A/N: Since my Christmas stories are only twelve chapters each one will run some 4,000 or so words.
Summary: Miracles happen all the time but especially during the season of goodwill toward man. Can a man so scarred in both face and soul find love? Can he accept someone with more scars than his own? Will love conquer prejudice and perception?
Beauty Beneath
Chapter One
True Beauty
Isabella's POV
Turning away from the mirror in disgust did I really imagine some miraculous intervention would have changed one horrid inch on this hellishly disfigured and deformed body of mine? Did I not long ago give up such childish fantasies? How can I hold any illusions about what I am when every mirror reflects cold hard reality back at me? Not since childhood have I dared let others see me. At the age of three my world became insular with only my stepmother and stepbrother speaking to me. Their company as brief as it always was I do think I would have been all the better being denied any human contact at all.
Dressed from head to toe in black as usual, I let go of my foolish hope that I might at last be able to wear one of those gowns I purchased on a whim last year. Nothing changed, nothing ever does. Born hideous I shall die hideous. Longing for someone's touch, someone's love, I shall forever be denied both. Except for…
Pulling on my matching black lace gloves I give one last regretful sigh then lower the black lace veil that will keep curious eyes from seeing that which I do not want anyone to gaze upon and that which they would regret seeing. Nightmares surely would haunt anyone looking upon such vile ugliness. If I cannot bear to glimpse my own image how can I expect anyone else to readily look at me?
Tonight I will attend the reopening of L'Opéra Populaire. How had I let myself be talked into investing in such a thing is beyond me. Usually I do not take an interest in anything that will require any personal attention from me. Even charitable donations are made through a second party. I suppose it is because I enjoyed those evenings sitting in my private box listening to stories of love being played out before an enraptured audience. For a time while music played and voices sang I could imagine a different life for me. One not cursed for sins unknown to me.
When the lights lowered I became another person. How I loved those stolen moments in time. Lost in whatever story unfolded I could forget my tragic reality. Whatever drama played out on stage carried me away to other places.
Little did we know of the real life drama being played out behind the scenes. How tragically romantic it all was and still is I imagine. Only a year has passed with not a word from any of the parties involved reaching the eager ears of Mademoiselle Daaé's public.
If my circumstances were different I could avail myself of our family connection to the de Chagny's. In my mind I have asked Mademoiselle Daaé so many questions burning to be spoken.
Knowing what it is like to be different and sequestered away from others my heart bled as that man poured out his love and proposal to his love only to be rejected and humiliated in a very public manner.
Would I perhaps turn as mad as he if not for having at least some semblance of normalcy? My life isn't perfect or any I would wish on another but I am not buried beneath tons of steel and mortar either. I have freedom even if I do not take advantage of it as often as I would like. I am not shunned but then wealth has its uses. Money blinds others to many blatant flaws in those with the healthy bank accounts.
I know of Mademoiselle Daaé's fate but often wonder about all those others involved in the mysterious affair between the Phantom of the Opera and his lovely soprano?
Anyone within hearing of his heartfelt declaration could not help but be moved. So moved was I that I almost did not care whether I made it to safety. For brief seconds I imagined the fire engulfing me, removing me from this world that does not accept anyone not of perfect face or figure, at least that is how it seems in my limited knowledge of the world at large.
Survival, the instinct to live without rhyme or reason I suppose moved my feet that night just before my box caught fire.
Foolishly I still have hope the Phantom lives within the opera house. Will he be among the patrons tonight watching? Will he choose another young woman to tutor? Will he fall in love? A disagreeable turn to my lips is evidence this scenario does not set well with me. Jealousy, envy, call it what you will. I would prefer all his admiration and attention to be in my direction. Foolish, foolish woman.
I suppose Felix will be there with his hand out. Why I let that stepbrother of mine intrude in my life is one more thing that shames me. Blackmail is such a vile ugly word, but one that is fitting to the relationship between Felix Montague and me.
He alone knows just what I hide beneath all the layers of clothing. Not for a moment does he let me forget how revolted he is by me. Cursing my father for marrying his mother will not bring me any relief. I can and do curse the fates that let them beget such a sin against all that is holy, namely, me, Isabella Fontaine.
