"Isabel, what time is it?" Melodie asked.
"Ten minutes since the last time you asked me," Isabel replied, dry humour evident in her voice.
"Sorry."
Sitting at a table in the kitchen, Melodie kept her hands busy by folding a pile of napkins. She was waiting for Peter to arrive – the boy that Erik would be sending to collect his earnings. She'd asked the butler to have him come around to the back door when he arrived. It was past eleven in the morning now and still no sign of him.
She heard Isabel bustling about, the metallic clang of pots ringing soundly. "No, not that one," Isabel directed one of the kitchen maids. "No, no, on your right. Yes, thank you. So when was this boy supposed to arrive?"
Melodie realized the question was directed at her. "Oh, just sometime this morning," she said vaguely.
By way of explanation, she'd told Isabel that she'd recruited a new student. He would meet her here and then they would go together to the school. A terribly weak tale but so far, no one had questioned her about it.
As her nimble fingers neatly folded the squares of cloth, her mind wandered. Last night had been an eventful evening, to say the least. The thrill of her moment in the spotlight hadn't quite left her yet. She'd caught herself several times this morning with a dreamy smile on her face. Each time, she'd quickly composed herself and wondered if anyone had noticed.
At the loud knock on the door, she got to her feet, hoping this would be the boy. The door creaked open and Isabel's voice rang out. "What can I do for you?"
"I'm looking for Melodie," piped up a child's voice. Not having reached adolescence yet, the pitch was high and reedy.
Melodie reached for her cane and reticule, moving swiftly to Isabel's side. "Are you Peter?" she asked.
"That's me."
"Thank you, Isabel. I'll see you later."
Before any further comments or questions could arise, she stepped outside. Stretching out one hand, she found a rather bony shoulder and steered him away. "Come, Peter, let's go."
"But, I…"
"No arguments, now," she interrupted. "Follow me."
Waiting until the slam of the door was heard behind her, she halted on the path and knelt down to his level.
"Are you blind?" he asked.
"Yes, but not completely. If I get close, like this…" She paused, leaning forward until his small face swam into focus. He was terribly thin, with cheekbones that were much too prominent beneath his skin. Intelligent blue eyes stared back at her warily. They were quite striking compared to the curly black hair that framed his face. "…I can see quite well. You're a handsome boy."
He grinned at the compliment, twin dimples appearing in his cheeks. "You're pretty, too. Can I have the money now?"
She patted the reticule dangling from her arm. "I have it here but there is a slight change in plans. You're going to take me to Erik."
Peter lost his smile, shaking his head vigorously. "He won't like that. He told me to get the money."
"I know, but it's very important that I talk with him in person. He'll understand."
Pursing his lips, the boy looked doubtful at that statement. "He might get mad. He's not very nice when he's mad."
"Well, I'll make sure he gets mad at me, not you. I'll tell him that I wouldn't give you the money unless you took me to him. How does that sound?"
Seeming to be at a loss, Peter merely shrugged.
Melodie interpreted the motion as acquiescence. "Good. It's settled then." Rising to her feet, she brushed at her skirt, hopefully ridding it of some of the dust. The top of his head came to just below her shoulder, so there wasn't too vast of a height difference. She was able to take his arm comfortably. "I'll be counting on you to lead me, Peter. Remember, I can only see up close so when we're walking, I really am blind. You'll be taking me through areas I'm not familiar with, so I'm putting all my trust in you to lead me safely. Can you do this?"
She waited for a response but none seemed to be forthcoming. "Are you nodding?" she asked finally.
"Oh, sorry." He sounded sheepish. "I forgot. I can do it."
Patting his shoulder, she smiled. "I knew I could count on you. Let's go."
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
She had known the journey would be long. Erik had once warned her of a three quarter hour walk but that was probably at his pace. At the careful rate they were going now, Peter told her they had thirty minutes left in their travels and that was after they'd already been on the road for an hour.
The boy had proven to be good company. Though a little shy at first, he'd soon grown to be quite the chatterbox. Even without being asked, he described the sights to her as they walked along, telling her of landmarks they were approaching and anything out of the ordinary. A carriage with a broken wheel by the side of the road had made for interesting commentary. His animated description of the hapless coachman surrounded by furious, sniping old ladies had her giggling with helpless laughter.
She also learned something of his life. His full name was Peter Bain and he had just turned ten recently. Since his mother had died several years ago, he lived alone with his father about a mile away from Erik's home. He'd been climbing a tree on Erik's property when they first met and apparently, Erik hadn't exactly been friendly. Then, upon passing the recluse's home one day, the masked man had ventured out and asked him to go into the city to fetch him a few items. That's how their little business arrangement had started.
