no further advances, inappropriate or otherwise, but armed with the new knowledge of her feelings, she felt closer to him, pressed shoulder to shoulder, than she had since they met.
Their visits for fencing practice continued in the woods beyond her father's chateau. Four weeks after that they again visited an empty caretaker's cottage on the water's edge, absent of its previous owner and on her father's estate. There, she forsook all that was right and proper and melted into Edward's strong embrace, where she willingly gave herself to him on a soft pile rug before a hearth fire much like the one at the gardener's home weeks before.
And there, her only child was conceived…
"You mean to say that Erik and the Vicomte are brothers, not cousins?"
Helena was jarred from bittersweet reminisces by the startled question. She turned to look from the dying flames in the hearth and toward her guest. The former ballet headmistress stared at her in profound shock. Helena had spent the past hour telling her much about those carefree days with Edward, but not the intimate details, not those magical moments that once made her heart pound so fiercely...
The woman in black had discerned the truth on her own, and looking into her wise eyes, Helena knew there was no use in denying it.
"No one must ever know," Helena insisted. "The truth must remain hidden."
Dominique Giry worked to collect her scattered thoughts. She, a former thespian of the Opera House, and the Dowager Comtesse de Chagny could hardly be friends given their widely divergent stations in life. But they shared a link in the Maestro through which a bizarre camaraderie had formed that now gave her the boldness to speak.
"I have found that it is not always wise to keep secrets to the past, primarily when they relate to family. I do not recommend it."
"To reveal the truth would disrupt too many lives." Helena stood taller, her expression hardening in sudden wariness. "For the good of my family, I must insist that all of what I told you remain confidential."
Such a scandal would tarnish the de Chagny name – non, it would destroy it. That Edward sired her only child was scandalous in its own respect – but if the masked, prodigal, bastard son of the Dowager Comtesse and the present Comte was revealed to be the former Phantom of the Opera...!
If the media was to get wind of such a truth there would be no end to the anguish their tactless stories would inflict. Erik had been through enough cruelty of ten lifetimes to warrant some peace with his family now, and Dominique could hardly throw stones of harsh judgment for Helena's mistakes, also knowing how young love could burn so strongly and how easy it was to yield…
Suddenly, she was deeply grateful that Erik had refused to come to Whiterose.
"I thought only to extend advice I wish I had chosen," Dominique said by way of explanation. "I have no intention of revealing your hidden skeletons. I have a good many tucked away in my closet along with experience in how to keep them well concealed."
And still I suffer for that choice.
Helena looked into the fire, again lost to her memories. Dominique feared that the Dowager Comtesse was making a grave error to keep this hidden, one she would dearly come to regret.
But she understood, there was no other way.
.
xxXxXxx
.
Erik sank to the edge of the bed and gave Christine a cup of ice he had chipped off a block in the kitchens. He had whisked down the servant stairs in the early morning hours to obtain it, before the staff arrived to prepare breakfast for the hotel guests.
Gratefully she chewed a sliver, her stomach at last calmed from the latest upset. It seemed as if all physical manifestations had crept out of hiding and magnified now that she accepted the truth of her condition.
"Is there anything more I can do for you, my love?"
Christine shook her head and laid her hand over his resting on the bed.
"It is rather disconcerting, that you know more about what is going on within my body than I do," she said wryly. "That you even knew the truth of the matter before I did, and were the one to tell me."
He smiled grimly. "After the loss of our little Fifika, after I almost lost you, I swore I would never again find myself in that dismal position. I was ignorant to your needs, my focus on the attack of the wretched don all that filled my mind, and I did not recognize enough to know the state you were in…"
Christine blinked in shock, stunned that she never realized the depth of his self blame. "Erik, it was not your fault – none of it was."
"Had I known the signs and what they meant -"
"What? What would that have mattered? I was kidnapped by a madman. Don Carlos was possessed by the Phantom's evil, his thirst for vengeance all that drove him. All of what happened because of that, the loss of our Fifika, was entirely his fault. Never yours."
He regarded her somberly. "The fiend you describe could have been me. My lust for vengeance is what drove me, also possessed by the Phantom to take you…"
Christine shook her head vigorously and sat up a little straighter. "You and Don Carlos were nothing alike. You have a tender heart that seeks beauty. His heart was pure evil."
