Author's Notes: Wow, it has been a really long time since I've updated this story. Many apologies to my readers if I haven't lost them already. With college, I will do my best to find time to write more (The next chapter will be finished soon actually). Also be assured that this story will remain Meg + Erik and not Meg + OC.
Last but definitely not least, please leave a review. It will motivate me to update faster.
Chapter 13: A Reprieve
There came a knock very early the next morning at the cottage door. The maid whose room was located downstairs was awakened first from her slumber and tip-toed barefoot down the hall to answer the call.
"Hallo!" came a cheerful male voice from across the wooden threshold. "It's Francesco, come for Meg and the promised chaise ride this morning. Is she ready?"
"But so early?" answered Sophia, thinking secretly in her mind that this boy must certainly be mad, "I don't believe the mademoiselle is even up yet." She was mistaken however by the assumption for scarcely had she spoken these words when there came a breathless answer by Meg from upstairs.
"No, no! I'm almost ready! Sophie, please ask Francesco and his sister to wait for a moment in the hall." There followed several great clatters as of something heavy being pushed hastily out of the way and quick pattering footsteps down the staircase before Meg's tousled head suddenly appeared in the doorway. She was bundled in a long woolen scarf, small boots on her feet, and a dark blue shawl covered her shoulders. The skirt of her simple white muslin dress rustled noisily on the ground in Meg's haste and several strands of golden hair had come loose to frame her face becomingly. A soft beam of morning light from the half open door lit and seemed to form a soft halo about her fair head.
"Ah, I thought you had forgotten," answered Francesco after a brief pause in which he gazed with evident admiration in his blue eyes at the girl before him.
She laughed and averted his gaze while buttoning up her gloves, "Of course not, I've been looking forward to today after all. Maman says I ought to be back before supper though."
The carriage was a grand little contraption with gilded plush seats, an open top, and a pair of chestnut horses harnessed to it. Inside this carriage, Meg could make out an elegant lady as if born to recline in such finery all her life. She wore a forest green velvet dress, a bunch of flowers arranged prettily on her dainty hat, and a warm muff was wrapped around her hands. Upon seeing Meg descend down the porch steps with Francesco, she went out of the carriage and rushed to offer her hand in welcome.
"How wonderful it is to finally meet you, darling. My brother has spoken so much about you and I can see we will be great friends already," smiled the lady with a languid air. "My name is Rose by the way; his sister." She looked Meg up and down with a scrutinizing sparkle in her brown eyes and seemed to discern at once the bit of mud splatter clinging to the skirt of her dress. In any case, poor Meg felt rather self conscious.
The weather was extremely pleasant during the drive and the carriage passed through several strips of scenic valleys and picturesque towns on the outskirts of Paris. Several green buds were already blossoming on the trees and the moist late winter air rested comfortable against Meg's cheeks. She half-reclined against the side of the carriage and tried to concentrate on Rose's busy chatter as well as admire the greenery of the countryside. Being a lady who considered herself the fashionable side of society and meant to show it off, Rose as soon as Francesco had laid whip to the horses, begun to speak very fast and glibly about the winter balls they had attended and held already in Paris, something about a certain Duchess who she was trying to ignore but would simply not get the message, the latest fashion in summer dress which was being rumored at, and continual criticisms at the weather.
"It's been raining nonstop these past few weeks, you know," cried Rose, "and I simply cannot stand for it. There is nothing that puts me into a more sullen mood than rain, snow, and other such nonsense. Why, I have been encouraging my husband to take a winter house in Naples recently for the weather is much better there but he simply will not listen. Says he to me, 'My dear, the rain will stop when you yourself stop such needless fretting.' I daresay, Charles can be a dear when he tries to please me but insufferable at other times."
Meg could find no better answer to the following speech than to smile and nod which Rose took as encouragement enough to continue.
"Meg!" and Francesco who was sitting in the front seats and driving the horses rather quickly, interrupted, "Look yonder at that fine grove of willow trees and the little farmhouse with a plume of smoke coming out of its chimney spout."
"Where?" asked Meg, straining to look and nearly falling over in the seats during her attempt. "I cannot see it unfortunately."
"Then perhaps you might take a seat up front here and thus obtain a better view," answered Francesco with a smile.
"Oh don't be ridiculous, brother," scowled Rose who had taken a peculiar liking to Meg already, "She's perfectly comfortable here in the back with me."
A little sibling row was about to take place until Meg interrupted with the conciliatory suggestion that she stayed as she was until the return journey when she would join Francesco in the front. At this idea, peace again resumed in the carriage.