"Now he's teaching me how to read," Peter said proudly.
That declaration caused Melodie's eyebrow to lift. "Oh? You don't go to school, then?"
"No. I have to help my dad with the farm."
"I see."
So Erik had some kindness in him after all, though it was well hidden beneath that cold, inscrutable veneer. "What else can you tell me about him?"
"He used to live in Paris. He's always playing the piano. He has a dog that used to be my dad's dog, but now he calls her Sascha. Erm…oh, and most important, never ask why he wears a mask. That makes him really mad."
A goodly piece of advice she would strive to remember. She was rather confused about the dog issue but decided not to bother questioning about it. Her legs were starting to grow weary and she would have dearly loved to sit down and rest for a while. The scratchiness in her throat indicated she was quite parched as well. Honestly, she hadn't planned very well for this impromptu trip. It had seemed to be a very good idea late last night, while she'd been wracking her brain in trying to find some solutions.
Perhaps she should be more concerned with what she would say to Erik when she arrived at his home. Somehow, she had the feeling her presence wouldn't exactly be greeted with open arms.
"We're almost there," Peter informed her, with a slight tug on the sleeve of her blouse. "There's the gate. He's probably watching us from the window."
Her heart started thudding erratically as she nervously licked her lips. All the clever words she had rehearsed so carefully the previous night seemed to have leaked out of her ears. Perhaps this had not been one of her best plans. However, it would be impossible to turn back now, so on she marched with a stiff spine.
Peter left her side to unlatch the gate and it swung open with a groan of protest. Taking her arm once more, he guided her up the walk.
"Is he at the window?" she asked, speaking out of one side of her mouth.
"No, he's at the door. Hi, Erik!"
She imagined him framed within the doorway, tall and imposing and probably scowling fiercely through his mask. When he finally responded, his voice was every bit as brittle as she'd feared it would be.
"This wasn't our agreement." The icy waves emanating from him were almost tangible.
"I know but…"
Melodie spoke up, cutting off the boy's plaintive speech. "This was my doing, Erik. I needed to speak with you, so I told Peter I wouldn't hand over the money unless he brought me to you. If there's anyone to be upset with, it's me."
Another drawn out silence ensued and though the urge to squirm was almost overwhelming, she managed to squelch it and remain outwardly at ease.
"Peter, come here," he ordered at last.
The now-familiar little arm slipped out of her grasp and she could only wonder what Erik was up to. "What do you intend?" she asked. Though she didn't want to believe the boy was about to be punished, the thought had certainly crossed her mind.
"It's none of your concern!" Erik barked gruffly.
Gnawing at her lip, she could only stand there, waiting and wondering. The door had been left open and though she could hear murmurings from inside, she could discern none of their conversation. It seemed to be a civil interaction, though she kept her ears alerted for any sign of anxiety on the part of the child.
When Peter emerged, he sounded quite excited. "Look, Melodie! Sorry, I keep forgetting. Erik gave me lots of money and some books. He's going away."
"Peter, you should go," Erik said.
He was leaving? A dozen questions immediately flitted through her mind. Her task today might be even more difficult than she'd anticipated.
When she next heard the boy's voice, it was muffled, as if pressed against cloth. "Are you coming back?"
The man's response was surprisingly gentle. "I don't know. Go on, now. Don't let your father see those books. And don't forget the coach."
Melodie's ears perked up at his last statement. "What coach?"
"The one that will be taking you home shortly."
"But I've come all this way! Don't you at least want to know why?"
"Not particularly."
The detached way in which he spoke was getting the best of her temper. A slow heat infused her cheeks and she knew they must have started to glow brightly. "I refuse to be turned away like this. We have unfinished business to conduct and I simply had to do it in person. I realize it was rather rude of me to show up here and for that, I apologize. Just give me a half hour of your time. That's all I request."
Yet again, the answer was delayed in coming. "Very well." He sounded resigned but reluctant. "A half hour it is. Peter, make sure the coach isn't late."
Melodie felt the brush of a body run past her and she turned as Peter called out his goodbye. She raised one hand in an automatic wave, then slowly pivoted back to face the man who was no doubt staring daggers at her. Each second that ticked by had her growing increasingly uncomfortable. It had become a battle as to who could hold the silence the longest.
Having had enough of the game, she gave in first. "Well, are you going to invite me in? I'm tired and wouldn't mind a drink of water."
He answered with a low rasp. "Enter at your own risk, mademoiselle."
