A/N: Hi! I'm so glad that you're enjoying this so far! I know I'm having fun with each chapter I write. So the Prologue was a little introduction and here's the longer chapter I promised. I am combining names of Rebecca with our POTO characters and for those of you who read the book… you might recognize some of the events I combined in here as well. To fit in the nature of POTO, I did do some tweaking so hopefully you will like it.

And can I say… I loved writing Carlotta in this chapter. Don't forget to leave a review! And before I forget… yes since I uploaded this early I will also post chapter 2 on Sunday. I'm hoping to update this weekly if time allows.

Chapter 1

Monte Carlo, France

Winter 1924

I suppose any girl in my position would consider herself lucky. After all, how often does one get the chance and opportunity to travel the world? Visit exotic places? Take in the sights and sounds of the local people and their history? Oh yes… any girl would see this as luck. Even a poor, country chit like myself, should have been filled with gratitude and thank the Lord for having this wonderful gift bestowed to an undeserving soul.

I should be… but I'm not.

Do not get me wrong. I love that I'm traveling to foreign lands, places that I have dreamed of going to ever since I was a child, but circumstances have prevented me from enjoying this experience to its fullest.

Why you might ask? Three words: Carlotta Van Hopper.

Of course, now you might think how selfish and ungrateful I am that Mrs. Van Hopper, a fine lady of high society, would not be more appreciative of this gesture from such a charitable woman. There were other girls who would be jumping at the chance to be in my position, and who would no doubt, may be better fitted for the title of companionship. Especially girls who could pretend better and feign interest than I while being in the company of Mrs. Van Hopper.

Go ahead! I dare you to try and spend an hour with that woman and you would see how the task is not as simple as it sounds. Perhaps, you might find sympathy for this poor girl who is only trying to make a decent living and maintaining a good reputation in society.

As I previously mentioned, I am a paid companion. Mrs. Van Hopper needed someone to travel with her, and since her daughter was indisposed in New York, it was necessary she find someone quick who could provide conversation, play games, read, and transform her into whatever she needed at the moment.

I, Christine Daaé, happened to be that girl.

At first, I felt blessed that this rich lady would take me with her. She right away told me I would receive ninety pounds for my services, and in turn, she would teach me everything I needed to know to mingle with her kind so I could find a suitable position as a lady's maid or continue on as a companion if I so desired. The pay alone had my mind decided, for I never earned such a high sum before, not even with all the mending I had done in Mrs. Thompson's seamstress shop. I was only making ten pounds a week, twenty if I was lucky with a pleased customer. Not to mention, I had nowhere else to go. My mother had died six years ago and my father past away last summer. As much as I missed my father, I knew I couldn't stay forever and this seemed like the perfect escape I needed for a fresh start.

So, like the eager, insipid child that I was, I accepted Mrs. Van Hopper's proposal and began my journey to the great unknowns of the world.

The novelty, unfortunately, faded rapidly once I discovered the type of woman my employer was. In hindsight, I should have known better. When she came to Mrs. Thompson's shop, her orders were always specific to the precise minuet detail of her gowns, hats, gloves, petticoats, and any other garment she required. They had to be of the finest silk and fabric that was offered and had to be up to the date with the current European fashion trends. If something didn't fit, which seemed to happen on a regular basis since her measurements she gave were never accurate, then whoever was responsible had to face her wrath. And sometimes that girl would never return again. Yet, I did not scare off that easily, and when I was assigned the task to make her wardrobe, I took care to make sure that extra material was added so not to displease her.

It was Fortune's favor that she never bothered to check the papers that her requested 36-inch waist was really 40. Father would have said I can be too clever for my own good and he was right. My little trickery worked, and after that, Mrs. Van Hopper insisted that only I would be in charge of her orders.

She did pay me well for my work, and I had plenty of money to put aside to buy myself a new hat. It was nothing over the top, mind you. I do not have the preference for the so-called fashions that most ladies would sell their very souls to have. I had simple, modest tastes. And my new hat would provide protection from the sun's harsh rays or protect my hair should it get windy. Mother Nature was not always kind to me. Not with the weather or my wild, brown curls that I always had to pin up very carefully. It did not look well if I appeared anything less than professional. So when Mrs. Van Hopper suggested her proposition of taking me with her on her tour through the Continent, I had to take it.

