Disclaimer: To my great dismay, I do not own any of the characters from The Phantom of the Opera. The characters in my work are based on the portrayals in the 2004 film.
A/N: This is a continuation of the story told in the film, four years after the disastrous fire. I don't wish to offend anyone, but if you don't care for romance or a happy ending, then read no further. Those of you who do continue, I would appreciate knowing what you think, for better or worse. I apologize if the first few chapters are a little short—I have no way to judge how long they should be in this type of forum.
NO ONE BUT HER
Chapter One—An End, and A Beginning
Paris, France—April, 1875
Marie Giry let herself into the modest brick house that set well back off the main road to Paris. Surrounded by towering evergreen trees, nothing about the house attracted any undo attention, which is exactly what the owner wanted.
After carefully locking the door behind her, she walked down the hall to the kitchen where she set her market basket on the small table, which was cluttered as usual with half-filled sheets of musical staff paper. The double doors that led from the kitchen to the small terrace stood open, letting in the bright sunlight and soft breezes of a beautiful spring day. Marie stopped on the threshold, her eyes filling with tears as she looked at the man who sat at the shaded end of the terrace, his elbows propped on a small table, his head in his hands.
A newspaper folded in half lay under one elbow, the faint breeze catching a corner occasionally. Marie dashed the tears from her eyes and stepped out onto the terrace. The faint sound of her shoe striking the stone made the man's head jerk in her direction. For an instant she felt her heart stutter at the glare in his icy blue eyes, but she squared her shoulders and continued until she reached his side.
The right side of his face had been scarred, by God only knew what, when he was a baby, and his dark hair was thinner on that side of his head. But still, all in all, she thought, he is not an ugly man. The width of his shoulders and the lean whipcord strength of him would be enough to draw the attention of most women. If I were a few years younger, perhaps . . . Then she shook her head ruefully. No. There had only ever been one woman for him.
After the disaster four years ago at the Opéra Populaire, Erik Montenegro, at one time the infamous Phantom of the Opera, had bought this house, giving the money for it to Marie Giry, so all the paperwork would be in her name. She and her daughter Meg were the only ones who knew what had become of him, and they ran errands for him.
Over his shoulder Marie could see the partial headline—"killed in accident." Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, had been killed the day before in an accident involving runaway horses, a freight wagon, and a child who had wandered into their path. "So," she said softly, "you have heard the terrible news, eh?"
"Yes," he replied just as softly. "Is there—is there news—of Christine?"
"She has taken to her bed, understandably, of course, with her baby due in a matter of days." She paused then put one hand over the fist that lay clenched on the tabletop. "Would you like for me to visit her?"
Erik nodded briefly, then rose abruptly and strode to the low stone wall that surrounded the terrace. The scarred side of his face was turned toward her, and Marie noticed with satisfaction that the herbal remedy she'd insisted that he try was having a positive effect. The scarring was much less noticeable than it had been six months ago.
The sight of him standing there, the slight breeze molding the rough blue chambray shirt against his chest and his long legs encased in his customary black trousers, it was not hard to imagine him as a common laborer, a stable hand, perhaps. But in truth his genius had helped him amass a comfortable nest egg by making several shrewd business investments over the past four years.
Slowly Marie walked toward him, drawing Erik's attention back to her. "I will check on Christine as soon as I can." He nodded once but made no other reply.
The sounds of a horse and buggy moving down the drive toward the road reached him a few minutes later. His broad shoulders suddenly slumping, he resumed his seat at the table and unfolded the paper to read the story again. "Oh, Christine," he whispered brokenly, "I would not have had this happen to you for the world!"
Suddenly a large, long-haired gray and white cat leaped nimbly onto the table, the plume of her tail just barely missing his nose. With a laugh that ended on a sob, he scooped the cat into his arms and buried his face in her fur. "Oh, Madeline," he whispered, "she didn't choose me before—why should I dream that she would now?"
de Chagny Estate, five days later
"No, no, Louise, it's all right! Please let Madame Giry come in!" Propped up in the large oak bed, dressed in a white lawn nightgown and an emerald green satin robe that barely covered her huge belly, Christine shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. She feared the gradually building pain in her lower back meant that she was in labor, but since her water hadn't broken, she was doing her best to ignore it.
"Oh, Marie! How good it is to see you! How is Meg?" And how is Erik? she asked silently. One visit not long after she and Raoul had married, Marie had told her that Erik was living on the outskirts of the city, still shunning the outside world as he had done for so many years.
On subsequent visits, when Raoul was not within earshot, the older woman would talk of Erik from time to time. When Christine's and Raoul's son was born, Marie brought a gift from Erik for the child, a beautifully carved wooden horse. Idly she mentioned that Erik had carved it himself, bringing tears to Christine's eyes, and carefully she wrapped the toy in its covering and put it away until her son was older.
Perhaps they were not meant to be together, thought Marie as she settled herself in a chair next to the bed. And then again . . . "How are you, chère?" she asked, noticing that Christine could not seem to lie still.
"Quite uncomfortable, if you must know the truth." Her chin quivered and her eyes filled with tears that immediately spilled over and ran down her cheeks. "Oh, Marie! What will I do without Raoul?"
"It is not much comfort to you, I know, but you must simply take each day as it comes. Do not look farther than the end of today." The older woman reached out and took Christine's hand in both of hers. "You will always miss him, child, and the pain will never go completely away, but it will ease in time. And this I know well—your children will be a great comfort to you, because they are part of him, no?" Taking a handkerchief from her pocket, she wiped Christine's face and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Try to sleep a little now, ma petite. You will need all your strength very soon, unless I am mistaken."
Sighing, Christine turned over on her side as far as she could. "Please, come again soon, and bring Meg? Stephen would love to see her, as would I."
Murmuring her assent, Marie waited until Christine had dozed off. "God forgive me for meddling, but I must do this," she whispered.