Author's Note: Welcome! This is a sequel to my previous story, Strangeness and Charm. As such, it draws from both Kay and Leroux. This story takes place some time after Strangeness and Charm, approximately six months after "The Incident" at the Opera House involving a Miss Daae.
"The house comes fully staffed, but of course you'll be able to hire whomever you please."
The impossibly tall figure held himself like royalty, hooded and masked as though he sought not to be recognized. He inspected the house with quiet detachment, cold and completely unreadable.
"I won't be requiring any staff."
That voice! In spite of the sickening news, Cecile would gladly have gone to the ends of the earth and back to hear that voice again. It was like silk, cool and fluid. Musical even, like a song.
But no staff – the Beaulieu estate had been her home for fifteen years. She had kept the house spotless, cooked for the old widow Beaulieu for over a decade and nursed her in her last year of life. Cecile had invested sweat, blood, and tears into this house, and its new owner would simply dismiss her without a care in the world.
"Forgive me for saying so, Sir, but your wife will certainly be needing help with a place this large –"
"I have no wife, Monsieur Bisset."
The fat old lawyer who had been charged with selling the Beaulieu estate upon its mistresses passing looked surprised. "It's a rather large house for a bachelor, don't you think?"
With what sounded like his last thread of patience, the masked stranger spoke. "I have spent the last twenty years of my life living in a grave. I am anxious for a change in scenery."
Monsieur Bisset cleared his throat uncomfortably, and Cecile took that as a sign to bring in the tea service and ease the tension that had settled between the men. Bisset relaxed immediately at the sight of the woman, clearly glad for the interruption. "Ah, Madame Lallier, allow me to introduce Monsieur Renard. He is considering purchasing the estate."
As soon as the woman entered the room and lifted her gaze, the masked man was transfixed. When Cecile noticed the man's gaze she flushed some in self-aware embarrassment and diverted her eyes to the tray as much to hide her discomfort as in reverence. "Monsieur."
"A pleasure," the masked man promised, never moving his eyes. Cecile could almost feel his gaze boring into her, and felt compelled by some unseen force to meet his eyes once again. They were difficult to see in the shadows cast by the porcelain mask covering most of his face, but impossible now to turn away from. Was it her imagination, or were they shining in the dim light of early winter?
It wasn't until Monsieur Renard broke her gaze to respond to the old lawyer that Cecile realized the way in which the world around her had seemed to vanish under his stare. Quickly she served their tea and dismissed herself, far too aware of Erik's eyes on her as she left the room.
"Madame Lallier makes the best pastries in all of France," she heard Monsieur Bisset praise. Silently she bless the man for his efforts and felt a twinge of guilt for ever thinking ill of him.
"She certainly is lovely," Monsieur Renard commented, more to himself than to the lawyer. "She is staffed at the house, you say?"
"Yes, Madame Lallier is the head of staff. Without her the house would have fallen to shambles when Madame Beaulieu fell ill. She has staff to help her of course, but she oversees all of the necessities of the house from the yardwork to the cooking. She even helped nurse Madame Beaulieu in her final days, if you can imagine."
"Cece, Jacque's been throwing pebbles at the window again and mucked them up!"
The voice of one of the youngest maid shrieked from upstairs, and Cecile cursed her luck; it was wrong to eavesdrop she knew, but she was not in search of petty gossip – if she was going to be out of a work and out of a home, she wanted to know sooner rather than later. "If you would stop flirting with him every time you spot him, he would stop throwing pebbles."
There was no other chance to listen in on the gentlemen's conversation that day, but it was not the last Cecile saw of the masked man. As the sun was getting ready to set and she was lighting the lanterns in the kitchen in preparation for supper, he appeared behind her as if from thin air.
"Lallier, isn't it?" He asked, causing the woman to nearly jump out of her skin. Was that… mirth on his face? It was almost impossible to tell with more porcelain than a year's salary could pay for covering all but his bottom lip and chin.
"Do you take pleasure in scaring women half to death, Monsieur Renard?" She demanded, immediately regretting the tone in her words; this man had the power to change her life quite drastically, and here she was scolding him!
The man's laugh immediately set her at ease. It reminded her of the church bells in the little village where she had grown up, brassy and rich not unlike his speaking voice. "Only the pretty ones," he promised eyes once again fixated on hers.
Well, she supposed there were less appropriate parts of her anatomy he could have fixated on, she mused. And his eyes were really quite spectacular as well, the way they gleamed. Now in the lamp-light she might almost guess that they were gold… "Yes, it's Lallier. How may I help you, Monsieur?"
"Actually, I have several questions I thought you might be best suited to answer."
"Certainly. Do you mind if I answer them while I'm cooking? I have eight mouths to feed, and the little ones get hungry early."
"You have children then?" The man asked, granting his consent to her work with a wave of his hand. The way he moved through the room and the manner in which he sat convinced Cecile more and more that he was some sort of royalty.
"Oh, no," she said, with unhappiness in her voice. "I meant the horse boy Jacque and one of the maids, Alice. They are eighteen and sixteen respectively, and hard workers but still growing."
She worked with practiced hands through the large and well equipped kitchen, gathering everything she would need for a stew and almond cake for dessert. While she could still feel the man's eyes on her, she was less aware of it now than before and guessed he must be watching her work rather than simply watching her.
"And your husband, does he work in the stables as well?" The man asked, and Cecile shook her head.
Her lie was so well practiced after fifteen years, it almost seemed real. "He died many years ago in a hunting accident."
"I would say I am sorry to hear that, but it isn't true," the gentleman remarked, nearly causing Cecile to drop the bowl she was carrying in shock.
