Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Phantom of the Opera (stuffs Erik into a closet to hide him from lawyers). See?
AN: Okay, here is my newest story! Before I get any flames, I'd like to say that my female lead is not (I repeat, not) a Mary Sue! If she appears to be, I'm sorry: she's merely a girl that, unlike most women in Phantom stories that I've read, has no artistic talents at all. She's the odd-duck of the family, but that's all. I mean, someone out there probably understands that, right? So, anyway, here's the story, and please review when you're done reading. Thanks!
Chapter 1: Family:
The shrill warning cry of one of our serving boys filled the air outside my window, cutting through the cold winter sky and jolting me from my peaceful thoughts. I winced and sighed at the sound before setting aside my pen and closing my workbook. The rattling of arriving carriages soon could be heard, and I smiled as I rose from my desk, shaking the wrinkles out of my green gown as I headed out of my rooms and into the hallway.
"Miss Aria, hurry!" a maid cried up the stairs. "Please, Miss Craven, the family is arriving, and you must be there to greet them as they came inside!"
If this had been any other house in England, my mother would be greeting our guests at the door instead of me. However, my immediate family was an exception to that tradition, as my mother was no longer with us. She was not dead, but she might as well be, as far as my Grandmother Caroline was concerned, since it was ten years ago that my mother had given my father the shock of a lifetime.
One night, my mother stalked up to my father and declared that she wanted a legal separation from him. Not only that, but she desired custody of my little brother, Paul, and wanted to move to America, since it was in the New World that Mother's family had set up their fortunes. What also became clear was that Mother had gotten fed up with my father for reasons that she wouldn't name in front of anyone but him. I had always thought that my parents had loved one another, though I'd been told that their marriage had been one of convenience; still, they had seemed happy, and my brother and I had enjoyed loving childhoods with them until that fateful day.
I had been 14-years-old at the time, and was considered "grown-up" enough to listen to the servants explain things to me. Poor Paul was only 8-years old and couldn't really understand what was happening, though I didn't even try to tell him. Through the servants' gossip, I discovered that Mother had grown tired of Papa's relations always visiting us and "intruding" on our house; she wanted a new life of her own elsewhere, as well as the means providing for it. The horrid thing was that she wanted Paul, and Paul alone, to go with her.
The servants told me that Mother only wanted Paul because he was a primary heir to a section of the family fortunes; she didn't want me, the daughter who was going to be very much dependant on my father until I married. If I didn't marry, however, I would get my own personal fortune and also be provided for by my grandparents. Paul, however, would inherit a majority of the Craven family money after my father's death, and my mother very much wanted a hand in it.
Fortunately, Mother didn't understand the marriage laws very well; since she only wanted a "separation" instead of a divorce, she would have no say in governing my brother's accounts, neither his personal funds nor the ones he was to inherit. All of that money was firmly left in the hands of some very good lawyer-friends of my father's, both English and American. Instead, Mother now had to make-do with the annual sum my father sent for both her welfare and Paul's, though Papa always made sure that Paul secretly got a little extra spending money.
Now my Papa had only me to stay with him in our large English home, though my grandmother, grandfather, and Papa's siblings always paid a monthly visit to our house. Ours was a large family, consisting of my father's younger brother and five younger sisters, plus all of their spouses and children. All of us together totaled 28, though if my mother and brother were included, it would be an even 30 of us. The number of family members isn't really unusual amongst aristocrats, though it was odd that Grandmother had borne seven children and all of them lived.
My father, Roland, was the eldest in his family, followed closely by his brother, Gregory, and his five sisters: Christina (or Aunt Chris, since she hated her full name), Elizabeth (Beth), Monica, Nancy, and Mary. My grandparents were all proud of their children, but most particularly so of the fact that none of the children looked much like the other. For instance, Father had red hair while Uncle Gregory had straight dark brown. Also, none of my aunts had hair with the same color or textures. Aunt Chris had straight mousy-brown locks while Aunt Beth had wavy, lighter brown hair than Uncle Gregory. Aunt Monica had curls in her chocolate locks, Aunt Nancy had lovely golden-blonde hair, and Aunt Mary had hair that could be either curled or straight, depending on whether or not she put her hair into a tight braid the night before. All of them were lovely, though, and I envied them for that.
My cousins could form a small army and invade a country, if they chose, just using their screaming alone. Too many to name, much less think about, but they all looked so much alike, one wondered if their parents really sired them or not. The reason for this is that each of them, with only four exceptions, had been born with Grandmother's blond hair, with either blue or blue-gray eyes. Only I, my brother, and Aunt Chris' two daughters were given dark hair and eyes.
Heading down the hall, I sighed with envy as I caught sight of myself in a mirror. At 24 years of age, I had straight, dark-brown hair, brown eyes, and an annoying tendency to freckle. I wasn't very tall, either, but then, neither were my aunts, so I didn't feel too upset about that. My figure was a bit lacking, though; no matter how much my maids tightened the laces on my corset, I could never get as slim as the other girls in town. Papa said that I had my mother's curves, and that it had been Mother's curves that made him so fond of her; I'm still not sure if that was a compliment or if he was just humoring me.