Presently, the carriage reached a fork in the road and turned towards a forested area. In the distance, the sound of running water as if from a stream could be heard.
"Where are we going?" asked Meg in wonderment as she, Francesco, and his sister alighted from the carriage. The midday sun felt deliciously warm on her skin.
"What do you say to a picnic, Meg?" asked Francesco with a smile as they walked down a path among the trees. Rays of filtered sunlight fell like gold all around the dewy earth, highlighting their surroundings. "I discovered this place as a child and remembered coming here with Maman and Rose when not at the opera house. It has been a long time since I was last at this spot."
They settled themselves in a shaded area under a clump of trees bordered by the running stream and supped on tea, bread, cheese, and cold ham. The morning drive had made the three rather ravenous and they ate hungrily, declaring the simple fare scrumptious.
Meg lounged lusciously on the cool grass and watched Francesco skip pebbles into the brook. All around, she could discern the calls of unseen birds and the flutter of wings mingled with the plop, plop of falling stones and noisy chatter from Rose beside her.
It was all so wonderfully peaceful and tranquil and Meg could not suppress a happy sigh as a slight breeze brushed her cheeks. There were tiny dancing specks of golden sunlight which swayed amid the dark shadows cast by the trees. She had her eyes fixed lazily upon them when Francesco, bored of his activity by the brook, came to lie on the grass by her and Rose's feet.
"You're looking very pensive at the moment, Meg," he begun to tease her.
Her blue eyes belied her surprise at the sound of his voice. Meg shook her head smilingly. "I was only thinking how lovely this spot is and what nice weather we're having. It seems like a very long time since I've had careless days like these."
Francesco glanced at her and wondered at Meg's candid remark. "I'm happy you like here; perhaps we might come back sometimes soon."
"Yes, I would like that," answered Meg without a thought. A spot of sunlight was slowly making its way through the trees to warm her white hands.
There was a brief pause before Rose broke the silence with a fresh stream of gossip about a certain acquaintance of hers who had run away from a respectable home to elope with a poor artist. Of course, they were friends no longer; she went out of the way in the streets to avoid disreputable people such as these; she even heard that they now lived a shockingly pitiful life in a flat in the Rue Venues with two children and a third on its way.
Meg, angered at these remarks, had such difficulty restraining her comments that she could not help breaking in: "But as long as they are in love, what does it all matter? They will gain the sort of happiness which a fortune no matter how large can ever buy, no approval from society ever make complete."
"But dear," cried Rose with a sardonic smile, "even you must admit that one cannot live on love alone."
Meg could not but it deeply grieved her nevertheless to acknowledge such pessimistic ideas.
Francesco, who was lazily plucking the grass with one hand and overhearing the conversation, perhaps to change the topic asked Meg whether she still wanted to become a famous dancer as she had once declared to him as a child.
"I don't know anymore," she replied with her head lowered, "Since the Opera Populaire was destroyed, I have had no real place to perform and practice unfortunately." She sighed and leaned back against the tree. Those once extravagant dreams of hers in joining a famous ballet and performing for the emperor were just those now, dreams only. She would be like all the other young women her age now, waiting for either marriage or spinsterhood.
Suddenly, the forest didn't seem half so beautiful anymore.
Francesco called often at the cottage over the course of the next month, sometimes coming alone, sometimes bringing either Rose or his mother. And gradually after the third visit, Mme Giry urged him to stay for dinner for which he politely accepted. Meg, who had felt a bit suspicious at first of his constant presence and for Erik's sake too, gradually found herself warming to his presence. For he always brought bits of interesting news to the sometimes lonely cottage, laughed easily, and was always so confident and at ease around others that she could not help but be reassured. Meg never wondered why he came so often and if she ever thought of it privately in her room sometimes, the very idea seemed very perverse and impossible to her. She never wondered why he was so solicitous to her and so steadily supplied the small library with books she delighted in; why he saw the little piano in the drawing room and the next day brought her new sheets of easy music which he claimed was from his sister. No, Meg never suspected any of Francesco's actions or the motives behind them for she saw him only as a dear sweet boy with a bright future ahead of him, the former playmate who had cried when she pinched him.
But Erik did notice.