How many nights have I selfishly asked why this curse could not befall my stepbrother. With his arrogance and doting mother might he have not fared better than I?
I have long since given up crying over things that cannot be changed. Instead, I live a reclusive life for the most part. Attending only those functions that are absolutely necessary relieves everyone of the necessity to pretend I am normal and not a freak of nature.
Of course not one of them has seen me without being covered from top to bottom. Speculation has run rife for years without anyone coming any closer to satisfying their innate curiosity. Let them have their little gossip sessions concerning my family dynamics and me in particular. Let them create torrid details of an encounter with me that is false but who is to dispute the declaration? Not I. Often I privately giggle as I compare my reclusive life to that of the Phantom.
Felix will remain oblivious to everyone's hints to reveal all or their attempts to bribe some juicy tidbit just as long as I keep his continuously emptying pockets filled with coin.
If ever there was a man less worthy of the title "Man" I have not met him in my short life of some five and twenty years.
A wastrel born and bred is our dear Felix. His mother, Caroline Montague, did him a disservice by spoiling him even into adulthood. When she died ten years ago she left him without any usable skills. Running through his own inheritance in a short six months he then set about pilfering mine.
Not being an unintelligent woman, I put a stop to him removing so much as one franc from my accounts. That money did not come from his mother. It has no ties to his family. My grandfather and grandmother fortuitously left my fortune in the hands of a trusted friend until my twenty-first birthday after which I took control. A trust set up by them for any grandchildren of my father's marriage assured future generations of Fontaine progeny a healthy bank account. Being my father's only child the entire fund passed to me.
I wonder if they foresaw what terrible burden would come into the world the night I was born. I am grateful to them and wish they had lived so I might have met them. Perhaps they could have loved me.
Sadly my own mother died the night of my birth. Father died only a year after marrying Caroline when I was only two. She is the woman I remember as mother and yet she rejected my attempts to get closer to her. Felix and I were not close as children nor are we close now. If not for my appearance our estranged state could be attributed to the twelve years between us.
It is from Caroline that I learned how revolted others were by my looks. Upon my third birthday all the staff were let go. New staff was hired from England. Caroline moved me from my lovely bedroom into a place she considered adequate for one such as me. My quarters were on the topmost floor away from the general living space. Not a day passed that she did not tell me what a retch I am.
Shameful it may be, but I silently rejoiced upon learning of her death while touring Italy. Felix moped around in an inconsolable drunken haze for a week or two then immediately sought out the solicitors. Imagine his surprise to learn the estate he believed would be his one day in truth belonged to his sister, poor misshapen creature that she is. Father could not leave the house to Caroline as it was to stay in the direct family line. I am the last of my line.
Counting on my inheritance to spend once his own withered away and then learning it belonged solely to me, I do think shocked him into speechlessness for once in his life.
It did not stop him from forging my name to many bank drafts. I put a stop to that. As I said, I am not an unintelligent woman. I keep track of what is mine.
Mine. Would that I could find a man to call my own might just kill me from the splendor of it all. Like…oh dare I think it? Why not, who is to know other than me?
How many times has it been now? Four, no, five, five times I have seen him. Talked to him, been held in his strong arms as we danced. A strangely familiar man, all mystery and allure and yet I do not know his name. Our game forbids I ask.
So many nights I have been disappointed while searching the crowd for his tall, dark figure. Those times he has attended a party or ball has been on nights masks are required. I do not question this oddity as it is a reason for me to keep my own regrettable visage hidden from view.
Is it coincidence we both disappear just before midnight when our faces would be revealed? What need of subterfuge does a man handsome of face and perfect of proportion in body have? None, unlike me who must keep every scarred inch hidden least I sicken some unsuspecting soul.
That voice, oh what it does to me is shameful, almost forbidden. Desires left too long buried clamor to be set free. Almost, almost mind you, I have decided that if ever we find ourselves in some very dark very private place I might chance seducing him. I jest as I would not know the first thing about seduction or the wiles of women. I have not had an opportunity to use such talents.
He doesn't know me, I don't know him. How funny, neither of us has felt it necessary to require a name. Who first suggested we keep our identities anonymous? It could just as well have been me as him. I am not opposed to the idea.
