The Phantomess - Pt. 1, Ch. 2

THE PHANTOMESS
by B. Lord

Part I
Chapter 2

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I tried to avoid the infant, yet while I could avoid it physically – with my financial and social affairs often calling me away – I could not avoid evidence of the child’s presence. Christine was determined to make it known that it was her child. Despite my own behavior towards it, she was ready to care for it as much as any mother of a lower position who could not hire maids or nurses. We had both at hand, but she still tended to the child as much as she could, from morning till night. At times she was quite flushed and exhausted, but nonetheless content. There was never too much work to satiate her need to raise her child as her own, even if she occassionally required a nurse to grant her some wisdom.

In as almost a tenacious manner, I tried to distract her from such mundane duties and encourage her to adopt other interests that were more entertaining and social. I often forget that despite our childhood friendship, Christine and I came from two very different backgrounds. I always tried to think that our love would make those differences disappear, but it didn’t. Christine was still the daughter of a poor violinist and dreamer, and I was the heir of a noble family and fortune. I was taught that social propriety was the key to a happy vocation as a gentleman. Christine had looked out for herself for most of those years, with nearly no family or connections to give her proper support. I suspect it was even harder for her after her father’s death. Her father was a very close and loving parent, and I suppose she wished to be the same to her child. I hardly knew my father, yet I was more certain he was of my flesh and blood than this odd child. I did not take this thought to heart at the time; my suspicions were not quite aroused enough, nor did my imagination yet dare to think such an inconceivable notion.

In the end, Christine began to make an effort to enjoy herself away from the infant, but it became painfully clear that she was unhappy when others were talking and laughing gaily at everything but the news of the babe. Oh, we had told our friends of the new arrival, and they had been thrilled. But their interests soon moved on to other things, and they no longer thought about the child. Christine did, though. She thought about it acutely, which in turn prevented her from enjoying the company of either our guests or our hosts.

One evening, while the two of us were attending a small evening party at the home of an old friend of the family and his wife, the subject of children somehow arose. I was immediately apprehensive, not quite knowing how Christine would react to this subject. Would she become more engaged, perhaps? Or merely more depressed? Would it drive her to speak out in some abrupt way, or would she remain silent?

She handled the situation very well at first, slightly eager to engage in the discussion. The exchange began as a question of schools in which the parents hoped and planned to enroll their children. Christine answered that she had not yet thought it through, since little Angelique was only a few months old. She was, however, very sure that the girl would be a brilliant musician and should be sent to the finest school we could afford.

Then things took a turn for the worst. One of the women claimed that while that was all well and good, she hoped that Christine did not expect her child to become “too” accomplished. To my ears, it came off as a light joke. To Christine’s, it was a nasty sting.

“But why?” she asked. “Why should not my child be accomplished? Why should she fear being too accomplished?”

“Oh, my dear,” replied the woman good-heartedly, “of course your child should be accomplished. But you know, they say the youth of this coming generation will be reckless, as parents and teachers are becoming lax in their discipline. It’s those bloody romantics, really, as if the personal longings of the individual really matter, or that pursuing far-fetched dreams is the proper way to lead one’s life. Bah! It’s a load of rubbish. I only hope that your child will not fall under the influence of those fools, thinking themselves so high and mighty above the elite and even society itself. That’s a fool’s road to be traveling on, and will only lead to trouble and grief.”

This did not satisfy Christine. “I understand what you are saying, madame, but I don’t see how that has anything to do with –”

“Of course it does! A woman should never try to raise herself above a man! It is quite indecent! And she certainly should not make some sort of career as a musician. Those artists are a vicious lot.”

My wife’s cheeks flushed, but she remained quiet as the woman continued.

“Send her off to a good boarding school, that’ll shape her up properly! Yes, I know many good schools that have made fine ladies. If I could, I would send everyone’s children to any one of them. But, as it is, every family has their right to choose.” She sighed and shook her head disapprovingly at this last point.

Even now, Christine had not said a word. As the other members of our party nodded in agreement and passed on quiet comments to one another, she calmly set down her tea cup, stood up, and whispered, “Forgive me, but I must visit the powder room for a moment.”

A few people exhibited puzzled looks at this remark, but watched her in silence as she left the room. For a moment I was trapped. I did not wish to leave the party and give everyone the idea that something was wrong, yet I knew Christine needed me. I was aware that the woman’s words had upset her, especially the part regarding the “vicious artists.” I decided to wait for a few moments, in case Christine chose to return. When she did not, I grew more worried. What might she have done in view of my not following her? Finally, when I could no longer bear it, I also placed my cup down and requested to be excused. I fled the room and frantically began to search for her. The powder room seemed a rather suitable place, since she did claim to be going there. Just before I reached it, however, I detected a soft sob coming from a balcony just to my right. Through the French doors I could see Christine, alone, with her nose and mouth covered with a handkerchief she was holding. Spring was coming upon us after a long, cold winter. For the first time that year the air felt balmy and refreshing. There was just the slightest breeze coming to us from the southwest (I believe – I was never very good with the directions of a compass rose), which would have provided for a very pleasant outdoor venture were it not for Christine’s distressed state.

I came to her side and rested my hands on her shoulders. “My dear, don’t fret over this. She is a woman of high class. She does not possess the same sympathy for those below her as you do.”

“What do you mean?” Her voiced bore a tone of frustration. “Those artists are not below me. There was a time when I was one of them!”

“Yes, I know. But that is behind us now. Do not worry for their sake, my dear. They will do fine among themselves.”

