Nothing But Love
Chapter One
Paris, France—April, 1886
"No, Stephen, try it this way instead."
The fourteen-year old boy threw down his sword; it bounced off the padding on the floor and clanged into a corner. "I don't have to listen to you!" he shouted, his voice cracking on the last word. "You are not my father!"
The eerie similarity to words spoken more than fifteen years earlier sent a chill coursing down Erik Montenegro's spine. Speechless, he watched as Stephen de Chagny stomped to the door of the exercise room and flung it open.
The tall, athletic boy nearly knocked his mother to the floor as he left the room; after a brief muttered apology he raced down the hallway without a backward glance.
"Stephen Daaé de Chagny, you come back here this instant!" she called after him, frowning in irritation when he did no more than pause a second before continuing on his angry way. Entering the room, she found Erik standing at the window, staring out at the grounds of Chanson House, where he and Christine and their children had lived for ten years.
Glancing back over his shoulder, he gave her a sad half-smile and her heart overflowed with the love she felt for him. Gently she slid her arm around his trim waist and leaned into him, heard him sigh. "What happened this time?" she asked quietly.
"He does not have to listen to me, since I am not his father." His tone was even, but Christine sensed the pain that lurked behind it. "I do love him, Christine, no less and no more than the girls or Nicolas." Erik closed his eyes and swallowed. "Does he not realize that? Have I not shown him often enough?" Opening his eyes, he walked to the case mounted on the wall that held an assortment of épées, rapiers and swords and slid his into its notch.
Following him, she put both arms around him and held him close, angry beyond words with her son for hurting this good man. "He knows very well that you love him." She huffed out a breath in disgust. "And you work very diligently, perhaps too much so at times, to show no favoritism among the children." She sighed. "Part of it is his age."
"I know," he murmured, "but . . . he sounded so much like Raoul, my love; it was . . . disturbing, to say the least." The warm spring breeze teased the filmy white curtains at the windows, but Erik saw snowflakes and cold marble statues amid tombstones.
He shivered, causing Christine to pull back and look at him more closely. The past ten years had put strands of silver at his temples, and had added lines to his face, but he was still her Angel of Music. "Are you all right?" she asked softly, her hand going to his forehead as though he were one of the children whom she was checking for a fever.
Sighing, he took her hand from his head and dropped a kiss in the palm. "Yes, mon coeur, I'm fine." He pulled her back into his embrace, inhaling the scent of her hair, and kissed the top of her curls. One hand drifted down her back and cupped her bottom, making her squeak in surprise.
"Erik! It's broad daylight!"
"So?" he murmured, nuzzling her jaw and neck. He moved away a few inches and gave her a wicked grin. "It wouldn't be the first time, love."
"No, but . . ." Her protest faded away as he began to dot her face with tiny kisses. "Erik," she said softly but firmly, "I must go find Stephen and talk to him. I will not permit him to treat you like this."
That dumped a bucket of cold water on his ardor like nothing else. "Yes, I suppose you must," he agreed reluctantly. Before she moved completely out of his arms, he claimed her mouth in a scorching kiss then stepped back. "Remember that tonight, love—this is where we stopped."
Christine had to lock her knees to keep from toppling over when he released her. A dreamy look crossed her face as she watched him stride away. Even after ten years of marriage, he still had the ability to leave her breathless. It was something she prayed would never change. "Oh, don't worry—I won't forget where we stopped."
After checking all his usual hiding places, Christine found Stephen in the stables, slumped in the straw of an empty stall. Several kittens from the most recent litter crawled over him, across his lap, up his arm and down his back.
Christine stood and watched him for several minutes. Occasionally he winced when a claw sank a little too deep, and a brief smile flitted across his face when one of the kittens curled up on his shoulder and began to purr loudly. Another settled in his lap and absently the youth began to stroke the small animal's back with one finger.
Shuffling her feet in the straw to gain his attention, slowly she approached her son. Erik had once described him as the very image of Raoul, and it was becoming more apparent with each passing day. His hair, his eyes, his height—sometimes even his voice made her heart stop a moment, it sounded so much like his father's.
Remembering his manners at last, Stephen started to get to his feet, but his mother touched his shoulder and shook her head. Gracefully she folded her skirts beneath her and sank down onto the straw. A kitten immediately crawled into her lap and curled up in a tiny ball.
"I'm sorry, Maman." His voice cracked and a flush rose on his cheeks. He ducked his head and concentrated on the kitten in his lap.
"It is not I who deserves your apology, mon fils," she replied calmly, and saw the color on his face deepen.
"I—I know, Maman. I didn't mean to say it; truly I didn't! It—it just—came out!"
They sat in relative silence for a few moments, the mews and purrs of the kittens making them both smile. Then Christine asked idly, "How much do you know about how Erik and I met?"
Shrugging, Stephen said, "Grandmère Marie has told me some of it, and . . . I've overheard her talking to Grandmère Violet about it."
"Let me tell you the story." Scooting back until she could lean against the boards of the stall, Christine gathered her thoughts. "You knew that my papa died when I was about the age of Nicolas, and that I went to live at the Opera Populaire with Grandmère Marie and Tante Meg?"
