Hello all,

I'm sorry it's been so long since I last posted. Hopefully I can get back on track now. Thanks for sticking with this story!

A quick comment: in the nineteenth century, people had not the slightest notion that it was not a smart idea to drink alcohol while pregnant.

Chapter 15. July, 1887. Friday (continued).

In the bathtub, Christine sat up abruptly as the memories of that night replayed in her mind. Had that been the night when their child had been created? It had been about the right time. That would be…quite poignant if it were true, she thought, recalling the feeling of complete abandonment as they writhed on the rug, thinking of nothing but each other and the sensual joy of coupling. But there was no real way to know. It could have been the previous morning instead, or the next night, or the afternoon after that. Surely Erik would not be surprised that she was pregnant so soon, after the hedonistic manner in which they had come to conduct themselves? After Christine's discovery of those books, they had practised their precepts diligently. Perhaps he was even hoping she would soon have good news for him? Oh, he'd said nothing about it, of course, but no doubt he did not want to make her feel pressured. How much she would enjoy telling him that his wish was to come true.

Christine was finished washing now, but she wasn't quite ready to get out of the tub. She relaxed back against the marble, happy and excited about the baby and wishing Erik was with her right now; all that thinking about the beginning of their intimacies had left her very much aroused. Once he left his composing, she would put off the revelation about her condition for a half hour or so, if it even took that long after three days… She rubbed her hand over her hardened nipples, and then down her thighs, thinking of how wonderful it felt to have his mouth on her. Malformed though it was, now he could bring her to climax after climax that way. Lately, he'd wondered aloud just how many she was capable of at one time, and seemed disposed to test that. Perhaps tonight he might try again…

Her hand wandered between her legs, as she also recalled the feeling of him in her, thrusting deep to touch that spot so far within her that drove her to screaming, writhing ecstasy. And when he used his voice to arouse her passions even further…

She cupped herself and rubbed lightly, as the music from the other room helpfully reached a section of particularly erotic melodies that wound around her and increased her passion. One finger stroked faster, pressed harder, till release shivered over her and left her gasping, and wanting him very much. Oh, well. This would suffice, till she could carry out the rest of her plans for this evening. She wasn't the least bit worried that this little interlude would prevent her from enjoying a marital union later on; in fact, it was usually easier for her to have successive climaxes after the first one. But then, it wasn't as if it was ever really difficult, not anymore. And it was even nicer with her husband than by herself.

She sighed deeply, and got out of the tub. After drying off, she went into the bedroom and surveyed her wardrobe. What gown would best show off her charms to her husband?

Low-necked, definitely. And trained; he liked trains on women. He'd remarked once that "there was such a come-hither element about a train flicking round a corner." Perhaps…hmmm…perhaps the blue velvet, then, with its trailing overskirt looped up around the hips with black silk cords? Its colour was most becoming. But it would look so much better, if only…

Bustles were in fashion, and with a vengeance, bigger and bolder than the ones of fifteen or so years ago. They were in all the fashion magazines, and displayed in the windows of both the small dressmaker's shops and the big department stores. Deemed to set off the carriage of the back, their angular, squared-off bulge was a part of the design of most stylish gowns, their elaborate skirts deliberately draped to show it off to the utmost. Unfortunately for his fashion-minded wife, however, Erik cordially hated bustles. He bemoaned the demise of the sophisticated, slim lines of the late seventies with their elegantly moulded bodices and trailing trains which flowed out from behind the knee, released there from the internal ties that held them firmly to the figure higher up. Christine believed privately that he had preferred them because they showed off far more of a woman's body than the current styles, and Erik appreciated few worldly things more than a beautiful female, for all that he'd never been able to so much as kiss the hand of one till now. Christine thought it a very good thing that those dresses were out of fashion, and recalled Mama Valerius' diatribes against the indecency of them. Poor Mama, with the matronly figure she had had at that time, would not have been flattered by a "tied-back" dress even if she had been inclined to wear it. Perhaps it was her guardian's refusal to let her wear fashionable clothes as a young teenage girl, in fact, that made Christine now wish to dress in them as much as possible.

But, she thought, looking ruefully at her options for the evening, Erik had been sure that his future bride would share his aesthetic tastes, and had therefore had all the dresses which he had waiting for her when he first brought her to his home made to be worn without a bustle. And he did not want her to have any new ones made which would accommodate one.

"There is nothing more ridiculous, Christine, than a woman walking about in a gown on which she could balance a fully laden tea-tray. No, you may not have a dress like that."

Oh, well. She mostly wore the day dresses she had already had in her possession at her marriage when she went out in public; they were relatively new and stylish. But tonight it was Erik whose approval she wanted. Resignedly she reached for the blue velvet. It was trimmed with gold and silver ribbon around the low neckline, and went over a gold brocade underskirt, puffed and trimmed with more of the same ribbon. He liked her in blue. And he'd certainly appreciate the neckline of that dress. It was cut just about as low as it could possibly be and not show her corset.

