Chapter 25

Erik lingered in the doorway. The light from the hallway cast his shadow over his old desk. It wasn't his any longer, and had not been for some time. He could scarcely recall the day he had handed the key to the Director of the Arts office over to Damrosch.

Memories hung in the air. Oh how the musical scores used to pile up on the desk until the top was no longer visible. He had tried to refile them, but the task had remained futile in the endless cycle of new programs to arrange.

He sighed, and leaned heavily on the cane as he ran his fingers on the spines of the scores. Each one shelved recently. And dusted too. Well of course it had been. Damrosch had many assistants these days helping to run the place. A regular flurry of activity, compared to Erik's own stilted pace. His fingers tightened on the cane handle. He would have thrown it across the room to be rid of the vexing symbol of his perpetual weakness, save that would have left him to rely on the wall for balance.

It took far too much effort, but he forced his fingers to relax. What sense was there in exercising his anger? Such ridiculous displays did little more than exhaust his fragile stamina.

These last weeks spending time at Carnegie Hall had been a wonderful stolen time for him. For all intents and purposes it appeared to everyone that he had simply returned from Europe and resumed an interest in fostering music. He had met with Grimaudo and seamlessly handed over the physical running of Shadowcrest Industries, as though it had been his plan all along. That wasn't far from the truth, only on a different timeline then intended. Grimaudo had solid instincts honed over the years. And working with him, some of the finest architects in Manhattan. Somehow, Erik had managed to conceal his anguish until his once apprentice had left the mansion. That was nights ago now.

Life had stayed the same to the public. Yet to Erik, everything had changed. It was beyond exhausting trying to maintain the look of ease. That was why he had wandered up here to this old office at a time where he knew this hallway would be empty. To remember … to bask in the memories when he had not been an invalid.

Hurried footsteps outside the door caught his attention. No one should have been up here this time of day. Only the students and their tutors were here now, and the handful of them should be in the practice rooms.

Erik slid behind the door, just a shadow in the dark room.

A moment later a young couple bustled into the room. The girl's dress rustled as she spun into the dark. Breathless, they both gazed out into the hall just on the edge of Erik's line of sight through the windowpane of the door.

Charles? Yes. It was Charles and Simonetta. Both flush as they stared out back down the hall. Charles broke the silence in a whisper, "I think we lost her, but not for long. What is it? What's upset you?"

She swallowed hard and gripped Charles's arms. "If we're caught this will end everything. Not that it matters. My father already has. Charles, I have terrible news."

"Calm down. Whatever it is, we will find some way … "

"My father is planning my debut."

Charles stiffened, every breath a harsh gasp. "No. No. This can't be. Not yet. Not yet! Simonetta, I won't be considered … oh God, this is terrible!"

She gripped him tighter. "I don't want that silly ritual. I don't want to dance with others. I don't want anyone else, Charles. I had hoped to delay this as long as possible. Until you would be considered a proper suitor. But my father won't be swayed. All I could do is reject all the suitors. But I can only do this for so long. Not the years it will take for you to be considered worthy by them."

Behind the door, Erik's heart pounded in his chest loud enough he swore they must hear it. His poor son. Only just starting in the world. True, he was a remarkable musician with prospects. But that wasn't enough. It would be years until his inheritance. Though Erik had only glimpsed the books, he knew that with the recent strain on the household from his illness, there was not enough available for Charles. Even if he had wanted to gift his son with an early inheritance, it simply couldn't be done.

Color drained from Charles's face. He pitched back as though he would fall. "I never imagined that this would happen. I should have … but … what are we going to do?"

She rested her head on his shoulder, safe in his arms. "Everything we can to prevent my hand being pledged to someone else. I would rather die than marry another."

"Simonetta."

"I mean it, Charles. I've loved you since the first time you helped me to my feet when I fell. I still remember how my brother teased you over for the color you turned. Despite his ridicule, you continued to steal glances at me every chance you had. No other boy has gone to such lengths or risked the wrath of my father as much as you. No one else understands my love of music as you."

"I don't know how. But I promise you, we will find a way to prevent this. Somehow, fate will intervene and we will be together."

Erik's mind worked feverishly. There had to be some way to circumvent this ridiculous dance ritual. But navigating ingrained social ideals could be maddening. Erik had learned the price of ignoring those in the wake of Christine's mourning for Raoul. Granted, she had hardly been bereft of his loss. In truth it was a celebration. But one she could not have show to the world. While remaining in Erik's mansion as a grieving widow, she'd had to maintain the facade of mourning. Despite their efforts to quell them, rumors still sprung up from the masses. Though few bothered to remember after all the years.

The office was silent now as Erik discovered himself alone. Carefully, he exited the room. His duties were complete for the day leaving him free to return home. In the two short blocks to his front door, a plan began to form. Though Charles could do little in this circumstance, that did not mean all was lost.

In his study Erik swiftly penned a letter and sealed it with his signet ring. His tapped a cadence while he waited for the servant to answer the summoning bell. How would he wait for the answer?

Less than a week later, Erik examined every setting at the dining table. He lifted every piece of silverware inspecting the fine grooves for any sign of tarnish. Each crystal goblet he picked up and peered at in the gaslights.

"Monsieur Erik," the butler, Wensleydale, stood in the doorway. "I assure you, everything has been polished to a mirrored shine, per your request. The household is quite prepared to receive your honored guests."

"It better be." He placed the final glass down at the head of the table. "Nothing is to be out of place this evening. This dinner is beyond critical."

The butler was about to reply when Erik's gloved fingers grasped and retied the servant's bow tie.

"Nothing will be out of place. Am I understood?"

"Monsieur." He nodded. "I shall wait for your guests at the door. It is near time for their arrival."