I knew that Mrs. Van Hopper's place was well-respected among the rich, and if I was seen compatible with other ladies, then I could find other work to do and have time to partake in my hobbies. Most women of leisure have plenty of free time and would sometimes rather be in their own company and permit their maids to pursue extracurricular activities as to not disturb them. For me, I would cherish those moments empathically!

I do like to draw, although I'm not terribly all that good at it. Father would tell me I had an artist's eye, but my true gift was my voice. Mother was once a singer, a talented one at that and she would perform for all those who wished to see her, whether they would be rich or poor. Father would perform with her, not as a singer, no… but as her accompanist on his violin. Together, their music would make the angels in heaven weep with such beauty!

I remember when Mother sang to me. Whenever I had a nightmare, she would come to my bed and sing of Little Lotte and her Angel of Music. That was my favorite story of all. It eventually became something I wanted to aspire to be. I wanted to be Little Lotte! I wanted to have an Angel who would teach me how to sing and who would love me for all eternity. My parents would smile at my silly declarations and assure me that if I was a good little girl, then the Angel of Music would find me.

I was a very good little girl. Always doing what she was told to do, even going as far to do chores that were not asked of her, but a child's feelings can be easily hurt.

When my Angel never came, I would spend endless nights weeping. No matter how well I obeyed I must have been doing something wrong that He would not come to me. Then one night, when I was eight, I heard a voice singing to me. Instantly, my childish heart was warmed, but I knew the voice was no Angel. It had been my Father trying to make me feel better, bless his soul! Alas, his musical talent did not extend to singing and I was grateful for the kind gesture that ceased my tears.

While my Angel of Music never came, I never gave up hope that one day I would hear His heavenly voice. My childish notions and dreams did not stop when I grew into a young woman. I knew that one day I would meet my Angel. I had to be patient that was all. The reason for such confidence was my dreams. You see, my parents told me I had a voice that could rival any singer's. Naturally, a parent would say that to their only child, but I knew I possessed a voice just as good as my mother's. When my parents performed, they would allow me a chance to sing as well and the praises that ensue… It was glorious!

It wasn't long that I decided I wanted to sing on the grand stage of the famous Paris Opera House. My Mother was from France and it had been her dream to sing there as well. Yet, she had been turned away. I didn't think that was right or fair since she could outdo any diva! She would laugh and tell me that she was happy she was turned down. If she was not, then she wouldn't have met my father. While I was happy that she was happy, in my heart I wanted to be on the stage. For myself and for my mother.

So at night, I envisioned myself playing the great leads and singing with all of my might. And it would always be a special night for my Angel of Music was there at my every performance, cheering as loudly as the rest. I was singing for him, only for him. For in my heart, he was my love and my inspiration. My dream self would always be looking up into a box, always shielded by shadows, but I knew He was there watching me.

Silly, I know. A foolish dream from a foolish young woman. But I was determined that was my future that I foresaw. To sing, and to love a shadow that I could not see. Of course, once I met my love, then I knew I would recognize him and my dreams would give me a face to adore even more.

However, reality had a funny way of making itself known. My Mother became gravely ill and my father and I did everything we could to help her get better. The bills for the doctor were too much, and as I was old enough to work, I did my part when Mrs. Thompson hired me. Yet, it was not enough. Father even sold his violin but God had other plans for my mother. Her death was difficult and my father lost the joy of music with her. I did my best, and he did return to music, but it was not the same. Then when my father became ill… I knew he longed to be with my mother.

I did not blame him for wanting that. He never spoke the words aloud to me, he wouldn't dare, but I knew in his eyes where he truly wanted to be. When he died, I mourned his loss, but at least he was in heaven right beside my mother.

I was nineteen.

Despite that I had to grow up quickly, I never once gave up my dreams. I worked long hours and days, but my spirit never wavered. I knew my parents were still with me, guiding me, pushing me in the direction I needed to go. It was also why I did not feel guilty for leaving my parents behind when I left with Mrs. Van Hopper. They always wanted me to see the world and I could feel their blessings for me on that bright, sunny day when I left my village.

