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CHAPTER 9 - Everyone has a past
It was late in the evening, and Emily was sitting in her favorite armchair in front of the kitchen fireplace. She absentmindedly stared at the linen she had washed the day before. The soft breeze coming from the hill was ideal, and the sheets would dry fast, before the rain started again. The jasmine aroma of her tea filled her senses, relaxing her in a way only jasmine tea and ginger cookies could.
A large grin formed on her face when Emily remembered Erik's reaction the first time she had ever baked ginger cookies at the Red Door Cottage. Entering the house through the kitchen door, the tall, usually impassive masked man hadn't had the time or the intention of covering the expression of pure, utter disgust that contorted the visible half of his face. Erik had almost growled as he asked in a surprised voice, "What in Hell's name is that awful smell?"
At first, Emily had been extremely offended. It was her late mother's recipe he had been talking about. Her flushed face and pursed lips must had been indication enough for him to understand he had hurt her feelings, because he tried to control his reaction to the offending smell. In vain! A grimace was stuck on his face, as if he might throw up at any minute. Fear for her job combined with pure irritation filled Emily's veins at seeing his rude reaction to two hours' worth of work. Only when it was politely but thoroughly explained that he absolutely hated ginger in every form, use, or recipe had Emily relaxed and promised to bake her favourite cookies when Erik was working and let the fresh air take all the smell out of the room. He didn't seem very satisfied that this "disgusting essence" would be filling his house even during his absence, but he tried to be reasonable.
Emily realized that baking ginger cookies had been allowed her only as compensation for her recent experience with the Voice.
Emily wasn't a woman who was easily scared. She wasn't afraid of the ghosts and all the villagers' nonsense. Every time she wondered whether she would have been so eager to accept her job had she known the story of the poor women's deaths or about the reclusive masked man, she remembered Mr. Spencer at her former job and his "wandering" hands, and thanked her good fortune.
Erik himself had very few demands. He had shown her how to clean the music room and the exact way he wanted his pens and inkbottle on the desk positioned: just beside the clean staff sheets which waited for him to fill them with those unreadable scribbles.
Each morning, he told her, there would be two piles of paper on the piano: on the left side, the compositions worthy of keeping, and on the right, the ones for burning in the fire. Apparently, Erik wrote down the pieces he had composed during the night, and before leaving the room, he divided his work into the two piles. The problem was that every morning, Emily found the pile on the right-hand side full of papers…and no papers at all on the other side. Sometimes, pieces of torn parchment and crumpled music sheets were littered all over the floor. After several days in a row of throwing the papers on the fire, one day she just didn't do it. Emily couldn't find it in her heart to destroy the music she had heard the night before. So powerful and angry at the beginning but with a soft, sad ending she had cried herself to sleep with.
The voice she had heard calling her that afternoon from the music room was cold as ice penetrating her mind. By that time, Emily was familiar with the masked man's voice. Though beautiful, it had something unnerving, an eerie quality that could either insert itself in your head for hours like a song that you couldn't stop hearing, or shake you to the core, as if you were living your last hour on earth.
When she entered the room, the masked man stood rigid by the piano, tapping his long fingers on the clean, black, wooden surface. Whether it was his intimidating posture and tensed shoulders which made her shiver, or whether, for the first time, she realized how truly tall he was, Emily still couldn't say. As he towered over her, furrowing his brow, dressed all in black except for the small visible piece of his white shirt which she had starched herself -where was the gentle man who had thanked her in the morning as if she weren't paid for the work?- she seriously thought of running out of the room.
Time seemed to stand still as he lowered his head in a deliberately slow manner to get a clear, close look at her eyes. Only several hours later was Emily able to register in her conscious mind the odd colour of his narrowing eyes. At the time, her gaze had been fixed on a vein madly throbbing at his left temple. Not a very reassuring sight!
His strong, deadly-cold voice still echoed in her ears: "Exactly what part of my instructions to throw away these papers were you incapable of understanding, Madame?"
