Page 78 of Our Strange Duet

Children.

Another thing we’d not stopped to discuss, though even as the thought crossed my mind, I knew it was a foolish one. That was something which would be required of a vicomtesse, perhaps the most important of all her tasks.

Children.

A continuation of the title. A proliferation of Raoul’s upstanding name and lineage.

We hadn’t discussed it because, obviously, children were a given.

“Of course,” I murmured. What else could be said?

Yes, I love you and would do anything for you, but what about my career? Children will have to wait until I’ve sung in at least half the major European opera houses?

It was laughable.

But I didn’t feel amused.

“Of course…we have plenty of time for all that,” Raoul said, smoothing his hand over mine. “There’s no rush. I rather…I rather enjoy Paris, if I’m being honest.”

I nodded cautiously.

“But…you’ll love Burgundy, I’m certain of that,” he went on, trying to return us to the happy state we’d enjoyed before reality had begun to make itself felt. “I’m so looking forward to showing it off to you.”

Raoul’s hand on my shoulder was a warm weight, gently prodding me back to consciousness.

“Darling, you need to wake up. We’re nearly there.”

I scrunched my eyes, ready to burrow into the crook of his arm, when I suddenly remembered where we were. I sat up with a startled gasp and, with wide eyes, peered out the windows.

The carriage ride to Chagny had taken hours. We’d left Paris in the shadows of predawn and plodded southeast, journeying through vineyards and villages so picturesque they looked manufactured, like scenery built for the stage. The sky had been a quiet gray throughout the afternoon but now darkened with the promise of impending rain.

We traveled down a long road flanked by twisting beech trees. With most of their leaves fallen to the ground, they looked oddly ominous, like the curled fingers of an anxious woman wringing her hands in despair.

“It’s quite a lovely drive in the spring and summer,” Raoul assured me, and I wondered if he was feeling as nervous as I was.

Ever since our talk at the breakfast table, so many weeks ago, I’d felt as if my days were numbered, soon to be forever classified as the time before or after I met his mother.

I had vague memories of seeing her that summer in Deauville, always from afar, across the racetrack or reflected in the mirror of a café. She’d been a strikingly beautiful woman, with lustrous blond hair, the same shade as Raoul’s, and a delicate heart-shaped face.

“Oh!” The drive had opened before us, revealing a grand château. It rose three stories high and was made of ivory-colored stone. A surprisingly blue roof topped the manor, giving it the impression of a gentleman wearing a jauntily perched hat. One side boasted a pointed turret, like something from a fairy tale, and the other wing had an octagonal tower, much wider, with enormous circular windows filled with intricate lead tracings. It made the estate feel whimsically distinct. “Raoul, it’s wonderful.”

He smiled fondly at the manor, and I could so easily picture what he must have looked like as a little boy, running about the estate. Had he used the turret as a lookout while playing pirates? Did he ever swim in the large fountain out front?

All too soon, the driver pulled up alongside said fountain, and Raoul hurried out, leaving me temporarily behind. The grand double doors opened, revealing a retinue of staff who bustled out into the cold. They bobbed and curtsied to Raoul before shouting instructions to the coachman and unloading our trunks from the back of the carriage.

“Mother!” Raoul cried, all but racing up the wide stone steps to the woman who had only just now peeked out into the falling dark.

Though years had passed since I’d last seen her, I would have recognized Laurienne de Chagny anywhere.

She embraced Raoul, then took a step back, appraising him with a look of pride. She cupped his cheek and murmured warm words I could not hear, turning to guide him inside the house.

When he pointed back toward the carriage, back toward me, she frowned.

Part of me shriveled under her confused displeasure, and I was instantly aware of my sleep-mussed hair and my travel-tired clothing. My skirt looked as wilted as I felt. Had Raoul not told her I would be arriving with him? Had he not told her anything about me?

My engagement ring, usually such a happy weight upon my finger, now seemed like an anchor and chain, dragging me, down, down, down, to certain death. There was nothing in the way she stared at our carriage to suggest she welcomed my presence here.

Raoul returned to retrieve me, pulling open the doors and letting in a blast of chilly air that was somehow warmer than the dowager vicomtesse’s reproachful stare.