Time was fluid and ever changing, sometimes seeming to come to a standstill, but more often racing by with a breathless blur. The symphony had become Melodie's sole focus and only vaguely was she aware of the time passing by. Days were longer and becoming warmer, the grass lush and green from the plentiful spring rains, the brook rising higher and moving just a touch faster. One day, she had been surprised to learn that they'd entered the month of June, which meant that a little over four weeks had gone by since arriving at Erik's home.
They had grown more comfortable with each other now, though neither of them were spectacular conversationalists. She knew no more of Erik's past than when she had first arrived and since he asked no questions of her, she had not volunteered any information of herself.
Their days had fallen into a routine of sorts. Having always been a morning person, she was awake and puttering about early, long before Erik stirred from his bed. She had taken to making breakfast for the two of them, eating her portion alone and setting aside the rest for him to eat later. If the weather permitted, she spent the rest of the morning outside, finding a suitable spot for her composing. Sometimes she sat at the base of a tree, nestled against the rough bark and sheltered by its leafy arms. If she wanted to be lulled by the sound of water, she chose to sit facing the brook, despite Erik's warning not to venture too closely. Once, not wanting to stray too far since the threat of rain seemed imminent, she'd foolishly planted herself just outside the back door. Erik had nearly fallen on top of her head, cursing as he always did in his native French.
She had not made that error again.
As Erik had confessed to her, he usually rose mid-morning and he preferred to sit at the piano while writing. In contrast to her relatively early retirement to her chambers, he often wrote late into the night, no doubt burning a great many candles down to misshapen stubs.
In the afternoons, they came together, meeting by the piano and sharing their individual works. Those daylight hours were further illuminated with flying sparks that ignited the air whenever they argued over major and minor points, equally passionate and stubborn when it came to their own creations and opinions. Their musical styles often clashed and though she was left to wonder whether a blended balance could ever be found, somehow it always worked out in the end. Following a silent and brooding dinner, by the time the dishes were put away and the kitchen cleared, they were ready to return to the piano for a session of compromise. Each instance this happened, something unique and exciting was added to the developing symphony. The process was arduous but thrilling, and Melodie couldn't be happier with the results thus far.
Only one blemish marred her happiness and it was a strange, unfamiliar feeling. She had never experienced anything like it before, thus she wasn't quite sure how to classify it. Instinct, however, told her that she was suffering from a malady called infatuation. It had sprung to life so innocently; the object of her attraction and admiration had solely been Erik's music. Now that object had grown to include the composer himself. Part of her rational self understood that she was idealizing his persona, much as a pupil might idolize a teacher, but that made the feelings no less real.
Perhaps even more troublesome than the newly acquired infatuation was the frequency in which she found herself cursing her weak, useless vision in his presence. Working so closely with him, yet unable to look upon him was absolutely maddening. She longed to see his hands caress the piano keys, his broad shoulders hunched in concentration, his face…his eyes. But ever careful to keep her longings hidden, she remained prim and proper within his company. Even Henry would find no fault with her respectable behaviour.
Thus far, Henry had only made one subsequent visit, giving notice well in advance via a letter. This time he stayed for dinner, complimenting the meal Erik had prepared – a simple beef stew. The two men in her life made polite, albeit halting conversation. Graciously excusing himself to allow her some privacy with Henry, Erik retreated to his chambers. She suspected that he was partially relieved to make his escape, though he claimed to be working on something. Leading Henry to the piano, she proudly showed him what had been accomplished in a month's time. Duly impressed, he also let her know that the construction of the theatre was on schedule. Opening night was set for the twenty-first of August.
The visit seemed to ease Henry's worries about the living arrangement. Melodie once again assured him that everything was going very well and she felt completely comfortable. When he left without inquiring about the status of her non-attraction to Erik, she breathed a sigh of relief.
Their only other visitor on a fairly regular basis was Peter. Depending on timing, if Erik was not in the focused mindset of serious composing, he continued to give reading lessons to the boy. On occasion, Melodie had walked in on a session in progress and each time, she'd been pleasantly surprised by Erik's demeanour. His tone was gentle, his words encouraging and he exuded such a wealth of patience; it was another glimpse into one of his many layers that she was delighted to discover.
Today marked another disagreement, this time over the tempo of the second movement. For reasons she could not understand, Erik was insistent on marking it as "largo", which she argued would be much too slow. "Andante" or even "adagio" would be more reasonable, in her opinion, but he could not be swayed. Although it fell under the category of a minor quibble and at this point, did not have to be resolved immediately, both of their nerves were still rankled.
