A/N: For those unfamiliar with my other Phantom of the Opera stories, in my personal headcanon Mathilde is Madame Giry's given name. In all of my PotO stories, Erik should be pictured as Leroux's version, with the more severe deformity and the mask covering his entire face, while his voice is that of Michael Crawford's magnificent stage portrayal. All other characters can be pictured as those from Webber's 2004 movie.
Fulfills the Caesar's Palace Emotions Challenge, Prompt 03: Bitter.
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No copyright infringement intended.
Mathilde lifted the blanket to look again at the child suckling sweetly at her breast. A wave of love swept over her afresh, and the strain went out from her neck and back—until her shoulders touched the arm resting on the loveseat behind her. She stiffened again.
Here in this quiet little room, in front of the crackling fire, she sat trapped, touched at once by both love and hate. In her arms lay Marguerite, her little Meg, the light and joy of her days. Yet already Meg's blonde hair was beginning to curl into ringlets, reminding her all too much of the man who sat beside her. Monsieur Giry—she had never been able to bring herself to call him by his Christian name—was nearly twice her age and more than ten times her worth in income. At the time it had seemed like the natural, indeed the only choice. A patron of the opera had professed violent love to her and promised to use his influence to bring her up through the ranks of the ballet. How could she refuse? Her mind had been so clear then, unclouded by the dictates of her heart. There was no point in following her heart, for what her heart wanted was impossible, even if the one she loved had wanted the same as she did…
But that clarity was gone, and she had at last given up on trying to get it back. She was unhappy; there was no denying that now. Monsieur Giry cared for her, but it was little different from the care other men gave to a favorite horse or dog. Again and again she wondered how he had convinced her of his "violent love," for since that day he had shown no violence in any emotion, whether good or bad. She knew she was loved by the bread on her plate and the clothes on her body—and, perhaps, by the child in her arms, conceived on the night they had eloped, the single day she had been able to believe he felt any sort of passion for her.
Since then she had done little more than live in his home. Most women would have suspected a mistress, but Mathilde could not bring herself to. He seemed too careless even to bother. What had happened that night? Perhaps he had been drunk. Perhaps she, for all her seeming clear-mindedness, had been drunk, too, to have been deceived by him. Perhaps the man she had married was not the man who had proposed. Perhaps—perhaps many things. It did not matter. She was trapped between the hated one whose arm lay around her shoulders and the beloved one she cradled in her arms.
Mathilde looked down at Meg again. She was so precious, so innocent, so perfect. Except for her hair. Monsieur Giry's hair.
Did other mothers wonder what their children would have looked like if they'd had another father? Guilt burned her every time she imagined it, but that didn't keep the thoughts from coming. If Meg were Erik's child, how would she look? Would her golden hair be black and straight like his? Would—might Erik's deformity have been passed on to her? Would Mathilde have cared if it had, so long as the child had been Erik's?
Fruitless musings, but it was impossible to stop them. Meg should have been Erik's; she would have been if not for Mathilde's foolish clear-mindedness that night. No advancement was worth a lifetime of regret. Monsieur Giry was as good as his word; opportunities had already begun opening for her at the Opera. Yet Mathilde would rather have Erik. She realized that now. But it was too late.