In anonymity there is danger and yet on some level complete safety and a sense of freedom.
That first night even I could tell how nervous and unsure he was to approach me. Out of all those tantalizing half-naked women he chose me, all dressed in black and not showing even a hint of cleavage. How unfashionable I am.
Worry that something will happen to spoil my little fantasy gives me butterflies just before I enter the home of whoever is hosting the current society engorged gathering. Thus far my luck has held.
From the varied topics of our conversations it is obvious my lover is highly intelligent and well read. Lover, oh, how I like the sound of that. Those nights we have spent hour after hour in one another's company do not end when we part.
Once my head hits my pillow I give my subconscious permission and free reign to go where it will. It is a wonder my bed has not caught fire.
The word romance had been cut out of my vocabulary at an early age. Sonnets and poems had no place in my heart nor did books filled with them claim a place on any shelf in my library. Until now that is.
Only last month I braved going into the city so I might order a romance novel. How wondrous to find so many already stocked on the shelf. Women's equality it would seem, gave them courage to read and buy such adventurous writings. Once they were taboo but now were commonplace.
Normally the ride to Paris seems far too short. Before, I dreaded having to make appearances now and again. Now, it is hard for me to wait for the servants to pick up the mail from our box at the end of our drive as I might receive an invitation to attend some party or other where my man of mystery might also attend.
Tonight being such a public celebration it is to be hoped he might know I would attend. Unless he sees me enter the front door he will not know who I am. If he knew me as Isabella Fontaine would he not have let something slip by now? Unless it is his plan to play out some sadistic game I see no profit for his continued act of indifference to know more about his reticent companion. For my part I am extremely curious but have no discreet avenues to enquire as to who he might be.
We walk a very thin line trying to keep our privacy. I have not missed those whispered conversations concerning who it is claiming so much of poor Isabella's time. Speculation I am sure runs from him being a fortune hunter to a man unversed in knowing just what sort of person claims so much of his time. Unwise or not I cannot help but notice he dances with no other woman during our evenings together.
Unaccustomed jealousy raises its ugly head every time I wonder what he does in his time away from me and if it includes other women, women far more lovely than I.
As I arrive in front of the grand staircase leading up to the front doors my chest constricts nervously. Will he be watching for me? Will he wonder why I still wear clothing that conceals every feature from the naked eye or merely conclude I am an oddity, too odd to garner one more moment of his time? Which will be worse, to have him continue our…friendship only to end it when I deny revealing any part of me or have him ignore me completely now I am in a place where nearly all of nobility will attend this grand reopening thus giving rise to ridicule from his peers?
Several tall dark haired men draw my attention but none seem to carry themselves with such confidence as…Well I must give him a name. Did he not at our first encounter remind me of Don Juan from the opera last performed in this very place? He shall from now on be known to me as Don Juan until such time as I am blessed with a proper form of address.
Taking my seat inside my box I know I am setting myself up for heartache. Twenty-five years is too long to go without at least one twinge to my heart. I close off that voice inside that warns I am more likely to die from cupid's first arrow of love than survive with only one small injury. Will it not be better to chance one foray into loves arena than to live my entire life without even one attempt at normalcy? Can I not be sustained by the precious few months of our acquaintance? It will have to be for I am not disposed to save myself any amount of pain just for a few stolen moments in time with a lover even if he is a lover in my mind only.
Glancing around I see a couple of lights turned up to their brightest. Without thinking I automatically turned them down so they hardly cast any light at all. If he had seen me…
Foolish, foolish woman! Reprimanding myself mentally does not push back the surge of hope working its way up from the very deepest part of me. Never one to pin my hopes and dreams on others, now I find that is precisely what I am doing now. If it ends with me praying for another chandelier to come crashing down then so be it.
After fifteen minutes restlessness overtakes me. Nerves are not something I suffer openly but there is not one person to see me fidget or drum my fingers on the arm of my seat.
Lights dimming signals the program is about to begin. So what if he did not come within the first half hour since my arrival. The second act will give him ample opportunity to seek me out. He will come. I know it.