When Peter's knock sounded at the door, the interruption had almost been welcome. As Erik invited him to sit for another lesson, Melodie also grabbed hold of a book and took it outside. Finding a shady spot, she settled down to read, mindful of stopping before any headache could develop. For a brief while, she was lost in a beautiful world of prose and poetry, rather envious of anyone who could write with such lyrical eloquence. All too soon, her eyes felt gritty and tired, the first signs of straining her vision. Putting the book aside with reluctance, she closed her eyes, tilting her head back and relaxing against the tree. Her mind began to drift aimlessly and with a sudden start, she realized she was no longer alone.
She was also quite horizontal, the smell of grass and earth in her nose.
"Are you asleep?"
Startled and disoriented, she looked up in the direction of Peter's insistent voice. "When did you get here?" she asked.
"I was calling you, but you didn't answer. Erik sent me to find you."
Feeling slightly groggy, she deduced that she must have drifted off, though she wasn't sure for how long. A little unsteadily, she pulled herself to her feet. Before she could even ask, Peter was handing over her book and cane. The gesture was sweet and she thanked him.
Upon entering the kitchen, she heard the sounds of food preparation – specifically the chopping of a knife.
Erik's voice rumbled from nearby. "Peter, take this basket and go down to the cellar. In the corner, you'll find some plums. Four should suffice and you may take one for yourself."
"But I don't like the cellar!" came the whine of protest. "It's dark and scary." A small hand tugged at Melodie's sleeve. "Will you come with me?"
"The cellar?" she echoed.
She heard her own voice, as if from a great distance. Perhaps because she'd just awoken from an unintended slumber, she felt caught in some sort of dream, trapped within a black hole of an imagined cellar. The walls seemed to be caving in on her, suffocating her until she had no remaining breath in her body.
Someone called her name but she was powerless to answer.
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"Erik, something's wrong with Mellie."
Erik glanced up from the salad he'd been preparing to find Melodie strangely frozen in place and Peter regarding her with puzzlement.
Frowning, he put aside the knife and approached her, calling her name softly. "Mellie?"
She either ignored him or did not hear him, continuing to stare off into space. It was the expression in her eyes that caused him the most concern; they were wide and haunted. Only once before had he seen her eyes clouded by that same, troubling emotion – the incident in the Empire theatre when she'd trembled in his arms in a full-blown panic.
"Melodie," he said, more sharply.
When she still failed to respond, he took hold of her shoulders and gave them a brief shake. The book she had been clutching fell with a dull thunk to the floor. At his touch, her eyes seemed to clear and she blinked.
"What…what's wrong?" she asked. "I get the distinct feeling everyone is staring at me."
Peter spoke first, sounding rather excited. "You were in a trance. Or maybe you were sleepwalking! My friend's father does that. Maybe you didn't really wake up when I found you. You just woke up now when Erik shook you. Yeah, I'll bet that's it!"
Fixing the child with a stern gaze, Erik said gruffly, "Peter, that's enough. Never mind the plums. I think it best you went home."
A look of stark disappointment flickered across the boy's features and Erik didn't know if the cause was the loss of the promised fruit or being sent away. In a kinder tone, he added, "Come back tomorrow, if you can. I'll have a plum waiting for you."
Seeming mollified, Peter retrieved the fallen book and set it on the kitchen table before scampering off.
"You may release me," she advised, somewhat stiffly. "I'm perfectly fine. I was simply distracted."
Studying her face, he noted the smattering of freckles in vivid contrast against the pale white skin, as if she'd been drained of her life's blood. "Distracted? You looked as if you were about to faint." Worry tinged his voice with a harshness he hadn't intended, making the statement sound like an accusation.
Judging by the healthier, rosy hue that slowly began to suffuse her cheeks, she indeed took offense to his remark. "I've never fainted in my life," she scoffed. "You're overreacting. And I believe I asked you to release me."
Aware that her shoulders were still captured in his firm grip, he led her over to a chair. "Not until you sit down."
If she had chosen to, she could have jerked out of his grasp, but she was surprisingly docile, allowing him to guide her. Once she was seated, he pulled out a chair for himself and sat down adjacent to her. His analytical mind was starting to form theories on the reasons behind her odd behaviour, but they were only theories. He wanted to learn the truth. "Would you like some water?" he asked.
"No thank you. I told you I'm – "
"Yes," he interrupted, "it's obvious that you're fine now but two minutes ago, you looked ready to collapse. I want to know why."
"Why does it matter? I promise, it won't happen again."
"Why? I don't ever want to see that look in your eyes again, that's why. And you're right, it won't happen again because I won't allow it. But you have to trust me enough to be honest with me. Haven't you always insisted on honesty between us?"