"Aria, Aria, Aria!" cried several childish voices as they ran inside.
Rolling my eyes in amusement, I hurried down the stairs, arriving in the entry hall just as the littlest blonde darlings shed their winter clothes. Upon seeing me, they immediately latched on to my skirts and begged to be the first to tell me about their latest achievements. I gave them a humoring smile before pointing out that cookies and hot chocolate were waiting for them in the nursery we always had waiting, right next to the parlor.
To my relief, they all ran off, leaving me, the eldest of all the grandchildren, to greet the other cousins and adults. The cousins too old to be in the nursery tended to either watch over the younger ones or, if they were fully-grown, joined their parents in the parlor. I distributed hugs, kisses, and smiles to everyone, but when Grandmother Caroline and Grandfather Gino made their grand entrance, I paid particular attention to them, as they always arrived last.
"Aria, sweetness," Grandmother cooed as she hugged me through her layers of fur coats.
"It's good to see you, my beautiful one," Grandfather said, his voice enriched by his Italian accent.
My petite, blonde Grandmother was exceedingly proud of the fact that a tall, dark, and handsome man, descended from a wealthy family in Italy, had chosen her for a bride. In my heart, I knew that their love was truly something to be made into legend; just the way they looked at each other tended to make observers blush. I smiled and kissed them both before ushering them inside and signaling the servant to close the door. The parlor was now full of gossip, laughter, jokes, and idle chatter.
I entered the parlor just before a long line of maids brought in trays of tea, cookies, cake, and sandwiches. Taking a place next to my Aunt Mary, who greeted me with a smile and a kiss, I waited as the maids poured the tea and offered food to everyone while talk filled the air. Once everyone was served, there was a moment of quiet as everyone waited for Grandmother to pick a conversation topic.
"Well, now, Christina, how goes your painting?" Grandmother asked as she sipped her tea.
I inwardly winced at the topic and looked at my lap. Our family's idle hobbies tended to make eyebrows lift and people talk about us behind our backs. This is because, unlike most of the English aristocracy, much of our family was directly involved in the arts. The Cravens did not just fund artistic talents; the family was a swarm of artistic talent spanning three generations!
Glancing around the room, my eyes landed on relatives who were painters, sculptors, instrumentalists, and even ballet dancers. Grandmother herself painted murals, and her special talents graced the walls of not only her mansion, but those of her children as well. Aunt Chris took after her, as did her two daughters, Eana and Marita. Ever the artistic one, Aunt Chris had chosen beautiful, but unusual, names for her daughters, and both girls had the talent to paint, draw, and play the cello.
"It's going very well, for all of us Mother," Aunt Chris replied with a smile towards her daughters.
"Good, good," Grandmother said before turning her gaze to my Aunt Mary.
Biting back a groan, I carefully reached out and picked up a sandwich, tears prickling my eyes. My Aunt Mary, besides being lovely, had the talent of playing the flute quite beautifully, and even did so very publicly. She played for her friends at their parties and concerts, and was even occasionally in the orchestra of the local theater. As I put the sandwich to my lips, I quietly turned my attention elsewhere, for I knew that it would be a while before Grandmother's attention landed on me.
Unlike the others in my family, I had no artistic talents. Papa could paint and sculpt, but I had none of his abilities. Nor could I dance, draw, or play an instrument, though Father had tried to get me involved in the piano. I was average, at best, so I merely gave up when I was 12-years-old, bemoaning how ironic it was that my name meant "song" or "music." My governesses had tried to teach me painting, but all of my works looked lumpy or oozed paint when finished. Finally, when I was 14, I declared myself hopeless in the arts and gave up on all of it…except for one…
"And Aria," Grandmother said, smiling at me fondly. "How goes your writing?"
I blushed. "It is well, Grandmother," I said, ducking my head.
"Oh, why don't you fetch your newest story for the children?" Aunt Nancy said. "Grace has been waiting for you to finish it for so long!"
Nearly preening at the compliment, I smiled. "I have the story finished upstairs," I said, glancing carefully at my grandmother for permission. "Shall I go fetch it?"
Our family matriarch nodded and I slowly stood up, remembering to be lady-like as I walked out into the hallway and up towards my room. If there was one thing Caroline Craven disliked, it was her daughters or granddaughters not being the graceful ladies she knew them to be.
As I slipped into my room, I found the sought-after book on my desk. I had finished it just last week, though only every other page was filled with the written word. The blank pages were for one of my numerous relatives to fill with watercolors, chalk, or pencil drawings. I felt ashamed that I couldn't illustrate my works, but I had to count myself fortunate that I could at least write a good story.
"Well, Grandmother said that no one in the family has been able to write since her father's time," I muttered, looking at the brown leather cover. "I would like to be able to draw, though."
