A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) And now …
Chapter X
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The land slowly died, the seasons passing with little haste and melting one into another. The blustery autumn lingered for what seemed an eternity, at last giving way to the icy chill of winter, until once more the season shifted in its plodding course and revealed the first buds of spring.
The only sign of life to remain untouched at The Grange was Christine, who continued to inhabit her silent, dark world. Unreachable. Unaware.
Both Raoul and Arabella endeavored to change Christine's sorrowful lot, but their efforts proved futile. Often he carried her out to the garden where he or his cousin sat with her, holding bright one-sided conversations. With the change to warmer weather, he took Christine to her beloved moors, both cousins hopeful that the familiar sight would urge her to rejoin the living. But she sat as quiet and listless as always, within the cradle of his arms, and the de Chagnys were fast losing hope that she would ever come back to them.
Several friends suggested Raoul would be wise to put Christine away and commit her to Bedlam. He vehemently protested, having heard of the deplorable conditions in The Bethlehem Hospital, a wretched place where the criminally insane were chained to filthy floors and cots and put in the same drab cells with the misfortunate innocent, even orphaned waifs who had nowhere else to go and no one to care what happened to them. Arabella was just as adamant that Christine not be subjected to such a horrid fate. And so, she stayed at the de Chagny residence, The Grange becoming her home and Raoul and Arabella her ever-attentive companions.
At chapel each Sunday, the cousins prayed for her soul and her sanity. Afterward, Arabella lit a candle for Christine and often told Raoul that she wished they could do more. His parents returned, curious by the arrangement but offering their approval to see Raoul give charitable aid to the daughter of the respected violinist they had both long admired. Before the dust could settle on their traveling trunks, the elder de Chagnys were off again, in the company of old acquaintances, to France this time and their friends' villa there.
Summer came and once again drifted into autumn, marking the time as one year since Christine slipped beyond reach. The days dawned brisk but not yet cold enough to cause physical discomfort. While the weather remained obliging, early one morning Raoul took Christine outdoors for some fresh air.
He gently placed her in a cane chair he'd had crafted for her, one with large wheels to easily transport her about the estate, and rolled her to the center of the sunny garden near the kitchens. Intending to step into the library to retrieve a volume of Browning's works to read aloud, he began to walk away.
One of the barn cats had a nasty habit of slinking into the kitchen, unseen, and stealing raw fish and other feline delicacies the cook would set out during meal preparation.
Today was such a day.
The kitchen maid caught the sleek thief just as he grabbed a raw kipper in his teeth and darted from the kitchen, racing off with his prize. The little stout maid wielded a broom and chased after him. Christine's chair sat in the mouser's path of escape and for no apparent reason anyone could later discern, the cat leapt onto her lap, seeking sanctuary from the scraggly bristles of the madly waving broom.
One instant, Christine knew or understood nothing. The next, from obscure veils of thick dark fog she stared into bright golden eyes. Golden eyes of a sleek, raven-black creature that dropped something pungent onto her skirt.
"Christine," Raoul exclaimed as he rushed toward her. "Did the little beast hurt you?" He moved to grab the cat and throw it far from her.
"No. D-don't!"
Raoul abruptly stopped and stared in shock to hear her speak, but she paid him little heed.
The encounter with the cat gave her no fright, did not even startle her. She stared into the creature's eyes, the mist that clouded her mind slowly dispersing as she connected to something real that inhabited the present world. The feline looked back, unblinking. For a long moment they stared at one another thus. Then, for the first time in a year, her arms lifted of their own accord, and she hugged the scrawny, golden-eyed cat close to her bosom.
"M-may I keep … him?" Her fervent words came slow and hoarse, stilted after so many months of disuse.
"Of course - you may have anything you desire! Whatever you wish!" Raoul dropped to his knee beside her chair and eagerly clasped her arm, his joy to have her back apparent to see. Christine felt she could have asked for the Crown Jewels of London and he would have scaled the Tower in order to grant her wish.
From that morning on she found a point of contact to cling to in her bizarre, four-legged catalyst. The sleek creature helped her remain anchored so as not to slip back into senseless oblivion, and he stayed with her, in her rooms, even slept with her on the coverlet of her bed. Such domesticated living was unheard of for any of the animals at The Grange, particularly a stray barn cat, but Christine wanted it and Raoul decreed it. And if any of the servants complained at having to clean up the added mess, they were given a stern glance or curt warning by the current master of the house.
However, while Mozart the cat quite suddenly found himself cosseted in a life of ease and plenty, matters did not come so easily for Christine on her sluggish return to their world.
After not functioning for so long, her limbs ached dreadfully when she attempted to move them. She needed to learn to use her arms and legs again, forced to take walking slow, almost needing to relearn the steps like an awkward tot. She tired easily, her speech at first slurred, her mind having difficulty in connecting words with what she wanted to say. It frustrated her to no end to possess the inability to do simple things she'd always taken for granted, as feeble as a babe. But she persisted and through the weeks showed slow and steady improvement. Two months after finding Mozart, she was almost back to herself again. Almost … and yet, so far from it.
