Chapter 36 - The Doctor's Note

Erik opened his eyes, instantly alert. The sounds had entered through the quarter opened window—

a muted crash and a distant shout. Meg moaned in soft protest, sliding her foot down his shin and promptly settling back to sleep. Turning his head into her neck, he closed his eyes and tried to follow her there. He knew not the hour, nor did he care, yet he found that once awakened he could not return to his rest. Lifting his head, he glared accusingly at the window for having allowed the world to intrude and violate their blissful state. His gaze traveled over the pale design of the wallpaper, the white provincial furniture and clothing strewn over the thick rug. He ran a hand over his face, feeling his stubbly beard and judging it to be around the noon hour. Light seemed into the room, a carriage passed by and he was too aware of his need to visit the lavatory.

Turned his attention back to his wife, he studied her face while she slept, deciding that he had never seen anything more lovely. Gently removing his arm from beneath her shoulders, he slowly disengaged himself from her embrace and bent to place a soft kiss against the hair piled at the back of her neck. She nestled her head deeper into the pillow, making him smile as he remembered the flowing script of her little book, the one she had given him back at the parish.

Do not awaken love, until it desire…

She was not to be interrupted, he thought, studying the gold and wheat colored highlights in her hair. Her scent surrounded him, stirring him with its power and sweetness. Inhaling very slowly, he prayed a prayer of thanksgiving for her and remembered his petitions of the night before. Deciding the answers were better left up to one far more capable than he, with measured and careful movements he withdrew himself from the warmth of their bed and sat on the edge of the mattress to stretch. Though rudely awakened, he felt strangely energized and had to restrain the urge to leap up and shout with joy. Instead he lifted the blankets from his side of the bed and draped them gently over her bare back. Standing to stretch out his sore leg, he gazed down at the miracle of his wife.

How could I have been so blessed, to have found this loving and tolerant woman?

Shaking his head, he stood naked in the bright light of day, feeling as if her were Adam awaking from a deep sleep to find his Eve there waiting for him. Wondering if the greater miracle wasn't the one birthed inside his soul, he strode toward the foot of the bed and reached for his trousers, stepping carefully into them. As he fastened his waistband several other amazing changes confronted him all at once. Here he was, staying in a stranger's home by invitation, standing in a room with a window and flooded with daylight, and even more astounding Meg had shared his bed. Or her bed, to be precise.

His eyes were drawn back to her, and something melted deep within his chest. She was half buried beneath the blankets, with only the top half of her head poking out. As he watched her sleep he remembered the closeness, the passion and the intimacy of their time together. His life had changed drastically, and a great deal of that change was the result of her presence in his life. To his amazement, this beautiful young woman had somehow become his wife. And now, she was his lover.

I am truly blessed…

His chest tightened with emotions too strong to face, so he forced them away and went to the window to close it. Then, moving toward the door, he put his hand on the knob and paused, making sure that he had not disturbed her. Wondering if he should bother to pull on his shirt, he felt his stomach burn and growl with hunger. A thought occurred to him, and he flashed a smile before opening the door and striding from the room.

The house was quiet and still, vacant for at least a few days. He descended the carpeted stairs, relishing the feel of the thick wool beneath his bare feet. Light poured in through the main door sidelights, causing the freshly polished wood floor to glow like warm honey. As he touched the cool planks and gazed to his left, his plan to wash up and then cook her breakfast faded at the sight of the white envelope standing atop the dining room table. Stepping hesitantly into the expansive dining room, he could still see Louise's face as she handed him the key to this house, mentioning the note left for him. Scanning his surroundings as if seeing them for the first time, he reminded himself that their time here was limited. Once again feeling like an intruder, he approached the table and stared at his given name written across the front of the envelope standing against an empty wine decanter.

