Chapter 2
I slept surprisingly well that night, with no dreams that I could recall. I suppose the shock and stress of the day must have forced my body to simply shut down, demanding rest. I awoke to find Erik leaning over me, shaking my shoulder with one hand and Mother's with the other.
"Come along, ladies," he said. "We must be off before we overstay our welcome."
"What time is it?" I mumbled, sitting up and running a hand through my tangled curls as I peered at the masked man in the grey light coming through the curtains.
"A quarter past six," he replied. "And we have a long journey ahead of us. Get dressed and be downstairs in ten minutes."
"A quarter past—" I began indignantly.
"Into your clothes now," he ordered. "Or must I assist you?"
"Out," Mother said firmly, and Erik gave an elaborate bow and left the room.
It was a little over twenty minutes before Mother and I were ready to leave. We came downstairs to the lobby where Erik was waiting for us, arms folded and already fuming.
"What took you so long?" He demanded, snatching the carpet bag from my hand.
"Corsets," Mother replied, and he turned away from us with an annoyed huff. We followed his stalking steps outside, where the carriage was waiting, the horses' reigns being held by a sleepy looking stable boy, whom Erik had clearly also dragged from his bed. Erik tossed the carpet bag up with the rest of our luggage, and pulled the tarpaulin over it. There was no rain this morning, but it was very cold, and I was glad to get into the carriage seize hold of the blanket Mother and I had wrapped around ourselves the previous night.
For the first couple of hours of the journey, I slept, my head resting on Mother's shoulder. She was looking out of the window when I awoke, and her expression, reflected in the glass, looked grim.
"Are you alright?" I asked. "You look worried."
She heaved a sigh.
"I'm not sure that Normandy is going to provide a good life for us," she admitted. "My concerns are the same as yours, Meg. Erik may have money now, but it won't last forever, and then what are we going to do?"
"We'll… have to find work," I said uncertainly.
"Of course, but neither you nor I have had work outside of the theatre," she said. "And I doubt there are many of those in Normandy. It's not a worry that should be foremost in my mind, Meg, and I don't want to burden you with it…"
"I understand." I nodded. "Our future has changed, beyond anything we were planning for. It's frightening."
"Yes," she sighed. "It's frightening."
I took her hand in mine and squeezed gently.
"But we have each other… Do you think that's why Erik… brought us along with him? Because he's lonely?"
"Perhaps," she nodded. "Erik had spent so much of his life alone, shunned and despised because of something he had no control over. Who deserves that, Meg? Right now, he needs us."
xxxxx
Erik stopped the carriage at the alongside a roughly built road in a forest, at about three o'clock in the afternoon. At first I thought he had paused to relieve himself, but instead of vanishing behind a tree, he opened the carriage door and climbed inside. He was well-wrapped up in the brown coat, with a scarf about his neck and hands covered by black leather gloves, but his unmasked cheek was pink from the wind against it.
"Are you alright?" I asked. "You must be tired."
"I do well enough," he replied, removing his gloves and rummaging through one of the bags. "We will be reaching Corbeaux in about an hour and a half, I estimate, and there are one or two things we should discuss before we arrive." He pulled out a sheaf of papers and handed some to me and some to Mother. "Your new identities, ladies."
I stared, open-mouthed, at the papers we both held. A marriage certificate stated that Antoinette Étourneau, formerly known as Madame Antoinette Jules and widowed by her husband, had married Erik Danton on September 9th 1893. And in October of that year, he had become the legal guardian of her daughter, Marguerite Étourneau, henceforth known as Marguerite Danton. Erik Danton, according to this paperwork, was an architect, and his wife and stepdaughter were seamstresses.
I felt the blood starting to beat in my head.
Mother held the papers up to the light and squinted at the watermark which became visible.
"Well, the paper is genuine. Stolen? Mmm. A very good forgery, Erik, I must congratulate you."
"My God!"
My stomach flipped as the rushing noise in my head got louder, threatening to drown out everything else, the nausea building. I fumbled with the door handle on my side of the carriage, trying to force it, and almost falling out when the door opened. I staggered away from the carriage, one hand against my breast as I struggled to remember how to breathe, how to remain upright. I felt as though Erik were taking an enormous paintbrush and was whitewashing out everything that did not suit him and his new plans for life. Everything I had ever been and everyone I had ever loved blotted out by a forged signature on some fake legal paperwork.
I heard Mother and Erik get out of the carriage after me, and I gripped the slender trunk of a young tree, trying to catch my breath. The ground underneath me seemed to be swaying.
No, no, no… I prayed silently. Not here, not now…
The logical part of my brain knew that I was having a panic attack and that it was an extreme reaction, but it was drowned out by the cacophony in my head that was terrorized by the amount of change happening in such a short space of time.
"Meg, get back in the carriage." Erik's hand came down on my shoulder.
"Don't touch me!" I twisted away from him and saw him fold his arms, his expression angry. Mother looked sympathetic and worried. I pressed my hand to my chest again, the emotional pain so real that it was almost a physical sensation. Erik had always claimed that I was his; not in the way that Christine was his very heart, but that I was his property. He had delivered me at birth and used his own breath to start my breathing, and now that document legally tied me to him.