"Excuse me?"
The man held up his hand. "If something so gruesome as a hunting accident is the lie you chose, I don't care to know the truth," he promised.
"But how did you-"
He interrupted her before she could demand an explanation. "I only asked because I am considering keeping on one of the staff. As much as it pains me to say it I believe Monsieur Bisset was right when he said this is too much house for one man alone to care for, and it would be a shame for it to fall into neglect."
Cecile's upset at being caught in a lie was gone almost immediately. "And… and you're considering me?"
"Yes, I am. Especially now I know you and your husband aren't a package deal."
The man had a way of speaking that both enthralled her at the news, and left her on edge – "But still only just considering."
"Well, you are the obvious choice aren't you? You've lived in the house the longest, you know all of the chores it takes to keep it running, you're clearly a very skilled cook…"
As he trailed off his eyes for the first time began to wander, and what he was either too much a coward or too much a gentleman to suggest out loud became clear. Considering the way in which he hid is face and the subject matter, Cecile was inclined to think him the former.
Little Alice had expressed her fears about this before, and she had right to be concerned. She was adolescent and beautiful, her youth shining through the plainness of a maid's wardrobe like a gem. But she was still a virgin, unwed and untouched by man with far more to lose and far less to gain.
Cecile on the other hand was thirty nine years old, a once-married woman with nowhere to go and everything to lose. With no one alive to give her a reference, her only option should she be turned out of the house might very well be turning tricks anyway…
And the decision was made. Though many years had passed since Cecile had last practiced the art of seduction, it came to her as easily as riding a horse. "I'm very skilled at other matters as well, Monsieur Renard," she suggested, shocked and to her own surprise a little enthralled by the intensity of his reaction to her words.
He drew a quick breath, eyes closing behind the mask. His whole posture seemed to change where he sat on one of the work stools. He was less like a prince now and more like a poet, as body weak as though burdened by the extraordinary weight of his heart beneath his ribs.
Seizing the opportunity, Cecile stepped away from her work and sauntered towards the man, trailing her fingers over his shoulder as she moved behind him. He hissed as though her feather light touch were made of fire. "For instance, I've been told I'm a very good masseuse," she purred into his ear, using more pressure this time to run her finger from the nape of his neck down his spine.
Before he hand could travel far, the man spun in his seat and grabbed her wrist so suddenly and with so much force Cecile yelped once before covering her mouth to silence herself; though her eyes were still wide with startled fear, she knew better than to shout.
"You have no idea of the gravity of your actions, Madame Lallier, so I will forgive you this once," the man explained, suddenly on the other side of the room as though her very scent angered him. His posture was still not that of the regal man who had entered the house, but it was a far cry from the world-weary man whose very being seemed to long for affection just moments before.
Even through her surprise and embarrassment, it only took Cecile a moment to interpret his words. "You'll let me stay, then?"
"Yes, of course I will," he said as though the decision had been made long before and were painfully obvious.
"Oh, thank you, Monsieur Renard, you have no idea –"
"How much this means to you? You've just given me quite a good idea, Madame," he pointed out, and Cecile could immediately feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. "The house is paid for, I move in one week's time. Fire the other staff before then."
Eyes the color and clarity of sapphires were not easy to forget. They had stood out strikingly against the woman's creamy skin and hair the color of café au lait, like lakes on a snowy mountain.
Lallier. The name was unfamiliar, but something about the woman insisted to Erik Renard that he had known her once before. How he had traveled the world, met countless people and destroyed most of the lives he had touched beyond a passing acquaintance. If he had met her before, surely she would have remembered him and said something, raged at him for killing her husband, her child, her aunt, niece, mother or father.
How could he possibly know her face but she have no recollection of his?
Perhaps she merely had a common face. Apart from her eyes, she really was no different than other traditionally attractive women her age. Her face was relatively symmetrical, her eyes large and her lips full, her nose slightly larger and sharper than the petite round noses in vogue. She wore no rouge, her eyes were not lined with any kohl, her dress was not expensive or showy. The one indulgence she seemed to take was a hint of flowery perfume he had caught wind of when she stepped behind him.
The memory alone filled him with conflicting emotions. Lust for the soft curves of her body, eagerness to possess those gem-like eyes and cupid-bow lips. Eagerness for affection, to be touched and cared for. Immense and overwhelming guilt for his attraction to any woman who was not her.
Christine Daae, the embodiment of perfection. He ought to be punished for ever lusting after another woman than Christine Daae! She was an angel, young and beautiful with a voice sent straight from heaven for Erik to mold into something as ethereal as the woman herself.
It's no wonder she couldn't love you, you disgusting, ugly beast. His mind raged even as his body ached for the morphine that would silence it. You're a monster, a demon, the scourge of the earth and a burden on man. Who could ever love a wicked, pathetic thing like you?
After what felt like an eternity, he finally found the vial of thin clear liquid. Even with shaking hands he was able to draw several milliliters of the liquid up into a needle. Soon the liquid was spreading warmth through his arm, soothing his aching body and raging mind.
Morphine stopped the rage, but it did not stop the heartache – she was gone. Christine was gone. If he were a braver man he might have taken his life weeks ago to spare himself the pain of those three words. But Erik Renard was not a brave man. He was masochistic, intent on punishing himself for eternity for what he had done to his love, for chasing her into the arms of a handsome young Vicomte.
But that night, Erik's rattled mind would not be filled with the sound of Christine's angelic voice nor of images of her lovely, petite frame. That night Erik's dreams left him drowning in a lake of sapphires.