Stephen nodded, and she continued, "My maman had died when I was born, so all my life it had just been my papa and me. He was a violinist, and was the concertmaster of the opera orchestra. That meant he was second-in-command to the conductor, M. Reyer. Papa was often sick, coughing, in the winters especially, and Grandmère Marie told me when I was older that he had died of consumption.
"I didn't understand what it meant, when someone died, and I was inconsolable when Papa finally was too weak to fight any longer. One night not long after I had moved into the opera house, I went down to the chapel to light a candle for Papa. I began to cry, was sobbing, really, when I heard this voice from above, singing softly. It was the most beautiful voice I had ever heard, Stephen, and I forgot for a moment how lonely I felt. The voice . . . calmed me, and told me . . . that as long as I remembered my papa, he would always be with me.
"Many nights after that, either when I was in the chapel or even sometimes as I lay in my bed, I would hear the voice in my head. Most nights he sang to me, and I would fall asleep to the sound of his voice. Papa had told me just before he died that he would send an Angel of Music to me from heaven. I was certain that the voice I heard was the Angel that Papa had promised me.
"Years passed and when I was about your age, the voice began to teach me, to coach me in my singing. When I was not much older than you, I had the opportunity to sing in a gala concert, replacing the prima donna soprano, and . . . it was a huge success. That night, after the concert was over, I met Erik face to face for the first time. I recognized his voice as that of my Angel."
"But what about Papa?" Stephen's voice had a slight edge of belligerence to it.
"Your papa and I had known each other when I was quite young, even younger than Nicolas. After I went to live at the opera house, I did not see your papa until the very night of the gala concert. He came to the dressing room and we spoke of times past." Taking a deep breath she remembered the events that followed. "He became my almost constant companion after that, and the feelings that we had had for each other as children blossomed into something more."
"And—Erik? He didn't like that, did he?" The astuteness of Stephen's question surprised Christine a bit, and she shook her head.
"No," she replied softly, "he didn't. Oh, Stephen, I'm not certain that I can explain it to you, that I can make you understand how I felt." Her voice trailed away as she gave in to the memories that beat against her. "They were both so—so compelling, and . . . handsome, and . . . and I felt something for both of them. Something in each of them called to me, and I was torn between them." At her son's snort of disgust, she said, "I don't expect you to understand this today, but given a year's time, it will make more sense to you, I promise."
Stephen had no response to that, and they sat a few moments, both lost in thought. Christine broke the silence first. "Did you know that your papa tried to kill Erik in a swordfight?"
Her son's head jerked up at that, and she nodded solemnly. "Yes, and they were fighting over me. I had gone to your grandfather's grave, and Erik was there, also, and your papa followed me, and . . ." Shivering at those horrible memories, she went on softly, "In the course of the fight Erik cut your papa's arm and then Raoul forced him down and knocked his sword away and was ready to kill him—and I stopped him."
Sighing heavily, she added, "Your papa told me much later that he was glad I had stopped him." She looked directly into Stephen's eyes and said, "I am certain that you have also heard that Erik killed two men during that time. I can tell you that Joseph Buquet was a pig, in the truest sense of the word, and his death was no loss to anyone. Piangi was married to La Carlotta, and . . ."
Gently Christine lifted the sleeping kitten from her lap and placed it on a scrap of blanket lying in the corner of the stall. "I really cannot say what kind of man Piangi was. But I believe in my heart that Erik does penance every day for his death." She closed her eyes briefly, opening them to stare at the straw at her feet. "Erik is a good man, Stephen. You know this in your heart. He . . . tried to kidnap me, and when your papa came after me, he forced me to choose between him and Raoul. I chose him, because I knew that was the only way your papa would have a chance to live, even with him pleading for me not to throw my life away for his sake. I was perfectly willing to spend the rest of my life with Erik, if it meant your papa would go free."
Suddenly she stood and grasped the top of one of the boards of the stall. "A crowd of people was coming down into the lair below the opera house where Erik lived, coming to free your papa and me, and . . . kill Erik. When he heard them coming, Erik knew that forcing me to stay with him would accomplish nothing, and . . . he let the both of us go free."
"You and Papa were married not long after that, Grandmère Marie told me." Stephen's voice subdued, he rose and stood behind his mother. She turned and put her arm around his shoulders, and awkwardly he gave her a brief hug.
"Yes, and from the day he let us go, until several days after your papa was killed four years later, I did not see him." Tears gathered in her eyes as she remembered that day, still as fresh in her memory as if it had been yesterday. "He came and told me that he was sorry about your papa, that he had borne him no ill will, and that he regretted what he had done to us."
Straightening, she cupped her son's chin in her hand and stared into his eyes, Raoul's eyes. "I will expect you to have apologized by the time that we sit down to eat dinner tonight," she told him, her tone leaving no room for argument.
"Yes, Maman," he whispered, and she kissed his forehead and left the stable. Collapsing back onto the straw, he picked up the smoke gray kitten that had been asleep on his shoulder. The kitten batted at the tears that slipped down his cheeks as he nuzzled its soft fur. "I will never forget you, Papa—never!"