He gave a tense nod, and she prayed her encouraging words had found their intended mark in his soul.
"Nonetheless, that harrowing time is what led me to take recent notice of your corporal responses, to better understand your needs," he went on. "The return of your menses was brief, before it disappeared altogether. You required more sleep and food was unsettling to you. But also, what you cannot know or see, there is a glow about you when you carry our child. In your eyes, on your skin – you radiate with the life inside you."
His words warmed her heart. She had attributed those other signs to exhaustion from their travels and being a new mother. It awed and unsettled her that he could see through her as if she were made of glass. But it also gave her comfort, to know that his care of her was so thorough and tender.
"Always you have watched over me and protected me," She rested her other hand over his. "But Erik, I dread the coming months. Last night, I was in such tremendous pain. How am I to wean our daughter if I must experience that kind of agony – do all mothers go through it? Was it even natural? Or is there something wrong with me?"
"Christine." He leaned over and took her in his arms to offer what reassurance he could for not having any of the answers she sought. "I'll be with you each step, helping however I can. Be assured of that."
"I know, and I love you for that." She drew back to look into his eyes. "But my Angel, you and I don't have all the answers – we are both so new to parenthood – and I just, I sometimes wish to speak to another woman who could counsel me with regard to all these strange new experiences, someone like the Drabarni…"
"There is Narilla. She has experience in helping the old witch."
"Yes, but she's a young girl who's never given birth. I would feel more at ease to speak with a woman more mature, someone who's been through this…" She shook her head a little helplessly. "But I know the dangers, and I would never ask you to do anything that could bring attention to our family. In the future, when it is safe again, perhaps we could locate a midwife – actually we'll need to, when it's time for me to deliver. All I'm asking for now is perhaps some literature to provide information, if such a book even exists?"
"If there is one, I will find it," he vowed.
"Splendid," she said brightly in relief. "I suppose now I should dress before the children arrive."
He lifted her hand to his lips with gentle affection, and watched thoughtfully as she hurried away to dress.
Where to find such literature was the question. Upon his return to the lair, he had discovered that every book he once owned, every tome and novel was destroyed by the mob who wished to exact vengeance on the monster. From what he could recall, the vast knowledge he had gleaned from those thousands upon thousands of musty pages revealed nothing that came close to what Christine required.
Did such a book exist?
.
xxXxXxx
.
The following night found Erik an explosive wreck, pacing at the foot of the bed he shared with his wife.
"What in God's name is wrong with her?" he growled in impatience, impaling Christine's maid with his cutting gaze.
Narilla shook her head in trepidation. "I don't know, my lord. I've not seen this sickness before."
"You served under the Drabarni," he argued, fighting down another swell of rising panic, "are you telling me you have no idea what to do for her?"
"There was a time I heard the Drabarni speak to another…"
"Yes?" he snapped.
"Th-th-there is an herb…sage, I think."
"You THINK?!"
She withdrew a swift step in counter to the slow threatening step he took her way.
"Please, my lord – I cannot remember. It has been more than a year."
"I suggest you do your utmost to remember." Erik gave no quarter, his words dark.
She drew her brows together as if to force the memory. "Si – it was sage. A tea made from it."
"Sage." Erik looked toward the bed, where his Angel lay half conscious in a cold sweat from the fever that had stricken her early that morning. Angry red lines now streaked her breasts, the thin linen of the sheet all that covered them. Even the slightest touch had her moan in agony, and he knew enough to realize this was not a natural part of weaning. Angelique had not nursed since her arrival, and though Erik earlier attempted to relieve where their child refused, Christine could no longer bear even the ghost of a touch.
"Is there anything else you remember?" he asked in desperation.
Narilla twisted her hands in her brightly colored skirt. "I … don't know…"
Damn her incompetence! Erik struggled to rein in his temper composed of his fear and ignorance with what was happening to his wife. He felt helpless in what to do but would do whatever was needed to help his Angel. No matter the cost.
"If you have anything to suggest," he said, barely keeping his voice in an even, low key, "I would hear it."
"The Drabarni once said that cabbage leaves help draw out poison that taints the blood …"
"Sage. Cabbage." The kitchens would soon close, the hour late. "I will obtain all that is needed. You tend to the Countess."