"Meg…" Mother walked towards me slowly. "Dearest…"
"What is the matter with the child?" Erik demanded. "Am I going to have to put up with this on a daily basis, Madame?"
"Shut up, Erik!" She approached me again, arms outstretched. "Meg…"
"Don't!" I begged, extending a trembling hand to stop her. "I can't breathe!"
"I know, Meg, I know. Just look at me. Focus on me." She took my outstretched hand and pressed it against her own chest. "Feel my breaths, Meg. Breathe with me. In… out… in… out… there's a good girl."
Her free hand brushed the hair from my forehead, where perspiration was starting to make it stick. With her guidance, the forest stopped trying to spin around me and my breaths came easier. We had each other. She was my rock, grounding me, holding me fast.
"That's it…" Mother let go of my hand and her arm encircled my back to hug me. "There, darling, it's over."
I shook my head, seeing Erik leaning against the carriage and watching with simmering impatience.
"I'm afraid," I whispered.
"I know," Mother replied gently. "I am too. But all this… the wedding that never happened, his guardianship of you… It's a farce, Meg." She kissed my forehead. "It's all a farce. We must pretend to be a family."
"Why?"
"Because people think differently here. There is no way that a man and two women can occupy the same house unless they are related. So we must just act the part for awhile, until the time comes to move on. Will you do that for me, Meg? Will you try?"
I nodded, and took another deep breath as Mother put her arm around my shoulders and led me back to the carriage. I tried not to look at the identity papers as the three of us resumed our seats, and told myself to remember that it was just a part. That's all it was, ink and paper, and not worth even that.
Mother glared at Erik and he cleared his throat.
"Corbeaux is quiet, which is one of the reasons I chose it; there is little passing trade and most of its wealth comes from agriculture. The farmers take their stock into Rouen every week for the market. There is a church, and the priest's name is Father Chauvelin. We will all be attending Sunday Mass every week." I opened my mouth to object, but he did not let me speak. "It is a religious community and if we do not attend it will be commented upon, and no doubt lead to gossip and rumour."
"But what about you?" I interrupted. "A masked man sitting in church is going to be cause for gossip and rumour anyway."
He nodded. "You may be right, but I do not think it will be as much of a problem as you expect. Certainly no one from Corbeaux is going to go running to the Parisian gendarmes and tell them that the Opera Ghost has taken up residence in their village."
Erik sounded confident, but I was less certain. A man in a mask was an intriguing premise for a story, and stories had a habit of spreading.
xxxxx
I mentioned before that I had never yet been outside of Paris, and therefore the mental image I had of a village came from the books I read.
I imagined a tiny group of houses surrounded by woodland, with thatched roofs and roses growing around the doors. There would be one shop, a family-run establishment, which fulfilled everyone's needs, a tavern or public house, a village hall where the mayor lived, and a church. I had a rather romanticised notion in my head.
Corbeaux was miniscule compared to Paris, but was hardly the lonely cluster of buildings huddled together that I had anticipated. It stood with the forest to the East of it, fields all around, the road Erik drove the carriage along properly paved. The houses were sturdily built, and larger than I had expected, their roofs made of clay or slate tiles. The road became a high street with shops on either side, with tables outside displaying their wears, and I found myself surprised by the quantity of them. I counted several clothing shops, six public houses, a butcher's, a greengrocer's, a blacksmith, a bakery, a barber's, and what looked, to my keen eye, like a bookshop. There was also a coaching house, and the church of dark stone, its steeple rising over the other buildings. Erik drew the carriage to a halt outside a non-descript structure and swung himself down from the driver's box. Mother and I got out of the carriage, eager to stretch our legs. The late afternoon sun spread like golden syrup over the street.
"You, boy!" Erik called to a child walking on the other side of the street. "Ten francs for watching the carriage."
"Yes, Monsieur," the boy trotted over, looking up at Erik with apparent fascination. "Why are you wearing a mask?"
I flinched, expecting anger, but Erik simply fished some coins from his coat pocket.
"I was badly burned in a fire," his tone sounded bored. "Were you to see behind this mask it would give you nightmares. Five francs now, boy, and five when we return. And mark my words, if anything goes missing I will hunt you down and have your hide."
The boy accepted the coins, shrugging as though he received threats like that every day; perhaps he did. Erik turned to enter the building, and Mother and I followed. Inside was a large room with a desk at either end, and a bookcase stuffed with identical brown leather volumes, each baring a hand written label on the spine. At first I thought they were books, but then I realised they were box files, each numbered and with a tiny lock.
A young man, with blonde hair and immaculately dressed, rose from his chair behind one of the desks. His bright smile faltered when he caught sight of Erik's mask, but he maintained a professional front.
"May I help you, Monsieur? Madame?" He nodded in my direction to acknowledge me as well.
"Monsieur Danton to see Monsieur Rousseau," Erik replied, removing his gloves.
"Of course. One moment, please."
He crossed the room to a door in the opposite wall and disappeared through it, returning half a minute later behind an older man, also splendidly dressed, with grey hair pulled back in a short ponytail. He didn't seem at all surprised by Erik's mask, or his scruffy clothing.