Emily felt like crying. The carefully rehearsed speech she had planned vanished from her mind like steam from a pot. She was damn sure that if she stayed a minute longer in that room, with Erik staring at her like that, she would surely burst into tears in front of him, apologizing like a frightened child. Only her pride guided her as she took the papers in her hands and, holding them firmly to her bosom, ran out of the room like a scared rabbit, leaving him standing there with his mouth open with surprise.
Of course, she would not have been Kate Millen's daughter if she had not kept the papers in her room, unable to let a man have his way. From that day on, though Erik was sure his compositions were being burned, Emily's trunk was getting full…
II II II
Emily was gathering the books James had left all over the massive mahogany desk and the sofa in the library when Erik's tall figure filled the doorframe. The warning bell he had installed at the front gate had not been heard, but he had always had a way to disengage it when he wanted, a way even James hadn't figured out yet.
It was after midnight, and James had retired to his room, was probably sleeping already, and the man before her had a strange, dark expression on his face that sent shivers down her spine. His clothes were soaked through from the rain that had started some days ago with no signs of stopping. He looked exhausted in a way that Emily hadn't seen before. Erik had the face of a haunted man. His steps were heavy, as was his breathing, and he tiredly shed his wet, long, black overcoat. Without a word, he settled into his armchair by the fire. For a moment, in that uncanny silence in the library, under the veil of the shadows the fire was forming on his lean, dark silhouette, a frightening thought crossed Emily's mind. Just for a minute, she thought the rumors were true, that Jane and Gillian's ghosts truly existed and had caught him on his lone way home, haunting his mind and sanity with their torturous plans.
She quickly shook the silly thought out of her head and approached him with slow, hesitant steps. Her heart skipped a beat when she heard his eerie, ragged voice.
"Emily! Forgive my manners… I hadn't seen you…" His French accent was more evident than before, tickling her ears.
"Are you tired, sir? Do you want something to drink? Some tea, maybe?"
"Don't start with 'sir' again. I haven't been away more than three weeks…sit down. I'd like some company tonight. If it's all right with you…" Erik added, remembering his good manners again. "Some of the doctor's 'medicine' wouldn't be bad," he said, reconsidering her offer. "Help yourself to a glass of malt if you'd like."
Emily prepared two glasses of the Scottish malt whisky and handed him his before she sat on the sofa opposite his armchair, self-consciously pushing a long lock of hair that hung loose behind her ear.
"How's everything going here? I guess my absence has lightened spirits around the house," he said, looking with an amused frown at the mess James had left in the library. It was the familiar tone Emily had grown to know so well over the years. He had an odd sense of humor, tinged with sarcasm, firstly towards himself, and then directed at all the others around him. The gold liquid burned her throat, helping her relax a bit more.
"We have missed you," she said in a matter-of-fact tone. Emily always said what she was thinking. Everyone in the house knew that and was used to it, but saying something like that in the middle of this strange night seemed a little more intimate than she had intended it to be. She bowed her head, feeling awkwardly shy as she suddenly realized she was telling the truth. She had truly missed the cooking quizzes that made her days more colourful. She couldn't wait to erase that confident, arrogant half-smile from his face. She had also missed his peculiar sense of humour, his short but always pointed remarks, his sharp, witty comments to Jamie, and most of all, his music. Some nights, sleeping without it had been impossible. She felt herself blush. Suddenly, her hands lying on her lap were the most interesting thing in the room to her hazel eyes.
"So James was that bad!" Erik half smiled to her, breaking the tension.
"Not 'that bad' …" A devilish smirk formed on her face, which was flushed from the alcohol and her embarrassment of moments ago. "Just unbearable sometimes." She grinned broadly.
Erik's absence hadn't suited James. It was as though the child had felt an irresistible compulsion to fill in the empty space his teacher had left. He became reclusive and gloomy, barely speaking to Emily if the subject didn't concern food or something Erik had said. Obviously, the impression the masked man had made on his young heart had been monumental, because every word which had come from the man's mouth was acknowledged by the boy as an undoubted truth. A dogma revealed to mankind! "You are his role model, you know…" She bit her upper lip to stop herself talking.