He was grateful Angelique slept soundly in another room with Luminitsa. Captain Miguel and the other children had remained at the tenement one final night and would join them on the morrow.
Erik moved to the bed where Christine lay. She opened bleary eyes filled with pain and reached for his hand. He took gentle hold of her slender fingers, bending his knees to bring himself closer. Kissing her forehead, he noted how her skin singed his lips and attempted not to show his alarm.
"You will be well again, Mon Ange, I vow to you I will do whatever I must to make that possible."
He kissed her cheek then hurried away to the kitchens, exasperated to see the chamber was not empty as he had hoped, but too concerned for Christine's welfare to remain in the shadows and wait.
The young kitchen maid jumped nearly a foot high and gawked at his mask, but was quick to supply him with the cabbage head he barked for. She had no fresh sage, stuttering that they had used all their stock in a stew, and he did not linger to hear more excuses.
In the bedchamber, he handed the cabbage to Narilla, standing back to watch as she tore the large leaves away and laid them over Christine's inflamed skin.
"Are you not meant to wet them first, like a compress. Perhaps with warm water?"
"No, su Majes – er, Count, um – my lord… I'm not certain."
He expelled a sigh at her bumbling mass of titles and tried to rein in his rising frustration. "How many times must I say it – 'Monsieur' is all that's necessary. When will you know if it's working? When will we start to see a change in her condition?"
She shook her head. "I don't know."
"Is there anything you know, you ignorant little wretch?" he snapped, at once feeling like pond scum for the hurt tears that flooded the girl's eyes. But when it came to his beloved, his emotions always boiled too near the surface.
To his limited knowledge of medicine, all compresses were some form of wet, but with the way his Angel was perspiring, perhaps that would provide enough moisture to draw out the necessary healing properties from the leaves…
They teetered on the punished mounds, ready to fall.
"Wet them," he commanded tersely. As she hurried to carry out his order, he asked another question. "You assisted the Drabarni with Angelique's birth. Have you delivered a child by yourself?"
"No, monsieur."
"No," he repeated, unhappy with her reply but not surprised. "Do you feel that you could?"
"I…" Her eyes widened in sudden understanding, darting to Christine lying feverish on the bed, before turning back to him. "I think so, si…"
Her admission hardly reassured. "You tend to your mistress. I will locate the sage."
"But su – er…monsieur – the curfew!"
"Silence," His command came clipped but soft, fearing to wake Christine. "If your mistress awakens and asks for me, you are not to tell her where I've gone. Only that I will be with her shortly."
A nervous nod was his answer. He slipped his cloak around him, and within it, the length of rope for a lasso. To wear a sword for protection would be too unwieldy when he must become one with the shadows and the night that contained them – again a ghost.
Daily he fought the darkness that bled like ink into his soul. Since his decision to embrace the light upon his exodus from the condemned Opera House, no hidden lever had been flipped that instantaneously engendered goodness. He found the road to respectability was challenged with the renewal of each dawn – the detour to wrath and vengeance often appearing the more rewarding of paths to take, at least in the moment. And it was in that short interim, when recalling the trust in Christine's eyes, that he remembered the promise made. Usually. This endeavor to bring forth the colors from his dark soul, no matter how impossible the prospect, was a tiresome task indeed…
But Christine was worthy of that choice, and it was what made the undertaking if not always pleasant, at least agreeable. To live in peace with society was still difficult for him, and with her life endangered again the temptation to strike out with threats easily enacted was a strong lure to resist.
In the lamplight the quiet streets acted as a dark mirror, wet with a recent rain, the illusion of a slumbering Paris imprisoned beneath the earth's surface bringing back memories of the lair in which he spent most of his wretched life. The uneasy solitude was disrupted by the sudden appearance of two armed soldiers walking around the corner, the enclosed flame of the street lamp glancing off their plumed helmets.
Unable to tread in the silence of shadows, with rainwater beneath his soles a dead giveaway to his location, Erik darted into a recessed doorway, pressing himself against the wood and waited. Exasperated, he noted the two stop beneath a lamp, in deep conversation. One man lit a cigarette before they resumed the slow march of their nightly watch.
