Christine bites the nail of her right thumb, pondering the dresses hanging in the armoire. Somehow the dresses she brought with her do not seem right for this house or this place. Even the dark blue day dress with the black lace trim is too formal…too Parisian. The fact that all her garments require camisoles and corsets and bustles has her groan at the effort needed to simply dress herself for breakfast.
Were she still at home, her lilac dressing gown would suffice. Most of the garments she wore about the apartment beneath the opera house were comfortable, not requiring all the underthings necessary to go out on the street.
The first few times she wore a bustle in the small kitchen, she almost set herself on fire. Erik running to her rescue as she screamed in alarm at the sparks landing on the large bow at the back of the dress.
"Why on earth did you wear all this paraphernalia just to prepare breakfast?" he asked, while slapping at the flames with a dish towel. When the fire was resistant to his effort, he poured a pitcher of water on the gown. The smell of burnt taffeta would hover over the room for days. "I hope this was not a favorite."
"I just wanted to prepare a lovely breakfast and look just as lovely when I presented it to you," she said, wiping her eyes on another towel. "No, it was not a favorite, but you did pick it out for me and I thought you liked it."
"Well, save your tears about the dress…the mistress at the shop where I bought it liked it, thought it was suitable for a young woman in the arts or something like that," he said, taking the towel from her to dab the tears. "The fire did us both a service, I would say."
"I can mend it…perhaps Meg would like it – she does like her frills and this dress certainly has its share," Christine smiles up at him.
After that, when they were at home, she wore dresses that did not involve corsets or hoops or bustles. The three dresses left behind by Emilie were reminiscent of her at-home gowns. The tan pin-striped pinafore with the pink and brown floral blouse was particularly appealing. While the dress still required a corset, the cut was more friendly to her natural figure. The fabric was so soft…obviously worn and washed a number of times. A much-loved garment.
"Decision made." Taking the dress from its hook, she drapes it over her head with a silent prayer that it fits. "Good enough." After tightening the sash, the slightly larger waist fits fine. Once she puts on her slippers with a higher heel, the hem grazes the floor as it should. Not surprisingly, she finds a pink ribbon in the top drawer of the vanity and uses it to tie back her blonde curls in a ponytail.
Ready for the day, she leaves her room wondering if Erik is asleep. The idea is swiftly dismissed, the better question would be has he slept at all?
As it turns out, Mrs. Marchand informs her both men left the house an hour earlier. "They seemed very excited about their outing, neither of them wanting more than a cup of tea and a croissant. As it was, they took the pastry with them."
Uncertain if she should be pleased or embarrassed – seeing as how everyone else in the household was up and about, she admits, "I feel like a laze-about."
The older woman smiles at her, "Pere is awake at all hours because of his prayers, even before me. He actually prepares breakfast for both of us most mornings."
"Erik does not sleep much either," Christine tells her, looking around the homely kitchen. Once again the similarity to the apartment under the opera house strikes her. "He is also the chef in our household. My Pappa and I lived on the road, so I never learned much about cooking."
"Indeed?" The older woman raises an eyebrow.
The simple word strikes her with a realization. What must this woman, who keeps house for a priest…a holy man, think of her? Living with Erik. Living a life on the road with her father. "I…um…you must think me a loose woman. I assure you it is not what you think."
"What do you believe it is I think?" Mrs. Marchand asks, a small smile tilting her thin lips, her hands folded in front of her, resting on her own yellow pinafore.
"What I said…a loose woman."
"Had not Pere Charles not explained to me your situation, I admit I might have. However, his pure joy at M. Erik's and your presence convinced me whatever the state of your relationship God would not condemn you." With that, the smile turns into a full laugh, turning her full cheeks bright red and bringing on a spell of coughing.
Christine rushes to her, patting her on the back.
"The presence of the two of you has brightened this house again. It is as if M. Edward was still with us. I have to admit I thought you were an angel when you came into the room," the housekeeper says catching her breath. "Your dress…I thought you were Mlle. Emilie for a moment. She loved it so. You are so like her…not in appearance, of course, except for the dress. But you seem kind and gentle. She was the dearest girl."
Christine blushes. "I hope I am not being out of turn wearing it, but the clothing I brought with me seemed too formal for this house."
"No. No. Do not worry. I keep them in the armoire for myself. They were her favorites."
"Yes, I can tell, the dress seems well loved."
"Sit down, my dear, I shall fix you something to eat. Is there anything you fancy?"
"Whatever you have ready, I should not wish to be any trouble."
"It is no trouble."
"Who is causing trouble?" Pere Charles says as he walks through the door stopping in his tracks when he sees Christine. His cassock traded for riding gear. Still clothed in all black with the exception of his white shirt and clerical collar, the breeches, tailcoat and tall boots he once again reminds her the familial relationship between him and Erik. "Oh, my. Young lady, my heart just skipped a beat. If I believed in time travel, today would certainly affirm the possibility."
Christine blushes. "I should not have worn this. I am so sorry; I would not wish you to become ill."
"Not at all. Having you and Erik here make this place seem like a home again. Emilie would be so pleased," he says, wiping a tear from his eyes.
"Where is Erik?" she asks, looking past him to the door leading to the garden.