Christine entered with Charles. She the calm anchor to the troubled son. Poor Charles could not keep his fingers from fidgeting with his vest, his shirt, his cravat. Erik had resigned himself to the occasional tug on his own shirt cuffs. For now, his gloves well concealed the scars on his wrists. But soon, at dinner, there was the risk of a cuff slipping. He had taken pains to tack the cuffs as tight as possible to prevent such a mishap. This was far too important.

Charles pulled his vest down. "What if they don't come?"

"They will." Erik replied with a calmness he didn't feel. "A gentleman's reputation is built on his display of honor. Chantelli comprehends that."

Christine gently straightened Charles's cravat. "Everything will be alright. Just mind your manners and let your father handle this. You'll see."

Charles looked up at his father, wringing his hands. "Are you certain?"

Erik forced a smile. Everything hinged on him. He wasn't sure he was ready for this fine of an affair. He would have to be.

"Of course he's certain," Christine answered. "If anyone can secure your future, he can."

"Mother, I don't think I can sit at the same table as Simonetta and not steal her away."

She laughed into a gloved hand and glanced at Erik. "Like father-like son."

Erik bowed his head and muttered, "Please leave the dinning room chandelier in place, Son. I confess in hind sight that little stunt was a severely unwise tactic to win a woman's affections."

Charles glanced up at the polished crystals hanging from the ornate fixture. "I imagine that had made quite a mess."

The reply was interrupted by the ring of the pull bell. The family made a few last minute adjustments. Erik offered his arm to Christine and a stiff nod of his head to Charles. "It begins."

The evening proceeded wonderfully. Halfway through the courses, with their guests at ease, Erik could scarcely believe his luck. Signor Severo and Singora Ambra Chantelli leisurely chatted. Their twin children, Dario and Simonetta sat across the table from Charles. It did not escape Erik's attention that his son stole glances whenever the governess wasn't watching. The poor boy was blushing in competition with the apples. Nothing in the conversation was a fault for this. But Erik's heart knew the cause. His son was pining for the answer to the one question that could not be asked in public.

How Erik longed to simply broach the subject. A subject far too heavy for dinner. A servant cleared the table in preparation for desert. Soon enough.

Ambra wiped her mouth daintily with a napkin. "Our apologies if we are a touch out of sorts. We're still reeling from a terribly long carriage ride the other day. Entirely unplanned, you see."

Christine folded her hands on her lap, a vision in the lamplight. "I trust it was for something good?"

"I daresay it was." Ambra sat up straighter in her chair. "A chapter in our lives fully dealt with. My uncle, the daft lunatic, should have been locked up ages ago. It was about time the family agreed to commit him to the asylum. What a relief to have the threat to the family reputation safely put away."

In the silence that followed, the only sound was Erik's rasped breathing.

Severo eyed his wife. Christine reached for Erik's hand only to miss it by a fraction. He pushed up from the table and fled the room in a shambling gait without his cane.

Charles rose in a panic as Simonetta clutched the ruffled collar of her dress.

"If you would excuse me for a moment." Christine left the table and grasped Erik's forgotten cane. "Since Europe, there have been moments where he has required fresh air, sometimes rather urgently."

Without a backward glance she followed the echo of Erik's footsteps. He hadn't gone far. She found him clinging to the open door of the ballroom, gasping in the frosty evening air. Gently, she placed the cane in his hand. His grip tightened as the cane took his weight.

"This can not be happening. Do not make me go back in there."

"Shh." She rested her hand on his. The breeze stole his breath in puffs. "You have nothing to fear. No one suspects anything, my love."

"You heard her." His voice rose an octave even as he fought to keep the volume down. "If anyone were to learn—"

"There is no reason for them to. I can assure you right now, Signor Chantelli is likely admonishing her for such a rude remark. Erik please, calm yourself. The evening is going well. Just a short while longer, then you can broach the subject in your parlor." She leaned in close and tucked herself beneath his chin. "We'll get through this together. I'll go back inside and cover for you. You just needed some air. Nothing more. Don't be too long."

Erik delayed her departure, holding her tight in his embrace.

"My love." She squeezed his hand. "Everything will be fine. I have every confidence in you."

She slid out of his grasp and vanished through the door.

"It was indeed a pleasure, Monsieur Erik. A good evening to you." Signor Chantelli offered a formal bow surrounded by his family. Behind him, Simonetta stole a desperate glance at Charles before her father shepherded her off to their waiting carriage.

By the time Erik had finished the required bow and closed the door he turned to find both Charles and Christine pressing into him.

"Well? What did he say? What did he say? Are we betrothed?"

He tucked his chin. "For one thing, my son, we need to work on your manners. That is not how a gentleman approaches such a subject."

Charles fixed his eyes on the floor and muttered. "Sorry, Father."

"You are not betrothed."

His shoulders fell. "I knew it was useless. Poor Simonetta."

"Chantelli has canceled her dance, provided that you remain a proper potential suitor."

He stiffened and met his father's gaze. "You mean … "

"We have reached a verbal agreement, Charles. But it all hinges on you two being patient. No more hidden rendezvous in the back offices."

"What? What are you talking about?"

Erik tapped his cane. "The Director of the Art's office?"

"Oh." He cringed.

"You are to see her in passing as a gentleman. If Chantelli catches you sneaking about and endangering his daughter's reputation, then there are no words I can say that will salvage your chances. I am trusting you."

Charles bowed his head. "I will try. I promise." He turned and bounded up the stairs toward the alcove window to see her carriage off.

Christine slid into Erik's waiting arms. "I knew you could persuade him. What did you say?"

He chuckled. "Turns out that Chantelli is a romantic."