Erik hurried into another street, opposite of the direction they took. These three weeks in Paris, he had learned the landscape of the city in depth, walking the streets in the light of day with the wide brim of his fedora pulled low over his head. This wending route to his current destination took him further than planned and covered more distance than preferred but he dared not take the shorter route, in the wake of the guards. Twice his scalp prickled with the sensation of being spotted, but a glance around the area revealed the streets as empty as before.
At last he reached the apothecary and found the shop dark and locked. Most merchants lived above their establishments, but with the threat of the nightwatch that patrolled the area, calling out for assistance wasn't an option.
He would again need to take on the guise of the sly Ghost. Christine would disapprove of such criminal methods, but he would be damned if he did not execute every measure available to save her life.
Several quick taps with a lockpik pushed the tumblers into alignment, an effortless task for the former Trapdoor Lover. Within a short time he slipped over the threshold – and froze at the mad tinkling of myriad bells – surely raucous enough to warn an entire city block and wake the dead.
Damn these merchants and their infernal methods to alert them to business!
Erik raised one gloved hand and grabbed the small metal bells to still them, sending a wary look across the room to a door he assumed led to living quarters. He hoped he would not have to render some sleep-deprived fool insensible.
When all remained silent, save for the pounding of his heart in his ears, he made a swift scan of the rows of shelves and bottles, grateful his ability to see in darkness had never abated, despite his entry into the world of daylight.
It took some time to find a vial marked sage, which he slipped into his cloak, along with a few other small bottles he deemed necessary. Before leaving, he placed a few coins for payment in the wooden box on the counter put there for that purpose.
"Who's there?"
Damn.
At a man's reedy voice coming from beyond the other door, Erik hurried for the exit. The door to the opposite side of the shop opened, a pool of lantern light illuminating the floor below the stairs.
"You there!" the elderly voice accosted him followed by the quick shuffle of feet. "Stop! Thief! Stop I say...!"
Erik fled outside, swiftly losing himself to the shadows. The knowledge that the merchant could send out an alarm to any soldiers nearby had him return to the hotel through another maze of narrow, obscure streets. Time was of the essence, but a shortcut would provide no aid if he was caught and thrown into prison or shot. At last he approached the main thoroughfare that led to the hotel.
The wheels of a carriage ground slowly on the wet pavestones behind him. With a quiet curse, he ducked into another narrow street, waiting for it to pass, surprised to hear the carriage also make the turn. Here the walls were close, with no shadowed recess to press his body into, and he threw a swift look over his shoulder.
An open carriage rumbled toward him, the horses suddenly breaking into a run.
Erik also ran, desperately scanning the darkness for a way to avoid being trampled underfoot.
In the distance, he spotted a sign hanging above a door. The deadly rotation of wheels and the pounding hoofbeats drew closer, and he could sense the steaming breath of the horses at his back. With a powerful leap, he grabbed hold of the iron crossbeam, swinging his legs up and over in a lithe move as the carriage rumbled past scant inches below him. His cloak trailed down, the bottom edge whipping the driver in the face.
The carriage never slowed, continuing at a breakneck speed.
Erik dropped to the ground, staring after the deadly conveyance and the dark huddled shape of its driver. Inebriated and unaware or too blind to have noticed a pedestrian in the street?
Erik briefly pondered his mortality – then gave the matter no further consideration as he resumed his hurried pace to the hotel. It wasn't the first time he had faced certain death. In all likelihood it wouldn't be the last.
A quick check assured him the vials he had bound in cloth and anchored within his waistband remained intact. Once he slipped through the servant's entrance and up to his suite of rooms, he put the vial with the sage into Narilla's hand.
"Has there been any improvement?" he asked, his attention going to Christine. The query was unnecessary. At a glance he could see the answer.
"Do what you must and do it quickly," he clipped out then moved to the bedside to take Christine's hot, limp hand in both of his and kiss it.
"My love," he whispered and brushed away the frizzed curl that clung damply to her fever-flushed cheek. "I swear to you, soon you will be well…"
What followed in the eternal night was a never-ending ritual of changing cabbage leaf compresses and coaxing a groggy Christine to sip the hot sage tea when she feverishly whispered her pleas only for cold water. Erik divided his time between sitting by her bedside to comfort and cajole and pacing before the fire in weary consternation.