"You mean I'm unbearable, too?" he asked. His face was in the dark. His neutral tone didn't reveal whether he was mad at her or laughing at her. Emily stirred in her seat, feeling her cheeks turning red again.
"No, no sir, Erik… I didn't mean it that way… no, I meant you are his role model, you spend so many hours with him… so when you're away, he misses you and punishes me with his moods…"
"I …choose to believe your explanation, Emily, not because it's remotely convincing, but because you look a little shaken. Fill my glass, please… are you feeling well?"
"I wanted to ask you the same thing," Emily remarked, regaining her composure. "For a moment I thought Jane and Gillian had tracked you down. You look terrible!"
"Thank you for your kind words!" he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"I'm sorry, Erik. You know me…my big mouth." She smiled at him.
"It's good to know that some things are still the same, still unchanged." He looked at the colours of the amber liquid in his glass. "It's not 'Jane and Gillian' who have haunted me. My past does a damn good job of that without their interference," he whispered, staring at the fire. He looked sad, buried deep in thought. "Have you ever felt that way?" he asked her after a long pause.
"No, thankfully, the misfortunes of my past are long dead and buried," she replied in a soft voice.
"I thought so, too. I thought I had buried the past, but I was mistaken."
She didn't expect him to continue, but when he did after a while, his tone was casual as he tried to change the subject.
"Why are you so edgy? Have we had any new notes from our dear ghosts?"
"Just one during your absence with the usual: 'You… wedon't belong here… this land doesn't belong to you'…"
"With the money I gave for it, it surely DOES belong to me," he interrupted her.
"I have it in the drawer with the others, if you want to take a look at it. It's nothing new though. The land belongs to the dead. You're in danger because you have their treasure…"
"A treasure indeed. Nobody wanted the wretched place for a decade!" he said under his breath.
"And something about coins covered in blood," Emily continued.
"Did he write coins? Did he actually write 'coins'?" Erik asked in a deadly serious manner.
"I think so. I'm not sure," Emily hesitated. "I will bring it if you'd like."
"No. Don't bother! I'm done with people's stupidity. This place belongs to me, and if anyone, mortal or immortal, cares to claim it, he's damn welcome to try!" he exclaimed, truly irritated now. His tone had a dangerous, threatening edge she hadn't heard before.
"Are you hungry?" Emily asked after a while. She couldn't think of another way to change the subject.
"No, I am not!" His reply was quick and harsh, and she remained still at her spot on the sofa, deliberately looking at everything in the room except him till he cooled down a bit. She knew his short temper too well. She was also familiar with the signs which showed it was subsiding. His heavy sigh was one of them.
"Is your friend all right?" Emily asked. For a minute, he looked at her, not knowing what she was talking about.
"Madame Giry? Yes, she's fine. She has some trouble with her legs, but unfortunately, it is to be expected after so many years of professional dancing. Nothing fatal, though."
"Thank God everything turned out fine!" Emily said with a smile.
"Thank God indeed!" he said, mocking her, but she couldn't tell why.
"Emily, have you ever done something, trying to help yourself and others, and finally realized that the harm you have caused is greater than if you'd done nothing at all? All your efforts in vain, all done for nothing? And the people you …" – he paused to find the right words - "…you care for were the ones hurt the most?"
He looked like a man with a burden weighing so heavily on his chest that it wouldn't let him breathe.
He sounded so sad. Emily wished she could see the expression on the unmasked part of his face, but he remained in the shadows as he went on. "There's been a bitter feeling, a bitter taste in my mouth for so many days. I couldn't come straight back…I wandered for two weeks before I realized I have no other place to go to…no other way…and that bitterness… I can still taste it." He was talking more to himself.
"It's guilt," Emily whispered, though loudly enough for him to hear her. "Guilt and remorse usually taste like that. Regret, too. Sometimes acting is more risky than doing nothing at all." Her face was clouded now. "But sometimes one can't help but do otherwise. It seems there's no alternative at the time."
Another sip of her drink helped her find the courage she lacked.
"When I was young I was in love with a boy from my village, Robert. He was my childhood friend and companion. Like Jamie and Mary…" Emily dared a quick look at him, wondering if he cared to hear.