She put on fresh drawers, chemise and stockings, picking her prettiest and finest things. Corset; she selected a satin evening one that she knew for a fact her husband liked. Why, the last time she'd worn it…she shoved that thought away and hooked up the busk, turning to look in the mirror as she pulled up the laces. Corset cover; better pick a low-necked one or it would show above the bodice. All right.

She put on two of her fanciest lace-trimmed petticoats, and reached for the underskirt of the dress. The rustling silk slid over her petticoats and settled into place as she did up the hooks. All right, now the velvet overskirt. Then the bodice. She slid her arms into the long sleeves, with their black silk pleats and white lace at the cuffs, and did up all the tiny pearl buttons.

Christine inspected herself in the mirror, and was gratified. Erik would like this, certainly. She'd leave her hair down. It wasn't appropriate for someone her age, and certainly not for a married woman, but there was no one to see her down here but her husband, and he adored it that way. So, there remained only to put on some jewellery, perhaps the diamonds he had bought her; yes, they would look wonderful. She spread powder over her skin, and reached for a bottle of perfume, but stopped, her hand in midair. No…not that one. This one. After applying it carefully, she then recorked the bottle with a decisive gesture, took up a fan, and went out of the bedroom.

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Back to the kitchen, to retrieve the soup from the embers in which it had been keeping warm and put it into a pretty tureen. Carry that carefully to the table... bring out the apple tart... put out the cheese and bread, light candles... open and pour wine. There.

The table was perfect. It lacked only diners.

The music from the other room was softer now, more contemplative. Surely that must mean he was in a better mood?

Christine squared her shoulders and went into the parlour, approaching her husband from behind.

"Erik, please come to the table. Dinner is ready."

"Leave me alone, Christine."

She drew back. His tone had been curt and dismissive; not at all what one expected from a loving husband whose wife could "do anything she liked with him." Hurt welled up.

"Er-ik. I want you to eat dinner with me! Come to the table, everything's hot and ready!" She was whining; her voice sounded so even to her own ears.

"Christine, I said leave me alone."

No one could imbue simple words with the level of sheer menace that Erik could. Fear flared in his wife's heart. She backed up swiftly, and then turned and fled into the dining room. With her back against the closed door, she panted, heart pounding. Before her eyes the laid table mocked her, with its comfortable bourgeois ornaments, perfect for a normal husband and wife.

Except they weren't.

She tottered a few steps, pulled out one of the chairs, and collapsed awkwardly into it. The bulk of her train twisted around her legs, the mass of fabric sliding off to one side and preventing her from sitting properly. She started to sob, slamming her fist on the table. She wasn't supposed to have to seat herself in a dress like this! No woman could! That was why a gentleman must help his lady sit, when she was dressed formally. But Erik had not so much as turned around to look at her, much less noticed and appreciated how far she had gone to dress for him! No gentlemanly husband for Christine. Only a bad-tempered, self-centred, rude man, more than willing to insist that a woman marry him but unwilling to treat her decently afterward.

You chose this, whispered her mind. He gave you up. You decided to come back.

She seized her wine glass and drank deeply, not even tasting it. When the level of the glass was a quarter of what it had been, she lowered it and gasped for breath, squeezing her eyes shut.

He hadn't even turned around. All the day's preparation, all the money spent on dinner, all the time spent dressing – and he wouldn't even give her his attention long enough for her to show it to him. How was there to be any telling whether he would or would not like the effort she had made, if he refused even to see it?

She swallowed the last of the wine, and refilled her glass. Sipping more slowly, her thoughts spun in circles as the alcohol worked on her. She began to be annoyed with herself. Why had she panicked like that? She was his wife. She, of all people, knew him to be a man and not some terrifying demon; why could she not control herself enough to be immune to that particular tone of his voice?

Why could he not love her enough to be unwilling to use it on her?

If he did not love her enough... after everything he had done, and been, to get her... what about their child?

Oh God.

She put a hand on her flat stomach, appalled, and suddenly more terrified than she had been in the parlour. Now her terror was not only for herself, but for her defenceless unborn baby. She had been indulging in rose-coloured, happy fantasies of Erik as an adoring father, imagining him tenderly rocking an infant, patiently explaining mathematics to an enraptured small son, or holding a tiny daughter on his lap to pick out a simple tune on the piano. Surely he would be thrilled to have such a tangible proof of their love. Surely his remaining self-hatred would finally be exorcised, with a person who was so wholly his and could be brought up to love him and see him as the brilliant man he was. Christine knew that she had made him begin his slow climb back to sanity; she had fervently believed that their child would complete it.