Ironic, really.

I left in hopes that I could make my dreams come true, but again, fate and reality do like to make life into a joke. I assumed that Mrs. Van Hopper would not need my company as much. I planned, that if given the chance, I would sing. Hopefully, I would captivate the right person's attention and I would be whisked away to the grand opera house and start my career as a leading soprano. That or someone would insist upon Mrs. Van Hopper that this girl of hers needed to be on stage. And she would come to me and tell me that I no longer had to work for her and I could pursue my dream to Paris. I would be where right where I belonged and she would only be too grateful to know that she had a part in my success from seamstress to prima donna.

Quite a fantasy and wild imagination I must say.

So let me go ahead and paint you a portrait of my employer. As I described before, I should have known better about Mrs. Van Hopper. In her late-fifties, she still possessed an attractive face, and in her youth, I imagine, she broke many hearts. With her finely sculpted features, she had a small nose that contained all the grace of class with its upward tilt; wide, expressive gray eyes that could flare up with anger, light up with gay delight, turn dark with sorrow, and with one piercing look… she could cut any person down into a insignificant being. In fact, Mrs. Van Hopper can appear quite intimidating.

She was a tall, large woman; not obese, but full for she did love to partake in sweets. One could argue she would have more than her fair share of the cake. And there would be many nights where I would find my appetite still wanting after she indulged herself on my half. Of course, she had the gall to tell me I had to watch my figure if I wish to attract a potential suitor. I feel like I was in no danger of losing my "figure" as she puts it.

She also took stupendous pride in her appearance. Not only did she wear the latest fashions, she made sure her hair was in the current trends as well. At first, I thought she had really good hair that would allow her to either curl, coif, swept up, etc in whatever do she wanted. I soon discovered that her real hair was becoming gray and the vibrant black was actually a wig. She had a special case that would contain several of her precious styles and all she had to do was pin some ornament or hat to complete the look. She had me fooled, but of course, she would change these wigs in secret. No one was allowed to know or comment on it unless they want to end up in the poor house. That extended to any worker in any hotel too. My discovery was accidental, but I kept my lips tightly shut. As much as I didn't like to work for her, I wasn't stupid and I wasn't going to end up stuck in a country without any friends.

Continuing with her appearance, she would never venture out of our rooms until she was decked out in her jewels. Earrings, necklaces, bracelets, rings, brooches, you name it, she had. She wouldn't let a single part of her go uncovered without some garish decoration. The reason for this was to help aid in the start of conversation with the other patrons. People love to talk to other people with money. Seeing all those jewels would imply a grand title of some kind.

Except, Mrs. Van Hopper did not own any title nor such a great vast amount of wealth she wanted others to believe she had. Her husband's fortune was in steel, but changes had to be made during the Great War. From what I can understand, Mr. Van Hopper was able to pull some of his investments out and reinvest them into companies in America. He was careful to spread them out and not put too much in one to avoid suspicion. After his death, his wife and daughter did not have to worry about money.

Of course, business of this type was considered taboo for a lady to talk about. It wouldn't look right if I decided to engage in conversation about the markets and stocks. I wasn't supposed to know about this, but servants do talk and Mrs. Van Hopper does not understand the meaning of discretion when she was on the phone with her daughter or her late husband's contacts in America.

Indeed, Mrs. Van Hopper loved to put on airs and pretenses. It made her feel like she was important and that everyone valued her opinions. Although, I must confess, I believe most people in their acquaintance of hers wished she would keep her opinions to herself. She could be quite ignorant to the plights of others and often times insult her "oh so dear" friends without realizing or meaning to. She can be odious and difficult to be around, but I have noticed that she doesn't often mean to criticize those she reveres. But that doesn't always mean everything she says was unintentional.