Her limbs and tongue once more functioned properly, and she ate, conversed, even danced at a ball the de Chagnys held to celebrate what they proclaimed as her miraculous recovery – but she refused to sing when anyone asked it of her. The continual spark that once housed her fiery spirit was extinguished. She was not the same Christine she'd once been, with the breathless passion and lust for life, the mercurial temperament and potent vibrancy that set her apart from all others. Gone was the wild spirit that made her eyes sparkle with mischief and her face glow in delight, and often Christine overheard Raoul and Arabella discuss her in whispers of concern. Yet she said nothing about the change; there was no point.
That erstwhile Christine was buried with Erik, wherever he was, the part of her soul and heart that would always remain his.
She had at last accepted the awful truth of his death, though everyone was careful not to speak of him - too careful, their very evasion a continual reminder of his former presence in her life. And she wanted to remember him. Wanted to recall and relive in thought and words his spirit and his fire and his passion. His breathtaking music. His habit of calling her his Little Angel. And his beautiful golden eyes ...
She looked toward the sleek cat that lay on her pillow and lazily licked its paw.
If she believed in the reincarnation of the soul and spirit upon the earth, (a sin to even ponder such things), she would believe that Erik had come back to her in feline form. The moment she first looked into the creature's glittering eyes of brightest topaz, she had felt as if Erik were shaking her out of her lengthy stupor and into reality, demanding that she come back to the world and live again just as he demanded she fight to survive in her fever-laden dream of more than a year ago. Mozart had the same mischievous bent as her lost love and the same irascible moodiness. But he also knew how to comfort, snuggling against her when she needed it and purring at the stroke of her hand. Of course she didn't believe Erik had come back as a cat – though he certainly had possessed the feral grace of one – but she wondered if he'd sent the feline to her from the other side, somehow. She believed their souls were linked, so perhaps he'd known of her inconsolable distress that had her fade away and become a living ghost.
The servants still spoke of the bizarre encounter beneath their breath, of how the formerly wild barn cat became docile in the blink of an eye and only with Christine, as if a spell were suddenly cast upon it. She had even seen one of the maids cross herself in fear when spotting Mozart, though that could have been linked to the superstition of a black cat crossing her path.
Superstitions were for the ignorant and foolish. Christine had endured far too much forced wisdom in her young life to pay heed to such inane beliefs. She had known the cruelty of sudden death - twice. The lack of divine mercy. The knowledge of cutting words …
No gypsy's curse or bizarre superstition had destroyed her life as Erik had forewarned on that last night she'd been with him. She had done that without the aid of made-up myths. And for the remainder of her days she would suffer the penance of her rash insensitivity.
x
With winter's arrival came the bitter cold, and the de Chagny cousins decided to take a page from Raoul's parents' lifestyle and visit warmer climes.
Arabella excitedly prepared Christine for the journey, helping her pick out shimmering bolts of material for the seamstresses to make fine day dresses and lush evening gowns while telling her of all the exciting places they would visit. Christine did not decline or accept as no invitation was given; it was merely accepted that she was part of the family and would accompany them. The only input she gave was her insistence that Mozart must come along as well.
Raoul laughed at the idea but did not refuse and Arabella admitted that she'd seen women abroad with their dogs, so didn't believe a cat would be refused aboard ship. Raoul had a soft carrier made for Christine to wear and carry her cat, though Mozart showed no docility when it came to such a confining device. To her reluctant dismay, Christine ended up needing to leave him behind in her cabin and later her hotel suite when she went with the de Chagny cousins on sightseeing tours or attended social events in whatever country they visited at the time.
And so the weeks passed in a whirl of frivolous activity.
Spain was exotically beautiful and dangerous, splendid in its fiestas and shocking with its bullfights ... Greece loomed an impressive image, breathtaking with its ancient Parthenon against a sky of such cloudless blue it hurt to look at it ... Indeed, the entire Mediterranean was a sight to behold.
For any young woman, especially one not familiar with a continual life of opulence, such travels would have been the culmination of a dream come true. For Christine, such engagements became an interesting way to pass the time. Nothing she did, no matter how glamorous she once thought it, no matter how adventuresome or romantic, gave her true pleasure. The strength of such feelings had died with Erik. She merely existed, passing from one day into the next.
She smiled when it was expected of her, socialized with the gentry and learned to behave like a lady, attending all the social soirées to which the de Chagnys were invited. Many of the nobles accepted her into their circle; many more regarded her as if she were an oddity. She knew she was the succulent fodder of frequent parlor room gossip but didn't care either way. Let the haughty old matrons and their snobbish unmarried daughters scorn her! She didn't care for their kind's approval and never had. She only ever coveted the esteem of four people, two of whom were now dead, and two who were determined to instill her with life.
