Page 77 of Our Strange Duet

We stayed, not ready to return to reality just yet.

Those weeks together were some of the happiest of my life.

I loved being Raoul’s fiancée. I loved the excitement his friends showered upon us when they learned the good news. I loved the weight of so many sparkles upon my hand. But most of all, I loved how happy it made Raoul. He hummed little melodies under his breath everywhere he went. He pulled me into impromptu waltzes, twirling me down the boardwalk with an exuberance too heady to check. He kissed me with a new sort of ardor, tender and promising, hungry and fevered. He was all smiles and heated glances. I’d never felt so desired, so longed for. I wanted to bask in the sensation for the rest of my days.

Only when the horse racing season came to an end in late September did Raoul begin to make noises about returning to the city.

“I’ve let too many things pile up back home. I’m certain my lawyers are at wit’s end. They send missives from Richard and Gilles nearly every other day.” He sighed. “They’re always asking for money. More and more. I feel as if I’m bankrolling the entire renovation.”

We were in the breakfast room, enjoying a leisurely, late start to the day. Raoul had a plate of crêpes before him and was knocking back cup after cup of strong, hot coffee as quickly as he could stand it.

“Are the repairs going well?” I asked, curious. I hadn’t heard any news of the opera since we’d arrived in Deauville. Meg’s letters gave skimmed-over accounts of life at the Moulin Rouge and her short stint as a model for an up-and-coming painter. She’d written long descriptions of his little garret apartment in Montmartre but had said nothing of the Populaire.

My own letters to her hadn’t been much better. Though I’d tried writing it half a dozen times, I couldn’t seem to find the right way to announce our engagement. It felt too big a thing to simply put to paper. It needed to be told in person, celebrated face to face.

Raoul took another long slurp of coffee. “Hard to say. I’ll need to schedule a site inspection the moment we get back. And there will have to be a trip to Burgundy. The harvest is soon coming to an end, and Mother would never forgive me if I miss her annual fête.”

The former vicomtesse was an endless source of fascination for me. After his father’s death, Raoul had allowed her to remain at the ancestral home, running it as she always had. He preferred to stay in Paris, receiving updates and visiting as time allowed. But eventually, after the wedding, we would have to take up residence as Raoul assumed the full responsibility of his title.

“I want you to come to Chagny with me,” he said without preamble.

“Truly?” I asked, perking up.

He nodded. “This house is let till the end of the month…Why don’t we head back to Paris after, catch up on a few odds and ends, and then travel to Burgundy? I’m so eager to show you the estate. You can get a feel for its rhythms and routines, start planning out any changes you want to make.”

“Changes?” I echoed, not without a small degree of alarm.

“Of course. New wallpaper or carpets, paint or curtains, or whatever you like. It’s going to be your home now, Christine. I want you to be entirely at ease and comfortable there.”

“But…won’t your mother want to have a say in all of that? I’d hate to pick out something she doesn’t like.”

He tilted his head, staring at me quizzically. “Christine…you will be vicomtesse. It only matters what you want. And Mother won’t be staying in the main house once we’ve moved in. There’s a dowager cottage along the southern edge of the property. It has everything she’ll need and a full staff. I think it will be quite a relief for her, not having to manage such a large house. Oh, my darling, what’s the matter?”

I shook my head, unsure of how to answer, uncertain of this feeling which had wedged itself under my sternum, growing in size and pressing up, up, up with such force I feared the bone would shatter and lodge its shards into the quivering muscle of my fluttering heart.

So wrapped was I in the heady bliss of imagining our lives together I’d never stopped to consider the particulars of what those lives would really be like.

I would be vicomtesse.

It was a bewildering thought.

I hadn’t the first idea what a vicomtesse did. I truly wasn’t even sure what Raoul’s title demanded of him.

“We’ll live in Burgundy,” I said, stating the one item I felt was true. Only…only how would that work? The journey from Paris to Chagny was not a quick one. If I was going to return to the opera, I’d be required to be at rehearsals. Performances. Costume fittings and diction coachings. Music lessons and—

I blinked.

It would be impossible.

Wouldn’t it?

Raoul did have the town house…Would we stay there while the opera season was on? Such an enormous change needed to be discussed and planned out, but it felt too big to do so just now. I wanted to remain in the soft bliss of unthinking and unreasonable love that our engagement had brought about. The real world felt too…real.

“Eventually, yes,” Raoul said carefully, as if softening a blow. “But not just yet. Not now. Though…” He shifted in his seat, looking ill at ease.

“What?”

Raoul’s face screwed up as if the conversation had veered off track and was no longer going according to plan. “We’d want to be fully settled in before any of the children came along.”