I remember right before we came to Monte Carlo, we were having tea and in walked—the name escapes me—but it was the woman's daughter. Mrs. Van Hopper had confided that the daughter was involved in a grand scandal the year before. She was engaged to be married to some lord or baron or something, but before the wedding, she had ended up with child with her fiancé's valet. To cover up the embarrassment, the fiancé offered to remain quiet on the subject and broke the engagement up under the guise that a sour business deal prevented him from going through with the wedding. The lady was whisked away to deal with her grief privately, when it was really to have her child. I don't know why someone would go to such lengths for deception since everyone in their circle knew about the scandal, but if it protected their dignities… I guess I could understand.

Regardless, no one knows what became of the child, but it was not until recently the daughter returned to society. It was evident she had a child for Mrs. Van Hopper had a picture of her pre-baby and she had been very thin. She lost some of the weight, but still a few pounds managed to stay. I felt sorry for her for as she wandered the room, no one would look at her or offer an invitation… until Mrs. Van Hopper called her over. In my naïve mind, I thought she too might have felt some sympathy for the poor girl, but I was wrong.

The tea became very awkward and uncomfortable as Mrs. Van Hopper chose to comment on the lack of propriety that some young women have today. The young woman in question chose to keep silent, but the pain was in her eyes. I wanted to say something to her. To offer apologies for my employer, to tell her that I'm sure everything will work itself out, but my tongue was heavy and I stared at my cold tea.

Yes… Mrs. Van Hopper can be very cruel when she wanted to be. And her object of critical study could be a lady from the upper class or even me. She felt it was her duty to primp me up and make sure I followed every rule and guideline in high society. My Mother did not have the opportunity so it was up to her to make sure I learned the dos and don'ts.

Such criticisms could be about my figure, to my lack of fashion, to my unruly hair, to my somewhat pretty face, to my intellect, and to my voice.

"You do have a lovely voice, my dear," she would say in that syrupy voice that was anything but sweet. "Yet, that's all you'll ever have. A lovely voice. There is nothing grand or special. Now, when I was your age, my voice was the talk among my friends. I could have been a famous singer, you know. Oh, I did perform on stage a few times, but I wished to keep my anonymity. You have to be careful when you're in the public eye like that. I chose to leave. Oh yes, there are times where I miss it, but I know I made the right choice."

And to my mortification, Mrs. Van Hopper would sing. Not just in the privacy of our rooms, but to the public. It was all very well planned, you see. She would mention to so-and-so that she once sang in Faust, and she was told she would be the next Adelina Patti. Naturally, this would pique any listener's curiosity and they would ask Mrs. Van Hopper if she would sing. Demurely, she would say she couldn't, and they would insist, and after being cajoled, she would at last stand to one "little song." The result was disastrous. She would be off-key, not in tune, and she would make notes that shouldn't be high, high anyways. However, no one would dare to contradict past compliments and she would receive a standing ovation… or if someone was brave or drunk… they might ask for an encore.

She never refused at that point.

As for me, she might make a passing remark that I could sing, but there was no hope for me. And she would say this in my presence too in front of her friends.

"Christine has a passable voice, you know, but the poor dear can't always carry the tune. It's very sad as both of her parents were quite musical. I might indulge her to sing once and while, but I told her, it was best to keep that voice inside so not to give some wretch the chance to ruin her dreams. She is such a good girl, you know."

Yes, I am a good girl. I might receive a sympathetic nod, but for the most part, I was invisible. It was best for me to remain silent whenever we would go out together. It did not look well if I should talk back or contradict what my employer said. So I suffered the insults and harsh criticisms and the judgment looks from her friends. However, it wasn't long before I began to question myself… doubt myself.

In my mind, I imagined Mrs. Van Hopper would boast about my talents, but it was obvious that would never happen. So I fantasized that someone would actually ask me to sing just to hear for themselves. After all, if she could brag about herself and be requested to sing, surely the same could happen to me. Then I would sing. I would prove how wrong she was and the people would cry and applaud my talent and they would turn on Mrs. Van Hopper, wanting to know how she could keep a songbird like me silent? And someone would ask me if I want to leave all this behind, and I would accept, and I would feel free at last.

Sometimes the fantasies could help make an unbearable evening bearable. But hearing Mrs. Van Hopper over and over about my lack of voice did make me question if I really could sing. Yes, as a child I got all sorts of praises, but I was a child. It was polite to do so then tell the truth that a performance was anything but good. And my parents… I was their only child. They loved me and they would not crush my hopes if I thought I could sing. Was it all a lie?