"I…yes, I suppose I have," she said, though she sounded reluctant to admit it. Clearing her throat, she sat back in the chair, enfolding her hands tightly in her lap. "It's childish, really, but I can't seem to control my reaction. I have a fear of small, enclosed spaces, particularly when they are coupled with darkness. A prime example would be the room that we were forced to hide in at the Empire."
The connection between that incident and what had just occurred seemed obvious now, as he softly said, "Or a cellar."
Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, as if blocking out the sight of something hideous. "Yes, a cellar. That is the root of this ridiculous fear of mine, and it only stems from a singular episode from my childhood. I suppose you want to hear about that too."
"I do, but the choice is yours to make."
"I've come this far. I may as well relay the whole story. I was very young, about six or seven. There was a wine cellar in the Wentworth's home. David, the son of the family, is two years older than me and we used to play together. Being a boy, he was rather mischievous and thought it would be amusing to lock me in the cellar. I don't remember how he lured me down there. It must have been something clever because I never would have ventured in on my own. When I was shut in, it was completely black. I stumbled around for a while, crying out for help, but no one came. All I could do was sit and wait. I felt…things…spiders, perhaps, sometimes crawling across my arms." She shuddered in remembrance, though her tone remained even. "Something even bit me. I think it was a mouse, because I remember hearing the sound of scurrying little feet. In any case, I was there for many hours, almost an entire day. Henry would have noticed my absence but he'd been out of town for the day. Only upon his return did anyone realize I was missing. That's when David confessed, claiming that he hadn't meant for the prank to extend for so long and he'd simply forgotten about me."
Erik arched an eyebrow. "That's difficult to believe."
Shrugging one shoulder, she said, "I don't know. Everyone seemed to believe it, including Henry."
"Perhaps because it would be too awful to consider that David knew exactly what he was doing and enjoyed being cruel."
"Perhaps," she conceded. "So there you have it. Even though it happened so long ago and I should have outgrown this childish fear, it still exists."
Erik sat silently fuming over something that had occurred twenty odd years ago. Such a vivid picture had been painted by Melodie's words. He could perfectly imagine a terrified little girl, screaming for help in the nightmarish darkness, only to find herself abandoned and alone. To think that she had been locked in that hell for a whole day? It was inconceivable.
But in actual fact, he knew exactly what it was like to be a child, imprisoned in a hellhole.
Irritated with himself for that stray thought, he gave his head a quick shake. David Wentworth, yet again. Even as a child, he was worthy of contempt.
Another series of unbidden images filtered into Erik's mind, this time in recollection of what he'd witnessed on the terrace of the Grayson's estate: David's leering gaze. Melodie's discomfort and distaste for the man. The bastard's hand poised to strike her face.
A sudden revelation occurred to him, though he sternly told himself to keep his temper in check, at least until he'd witnessed her reaction. "Why did you leave the Wentworths?" he asked, his voice deceptively quiet. Though something flickered in her eyes, she did not reply, so he pressed on. "You grew up there. It was your home. You had Henry there, a man who clearly adores you like a father. Something happened to make you leave and my gut tells me that David Wentworth was involved."
"Why would you think that?"
"The night of Celebration's debut. I was there, remember? I saw your reaction to him and the way…he looked at you."
Appearing stricken, her lips parted and closed twice, but no sound emerged. He noticed her hands curled in her lap, clenched so fiercely the nails were surely digging into her palms. "Stop that," he chided. "You'll draw blood." Gently plucking at her fingers until they unfurled like an opening flower, he then withdrew his hand. "Did he hurt you? Tell me."
When she finally began to speak, her voice was low and monotone, as if she deliberately chose to devoid herself of all emotion. "Your perceptiveness continually amazes me, Erik. Yes, David caught me alone one day. I knew something was wrong so I tried to run away but he tripped me and I fell. Then he was on top of me and…his mouth was on mine. I refuse to call it a kiss. I managed to free one of my hands and stabbed him. Then I escaped."
"Stabbed him? With a knife?"
"No, unfortunately, a knife wasn't available," she said, a sardonic edge now slipping into her voice. "I used my trusty pen. He may still carry a scar on his hand."
Erik held himself stiffly in the chair, retreating to his inner thoughts once more. The details she had provided about David's attack on her had been sketchy but his fertile mind was more than capable of filling in the gaps. He was flooded with disturbing images yet again and though he was well aware his imaginings could be worse than the reality, he doubted he was far off.
Anger swept through him with breakneck speed, his temples throbbing from the rush of blood that boiled in his veins. Equal portions of his fury were directed at David and himself.
I should have killed the bastard while I had the chance.
He leapt to his feet so quickly, the chair nearly overturned beneath him before he caught it with one hand. Recognizing that he was a hair width away from exploding, he was desperate to conceal that fact from the woman who now glanced upwards with a quizzical look. His gaze flitted frantically around the room and landed on a nearby glass. Thinking a gulp of water might help, he swiped it from the table. As soon as his fingers closed around the smooth surface, he realized how inane that thought was. No amount of water would cool the rage that was so close to spiralling out of control.