"Monsieur Danton," he greeted Erik.
"Monsieur Rousseau," Erik returned. "A pleasure to see you again. May I introduce my wife, Antoinette, and my stepdaughter, Marguerite."
I clenched my teeth, but Rousseau did not seem to notice, bowing us over to his desk, where there were two chairs on the visitor's side.
"Ladies, it is an honour. Did Paul offer you some refreshment?"
"Thank you, no." Erik answered for us. "We are keen to get on."
"Of course, Monsieur, I quite understand."
Rousseau opened his desk drawer, pulled out some papers, and sorted through until he found what he was looking for. Then he crossed over to the bookcase of box files, double-checking a number on the paper he held. He took down a file and carried it back to the desk, where he unlocked it using a tiny golden key on his watch chain. I peered at the new wad of papers that emerged with curiosity as Rousseau handed them to Erik with a smile. There looked to be a lot of legal jargon, but I recognised them as property deeds. Erik read them carefully, and then nodded.
"Very good. Where do I sign?"
Another flash of annoyance rippled through me as he dipped the pen in the inkwell, and I saw that he had moved his black-stoned ring from the little finger of his right hand to the ring finger of his left.
Just an act, I repeated to myself.
Erik signed several documents, and when he finished, Rousseau handed him a pair of keys.
"Thank you so much, Monsieur Danton. Would you like an escort to the house?"
"No, thank you, Monsieur," he replied. "I remember the way well enough."
After a few more pleasantries, Rousseau bowed us out of the office. The boy was still there, stroking the mane of one of the horses. Erik looked carefully over the carriage, then handed over the rest of the promised money. The boy beamed up at him.
"Great mask, Monsieur!" He cried, and before Erik has time to wipe the surprised look off his face, the child had run off, the coins clutched in his hand. We watched him go.
"You've made a new friend, Erik," I told him.
Erik shook his head, still looking astonished, then climbed onto the driver's box while Mother and I got into the carriage.
We drove out of the village centre, the road winding up a hill, the buildings becoming screened by trees. The house that we drew up beside was a peculiar mixture of old and new. It had clearly started life as a two storey cottage, but had been added to and extended very recently. It looked as though someone had tried to add a mansion onto the cottage's end wall, where the building suddenly sprouted a third storey and different stonework, the original roof sloping upwards where it joined the new wall. There were gardens front and back, planted with the most amazing flowers and trees, the rear garden full of herbs, vegetables and fruit trees, which would soon be blossoming as Spring arrived.
There was a stable attached to one side of the house, and Erik struggled to unhook the carriage, and led the horses into neighbouring stalls. I wanted to help him, but I knew nothing about horses and found them a bit intimidating; too large, with great big hooves and teeth.
He opened the wooden front door with one of the two keys, and between the three of us we took the luggage from the carriage and put it in the drawing room, before he started showing us around. The interior of the house was amazing, and full of light. It was as though after so many years of living underground, Erik wanted to let go of darkness and embrace the daylight once more. The walls were painted white and other pale colours, with windows everywhere. The furniture was elegant and modern, and I felt a lump rising in my throat. It was the drawing room that made the jolt of realisation settle in my stomach. It was as if someone had taken a photograph of Erik's home beneath the Opera Populairé, or even better, a stage set, and had changed the lighting so that it was illuminated by full sunlight, rather than firelight. The first thing that struck me was the sheer amount of light that filled the room. One wall, that in his underground home had been plain stonework, was a full-length French window that opened out onto the garden beyond. The walls were decorated with drawings; most were landscapes or architectural pieces, but there was at least one charcoal drawing of Christine. There were crystals in her dark curly hair, that I recognised from her debut performance as Elissa in Hannibal. So he had seen it. I had hoped at the time that he had been part of the audience.
There was a grand piano in the corner between the French window and the fireplace, facing out into the room. A Persian rug lay on the floor in front of the fireplace, and two violins were hung on the chimney breast, the bows crossed over the mantelpiece like duelling swords. I stared around at the chairs, little tables, sideboard, and I recognised it all, right down to the books on the bookcase.
Back in Paris, I had noticed that Erik's personal possessions and furniture were going missing, but I had never dreamed that he was moving them to a house in the country, replicating his former subterranean home above ground.
"Erik?" I asked. He paused in his mono-syllabic tour. "You… bought this house? Using the money you blackma-… they paid you at the Opera Populairé?"
"Yes," Erik confirmed. "I own this building outright, it has all been paid for. We're not going to get evicted if that is your fear, little dancer."
"That's not what I'm worried about," I shook my head. "You said this was a fresh start. But I think you've been intending to come here for quite some time… with Christine."
He glowered at me, and it was confirmation enough. He had been intending to start a new life with the woman he loved. It must be like rubbing salt into his wounds to come here and live that life without her. How could he let go and move on from her, with all these preparations and dreams in place?
Erik was glaring at me so ferociously that I knew the pity I felt for him must be showing on my face. He did not want my pity, he wanted to move on. I cleared my throat.
"Where is my room?" I asked, and Erik indicated the direction with a jerk of his head.