Taking a deep breath, he reached for it and snatched it up, quickly tearing it open. His eyes ran along the flowing lines of cursive, which concluded by alerting him to the fact that a servant would be coming for them at nine in the morning the next day. Puzzled, he touched the train tickets mentioned and enclosed, lifting out the itinerary detailing the train scheduled for Brussels at 10 o'clock. Frowning, he snatched up the business card lying upon the lace tablecloth, noting the crossed out Paris address and the handwritten avenue and suite number of the Hotel Belgique, 4 p.m. on Saturday.

He glanced up, suspiciously scanning the elegantly furnished room, wondering about its owners. Why would this Dr. Hommes and his wife offer their home, tickets to a distant city and an appointment at a hotel? He understood their relationship with Meg was a close one, and why the tickets? Did they know Leger's plan, even before he did?

Lifting the note once again, he re-read the last paragraph, still haunted by questions. It explained about his reward money having been raised by a group of physicians and professionals, all opera connoisseurs, but why was it being held for him to claim? Why would strangers relinquish it for his personal use, deposited in a foreign bank? He remembered Judge Miller's advice to have surgery and appear at his premiere, a plan that he strongly resented. Furthermore yet unbeknownst to them, he now answered to another, One who had commissioned him and whom he would not disobey. What right did any of these people have to interfere?

Swallowing a shout of protest, Erik stuffed the note and itinerary back into the envelope. With trembling fingers he stood it back up against the decanter and stepped back, forcing himself to take deep breaths. His heart was pounding and he clenched his fists, striding from the room intent only upon finding the lavatory. He located it at the end of the corridor, tucked beneath the stairs. Slipping in, he closed the door behind him and ran a hand through his hair. Quickly relieving himself, he fastened his trousers and leaned both hands upon the counter, hanging his head in defeat. He pleaded for direction, and when he began to feel calmer he straightened. In that moment he found himself facing a mirror he had not noticed before.

Confronted by his own reflection, his mind shot upstairs to Meg's sleeping form, flashing with scenes of her face as he consummated their marriage. Overwhelmed by a flood of images from his past, he saw her fainting in the judge's foyer, felt the first touch of her lips upon his, and remembered her bending over him to nurse away his deadly fevers. Most of all, he remembered his vision of his redeemer, the memory of which filled him instantly with peace. Holding his breath, he held his own gaze of astonishment, hearing his own rush of breath as he stood and waited.

Fear not, for I have set you upon a new course…

It was that voice again, like a soft whisper but one which came from inside his own mind and heart. There was something keenly familiar about it, as if it was part of his very being. Then he realized he had just had another prayer answered. Laughing with a mixture of joy and relief, he answered while gazing at his own face in the mirror.

"Indeed you have," he replied, shaking his head. "And I am entirely thrown off course."

Though he waited there seemed to be nothing more, and smoothing a hand over his face he slowly collected himself and washed his face. Reaching for a towel, he patted both sides with equal care, washed his upper body and beneath his arms, and patted his skin dry. Flinging the towel over his shoulders, he half turned, frowning at his reflection.

"All right, then," he breathed, "so be it!"

With that he opened the door and stalked back to the dining room. Stretching out a hand to retrieve the envelope, he paused as fear and the unknown taunted him. Suddenly tempted to wake Meg and return to the parish, he knew they could live there undisturbed. They would accept him as he was, surgery or not. Meg would be happy there, he sensed, and he would be free from the confines of his probation. As long as he never left the country, he would enjoy a blessed life. He could direct their music, teach in their school and even compose, something he longed to resume. What better life could there be?

But he would always be a fugitive, running from his debt to society. Shaking his head, he realized that he had just accepted his course, yet now he thought of abandoning it. Free will was a temptation he could not afford, for he was no longer accountable only to himself. No, he had been spared for a purpose, and had returned to the land of the living only by grace. Furthermore, he knew without a doubt that he was destined for another path. But where exactly did it lead?