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Leaving the door open, Erik turned and strode away, trying to keep his jumbled emotions in check. Not long ago, he'd been pacing edgily back and forth, wondering why Peter was so delayed. The cynical side of him had been convinced that the lad had betrayed him, taking his share of the salary from Melodie and scurrying away with it. His more rational side had argued that Peter wasn't capable of such a deed. It was more likely that he'd been robbed or perhaps met with some unforeseen incident.
In fact, that unpredictable event had been Melodie's interference. Once again, she'd managed to catch Erik completely by surprise. When he'd spied her approaching the gate on Peter's arm, he'd shaken his head with disbelief. Any ounce of pleasure in seeing her again had been overridden by a fierce and swelling anger that she would dare to invade his privacy.
He glanced about his abode, attempting to view it through the eyes of a first-time visitor. Only belatedly did he realize it would not matter much to this particular guest. Since she had a mere thirty minutes of time available to her, he doubted she would be peering too closely at her surroundings. He had never bothered to add any decorative touches. Compared to the elegant opulence of his former lair in the opera house, his current home was positively stark, albeit functional.
When she stumbled with a slight clumsiness over the threshold, he remained where he was, arms slack at his sides but shoulders tightened with unease. Closing the door behind her, she then appeared to hesitate, seeming uncertain what to do next.
As if a sudden thought had occurred to her, she snapped open the clasp of her reticule and rummaged inside. A small bag was thrust out and held in mid air.
"Your portion of the commission," she said.
Wordlessly, he took the offered bag, carefully avoiding any contact with her slender fingers. Blinking twice, she cleared her throat, sounding strangely croaky. "May I…have that glass of water?"
He obliged in his continued shroud of silence, heading towards the kitchen. Flinging the bag onto the table, it fell with a dull thud. A generous portion of cool water that he'd collected from the brook this morning was poured into a glass. The curiosity of her visit was nearly overwhelming him but he drew back into his shell of detached disinterest as a purely reflexive action. Locking on to his resentment with a fierce grip, he was ready to return to his waiting houseguest.
He found her in the chair by the hearth – his chair – but considering it was the only one in the room, he allowed it. He'd chosen this particular chair because it was big and overstuffed, holding his large frame comfortably. Perched just on the edge of it, her face pale and lips rather pinched, she looked anything but comfortable.
"Water," he advised, pressing the glass to her hand.
She grasped it eagerly. "Thank you."
As she drank with amusingly unladylike gulps, he took a stance with feet planted apart and arms crossed over his chest. He waited impatiently until she'd drunk her fill. "Need I remind you that time is running short?"
Apparently having already discovered the small table adjacent to her seat, she set down the glass with ease. "I know. It seems, however, that everything I'd thought out so carefully last night has escaped me. I'm not sure where to begin." She paused to take a breath, perhaps in an attempt to calm her nerves. "Actually, I do know where to begin, but I must insist that you be truthful. I need to know that I can trust you."
His mouth twisted in a sardonic parody of a smile. "I find it amusing that you insist on truthfulness when you've become the master of deception."
Based on the further pursing of her lips and narrowed eyes, he assumed his verbal arrow had struck its mark.
"I'm not proud of the lies by any means but they were borne out of necessity. However, I won't tolerate anything but honesty between us if we're to…" Cutting herself off in mid-speech, she sucked in a breath, looking positively dismayed. "I…I'm getting ahead of myself. Erik, please, just tell me the truth. Were you at the Grayson's estate last night?"
The question caught him off guard. Had she simply guessed that he was the elusive phantom that had plagued David Wentworth's liquor-induced hallucination? Or had David revealed the sight of a figure cloaked in black, riding like a madman with the devil at his heels into the inky night?
He was mildly surprised by the reply that he voiced. "Yes, I was there."
She nodded briefly, her expression pensive. "Thank you for being honest. Did you take in the performance?"
"Yes."
"You must have wondered what I was doing at the piano. The pianist injured her hand so I volunteered to step in. I was petrified but once I started playing, it was gloriously thrilling."
Her playing had moved him tremendously but he made no comment on it now. "Did you happen to view the inside of the ballroom?" she asked.
"I did."
"Describe it to me."
"I hardly think we have time to…"
"Please," she interrupted, her voice beseeching. But it was the eyes that drew him in. Dark, velvety pools that gazed upwards with such warmth and longing, he found the hold on his anger slipping just a little out of his grasp.