He caressed her face and arms with a cool wet cloth and gentle fingertips, and reminisced of their short years together, determined that a multitude more would come. He stared into the leaping flames of the fire he meticulously tended through the night, and pondered the mystery of the reckless carriage and his near demise…
"Erik."
Christine's weak voice broke him from morbid thought and he rushed from the hearth and to her side, kneeling by the bed to take her hand. The skin was no longer uncomfortably hot to touch.
"I'm here, my love," he reassured, kissing her fingers curled against his, buoyant with relief when she opened her eyes and weakly returned his smile.
"What happened?" she asked, her eyelids heavy.
"You were very ill, but the treatments have brought you back to me." He kissed her palm. "Soon, you will fully recover, and this will be behind us."
She lifted her other hand to press against his cheek. "Angelique is well?"
"Sleeping peacefully. And now, you must rest."
"Rest seems to be all I've been doing," she countered wryly. "How long have I been in this bed?"
"Three days and three nights."
Her eyes widened. "Three? But – how has our daughter survived...?"
Erik understood what she asked. "She has quite taken to porridge and a puree of peaches."
"I see…" Christine dropped her hand by her side. "It's for the best I suppose. Have you located a book with the information I need?"
"With you lying in a feverish state?" he scoffed lightly. "I could not leave your side to embark on such a quest, but you shall soon have all you desire."
"My Angel," she mumbled wearily and closed her eyes.
He kissed her forehead then moved to where Narilla stood at the foot of the bed.
"Tomorrow you're to inquire of the hotel servants if any know of a midwife in the area. Be discreet. Say nothing more than what I've told you."
.
xxXxXxx
.
Over the next few days Christine's health improved, her fever breaking. The frequent exchange of compresses and the sage tea alleviated infection and ceased the production of her milk. It was a relief not to suffer any longer and a regret to lose the ability to nurse her child, but she accepted it as due course.
Hearing a sound in the adjoining room, she stirred from a light slumber and looked toward the door.
"Erik?"
"No, my lady," Narilla came into the bedchamber from the sitting room with Angelique in her arms. "It is me. I'm sorry to disturb you. My lord, Count – monsieur – he left on an errand."
"An errand?" Christine asked puzzled.
Angelique whimpered and held her arms out for her mother. Christine motioned for Narilla to approach and took her rosy-cheeked daughter into her arms. Angelique slipped wet fingers from her mouth to investigate her mother's bottom lip.
"Where did he go?" Christine asked against the tiny pink digits. "It's nearing the end of the day."
Alarm winged through her that Erik might be caught breaking martial law.
"I, um…" Narilla was more than a little flustered.
Christine pulled Angelique's fingers away. "He told you not to tell me, didn't he?"
Narilla nervously shrugged, for her, an admission of guilt.
Christine sighed. "Did he say when he would be back?"
"No, but I think it should not be too long, my lady. Would you like something to eat? I can go down to the kitchens…"
Clearly her maid required temporary escape, and Christine decided to grant it.
"Just tea, please." Angelique patted Christine's breast, a signal she wished to eat, and Christine winced, the skin still tender though it no longer sorely burned like fire singed her from inside. "If you'll also have the cook prepare some porridge for Angelique."
"Of course, my lady."
Christine deposited a kiss to her daughter's dimpled cheek before handing her up to Narilla.
Alone again, Christine looked to the balcony and the drape glowing orange, drawn against the dying light of day. She hoped Erik knew what he was doing and would return to her soon.
.
xxXxXxx
.
Erik's venture to the bookstore was an embarrassment and a failure, the grizzled old man eyeing him most strangely when Erik asked for books on midwifery and motherhood.
"For my wife," he snapped.
The bookseller stated he had nothing on the subject and Erik left the shop empty-handed.
On to the second order of business, he thought grimly.
The previous evening, Narilla told him she had learned of a midwife who lived a short distance from the hotel. The hotel maid with the information had a friend who had contracted the woman's services.
Wishing to draw as little attention to himself as possible, Erik dispensed with use of the carriage, instead traveling by foot and attempting to blend in with the crowd, walking along the fringes of shadows and being as inconspicuous as he was able with a mask a half shade lighter than his skin. From a distance the variance was unnoticeable. Up close, the thin leather parchment was all too evident.