He had withdrawn from the shadows. She felt his stare on her, steady and warm, encouraging her to go on.
"We were poor, very poor. Robert went to Plymouth to find a job on a ship. He was going to work for some years, and then come back to marry me." Her voice was sad.
"But my family was so poor, and my mother told me Robert would never come back for me. I'm not pretty, you know, 'too plain,' she always said."
For a second, she thought Erik wanted to say something, but no word came out of his mouth. Emily kept talking with the boldness the malt gave her.
"Mr. Nicholson seemed the perfect solution to my problem. He offered to pay all my late father's debts. I would have a comfortable life with him. He had a steady income. When I didn't have any news from Robert for a year, I became Mrs. Nicholson."
Emily looked at him to see the impact her words had had, but couldn't read his blank expression. She had always felt ashamed of herself for marrying for money and convenience.
"I lived two years with Mr. Nicholson as his wife before he died." She winced at saying her husband's name. It was so strange! Even after marrying him, he was "Mr. Nicholson" to her, while the masked man before her had so easily become just "Erik." "I really tried to love him, even as a friend… but I couldn't. You see, he was so much older than me…"
It was Erik's turn to wince. He had turned pale. A physical blow couldn't have caused such a pained expression. A look of revulsion was all over his face.
"I had been married for five months when Robert came back for me. It took all my self-control not to leave with him." Emily heard her voice break.
"Why didn't you?" Erik's tone was soft, not condemning at all, encouraging her to carry on. And she wanted so desperately to get it off her chest.
"My family, I guess. My father and my older brother were dead. My mother was struggling with my younger brother… I was their only help. And Mr. Nicholson…he was a good man. I didn't want to make him feel ridiculous. He was kind to me."
"But he forced you to marry him using his money! He should have known better!"
"But I married him. I didn't have faith in Robert, in myself… I was to blame for breaking Robert's heart, for ruining my life."
"Why didn't you go to him after your husband died?"
"It would have been the last thing the man needed! Mr. Nicholson had more debts than my father. After the house was sold, there was nothing left. I was poorer than before I got married."
"That's absurd! The bastard didn't leave you anything? Didn't tell anything?"
It was the first time his angry tone had ever made her smile. It felt so right to have someone like Erik on her side. His passionate anger towards her late husband stirred a warm feeling inside her.
"I guess that's what greedy people get in life. I deserved it, I think," Emily said with a sad smile on her face.
"No, you didn't 'deserve' that, as you didn't deserve that old man as a husband!
You were young! It's so easy to make mistakes when you're young." His voice was soft again.
"Anyway, my mother was dead by that time, so she didn't witness any of these things. Thank God for that! If she had, she would have waked Mr. Nicholson from the dead to kill him herself. She loved me, you know, but she wanted to see me safe and secure. She always said the boys would find their way in life, but for a girl, the future is dark without a guardian. She was not right, but not completely wrong, either. I had some difficulty in adjusting to my new life as a maid at Claridge mansion, but when I was transferred to the kitchen, things got better. My plain features and my big mouth made me quite unattractive, and that helped a lot."
Erik growled at her insinuation. He seemed aware of the misfortunes young maids endured from other servants or even their employers.
"I hope you feel comfortable working here." His tone was shy. "I want you to feel comfortable," he said as he retreated to the shadowed corner of his armchair.
This awkward command brought a shy smile to the blonde woman's face.
"I've always believed that everything happens for a reason. Red Door Cottage is a home to me. The first in a long, long time." Emily grinned at him. "Are you hungry?" she asked softly.
"I'm starving." He sounded surprised at himself.
"I'll make you some tea. Jamie brought your order from Mr. Hamilton's three days ago, the Russian poison you're drinking included. I'll bring you some with some ginger cookies…" she teased him.
"I'm not that hungry, thank you!" he replied with a grimace of disgust.
"I do have some lemon pie, if you prefer, till I heat the stew," Emily suggested.
"Hmm," he growled. Sometimes his manners reminded her of Jamie.
"Lemon pie, it is, then."