With a disgruntled snort, he stepped closer to the empty hearth, leaning back against the mantel in a more relaxed pose. He cast his mind back to the previous night. "High, vaulted ceilings with a curving arch. The walls adorned with a rich mixture of deep reds and glinting golds. The floor, a highly polished cherry wood, so smooth and gleaming one could glide effortlessly on its surface. White marble statues stood at their posts and angels took flight among the clouds on the painted mural. Three large crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, the reflecting light sparkling like starbursts all around. And then there was music that infused the room with excitement and joy, building to a stunning climax before vanishing into thin air on a single, sweet note of the violin."
The last statement was as close as he could get to admitting that she had made the right choice in how to conclude her composition. While he had more the flair for the dramatic, it sometimes swayed on the side of heavy-handedness. Her touch was more sensitive and delicate.
Wide eyes transfixed in a dream-like state, she gradually seemed to pull herself back to reality. "You're very eloquent. Thank you for indulging me. So, you were inside the ballroom, then?"
"No. I stood by one of the doorways on the terrace."
"Oh. The terrace. So, you saw…did you see…"
"I saw everything," he stated succinctly.
Her hands furled in her lap, fingers winding around each other compulsively. "Everything," she repeated dully. "So, you already know about the next commission."
"Yes. Congratulations."
Rather than replying with a standard, automatic 'thank you', she pressed on with another inquiry.
"Peter hinted that you're leaving. Is that true?"
"It is."
"Where? For how long?"
He supposed the questions were reasonable enough and yet, he could provide no solid answers. "I'm not certain. I've always held a fondness for Italy. I may start there and see where fate leads me."
"But why? Why leave? What are you running away from?"
Her innocent prying was beginning to grate on his nerves. "There is nothing that compels me to stay," he uttered shortly.
"What if I gave you a reason? I need assistance in writing the symphony. Not just the physical writing of the notes. I suppose any capable student of music could do that but I've thought long and hard on this and it's not what I want. There are far more technicalities involved in something of this scale and I'm afraid I may have gotten in over my head. I thought…that we could work together. Truly work together as a team. Co-composers, if you will. Our musical styles are very different but I think they would complement and balance each other. You're also more experienced and I could learn so much from you."
He couldn't help sneering at her last statement. "Your attempt at flattery is much too transparent, my dear. It's a ridiculous notion and if this is the reason for your uninvited visit, you've wasted your time."
"If it makes a difference, there's a great deal of money involved. Especially if…"
As she trailed off, his irritation bloomed into full-blown annoyance. "If what?" he snapped.
"If Michael Blythe makes an appearance at the gala."
"There is no Michael Blythe."
"On the contrary, there was quite the flurry of speculation last night that he was seen galloping away from the Grayson's property. It seems he couldn't resist the debut of Celebration."
Ah, yes, David hadn't been the only one to witness his rather dramatic exit from the grounds; no doubt he'd caused a stirring ruckus of rumours. It took him a moment to piece together what she was hinting at and when the connection was made, he stared at her with blatant disbelief. "What are you suggesting? That I assume the identity of this fictional composer?"
"I know it sounds mad but it could work."
A harsh laugh burst out of his throat but it held no humour. Either she was idiotically naïve or an insane fool – perhaps a hearty mixture of both. With two long strides, he closed in on her, broad hands gripping the armrests on either side. She shrunk back in the seat, effectively trapped within the cushiony confines of the chair as he planted himself inches from her nose.
"Given your poor vision, perhaps you've forgotten that I possess a face that does not condone itself to public viewing?" he snarled.
Though her eyes reflected startled discomfort at his nearness, she managed to hold her ground, gazing back at him without flinching. "Of course I haven't forgotten. But your mask has already been seen and added an air of mystery to the gossip. Everyone was talking about it last night. But, truly, if you don't want to do it, that's fine. It's your decision to make." She paused, her tone becoming coaxing once more. "I…still hope that we can work together. Would it be so terrible? Do you not think we could write something exquisite between the two of us?"
He had invaded her space in order to intimidate but now, he was the one caught in the invisible pull of those dark eyes. She was so close, so very close. He could hear her rapid, shallow intakes of breath – a sign that she wasn't as calm as she outwardly projected.
Wrenching himself away, he retreated to the safety of the mantel, rubbing at the throb in his left temple. "You don't know what you ask," he said, allowing the weariness to creep into his voice. He struggled to regain some semblance of reasoning and logic in order to prove how unfounded her request was. "Where would we work? Have you thought of that? I can't imagine you'd want to return to the Empire Theatre after the last episode."
"I have thought of that," she said slowly. "You once offered your home as a possibility."
"Yes, but it's too far for you to travel. I presume you found it so today. Unless you mean to take a coach?"