Christine took a few sniffs, trying to retrench the number of sobs she released. “It is not just them, Raoul. It is Angelique, too. I fear for her now, and what she will become. I am afraid of how the world will treat her.”

“She will not be despised, dearest. If what you say is true, then perhaps her talent will be enough to make the world look on her with favor. And besides, she may not even become a musician.”

She turned to me now, those same eyes that I saw that night on Angelique’s birth. “No, Raoul, she will be. I know she will be.” She unintentionally tightened her grip on the handkerchief. As soon as she noticed this, she relaxed again. “Do you not remember what I said before she was born?”

I looked at her playful sheepish. “You said she would be a girl.”

She let herself smile. “Was I not right?”

“Yes, my dear. You were.”

“I know my child well enough to know that she will be a great musician. It is in her blood.” Suddenly, as if she had said a little too much, she turned away. Though surprised, I tried to discard whatever meaning this gesture held.

“I know, Christine. You and your father were great musicians. And she will be as well.”

I cannot really say if I truly believed this, but I said it more to comfort her than anything else. My own reservations could be examined at another time.

She turned back to me again. “Do they really care? Do any of them?”

I was confused by the sudden change in subject. “Who? About what?”

“All of them, those people who call themselves ‘fathers’ and ‘mothers’, wanting to send their children off to some distant boarding school as soon as possible.”

Then she looked me straight in the eye, with a look that for once made me want to back away a bit. “Do you think they are right, Raoul? Do you believe in what they say?”

She made it sound so religious, as if we were from two different faiths; she of the lower class, and I of the higher, where haughty views and distance relations with offspring are held as doctrine. I was hesitant for a moment, not quite sure how to answer.

My final reply was: “I can only say that they mean well for their children. They want their children to be well schooled, and to be knowledgeable of the world.”

“But what about family?” Her voice quivered slightly.

“There will always be a sense of family, I suppose. It is merely easier for children to be taught and disciplined outside the home, so their parents may be quicker to understand them.”

I was painfully aware of how weak my argument must have sounded to her. I was only  making the situation worse. I knew it could not really be as bad as I made it seem. Was it?

Christine slowly changed into an aggressive mode, ready to give a short, stinging reply to my poor explanation. She seemed quite prepared when I finished, but then, very quickly, her expression altered from battle to truce. She looked fatigued, and I grew concerned about what had come over her. She soon reassured me with a sad smile.

“Oh, Raoul, I know what you are trying to say.” Head slightly face-down, she walked passed me and opened the doors. Her expression did not change as she looked back at me.

“Think no more of it.”

I did not wish to.

We shortly left the party after that and returned home. As usual, Christine made sure to check on the child before going to bed.

*~*~*~*

A fortnight afterward, a similar incident occurred which pushed the border too far. We were dining with a new acquaintance and trying to make a good impression, but I could clearly see that Christine was preventing herself from engaging in any discussion that occurred. I tried to bring her in several times, but she managed to escape with hardly three words. Finally I begged our hosts to allow us to take a quick walk in their lovely garden, and as soon as we were alone I pulled my wife to the walkway and shut the door.

“Christine, you cannot keep doing this! Why can you not enjoy yourself for just one night? Forget about the baby, let it be for once. Everything will be fine when we return home. There is nothing to be distressed about.”

“How can I help it?” she cried.

For all of that evening her eyes had taken on a sad, tired gaze. She still appeared weary, but at the same time she managed to rally her anger to lash out at me for attempting to help her. “How can I, Raoul? Perhaps none of them need to care about their children at all, but I do. I want to be there for every moment. Why can’t you see that?”

“Why do you worry so much?” I truly could not understand. Her anxiety was only hurting her, not helping her.

“I love her, Raoul. That is why.” Christine’s tone had turned slightly bitter and spiteful, as if she were trying to pin some blame on me.

I gently took her hands in an endeavor to calm her down. “Listen, my dear: I know you mean well, and I am sure there is no mother more loving and caring than yourself, but you must realize that you cannot worry about the child every moment of your life. How else will you live? You must not let her existence become an obsession.” Then I added in a darker tone, “It does not do anyone any good.”

I was not trying to threaten her or cause her gratuitous pain. I was merely striving to help her see her foolishness. Her eyes widened again with that peculiar display of fear, then she fell back into a state of reflection, talking more to herself than to me.

“Perhaps you are right. But then . . . oh, I only want to do the right thing. Yet I must do what is best for the both of us.” Finally, she looked up at me, once again acknowledging my existence. “I will be more careful, darling. But you must promise one thing.”

“Yes, dear?”

“Do not make me go to any more of these dinners and parties than I think are necessary for me. You may go if you wish – I know you greatly enjoy such things.” She added a sweet, innocent smile to this comment, I suppose to dampen whatever offense I might have construed from her remark. “But please remember that it is important for you to be near Angelique, too. You are her father, after all.”

There was something in her tone that made me feel uncomfortable. I could not explain it, for it was intangible to the process of description and reasoning. It merely existed as some sort of dreadful specter looming over me. Did it haunt Christine’s thoughts, too?

It did not seem the case. However, I reminded myself that she was an actress, and could have been acting at that very moment. Then I immediately chided myself and did not press the matter. Who was I to point fingers? I had no substantial reason to do so. As I told myself while departing from the lofty mansion of our acquaintances in the comfort of our carriage with my wife’s hand in mine: it was merely a feeling.

But feelings can be very powerful things.