He thought of the footman calling the next day, a public train ride and hotel stay, the judge expecting him to face the mob at the premiere of Don Juan. All these obstacles must be faced either masked or unmasked. If he did not have the surgery to correct his deformity, he would still be in hiding from the world, at least the one outside the parish. Dr. Arnand had warned him about wearing the mask again and exposing his healed skin to its confinement. It would revert back to its former state.

Flicking his outstretched fingers in mid air, he thought of Meg sleeping upstairs, the unseen hosts who had graciously offered them this refuge, and the snarling judge who insisted upon it. Groaning but surrendering to his face, he snatched up the envelope, shoved it into his pants pocket and turned to find the kitchen. Retracing his steps down the corridor and past the lavatory, he found it and set to work. Redirecting his thoughts, he pulled a skillet from its hook above the large stove and set it aside. Bending to search the icebox and the larder shelves, he gathered what he needed, realizing that food had been stocked for their use, some even already prepared and waiting. They had a day and a half to themselves and he intended to make it as pleasurable as possible. First he would surprise her with breakfast in bed, and as he cracked three eggs at once he smiled in anticipation. Maybe they would soak in the large bathtub together, he thought, already envisioning it. A walk in the large garden would provide fresh air, and perhaps he could play for her on the grand piano which stood silent in the parlor that also served as a sunroom. Quite unexpectedly and after a very long time, he suddenly felt like singing.

"You have to let me watch you," she demanded, startling him. He whirled in surprise, nearly dropping his shaving brush.

"What?" he said defensively, replacing the towel that was sliding from his shoulder.

She smiled impishly, pulling away from the doorjamb. With his foamed up brush poised midair, he watched her walk slowly toward him until her grasped his wrist. Gazing up into his eyes, she smiled, moving closer and placing a hand upon his bare chest.

"Ever since I first smelled it, you have enticed me with your shaving cream," she whispered, smiling warmly up at him. "Please?"

"Is that all it took?" he joked, turning back to the mirror but feeling a rush of embarrassment. After years of complete isolation, he found his lack of privacy somewhat disturbing. "Mere shaving cream to make you mine?"

She moved quickly, grasping his waist from behind as she peeked around his shoulder to meet his startled gaze in the mirror. With pretended nonchalance he stroked the foam over his cheek, chuckling at her excitement as she bounced up and down on her toes. Intrigued by trying not to cut himself, he pulled his razor over his good cheek as she kissed his shoulder and hugged his waist.

"Does it hurt?" she gasped, her eyes wide as he tipped the blade near his jawline.

"It will if you jostle me at the wrong moment," he muttered, puckering his lips to shave around them.

"Oh! I'm sorry," she gasped, loosening her grip at his bare waist.

"I'm teasing," he breathed, holding aside the razor as he bent to kiss her.

"Erik!" she spat, wiping the cream from her lips and laughing while he turned back to the mirror.

He jumped in surprise at the gentle swat of her hand upon the back of his shoulder. He was about to turn and grind his cheek against hers when he suddenly remembered his back. Stiffening, he also remembered resisting her efforts to turn him to his stomach, and his refusal to let her see his scars. The sound of her laughter faded as their eyes met in the mirror. He tensed his jaw and proceeded to continue lathering his brush.

"They are hardly noticeable," she finally said, curling her hand around his side.

He dabbed the brush over his ruined cheek and concentrated upon his reflection. "What do you mean?"

"Your back," she said gently. "The lines are faint, Erik: one wouldn't notice them unless they were very close."

"Good," he said, tapping the brush into the bottom of the mug to refill it. Glancing up at his reflection, he knew he looked ridiculous with a white creamy beard, but she wanted to watch him shave. God only knew why.

"You shouldn't be embarrassed—"

"I don't care to talk about it," he stated, carefully shaving his cheek. "So tell me…what is so intriguing about watching me shave?"

She sighed dramatically and moved away, perching upon the edge of the tub. He turned his head over one shoulder to glance at her, suddenly struck by her beauty. She gazed up at him with her eyes shining, her face flushed with color and her hair unbound. That troublesome chemise hugged her curves, its satin sheen begging for a man's touch. Clearing his throat, he directed his attention back to the mirror, resuming his shaving with some difficulty.