Once more, I was behaving foolish. I should not dare doubt myself, but I couldn't help it. And it wasn't about the singing either. Mrs. Van Hopper always had something on her tongue to say to me about my behavior—that I either talked too much, made a faux pas with my utensils at dinner, or I did something to warrant a person's quick excuse to leave. Everything I did seem to be something wrong. And if I were to engage in conversation, I would somehow make a mistake with my facts. I was strongly advised to keep quiet unless I was asked a directed question, something that was easy to answer, such as the weather or the meal. I could not go wrong with those topics, but yet, Mrs. Van Hopper did manage to find a fault somewhere.

I wanted to do my best to please her.

Why?

You know I do not like being in her company, but why should I care about her opinion of me? It means everything. If I wanted to work for another lady, then I would need a recommendation. If my tongue was loose and my mannerisms deplorable, then I would not be hired. I refused to think what my options would be if I was shunned. I was stuck, you see. I wanted desperately to leave, but I had to play the game if I wanted to have a better position. I had to allow Mrs. Van Hopper to insult me, and I had to remain shy and silent. It was better for everyone if I kept my feelings inward. And… I was solely dependent on Mrs. Van Hopper.

I disliked it so, but what else could I do?

I was her slave, her pet, her charitable project. I had to follow like an obedient puppy, constantly returning to my master after being abused. It was a façade, a role. I had to pretend that she was my savior for saving me from a life of hardship. I would be nothing without her. I knew it, and she knew it. And she played it very well to make sure I would always remember my place in her world. I was nobody.

Until… it all changed in one glorious second.

And, once again, this goes to show how fate can be very funny. For you see, were it not for Mrs. Van Hopper, then I wouldn't have met my love. My Angel of Music.

xxXXxx

I still remember that day like it was only yesterday.

We were dining in the tiny restaurant at our hotel. Mrs. Van Hopper was having ravioli and I was given a plate of ham and tongue, which was cold and badly carved. The waiters looked down upon me, recognizing my status as lowly servant, and thus were treated like one with my food. I wasn't very hungry and it was dry. Of course, I couldn't send it back. Refusing would be rude and I didn't want to put up with another lecture of decorum if I could avoid it.

So there we sat, eating in silence, a ceremonial tradition we followed at every meal so Mrs. Van Hopper could concentrate on her food. The ravioli had surpassed her expectations if I were to go by the sauce dripping down her chin.

I pushed my horrid ham with my fork and allowed my eyes to drift over to an empty table that was in the far corner of the establishment. It was secluded from the rest of the patrons and it did not have any view of the sights outside. It was a lonely and dark place to sit and eat, but my attention was captured over the maître d'hôtel who was barking out orders to have that table specially made. A brand new white tablecloth was laid out, the silverware was given another shine, and the vase was replaced with a freshly bloomed rose.

The detail to ensure a perfected atmosphere for dining was strange for never such lengths were taken before with any of the guests. Whoever was coming had to be someone of great importance. A prince, perhaps. Or a duke. I frowned. Why would any one in the royal family come to this hotel? It was nice and it catered to those who could afford it, but it was nowhere as grand as a palace.

Then I heard the maître d'hôtel clearing his throat, speaking in a murmured voice, while bowing to the incoming diner. I knew it had to be the one that was expecting that table. That maître d'hôtel was quite a snob, always keeping his nose in the air, and talking to those who he felt was worthy to give his attention to. Someone like me wouldn't be paid any heed at all, even if I only wanted more tea.

I craned my neck to get a look at this mysterious visitor that was causing a stir among the waiters, but it was Mrs. Van Hopper's sudden intake of breath that made me turn to face her once more.

Her countenance brightened, her gray eyes glowing with excitement, and her voice was just loud enough for the other diners to hear her two tables down from us.

"Why, it's Erik de Winter!" she said. "The man who owns Manderley. You heard of it, of course. Look how pale he is! They say he can't get over his wife's death…"

TBC…

Next chapter… Erik! So go ahead and leave those reviews behind!