What a fool. Why should a man who had exulted in crime and a bitter vengefulness for the thirty-odd years of his adult life be able to change so dramatically and so soon? Why would he have any idea what to do with children? Why, it would upset him, wouldn't it, maybe make him retreat from the world once more. What if – oh, God – what if he went back to his old ways?

She dropped her face into her hands. Now far more horrible images appeared in her mind, of herself having to try to explain to the children why Papa's hands smelled of death, or why he had shut himself up in his room and would not speak to them. Or why he had screamed at them and terrified them out of their wits. He might well not have any patience for children. What if everything they did annoyed him? He'd been violent with Christine already, more than once. What was to stop him from doing so to a child? His mistreatment at the hands of others had caused him to bring far worse crashing down upon the heads of those others, if he had the chance. Might his horrific past make him treat his own children in a similar fashion, since it was all he knew? Or... what if she had to explain to them why he was not there at all? What if he were so angry about her pregnancy that he left her, abandoning her to raise their child on the streets?

Surely he would not do that. It was half his fault, after all.

Yes, and look how he's already acted when he didn't want to admit fault. He blamed you; why wouldn't he do it again? And to the child, if he has the opportunity?

The memory of her treatment at his hands on their wedding night came rushing back, and suddenly she was angrier than she had ever been. Oh, no, he would not make their child feel as she had felt! She would not allow it. He might be the head of the household under the law, but she was a mother, or going to be, and mothers would fight heaven and earth for their children.

She rose to her feet and stormed out into the parlour, seething. When she spoke, her voice was strident.

"Erik, come to the table this instant! I've been to a lot of trouble to make dinner for you, and I've something to tell you. And I demand your attention, as your wife."

She marched to the piano, rage making it impossible for her to fear him just now, and snatched the score right out from under his pen.

"That's enough, I said! I've had all I can stand of you ignoring me!"

The response was instantaneous. He turned on her like a striking cobra, rocketed off the piano bench and grabbed for the score. Unfortunately for him, his wife knew exactly how swift his reactions were; she had been expecting this, and had already darted out of his reach.

"Give me that! How dare you?!"

"How dare I? How dare you? You'd just as soon I wasn't even here, wouldn't you? Why did you fight so hard for me if you didn't really want me?"

"Damn it!" he roared, slamming a fist down on a table and making the objects on it rattle. "I am tired of hearing that! Am I to have only the infuriating aspects of a wife, and not the good? Invent some other accusation, for the love of God, but give me back my score and leave me alone!"

She ran even farther away from him and flipped it open randomly.

"Honestly, Erik, what is this?" She began trying to sing the melody, her tone deliberately derisive.

"Be quiet, woman! You are not skilled enough to sing this without instruction! Take your caterwauling elsewhere, you screeching Fury! Christ, I wish you were singing on a street corner if it would only mean you would leave me in peace!"

"My voice was good enough for you when you wanted to show off your teaching skills to the world! There is something wrong with you, not with me! Is this going to be another convoluted piece? If you insist on writing things that are unsingable that is not my fault!"

"If there is something wrong with this work it will be your fault! How am I supposed to accomplish anything if I am constantly interrupted? I swear, I shall title this work 'The Nagging Wife'!"

"If you didn't behave in such a fashion I wouldn't have to nag you. I've been all afternoon cooking dinner for you and you won't even taste it! And if you think I'm ever going to sing this for you after you've treated me like this while you were writing it, you can just think again!"

He strode to the bookshelf, seized a score, and hurled it at her. She ducked, dropping Erik's composition, and the other hit the wall behind her and slid to the floor in a heap of pages. Bending down, she picked it up hurriedly; it was Cosi Fan Tutte.

"Take that, then, and be damned to you! If you do not like Erik's compositions do us all a favour and do not sing them! Go sing music from the opera instead, Christine Daae! Sing the works of lesser composers!"

"Lesser? Lesser?" she screeched, shaking Cosi at him. "Mozart, lesser? My God, you are the most arrogant man in the world! At least Mozart wrote music that could be sung by a human!"

"Must I remind you, Christine, that you still can not sing the Queen of the Night in a satisfactory fashion? Your last attempt at it was laughable."

That stung. She flung the score back at him. He shot out a long hand and caught it out of the air, a display of his lightning-fast reflexes that only made her angrier.

"It would be satisfactory for anyone who wasn't an unfeeling, unreasonable – "

"If I am unreasonable it is because you drive me to it, you stupid woman!" he bellowed. "You come repeatedly to bother me, and you are surprised that I become angry? You did not want my company these last few nights. Interfering, nosy bitch! By God, I wish I had never met you!"

She staggered back against the wall, her mouth falling open. She had not dreamed he would go that far. To say such a thing, and after all the – Tears sprang instantly to her eyes. She was too hurt to comprehend the words that had come before those last ones.

"Out!" he shouted, at the top of his immensely powerful lungs. She rushed past him, her ears ringing, and down the hall. The bedroom door slammed.

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