Arabella, for her habit of talking about anything and nothing filled the awkward silences and had become a dear friend. Christine witnessed in her a beauty not at first discernable with the young woman's smallish eyes and beaklike nose and hoped Arabella would forget how cold Christine was to her in those first days at The Grange. Raoul was the perfect gentleman, a most considerate companion. She and everyone else who spent an hour in their presence could not help but be aware of the special attention he set aside exclusively for her. The tenderness in his eyes when he looked her way gave her a cozy feeling of protection. Indeed, had her heart been hers to give, Christine would consider him an ideal husband.
In the spring, before returning home, they visited France, where the de Chagny family had its origins. During his last brief stopover home, the Comte had told Raoul that if he were to one day act in his stead, he must learn about the company to which he would offer financial assistance. And so, Christine attended her first opera in Paris, sitting in Box Five, with Raoul beside her. Arabella had earlier pleaded a headache and chosen not to attend, instead turning in early for the evening at the hotel.
The orchestral music that soared toward the rafters was enticing, sublime. The accomplished voices of many of the singers rekindled a spark of desire inside Christine, to be part of such a company. A hopeless thought since she couldn't sing - could never again sing. With furrowed brow, she concentrated on the stage and the river garden setting, identifying with the lovelorn pair whose tragic story ended before it began.
He also had sworn that he would never leave her …
At times like this, while listening to the music they both adored and remembering their shared dream to perform in such a place, she felt as if Erik were truly there with her. She could almost imagine him close, his presence strong - so much so that with her heart beating wildly, she looked over her shoulder toward the box's entrance, half expecting to find him standing there watching her.
But the thick crimson curtain did not stir, and no one else stood or sat near.
At the curious lift of Raoul's brow she shrugged with a faint smile and returned her attention to the story unfolding onstage, her heartbeats and faint breaths remaining swift and expectant. In spirit she felt Erik would always be with her, especially during such times. She blinked back tears to realize he was truly gone, and when Raoul reached for her gloved hand to hold it she did not pull away, thankful for his strength and comfort.
The opera concluded in a glorious finale of tragedy and loss, and foul weather echoed the sentiment as it tore apart the evening sky.
Despite Raoul's attempt to keep Christine protected from the downpour, the shower did its damage, her hair and silks both sodden once they arrived to the nearby hotel, where Raoul earlier secured rooms. A distressed young maid approached upon their arrival.
"I am so sorry, miss, but the cat, it has escaped." She fearfully explained that when she opened the door to Christine's suite, the cat sped away.
Raoul ordered a search made in the hotel, even directly outside it, and Christine personally insisted on searching the corridors of the floor their rooms were on, loath to stand by and do nothing.
Yet despite all efforts, no one could find the sleek and wily black animal.
They had come to a stop in front of his hotel door when Christine received the upsetting news from the last party to search, who then swiftly excused themselves and left. Seeing her despair, Raoul drew her into his arms and held her while Christine laid her cheek against his shoulder and silently cried for her golden-eyed friend. Not wishing her misery or dishevelment to be seen by any passersby and cause her further embarrassment, she allowed him to take her into his private sitting room. There she stayed, accepting the warm, dry blanket he wrapped about her shoulders. He spoke in gentle undertones, until she calmed into a slumberous daze, exhausted from the evening's occurrences. More than an hour had elapsed by the time he escorted her back to her room and, with a gentle kiss to her brow, bade her goodnight at the door.
It was with a heavy heart Christine returned to England without her beloved pet. She solemnly agreed with Arabella's quiet assurances that the cat could fend for itself and there existed no need to worry about the fate of the sly creature, but Christine still missed her little friend.
On their first night home at the de Chagny residence, Arabella visited Christine in her room, upset to see her so miserable. "We could always find you another cat," she suggested in an attempt to help.
"It's not that," Christine said sadly. "This might sound rather foolish, but he reminded me of someone … of Erik. His eyes, that is. And other traits he had, too."
It was the first occasion she had spoken his name since she'd drifted back from her trance-like state months before. Arabella's eyes widened in amazement, her brow clearing in relief. She moved to the bed and took a seat beside Christine.
"Tell me about him. Your Erik. That is, if you wish to."
Warmed by her soft words of encouragement and surprised to hear her friend state what she had long wanted to reveal, Christine hugged her in gratitude. "Oh, yes. I would very much like to tell you about him." After feeling the coveted nearness of his spirit in Paris, she could almost force herself to imagine the past year never happened, and she pulled back from their embrace to speak eagerly of the one man who as yet possessed her entire being. Indeed, telling of their experiences made her feel as if he were actually there, close by, as if he'd never left The Heights.
The full moon washed through a chink in the draperies, bathing the center of the room and the two women in ghostly white. The glowing stream made a gradual disappearance as the beacon rose high overhead and the lamp burned low, and still Christine spoke of her treasured memories. She told of the long ago stormy night when she first became friends with her dear soul mate … of some of their wildest adventures on the moors as children and their narrow escapes, and how at those times especially, Erik acted as her guide and protector.
All the while she spoke of their shared history together, Arabella listened in wide-eyed wonder, watching as Christine's face sparkled with a life and animation she had not seen in more than a year.