He knew without spoken words that Christine was keeping a secret from him for there always continued to hang about them that air of tension. Raoul felt it when he bent down to kiss her in the mornings over breakfast and she returned his affectionate gesture with cold, marble lips. He saw it in her growing paleness as winter gradually melted away to reveal spring. She stayed inside a great deal now as if afraid of something outside, musing over the fireplace with a book spread forgotten in her lap. In such a moment, he dared not approach her. Once he had tried questioning her but before the words were even out of his mouth, his eyes had already betrayed his sorrow and Christine had turned violently away and stammered out some incomprehensible reply. And so really, he could do nothing but stand by silently and watch; doubts buried deep in his heart.
It was a chilly day in late February when having returned early from business in the late afternoon, Raoul had again found Christine buried in the same brown armchair beside the fireplace. A little sound had brought him to her side. She lay with her eyes closed, her dark hair hanging like a mantle around her face; the warmth of the fire had brought a rosy glow to her cheeks. Even in sleep, Christine had found little peace but was caught in the throes of a nightmare. Every so often she would sigh deeply and toss her head sharply against the cushion.
"Raoul, Raoul," she murmured with a worried frown on her face.
Alarmed, he had reached over and gently rested a hand on Christine's shoulder to wake her. But scarcely had his finger brushed the fabric of her dress then her great brown eyes shot wide open. She regarded him for an instance it seemed without recognition for she suddenly shrank nervously away. It seemed in that instance as he watched her, that never before had she revealed so much to him in her eyes than at that moment when she was caught unaware in her sleep. Still so much fear, so much sorrow there.
"Christine, you were having a nightmare. I only wanted to wake you."
At the sound of his voice, the glaze cleared from her eyes although she continued to gaze up at him mournfully. "Oh, I must have fallen asleep while reading. It must be very late; I've lost track of the time." She shifted, made a motion as if to rise, and caused the book to fall from her lap onto the floor with a sharp plop.
"Christine-" he begun.
"Please Raoul," she murmured impatiently, averting her eyes, "Please don't question me. I was only having a bad dream but it's over now and…and…" She suddenly stopped all motion, all speech and uttered a small sob. Tears glistened on her lashes and Christine could not continue.
He moved to take her in his arms and she did not offer resistance, but instead took up one of his hands and pressed a kiss on it.
"Perhaps it might ease your mind if you told me," he said soothingly.
She turned to Raoul and there was a short silence before Christine could finally speak. "I dreamt that this time, he didn't let us go, that he killed you in front of my eyes. And I could do nothing, nothing but watch because I was too afraid..." She stopped and two great tears fell from her eyes.
"Darling, it's over now. It's over." He tightened his clasp and kissed the top of her tousled head. "I'm here now and nothing will separate us ever again." This was the first time, she had ever broached the subject of the Phantom to him since that horrible night.
"No, no! It isn't over! Don't you see, Raoul?" she suddenly cried with a wild look, "He taught me all he knew, loved me and I repaid that love with my betrayal. Surely, I must still yet pay for my sins for destroying so many lives. Surely, I do not deserve to be happy."
It seemed that months of suppressed feelings had finally roused this outburst.
"Christine, why did you think he released us in the first place? Because, he wanted you to be happy. If not with him then elsewhere." He stopped, unsure of why he of all people was defending the Phantom. Swallowing hard, Raoul asked the next question, "Christine, would you have been happier had you stayed?" He looked into her eyes and felt the same doubt and grief as he had experienced the night of Don Juan Triumphant when behind the curtains he had silently watched their performance. And it seemed at that moment, Christine and the Phantom was already living in a world of their own, a world that he would never belong to.
"Raoul, why would you ask me such a thing? Life for me down there in the dungeons would have been worse than death. To never see sunlight again, or Meg and Madame Giry, and most of all you. To be forever his prisoner…" Christine trembled as if exposed to a great chill and turned her face silently to Raoul. "Do you doubt me and think I have regrets? Then reassure yourself when I say that it is you, Raoul, whom I love, whom I have always loved."
"No, I've never doubted you. It was only a moment of foolishness on my part," he quickly replied, swallowing a lump in his throat.
They clung to one another and sealed the moment with a kiss. And though inwardly glad that this little conversation had taken place, doubt secretly continued to rest in their hearts.
The following week, a mysterious event occurred which sent shockwaves throughout the de Chagny household. Anne had been mysteriously pushed down a flight of steps and locked in the cellar while unconscious for over two days by a mysterious assailant. Gravely injured, the frightened maid had lain in bed for over a week and quit on the spot upon being able to leave the guestroom. She left with a description of a hulking man all shrouded in a black cloak as her attacker. The next day, Christine Daae received another note tied to a single long stemmed red rose.