Confidently I straighten my spine and ever so subtly lift my nose just the smallest bit higher. Is there not a saying or quote which states that pride goeth before a fall? He will come. He must come. Please God let him come. Please, just this once I ask for something that is for my benefit alone. Please, I beg of you. I am so tired of being…alone.
Feeling the trickle of tears falling over my cheeks I sniffle as I try to find a handkerchief. Drat it all. I must have forgotten to put one in my bag.
Further sniffles are cut short as I feel a presence in the seat beside me. It is not Felix for I do not smell the stench of whatever whore he bedded before taking a seat or the overpowering smell of the many drinks he will have consumed before arriving at the theater.
A hand, a man's hand, appears in front of me dangling a white very expensive man's kerchief. So caught off guard am I that I nearly fall out of my chair when he speaks.
"Mademoiselle what has so distressed you? The performance is only just begun. Not one jilted lover or murdered rival has been sacrificed for the lady's affections."
Thank you God! Thank you. I shall be your humble servant for the rest of my life. Charity shall be my life's work. To have this man here with me I would promise almost anything.
"It is nothing Monsieur. I must have gotten a speck of dust in my eye. I do thank you for your offering but it will not be needed."
Why must I sound so haughty when I wish to appear welcoming?
"Would you like for me to look at your eye? Some damage may be done if debris scratches at your eye."
Mentally seeing a hand reaching toward my veil I nearly shout, "No!"
Clearly he believes I am simple minded or about to attack him for he leans away from me. Before I prayed he would come now I only want for him to leave me alone in my misery.
"Isabella, I did not mean to frighten you. I would never do anything you did not wish me to do. Everyone has something they wish to hide from the world. Our secrets, yours and mine just happen to be of a more private nature. Unfortunately mine has already been revealed for the entire world to see in such a way…in a way that insured to hurt the most."
Reluctantly I turn my head in his direction. I fear what I will see. That voice, his voice, did I not compare him to Don Juan? Did I not in fact secretly call him by that name?
Knowing what or rather who I will see does not prepare me for the perfection of his face, the side I can see anyway. Slowly he turns so I can take in the whole of him. The right side is white porcelain with only one lustrous green eye I remember so well peering back at me. Those lips, lips I have dreamed about pressing forcefully onto mine, are held tight together by either uncertainty or anger.
I miss the black domino. Silly of me but I do. Resisting reaching out to touch the mask is not easy but I do manage to curb my natural curiosity. Knowing what is underneath that cold white mask it is understandable for him to feel trepidation about having it removed. Did not one woman already betray him with that trick?
Fear curls in my belly. What if he is willing to remove his mask and asks me to do the same? His distancing himself from me a while ago relieves my mind on that score. Neither of us will be revealing anything anytime soon. For me it will be when Hell freezes over.
Another thought drives away worry over my own secret. Suspiciously I ask, "How…how did you who I am? How long have you known?"
"Who in Paris has not heard of Mademoiselle Fontaine?" he retorts using slight mockery to confuse me or beguile me, I am not sure which.
"You…you might have said something. Why continue with our silly juvenile game?" Mockery is not the emotion accompanying my words. Defensive, accusatory, suspicious, those describe my sentiments more aptly.
"I may be a lot of unsavory things but being a gentleman is my one and only virtue if indeed it is a virtue to primp and preen." He now directs self-deprecating mockery toward himself.
"Why would I spoil your fun when it afforded me so much pleasure of my own?"
Dim lighting keeps me from reading his true emotions. Does he toy with me? I am too nervous to blush.
Hoping I am not to meet my doom I ask a burning question trying not to let fear slur my words. "Am I to assume…am I correct to think my box is being invaded by none other than the infamous Phantom himself?" There, I have said it. I turn my head away having no wish to see a death blow headed in my direction if indeed one is to follow my ill advised inquiry.
Something close to a chuckle reaches my ears. Relief floods me as it becomes clear I am not in imminent danger of dying.
Startled I feel his finger at my chin turning me toward him. What is behind that searching look I must endure? My skin heats as if he has touched me with gentle caresses. Struggling not to give into the need to hasten my breathing, I manage to hold his gaze with my own.
"So brave Mademoiselle. I wonder if your bravery would last if we were alone, more alone than we are now?" His words are smooth as silk and as tempting as any siren song luring unsuspecting sailors to their doom. What fate awaits me should I find myself in the embrace of an opera ghost?