The glass flew from his fingertips, hurled towards a back corner of the kitchen. Striking the stone wall, it shattered with a ringing burst of sound, glittering fragments sprinkling to the floor. It was a small act of destruction that didn't quite fulfil his craving for violence, but the release gave him some measure of satisfaction.
"Erik?"
She was on her feet now, her expression troubled.
His voice was raspy, as if he'd just recovered from some monumental struggle. "I dropped a glass."
Although she gave no indication of whether she believed that dubious statement, she didn't question it. "You're upset," she said. "With me?"
How could she even think that?
"No, ma chère, not with you."
"With David, then. Perhaps I shouldn't have told you. He's not worth getting upset over. I want you to know that I'm not afraid of him. I despise him, but I no longer fear him."
There was much to say but Erik could not bring himself to express any of it. He felt curiously drained, as if all of his energy had disintegrated along with the shards of glass littering the floor. But he had to say or do something.
An idea finally came to him and he stepped forward, cupping Melodie's elbow. "Come with me and wait by the hearth. I have something to show you."
"But the glass…" she started to say.
"I'll clean it up later. You're not to touch it. I don't want you to cut yourself."
He led her to the couch in the sitting room and then proceeded upstairs, taking the steps two at a time, before he could change his mind.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Waiting on the cushioned seat, Melodie couldn't help feeling bewildered. After everything she had revealed, she had no idea what Erik was thinking. Her only clue was a broken glass and the fact that it had been thrown, not dropped. When it smashed, the startling sound had been too far away to have simply fallen at Erik's feet. No, he had deliberately flung it in anger.
As if sensing her confusion, a sympathetic whine was issued from Sascha's throat. Not aware that the dog had been in the room, Melodie smiled and held out her hand. Soft fur soon met her fingers and she stroked the dog's silky head. She'd never had a pet but had always been fond of animals. Sascha, in particular, was easy to love – gentle, good natured, and a fine companion.
Melodie didn't have much time to mull over her thoughts, as Erik returned quite quickly, setting something down beside her.
"Down, Sascha," he said, sounding slightly out of breath. "Mellie, this is for you. It's rather large, so it may take you a while to peruse it fully."
Not knowing what to expect, she leaned in for a closer look and her eyes widened with amazement. "I'm sorry it's not framed," he went on. "I meant to start making one and just haven't had the time yet. But considering all the unpleasantness, I thought you might appreciate this now."
Barely comprehending what he was prattling on about, she said, "You did this? For me?"
"Yes," he replied.
It was a watercolour painting of a place that she resided in but could only picture in her imagination – until now. In the foreground stood Erik's home and beyond it lay the green fields and running brook. The opposite side of the water held rolling hills and clumps of trees. Her eyes roamed eagerly, trying to take in everything at once. The detail was exquisite, from the stones of the house to the purple wildflowers scattered amongst the grass.
Drawing back at last, she was nearly moved to tears, not only by the sheer beauty of the gift, but the thoughtfulness behind it. Perhaps misinterpreting her silence, he sounded concerned as he asked, "Do you not like it?"
She attempted to swallow the lump in her throat before she could speak. "Forgive me, I'm rather overwhelmed. It's beautiful, Erik, more so than I can express in words. Thank you."
Her response seemed to satisfy him. "Good," he stated shortly.
Hearing some rustling, she presumed that he set aside the painting. He sank down beside her on the couch, not so close that they touched, yet she could feel the warmth radiating from him. A deep intake of breath preceded his speech. "You must be wondering how I can take in all that you have told me and not respond to it. It's often difficult for me to express my feelings, but that does not mean they don't exist. There is one thing, however, that I want to make very clear. Right now, this is your home and you are completely safe. Consider David Wentworth to be nothing more than an unpleasant memory. You're right, he's not worth getting upset over and I won't mention him again. Nothing will harm you while you're here with me. Is that understood?"
Although his means of comforting her oddly resembled more of an order, she found herself nodding, curbing the desire to see his face. Instead, she concentrated on the musicality of his voice.
And with a reluctant twinge, she realized her infatuation had grown just a little deeper.
A/N: To allegratree: I didn't mind your rant at all. Since I love musicals, I have seen all of those films you mentioned, even Barnum - though it was a long time ago and I seem to have no recollection of it...just a very young Michael Crawford. I shall strive to keep your comments in mind as I write.
Thanks to my beta, penkitten, and to all who have reviewed. It's especially nice to hear from some new readers. I hope you continue to enjoy this tale of mine.