White muslin,
Gray broadcloth
Blue taffeta
Chapter 14
Choosing attire for the impending character assassination is a more daunting process than I anticipated. With Mary's fine eye and expertise it is finally settled that I shall wear a gown of deep eggplant. It is high about the neck while exposing just enough of my throat to excite an interested man's imagination.
I glance at the paper. The story focuses on the more sensational aspects of Christine's disappearance. It blames her presumed lover, the younger son of a count. This account makes no mention of the scuffle in box five or the angry voice of the opera ghost booming out over the audience. The new managers must have more pull that I believed to keep that detail out of the papers. That shows as much as they knew about opera. Nothing sells tickets like a juicy ghost story.
I did not see the crumpled page until I checked myself one last time in the glass. There by the bed in a tight ball is the yellowing page of sheet music. Mary is in the dressing room putting away the rejected gowns. I know it is from him even before I pick it up. I pull it apart carefully if perchance Monsieur Thornton had the ears of cat and wait outside my door.
It was a page from his opus, his cramped notes crawling like ants breaking cords and twisting harmonies into something wonderful and horrifying. Scrawled across the margins in red ink, in a hand that is both rapier and childlike, is his message to me.
"She should not have come, she should not have come," over and over again. I crumple the page and toss it into the fire, not carrying who hears me.
I have other battles to fight this day. I cannot let Erik's games throw me off of mine. Turning on my heel, I give myself one last glance in the mirror to smooth away the tremor that Erik's not has started. At least what I am wearing will work in my favor. The color is both vibrant and subdued. The depth of the color is almost black in this light. It shall lend me a dignity and poise I do not feel. Everything else is simple. No jewelry and my hair swept away from my face, simple but not severe. Mary is worth her weight in gold.
Once upon a time my hair was a glory of blond curls with a smattering of freckles across my nose. The pale, dark haired woman reflected back at me has no association with that child. That girl and I, we are strangers.
I descend the stairs and turn toward the library at the indication of Rene, my butler's head. The door to the library swings open before my finger touches the handle. My eyes fall upon the Scotsman first. Despite his salt and pepper hair there is vigor about him. He is one of those men whose vitality for living greatly outmatches that of men several years his junior. I turn to him first. His disarming manners may be a mask to hide the fact that he is the most formidable of the pair.
"Doctor, I don't think I have had the pleasure of knowing your name." He smiles broadly. Thornton is just behind the door. Seeing him out of the corner of my eye I acknowledge him only with a nod.
"Collin MacDougal, a pleasure and an honor Mademoiselle-," he offers me a gallant bow.
"Doctor MacDougal," I repeat, perfectly creating the burr of his brogue. With one eye still on Thornton seems displeased. I wonder what sort of reaction he expected. I know that I am a vain and frivolous creature without his frowns reminding me. Playing a part is my stock and trade. The comfort and splendor of my home proclaims my talent for it.
MacDougal hands me to a chair. The lines of Thornton's face fall into a disinterested look. If I was not so convinced of Scottish gallantry, I might take comfort in the thought that the pains to my grooming had some effect on at least one of my captors.
"Do you hold me under house arrest or am I free to come and go?"
Thornton's lips tighten. I detect a slight crinkle at his eye that denote a touch of amusement. "You have taken a great deal of pains with your dress for a march to the gallows. One might suspect you intend to proffer some sort of bribe to charm your jailer. Not that I object." Only now do his eye appraise me up and down, deliberate to make certain I have marked the path of his eyes. "The affect is quite alluring as you no doubt are well aware. Ah, to be the man in the position to render relief to your present distress."
My hackles rise at his mocking tone even as I feel my face flush with the realization that the gown is a little too well fitting. Perhaps black broadcloth would have been better choice.
"I don't suspect your are effective in any position," I reply archly. It is hard to suppress the urge to cross my arms. Such a gesture would be admitting defeat when the test had only just begun.
"I am only here to ask you a few questions." Thornton cannot keep the smile from his lips. I want to slap it off of him. If I had not spent the last several years ruled by English manners probably I would. "I am not here on behalf of the Managers. I hired on by a certain patron of the Opera who was concerned about a pattern he observed repeating itself."
A bead of sweat starts at the back of my neck and works its way down the color of my dress. I bite the inside of my cheek to regain control. His eyes narrow as if he knows about the five.
"One I am told that ought to be very familiar to you. The criminally insane often choose to recreate a past success. They have a need to relive their crimes in one way or another."
My stomach drops. His words reach out to my worst fears and the sickening apprehension I felt when I first learned of her disappearance returns. Erik is not the madman he portrays. For every act there is a reason and a code of justice rules what he does.
"What is that to me? And who is your patron to me that I should answer the questions of his lap dog?"
Monsieur MacDougal shifts out of the corner of my vision. Thornton tosses a newspaper in my lap. It's yellow and faded, bearing a headline almost identical to the one that arrived this morning.
YOUNG SOPRANO DISAPPEARS AFTER A TRIUMPHANT PERFORMANCE …
I do not need to read the rest. I know what it says. My stomach tightens with the knowledge of everything that article did not say.
Thornton picks it up and begins to read aloud:
"Young ingenue Mademoiselle - replaces diva in the inaugural performance to the long anticipated opening of Palais Garnier, marking a new era in Academie National de Musique. The evening's triumph was marked by the disappearance of the young mademoiselle following the performance. All of Paris is aghast…"
I grab his wrist to stop him.
