Ch. 10— A Misunderstanding
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Christine was still shaking, even hours after he'd left her to her bath.
She had chosen to forgo making dinner. Thanks to her prompting of Mr. D'Anton's valet, there was meat in the larder and a variety of breads and cheese if Mr. D'Anton got peckish. The man certainly wouldn't starve, and Christine needed to think.
She lay bundled under mounds of blankets upon her bed, having not been out to feed the woodstove since before her bath. And given that it was now mid-November in Northern France, it was very chilly in the cottage.
The dim light from an oil lamp casting warm, yellow light, Christine bit her lip as she looked up at the ceiling wondering again what his appearance in the bathroom while she bathed meant.
Ostensibly, he'd wanted her to drink his tea—the tea he'd made especially for her … just. for. her!
But then his words… his continued presence, and the wicked things he'd said! And he was jesting about it all. As if he—a single, unattached man— being in the bathroom of a single, unattached woman that he barely even knew while she bathed was a normal, everyday occurrence.
And for him, perhaps it was?
Maybe that was the kind of life he'd led before being so grievously injured? Towards the end of his stay in the hospital, there had been rumors that both he and his fiancé lived together in an apartment. Christine wasn't naïve. She'd seen his fiancé; the woman oozed sex appeal. And she knew exactly what went on behind the closed bedroom doors of most married and unmarried men and women… Well, alright, she didn't know exactly, but she knew enough to draw her own conclusions.
What was it Mr. D'Anton had said, "She had nothing he hasn't seen before and nothing that he could see…" Christine snorted, muffling the sound in her pillow. Well, for all the man knew, she could have three breasts and a hermaphroditic protrusion!
She didn't… but what if she did?!
Christine closed her eyes and squeezed them tight, her fists involuntarily clenching at her side as she lay buried under the covers, replaying each moment of the odd encounter in her mind's eye. For her, it had been the most shocking, thrilling, sensory-stimulating experience of her life!
It was singular. No man had ever said such scandalous things to her, let alone when she was bathing.
She supposed her first reaction should have been fear… she had been shocked, but she couldn't be afraid of him. Of all the feelings Mr. D'Anton provoked in her, fear of him was furthest from the mark.
But she was afraid.
She was afraid of herself when she was with him, afraid of what she'd say, how she'd react—how she should react.
He had stood above her, ordering her to drink his tea, and then said such wicked things and smiled, looking every bit the devil incarnate with his crooked grin and gruesome scars.
And even scarred and blind as he was, the man still was handsome. He had dressed in the clothes Christine had set out for him, the clothes he seemed to prefer: dress slacks, white cotton t-shirt, a white button-down shirt, and belt. But the clean clothes and bath had only been half of it. Even as filthy and well… repulsive as he had been when she had first arrived, she had still found the man attractive.
Scarred, blind, and with a limp … the man still had this way about him that she was powerless to ignore despite telling herself that he just couldn't be for her.
… and he had made her tea.
Delving into the seam at her pillow and carefully searching the bottom, Christine brought out one of the two pictures she had saved from the trash when she cleaned up the shattered fragments of frames in his hospital room what seemed like a lifetime ago.
Over the months since, she'd had occasion to look at them many times, especially when thoughts of Mr. D'Anton were most pressing on her mind. She had considered returning the pictures to his fiancé… after all, the woman might want them someday. Even though the newspapers said they were taking a break from their engagement at present.
It really was such a good picture of them both.
The Opera Diva was stunning on his arm as they smiled before the cameras, the backdrop the glittering sepia-toned red carpet of the Opera Populaire. The both of them were dressed for a premier in formal attire— she dripping in pearls, wearing a gorgeous form-fitting black-sequined dress with a plunging neckline that left little to the imagination; he in a black tuxedo, bowtie, and white pocket square. A black fedora rimmed with white was perched jauntily on his head.
The caption on the back of the photograph read 'Premier Dante's Inferno—1939'.
Mr. D'Anton had been younger then, more carefree, and Christine could tell it in his bearing. Of course, this picture was taken before the war, before the Germans came to occupy France, before his life had been irrevocably altered.
She focused on his smile: the sheer wicked-handsome perfection in it. The man staring back at her was a god among men, bestowed of health, wealth, and plenty of leisure, any woman would want to have such a man on her arm...
But as Christine continued to look, she thought of all the smiles Mr. D'Anton had given her. They were such wry, crooked things usually accompanied by something wicked the man had said. And she felt herself smile in return as she gazed upon his photograph, recalling the bath-time tea where he had offered to scrub her back.
His face had been much altered from the one in the picture, but the essence was still the same.
The boy in the photograph was untried, untested by life; at least, to the extent that forged the man. Her smile turned sad as she gazed at the photograph in her hands. The image before her was one of the last vestiges of Mr. D'Anton's boyhood.
Her Mr. D'Anton had been tested by time and trials, and he had come to this place, this 'Enchanted Cottage' to die for he couldn't accept the blows fate had dealt him….
She had to admit that she much preferred the man's smile now with his scarred face and crooked grin to that of the handsome, cocksure boy gazing back at her with such youthful, certain eyes.
Yes, she much preferred the man's smile indeed.
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Erik slowly limped from the kitchen, down the hallway past the bathroom to his room, and then back again , passing by her little closet-like room off to the kitchen each time en route.
His little mouse had yet to utter a squeak since he had brought her the tea. Although, not even five minutes after he left her, Erik heard the water draining in the tub, and then the door to the bathroom opened and the door to her bedroom closed. And that had been where she had remained. He'd expected her to prepare his dinner. He'd expected her to put in an appearance at least.
Perhaps he was expecting too much?
He was tempted to knock on her door, lambast her for 'shirking her responsibility' to the cottage. First she had a nap, then she skipped his dinner. What the hell was Nadir paying her for if not to 'take care of the inhabitantsof the cottage'? He raised his hand to knock on her door, but a thought struck him that had him stopping where he stood, his hand paused midair.
He might have honestly scared the girl.
Erik closed his eyes, his hand flying to his scarred face. What if she was even now huddled in her room terrified of him?
Oh, dear God!
With his monster's face and 'devil's gift', he might have genuinely given her a fright, and she—little innocent that she was— hadn't known how to respond other than with perfunctory courtesy hoping that he would take the hint and leave!
He turned quickly away from her door and backtracked, bashing his side into the kitchen counter in his haste.
Dear God! He really was a monster.
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A/N: Thanks be to the divine FantomPhan33 for beta-ing this mini chapter.
I know it's short, but I have my reasons for ending the chapter here. *authoress tries to look mysterious and all-knowing, but Erik creeps up silently behind her and flicks her on the ear.* Ow! Okay, okay! That's your shtick, not mine. *blushing, authoress rubs at aching ear and shoots Phantom narrow-eyed look.*
More soon, dear readers.
Keep watch,
PFP