My fantasies, wants and wishes are leading me down a path that can only lead me to hurt and rejection but it is a path I am helpless to turn away from on my own.
"Monsieur, I am brave for I am almost certain you mean me no harm…" he cuts me off before I can finish my sentence.
"Almost? How charming."
"What I am trying to convey is that if you intended me any harm I would already have suffered my fate. Your reputation for…such matters has been well documented in every paper all over France."
Leaning in toward me his warm breath stirs the lace of my veil. Would not so many Parisians be mortified to learn the Phantom is not some fire breathing demon from Hell?
"Be careful Mademoiselle. My generosity goes only so far. Please refrain from any mention of my illustrious past," he whispers menacingly. A second later he is turned toward the stage watching the performance as if he did not just subtlety inform me I should not take his calm demeanor for granted.
For the rest of the first act we sit in silence. I dare not let my eyes travel in his direction lest he believes I am intruding on his enjoyment.
As the curtain drops and applause echoes around us abruptly he stands and says, "Mademoiselle, I wish to invite you to dinner. Naturally I do not patronize any of Paris' fine establishments but I do hire a man to obtain what I desire," abruptly spoken just as his indication he is about to leave is rather urgently relayed to me.
Shock stills my tongue. I need not have worried for he fills the void by instructing me, "Do not give an answer tonight. Tomorrow, return to the theater, come to box five and leave your written answer on the seat nearest the column."
A flurry of movement from him heralds some sort of smoke. When it is cleared my mystery man is gone. Did I dream him?
Glancing down I see a red rose left in the very seat he occupied only moments before. My sanity is intact.
A ghostly voice nearly frightens me to death as it commands, "Call me Erik. My name is Erik."
With bated breath I wait for something more only to be rewarded by disappointing silence.
Well, what am I to make of that? Scent from the newly cut rose wafts underneath my veil. Resistance to raising it to my nose is not even a consideration. Inhaling deeply my enchantment drops by degrees as I recall the Phantom sent Mademoiselle roses, ones tied with a black ribbon as tokens of his affection and approval. Mine, my first gift from a man, is bare of any such adornment.
Felix coming in then plopping down carelessly in the seat Erik, my Erik had just moments ago been sitting in, brings strange urges from me. It is an affront to have him there, in the seat that shall now and always be Erik's. Demands that he vacate the seat and indeed my box are left unsaid.
"I am in need of some funds dear Isabella," he says sulkily. He does so hate being beholden to my generosity.
"Of course you do. In anticipation of just such a request I brought along five hundred francs. You will find my bag on the table by the door. Please be so good as to take what you came for and leave me to my own company." Not since I was twelve have I felt any obligation to pretend any affection for him, perhaps even before that.
"Why you crafty goose. Who braved his manhood and the very appendage holding the offering?" he teases as he points to the rose still resting in my hand.
If I hide it now that will only draw attention to how much it means to me. Thinking quickly I carelessly lift it to wave it beneath his nose.
"What, this? It is a present to me from me. A young flower girl had one left. As it was getting dark I bought it so she could make her way home to safety."
"Always the soft heart. Be careful Isabella, someday your trusting nature will cast you into a cauldron of boiling regrets," he speaks lightly but to me it sounds almost like a prophecy.
Gaining what he wanted Felix is now happy to leave my boring company. Now I can give my full attention to my first and only invitation from a man. Two firsts in one night, how extraordinary. Shamelessly I wonder how many more firsts might Erik and I share. Faint heart never won fair lady. Wrong gender but still the sentiment is appropriate.
From the lofty heights of excitement to the lows of depression each emotion wars for prominence. If I go…if, mind you…if I do, there will be no requests to see me in all my frightful glory. It is dinner. There will be food, food I must eat with my veil lifted off my face. Not having invented a way to eat with my veil on that does not end with me looking as if I wallowed in my plate, removal is my only option.
Go yes, refuse yes, back and forth for the remainder of the performance. Gathering up my cloak a final decision is made. I will go and damn the consequences. The matter of my veil…well that bridge will be crossed when it is in front of me.