"I already told you," she said indulgently. "The scent of the cream clings to your skin, prompting certain reactions which… I don't care to discuss."

Lifting his brows he set the razor aside and turned, noting the slight upward tilt of her chin. "I am intrigued…" he breathed, suddenly inspired. Taking a step toward her, he pointed the brush toward the low neckline of her chemise. "Perhaps an experiment is in order, to test its effects."

Her eyes darted to the brush and back to his. "Oh no you don't," she warned, putting up a hand.

He grinned, taking another step toward her. "Why not?" he said seductively, touching the brush to the base of her throat. "I would like to share the effect, with you.'"

"It's a masculine scent," she protested, ducking away as she rose from her perch. He touched it lower, between her breasts before she gripped his arm. "Not for women to wear!"

With a laugh of triumph he snagged her waist and pulled her close, ignoring her squeal of surprise and lowering his face to the spot. He sniffed at the cream on her skin. "Ah—I see what you mean—"

"Erik!" she screeched, pushing at his chest just as he rubbed his cheek against hers, transferring the shaving cream to her face. Her fingers dug into his arms but she laughed, her eyes darkening with sudden awareness of their position. He had her trapped between his body and the wall, their breaths mixed as they panted together. Then her gaze lowered to his lips.

"It does nothing to me," he breathed, straightening and abruptly releasing her despite the fact that his senses thrummed with desire. She pulled the towel from his shoulder and snapped it at him before using it to wipe the front of her chemise. He turned back to the mirror and lifted the razor again.

"I will get you for this!" she protested, wiping her chest with a towel.

"I'm frightened," he said, pausing to meet her gaze into the mirror. "Now pay attention, if you insist upon watching."

"I do," she answered, coming close and sliding a hand around his waist. It was a slow caress, the way she slid her fingers over his skin. His body reacted immediately but he held out the razor as if it was an exhibit.

"One must respect the fine edge of a sharp razor," he instructed, scraping it over his cheek with one deft movement.

When he bent to rinse off the cream she touched his shoulder. "Your beard came in!" she exclaimed, indicating the side of his deformity.

"It did, finally," he agreed, stretching his lips down to shave near his mouth.

"So the treatment not only worked on your skin, it also initiated hair growth," she said, her voice full of wonder. "Maybe we can use it to help others, as well."

"Maybe," he breathed, quickly finishing and wiping off his razor. He watched her reach around him to touch the small leather bag on the shelf. "Do you always carry this with you?"

"I try to," he replied, eyeing her suspiciously. "Why, do you have other plans for it?"

"No," she smiled vivaciously up at him. "But don't even think of trying that again, unless you like me smelling like a man."

He put his hands on his hips and tilted his head to study her. "Actually, now that I think about it, I might enjoy the sight of you covered with shaving cream," he said softly, "and nothing else."

Her eyes widened but she held her smile, lifting the towel to dab at the corner of his mouth. "You missed a spot," she explained, concentrating on her work. "It might prove an interesting experiment, should the roles be reversed."

He stared at her in disbelief, slowly hooking a hand around her hips to pull her close. "I doubt that, but I'm open to experimentation," he breathed, dipping his lips to hers. The kiss held as she sighed with satisfaction, curling her arms around his back and returning his kiss.

They slid the kiss back and forth with slow deliberation, and she dragged her gaze back up to his.

"Thank you, for the wonderful breakfast," she said between tentative kisses.

He cupped the back of her head and tasted her lips. "My pleasure, Madame."

She slid her hands down his hipbones, gazing innocently up at him. "I've never been served in bed before, except when I was sick as a child."

He smiled. "But you are no longer a child…"

She smiled, leaning into him. "No, thanks to you…"

c. 2008 by Christine Levitt

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