"Shall I go on?" He asks.
"I know what it says," I reply with less command than I wished. The room has turned cold. It has been fifteen years since that night. I remember it as though it was yesterday. It is more real and more vivid than anything presently happening in this room. It is very far from what he thinks.
"You have made no secret that you find my presence officious, but I think you know I am here out of concern for you safety." His voice is still firm but gentler.
I look at him only half seeing, half hearing. My thoughts are with her now, wondering indeed history has repeated. Is Erik the savor not the mastermind of yet another disappearance? I hear the syllables yet English is suddenly as foreign to me as the day I first set foot on Thornton's island. My mind latches on to the word safety. "I understand that you are under someone's employ to make my life a misery. I assure you I am in no danger."
His brows knit together and his eyes darken when I say nothing more. The line of his mouth goes down sharply. Yet it is the subtle clearing of MacDougal's throat that alerts me to the depth of his frustration.
"And what of your late night intruder?"
"Why should a stray cat trouble you?" I fire back.
"Is it customary for a cat to leave a rose as a calling card?"
"I would not know. I have been away from Paris long enough to forget the common customs of a Parisian house cat."
A crease forms in his forehead. "And what explanation do you have for my finding you unconscious in your box at the opera."
I lift my chin, "It was a very dull performance." He leans over me shaking his head. We lock gazes for several seconds. The room feels very warm and very close.
His hands are tucked behind his back. He straightens and drops something in my lap. I refuse to break off eye contact to look at it. He steps back and turns away.
My moment of triumph has passed. There is another crumbled page from Erik's opus. I do not need to look inside to know what it says.
"I suppose you know what this is about."
I can only nodded. The lump at my throat prevents me from doing more. Thornton tucks his finger under my chin and gently lifts it.
His voice drops down. "And these bruises on your cheek," The softer he speaks the harder his words hit, "I suppose that these are from the cat as well."
I blink back the tears I can no longer hide. Releasing me, he steps back, glancing over at his partner. His stiff posture and the doctor's sympathetic expression, have them looking like a certain pair from the illustrations of The Strand Magazine. "You cannot deny that there is a reasonable assumption that you safety may be at risk."
"You cannot remain here," I state as evenly as I can. I must move. I get up from the chair and step past him. Crumpling Erik's warning note, I toss it in the fire.
Thornton's face darkens in impatience. I suppose he considers it a matter of destroying his evidence. To me it is simply the correspondence of love affair having gone on long past the time it should have ended. Never in my life have I believed Erik capable of harming me. Yet under the scrutiny of Thornton I was forced to face the possibility. The note said everything.
I watch it burn, the ashes waver in the heat until they crumble. How Erik and I could have strayed so far from our dreams? I lean my head into the mantle and take comfort in the radiating heat. Waiting for the next question, accusation.
"If your not careful you're likely to scorch your dress." Warm fingers take hold of my wrist and gently pull me back a step.
"Why should I care?"
His finger traces my cheek. With an involuntary shudder I look up at him, recalled from the darker recesses of my mind to the present.
"I've grown rather fond of it and the way it sets off your blushes."
His eyes are teasing now. An hour earlier I would have rejoiced that it was a sign of my having gained power over him. I am no longer the vain and haughty creature that stepped through the doors. His questions have humbled me. With a quick glance about the room, I realize the good doctor is gone.
Understanding my looks Thornton anticipates my question.
"He has not gone far. But he has other appointments to attend to."
Realizing I must look like a pouting child, I softly clear my throat and straighten an imaginary crease in my skirt. I move away from the fire, expecting Thornton to step aside. Instead, he moves closer and his hand encircles my other wrist. He wears a bemused smile as his thumb begins to trace small circles on the insides both of them.
His unexpected touch sends a jolt through me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. He cannot have missed the leap in my pulse. I endeavor to master my reaction. I doubt he is fooled. He leans in to me so that our noses fairly touch.
"Tell me what I want to know," he whispers. His breath caresses my lip.
"What you want to know or what you want to hear, which I think has more to do with my confirming your theories than answering any questions." My voice drops a pitch to match his but is more tremulous than I mean it to be. My rebellious body drifts infinitesimally closer inhaling the circle of his warmth.
"Do you think I did not know what you are doing? This dress, your perfume, I assure you it will not distract me from my purpose."
I can no longer meet his eyes with any certainty. I am not the only one doing it! My mind screams. He takes me in from the top of my head down to feet with a look that knocks the air from my lungs. With I did not think I possessed, I step past him. He lets me but not without letting his fingers grazing the inside of my palm.
"How fortunate for you that my plan only worked on me." I think, only it is out loud.
My hand falls to my side and my jaw drops open to hear my own thoughts betrayed.
I was in the middle before I was aware of what was happening. One step and he has me by the elbow. He spins me round and into his arms. His mouth poised a hair's breath from mine, that same wry expression on his lips as he takes in my expelled breath. The haste of his actions did not prepare me for the gentle hesitancy as his upper lip grazed mine. The warmth spread through me like a soundless roar beating inside my ears.
I follow his leaning in expectation.
"Damn."
The circle of his arms is gone as he moves three steps from me in an instant. His brows sharpen downward. He looks everywhere but at my stunned, nay, disappointed face. That was when I heard the library doors swing open.