A warm chuckle from the doorway drew my gaze there. In the doorway stood my papa, a proud look in his eyes as he saw what I was holding. Smiling, he came over and pulled me into a warm hug.
"Don't worry over such things, kitten," Papa murmured into my hair as he hugged me. "You write wonderful things for your little cousins, and as long as someone appreciates your work, even if it is just you, that's all that matters."
I sniffed into his black coat. "I still want to be able to do something beautiful, Papa," I said, closing my eyes as he patted my back. "I want to paint the sunrise or draw the flowers in the garden. I want to draw the images I see in my stories so that others can see as I do."
Papa sighed and hugged me closer. "I know, dearest, but sometimes these things just…skip a person or two in a family." He gently pulled back and looked at me, his blue eyes meeting my brown ones. "And what you do is beautiful, just in a different and better way. You describe what you see and imagine, but unlike a painting, it allows others to see what they want to see, not just what you want them to. It gives your readers the ability to use their minds and their imaginations, not just their eyes."
A warm feeling spread through me, just like it always did whenever my father tried to cheer my thoughts. "Thank you, Papa," I said, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.
"That's my girl!" he declared. "Now get downstairs; you cousins are clamoring for your latest story and are getting a bit cranky. What is it about this time; rabbits, ducklings, or horses?"
Laughing, I shook my head. "Little fox cubs," I answered.
"Ah, of course," Papa said with a wink. "Why didn't I think of that? No doubt your grandmother will want to illustrate that one herself; you know she loves foxes, since that's what our last name means."
"Yes, I know."
If there was one thing Grandmother loved in nature, it was the fox. Instead of hunting them as most nobles did, she went searching for them to keep as pets. A large section of her estate was fenced off, completely dedicated to the well-being of the clever creatures. She even gave out the fox cubs her vixens bore to my aunts and uncles to keep as pets, which they did more out of obligation to her than anything else. We didn't have one, though, since Father tended to sneeze around them.
Papa shook his head and beamed proudly at me. "Well, off with you, then," he said. "I only came looking for you because the little ones have been squealing for you since they arrived."
Laughing, I quickly turned and obeyed, heading down for the nursery. Upon opening the door, I couldn't help but smile at the sight. Six little blonde heads turned towards me at once, and the clatter of dropped toys filled the room just as excited screams escaped from small mouths.
"Aria!" Grace cried as she ran up to me, begging to be picked up and held.
Most of the little ones' nurses and parents had stopped holding them long ago, but they knew that I was willing to indulge them once and a while, though only when they were small and light. With Grace being not even four-years-old, she was still "of age" to be held, and took advantage of the fact as often as she could. The others, however, had grown, and knew that the chance of being held was slim, at best.
Grinning, I handed my book to Andrea, who, at age twelve, was one of the cousins too old for the nursery, but too young to be with the adults. She accepted it with a grin and walked over to the center of the room, which had a chair and a dozen cushions on the floor. Picking up Grace, I walked over to the chair as well, the other children following behind me. I quickly sat down, Grace in my lap as the others playfully argued over seats before settling down. Once it was quiet, I took the book from Andrea and looked over at the children.
"Remember, this particular story goes to Grace when today is done," I stated, preventing any squabbles before they could start. "It's her turn, and you've all got your books already."
"Who will draw in my book?" Grace asked, her voice tiny as she laid her blonde head on my shoulder.
"I think that Grandmama would like to do this one, don't you?" I said with a smile. "Now, today's story is about a curious little fox cub and his friends."
The children cheered and prepared to listen.
Wrapped in a warm cloak, I watched as the last carriage disappeared around the curve of the drive. Grandmother had the book safely in her possession and would deliver it to my Aunt Nancy and Grace before the month was out. Meanwhile, I was sure that Grace would be pleading for it every hour till then. Chuckling, I went inside and removed the cloak, handing it to Hilda to hang up.
I yawned as I walked into the dining room for a warm supper, thankful that none of the family ever stayed for supper; the table would never fit them all and the children would be sure to wreck the place before the evening was over.
"Oh, my poor daughter," Papa teased as I sat down to enjoy a helping of roast beef, potatoes, and green beans. "You must be exhausted from looking after the little cousins." He looked me over carefully. "Would a trip to the next play in town be helpful?"
My fork stopped in midair. "You mean the next Shakespearian play?" I asked in an eager voice while setting my fork back onto my plate.
He nodded. "I know how much you love listening to music and watching plays, so I purchased tickets just last night," Papa replied with a smile. "You deserve it, after all the work you do as hostess to the family visits. A night of just the two of us would do you good, don't you think?"
I leapt from my chair and wrapped my father in a hug. "Oh, thank you, Papa!" I gasped.
He merely chuckled and patted me on the back. "Now, eat your dinner before Cook gets offended."
Quickly obeying, I happily ate the rest of my meal, waiting anxiously for tomorrow to come.
AN: Well, what do you think of the Craven family? Quite a zoo, isn't it? Sorry, Erik and the Populaire won't be appearing until the next chapter, but please leave a review!