"Walking Maisy and Ella to their paddock. We rode to the abbey and examined their records."
"And?"
"Best we wait for Erik."
The ride this morning was invigorating. How long has it been since he was able to ride so uninhibited. Pere Charles was content to lag behind as Erik gave Maisy free rein. He understood the bay mare knew where she was going and was able to simply enjoy the fresh, clean air and the countryside in blossom with new growth.
How different from his visit to clear his mother's house of her belongings.
"Did you not wish to examine the premises?" the auctioneer asked him, puzzled at his resistance to drive to the house.
"No. Pack up the goods and have them delivered here," he said, giving the man the address of the Palais Garnier. "Here is half of the agreed amount, the balance is being held by my bank and will be released to you once delivery has been made."
"What of the house itself?"
"Leave it."
"It is quite a fine house, M. Saint-Rien. Built with care."
"I said leave it."
"As you wish."
Thinking twice about his rash comment, Erik amended his statement. "Tell the Abbot the house is available to him to do with it as he wishes. I will give you a letter of permission."
"Very good, monsieur." The man's smile assured him he made the right decision. Why let a perfectly good house go to rot.
At that time, he barely arrived before leaving. The countryside held no interest for him. Now he could not get enough of seeing the place of his birth. Something he never experienced when he lived here as a child.
Pere Charles insisted he wear his father's riding clothes when they met earlier in the kitchen, both seeking a bit to eat after another sleepless night for him. The older man's reaction was both unsettling and welcome.
After their talk in the chapel, his restlessness was more due to anticipation of what might be discovered at the Abbey than a fear of the old nightmares that haunt him.
Christine wanted a marriage blessed by the church. For the state to consider them married, they would still have to visit the Mairie again, but she was more interested in God's opinion, although her loving nature towards him often suggested marriage was not a prerequisite for intimacy.
As he runs the farrier's brush first over Maisy's coat more golden, then Ella's deeper rust color – taking time to be certain their black manes and tails were free of any knotting. The final reward for their fine work was an apple for each and a loving pat on their rumps.
"You look like your father," Pere Charles said, his brown eye welling with tears when Erik re-entered the kitchen after changing into the suit of tan breeches, tailcoat of maroon wool and a black top hat.
"Not my usual choice of colors…I much prefer black, like you," Erik said. "This is quite out of the ordinary for me."
"Black is the color of my vocation," the priest said. "Your father loved color. He was quite a gifted artist. I think if left to his own devices, he would have stayed in Paris, but when he married, he returned here to work with our father building houses."
"I have seen some of his work..."
"Indeed?"
"There were some flyers…and a drawing of my mother."
"I see. A very beautiful woman."
"Yes."
"And cruel?"
Erik was taken aback by this pronouncement. So unpriestly. A bit unforgiving? Nodding, he said, "Yes."
"He would be happy seeing you wear his clothing," the older man said. "Come along, I should like to find the Abbot before the daily doings begin. He is also getting older and, like me, his memory is better in the morning."
Erik pulls the envelope given to him by the Abbot from the inner pocket of his jacket.
"1845 you say?" Abbot Maurice asked. Pale blue eyes, taking them in from a wizened face curious as a child's, he made no mention of the barbee mask. "You did not tell me you had a nephew, Charles."
"I did not know until recently," he replied. "That is why we are here. We were told the baby…Erik…Emile died in childbirth."
"By the mother."
"Yes."
"Your brother had just died?"
"Yes. Our family was under the impression she was still with child when the accident took place. She told us later the child died during the birthing process."
"Poor woman."
"But I was not dead," Erik spoke for the first time, fists clenched, the amber eyes hard.
"Yes, that is obvious, my son." The older cleric said, his smile sympathetic. "Your mother's house is being put to good use. We have turned it into an orphanage of sorts – I take it you are the benefactor."
Erik replies with a single short not.
"You must visit during your stay here."
"I shall see."
Abbot Maurice exchanged a look with Pere Charles, then resumed running his long fingers over a number of books in a plain wooden case, finding the one he sought, he pulled out a thick ledger book. "Here we are." The book appeared to fall open of its own volition. "Well, this is unusual."
"What is it?" Pere Charles asked, walking to the desk where the Abbot stood.
Holding up an envelope addressed simply to Abbot, Abbey of St. Georges, Boscherville, the Abbot said, "This appears to have been placed in the ledger – unopened. I wonder if in the busy nature of Lent this was put inside the ledger for future attention but was never followed up on."
Pulling out the aged piece of stationary Erik reads it again, leaning against the fence of the paddock.
23 Fevrier 1845
St. Martin-de-Boucherville
On this date, my son, Emile Francois Saint-Rien, was born. The child is not likely to survive his birth due to severe deformities about his face and head. I have therefore baptized him in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit with water blessed at the Abbey St. Georges. In the event of his death this Baptism will enable his soul enter Heaven free from Original Sin.
While my heart aches at the life my son might live if he does survive, I pray this baptism will serve that purpose and I promise he shall be loved and cherished by me for as long as God's grace allows him to live. May God bless him and our family.
In faith and hope,
Edward Saint-Rien
Despite his best efforts he cannot restrain the sobs escaping his lips as tears cascade down his face. "Oh, Papa. Why did you die and leave me?"