"No, it wouldn't work. I've already started to neglect my lessons with Grace. I'm not giving her the full attention she deserves in order for me to continue living with the Anniston's. Writing this symphony will be a full time endeavour. So…I…thought I could live here…with you."
Having been regarding the bare wall with unseeing eyes, he now whirled around, gaping at this audacious woman. "What did you just say?"
Her next words flowed in a rush, as if she feared she would lose her courage in voicing them if stopping to think rationally. "I'm aware of how incredibly forward this sounds and I'm not usually so bold. I know you must think me mad but please, just consider it. I spent all of last night thinking about how to make this work and absurd as it sounds, this makes the most sense. We would keep our relationship strictly professional, of course. The commission shall be split evenly between us. And should you decide to make an appearance at the gala, the extra money would be yours."
Rising to her feet, she took a few steps towards him, continuing her fervent speech. "You've been terribly aloof with me during our time together but I've seen the genius in your work. I know it's there. And though I tried to convince myself that I could hire anyone to simply record my notes, it's not what I desire. I want this symphony to be something special. Something extraordinary. We could do it together if you're able to open up and trust me."
Realizing his mouth was still parted with shock, he clamped it shut, grinding his teeth until his jaw ached. How ironic that the previous night, thoughts of Melodie had been able to calm the stormy seas of his soul and yet here and now, she managed to toss him back into an ocean of writhing emotions. He was leaving tomorrow. Plans had already been set into motion and he'd resigned himself to whatever fate awaited him on his journey. How dare she come into his home and tempt him with this outrageous proposition. Oh yes, he was sorely tempted, no question. To focus solely on composing again would be wondrous indeed but even as his heart lifted in contemplation, an inner voice laughingly mocked him. It would never work. He could never allow her to see him for what he really was.
"Erik?"
Her voice was small and questioning. With a muted roar of frustration, he launched himself at her, grabbing her arms and hauling her close.
Inclining his head to her level, he spoke through clenched teeth, piercing her with a glare filled with fury and agony. "Don't presume that you know me. You think me a musical genius? You're right. But these hands of mine have done more than write music. You don't want to know what I'm capable of. And you damned well don't want me to 'open up', as you so delicately put it. If I truly revealed myself to you in all my glory, not just what lies beneath the mask but within my soul, you would run screaming into the night. Is that what you want? Is it?"
As he rasped the last two words, he shook her like a rag doll, her head bobbing precariously on her neck. Although the foggy haze of his anguish was thick and swirling, he eventually registered her trembling lips and wet, glistening eyes. The naked fear in them stabbed deep into his gut, twisting his insides with reproachful self-disgust. He was frightening her and though he supposed that had been his intent, a wave of shame washed over him. At this moment, he was no better than David Wentworth.
Releasing her abruptly, he backed away, hands curling into balled fists at his sides. "I'm sorry. I'm behaving like a monstrous beast. But you must realize that what you ask is an impossibility. Leave now. Run. And forget you ever met me."
He expected her to flee, to move as fast as her legs could carry her through the door. Instead, she stood utterly still for a while, the tears receding from her eyes without falling. Her expression shifted to one of troubled sadness as she finally turned around to gather up her cane and reticule with mechanical movements.
"I'm sorry too. Sorry that you're choosing to run away. I don't know what horrors lie in your past but you can't let them consume who you are now. You may run as far as you like but you'll never escape yourself. I'll see myself out and wait for the coach outside."
When she had gone, the room seemed cold and devoid of life, as if his own flesh and blood were not warm enough to sufficiently permeate the space. He marvelled at how someone he had known for a mere few weeks could have become such a presence in his life. Her parting words haunted him, nagging doubts starting to plague his resolve to leave.
Seething with frustration, he tore off the mask and threw it at his feet, barely able to resist the urge to crush it into oblivion with his heel. As he flung himself into the chair, he closed his eyes, hunching forward with his head resting in his hands. Such indecisiveness was still new to him and he cared not for the feeling. This human weakness had never ailed him during all the years in the opera house. But now, it drained him of the power and control that he longed to regain in this still unwritten chapter of his life.
When at last he lifted his head, he still had no answers. The mask stared upwards with its sightless eye, a blind and empty socket that foretold no visions of the future.
He would have to make that decision himself.
A/N: As always, thanks to my reviewers. It's lovely that I have a few new readers. To answer some specific questions, there is a hint to the French swear word "Salaud" in the very next sentence, ie: "Salaud," he cursed. If that bastard struck her…
And yes, I'm single, so 'mademoiselle' is just fine.
Also of note, I have a beta now, the wonderful penkitten – many thanks.