Yet for Christine's health and peace of mind, he would do anything, even engage in the abhorrent act of putting himself up to curious scrutiny. It was little to endure after all she suffered. Thankfully, no one paid overt attention to only another of many pedestrians traveling the city streets.
What should have taken no more than an hour took three.
First, the cantankerous landlady eyed his face warily through a crack in the door and told him that Madame Tourney left her place of residence a month ago. After mild interrogation, he learned that the widow had moved in with a sister who also lived in Paris.
What followed was a seemingly endless trail to find the elusive midwife, his exasperation spiraling with each dead end. Nor was his desire to have as little to do with the populace served, due to the constant need to question strangers with regard to the woman's whereabouts. The fedora he pulled low over his brow helped to retain anonymity, and he averted the side of his face with the mask whenever possible, but his mood was hardly improved when he came up against yet another detour.
It was near dusk by the time Erik approached the Rue Marquet.
At the chapellerie, where he had last been directed, he questioned the sister, who eyed him as if he was no better than the filth beneath her shoe - only to learn that Madame Tourney had left Paris three weeks ago and would not be returning any time soon.
Damn! An entire day wasted.
He whirled on his heel, leaving the milliner amid her garish displays of bizarre hats, the sight which uncomfortably reminded him of the costume room at the opera. And of the exasperating woman who complained about her hats, hating all she'd been forced to wear.
Carlotta Gudicelli had every reason to despise him for much more than his manipulations and tricks – he could scarcely recall the dark haze of events that composed the night he killed her lover, the Phantom's wrath driving Erik in a cold fury as fatal as black ice on a twisting mountain path. Piangi had been in the way, but Erik never wished to end his pathetic life, only to remove him from the performance so as to take his place. But he had been beyond sanity, beyond reason, listening to the seething whispers that breathed their continual web of lies… lies he once believed and the impetus of what drove him toward his mad finale of death.
For the remainder of his life he would surely hear the echo of terrified screams of his victims in his nightmares, a just penance though he deserved more than that. Loving Christine and their daughter had taught him the value of family. Through the gypsy band that accepted him as their prophetic savior, he had learned to extend mercy. The passage of time had indeed altered his grim plot in the settling of scores, those real and imagined, but one aspect of his character had not changed –
Should any man bring harm to his family, the fool would pay with his life. Having gained such a treasure in Christine and Angelique, Erik now understood the motives of the mob that tragic night – to hunt down the animal that had harmed or seized life from those they loved.
The dark spirit of the Phantom was to blame, yes, but so was Erik. Yet there was nothing he could do to make restitution. Paris would not have him, and he would no longer have Paris…
He returned to the hotel under the cover of darkness, again managing to escape the eyes of the nightwatch. In the corridor to his suite, he encountered Captain Miguel coming toward him from the opposite direction.
"Capitán," he acknowledged his aide, noting with raised brows the long white box beneath his arm, the type used when delivering flowers. "Have you an admirer in one of the ladies, or are they for a lady to be admired?"
The Spaniard's face grew ruddy. "The concierge gave them to me - for you. A messenger boy dropped them off at the desk. I assume they are for the Countess." He practically thrust the box into Erik's hands.
Alarm bells went off inside Erik's mind. Hurriedly he slipped off the wide crimson ribbon and pulled away the lid. He stared into the box, then slammed the lid back down.
"Gather the children and wait for me in the sitting room," he instructed.
The captain looked at him oddly, but a lifetime trained in taking orders from his superiors had him obey without question.
Erik waited until he was alone to pull the bouquet of dead roses tied together with black ribbon from the box. Their leaves crackled to fragments beneath his hand, their shriveled buds emitting the pungent and musty odor of decay. Only the thorns remained strong and whole, sharp as ever.
He stared at the ominous spray a moment, then threw it to the ground and withdrew the card inside. His blood chilled to ice at the brief missive:
The final curtain will soon descend
.
xxXxXxx
A/N: snap! (*innocently smiles) I know, I'm so mean to Christine, but all of what happened in this chapter was necessary to bring Erik to a very crucial decision...
Thank you for the wonderful reviews!
