Chapter 36

The clock upon my dresser struck midnight.

I laid awake in my small bed, my blankets pulled up around my shoulders to ward off the cold. Under the covers, I'd put on a heavy, long sleeved night rail and a pair of wool stockings. The room was chilled and the large mirror upon the wall was actually slightly foggy with the frigid air.

I stared at the mirror, my hand wrapped about the linen of my pillow case. I was silently willing it to slide open, revealing him standing behind it, dressed immaculately, his cloak draped over his form. He would come to the bed, throwing back the covers and scooping me up and carrying me to his home where he'd lay me upon the velvet draped bed and then undress and come to stretch out beside of me and simply hold me, sing to me, and we would fall asleep in each other's arms.

Unable to sleep, I had lain awake for most of the night, thinking about what I had said to Erik.

"I can't love you."

Those words had carried two meanings for him, only one for me. I knew as soon as they had left my mouth that he believed I spoke of both my inablilty to give myself to him and my unwillingness to share my heart with him. I didn't mind him laboring under the misconception. In fact, it was what I preferred.

When I had told him I couldn't love him, I had spoke of only the physcial. I loved him. So much that it stole my breath at times with the beautiful pain of wanting something so very much. But I could never part with that knowledge, especially to him.

Erik had never been loved, in any sense of the word. If he were to know that I was in love with him, he would expect more of me than I was willing to give, more than I was able to give to him. I didn't want to hurt him more than he had already been hurt. It was better this way, him believing that I couldn't give myself to him, my heart or my body. Perhaps he would grow tired of me and see that I was only a distraction to him to take his mind off of Christine. He would move on, perhaps find someone who was a whole woman and could take and give freely, without fear or hestitation. Someone who could love him without reservation and be everything to him that he needed so badly. A lover, a friend, a wife, maybe even a mother to his children.

I repeated the thought to myself over and over again, that he needed to find a woman who could be his in every way. Reading quietly with him, holding his arm on long walks, sitting at his feet as he played, lying bare and suffused with pleasure in his arms after making love, holding his child against her breast. The images made me sick with pain.

I wondered again and again throughout the night if what I could offer him could possibly be enough. If a woman who could hold his hand, sit and listen to his music, share kisses and touches with, sleep beside him every night, but nothing more be his life companion.

But I knew that those touches, kisses, and nights in his bed would only lead to desire, which would lead to frustration at my inability to let him take me. And even if one evening I would let him lead me to the bed, undress me, and get my body beneath his, and that final last moment came,I knew I would go stiff and panic, terrifed, expecting pain. In time he would grow to hate me, and I would hate myself. I could be no more to him a friend at most, and after today and my words to him, even that seemed an impossibility.

Under the covers, I finally warmed and my eyelids grew heavy. The morning held the promise of urgent activity. I would return to my duties and the task of beginning the designs and concepts for Aida, which would open on New Year's Day. Rehearsals would also start on the morrow for the new production, the cast already decided upon, and performances of Le Baudelaire would continue until Christmas Eve, which was only three weeks away. Every day and every evening would be filled with reponsibilities and tasks for me. There would barely be time to draw breath. Also, we had been informed that on New Year's Eve, the Opera Populaire was to resume its tradition of a grand and lavish Bal Masque. It was common for many of the cast and staff that were privilaged enough to garner a invitation to the main celebration to commission the opera costume department to make their disguises. It was an opportunity to earn extra funds, but promised to double our workload, as the costumes for Aida would have to be completed at the exact same time. The theme had been announced as Grecian Gods and Goddesses, which at least meant that the majority of the ensembles would be simple togas, robes, and one shouldered or sleeveless sheaths. Madame Lefevre, Marie, Jeanette and myself, as the principals of the costuming department had received invitations and would have to create our own gowns as well.

There was much to do and the thoughts of so many duties hanging just in the horizon had my mind characteristically drifting off my troubles and onto my tasks. I finally slipped into sleep.

The cottage was a small one, but comfortable and well furnished. The crisp ocean breeze drifted into the window, setting the cotton and lace eyelet curtains billowing softly. Outside was a garden blooming with flowers of every variety, their sweet fragrance filling the quaint home from every surface, where a vase sat, filled with their natural beauty.

I sat in a corner of the little parlor, a sketchbook upon my lap, a new gown appearing upon the paper from my pencil strokes. I was dressed in a scooped neck dress of pale green linen, my spectacles gone and my hair worn loose and comfortable tied back from my face. I was humming a soft tune in my off key voice. It was a melody from the opera my husband had been composing of late.

My face was smiling, a blush painting my cheeks as I slipped into a day dream of the night before, spent making love to my amorous husband, remembering our heated passion, my thrill at his touch, his beautiful pitch perfect moans in my ear.

From the other room came a soft giggle and a happy cry of "Maman!"

I put down my sketchbook, smiling, and stood, my hand coming to rest happily at the swell of my abdomen, my new child shifting and kicking gently within me. A small dark haired boy with golden green eyes ran into the room, something held in his small palms. I laughed as a little toad nearly jumped into my lap. He released the tiny creature at the door leading to the gardens and climbed into my arms as I sat back down, his head coming to rest upon my belly. He giggled as the baby kicked him against his cheek. I stoked his dark chestnut hair, my heart swelling painfully with love for him.

From the music room behind me came a low call of "Genn, where are you, love?"

I answered my husband and turned to watch him stroll gracefully into the room, his hair loose and falling about his mask and the bare handsome side of his face. He smiled, and came behind my chair reaching about me and placing a soft kiss upon the side of my throat. I lifted a hand and stroked his masked cheek. He reached out keeping one arm about me, the other coming to rest across the narrow back of his son, his hand coming to stroke the child's hair then my swollen stomach.

I leaned against the chair's back, basking in the passionate but quiet elegant love of my husband, the innocent wonder of my son's gasps as he received another good kick against his cheek, and the promise of new life growing between us. I closed my eyes and smiled softly to myself, tears burning the back of my eyes with joy.

When I awoke to the sound of what was probably a running boy knocking upon my door to ask if I would like a bath, the tears had found their way down my cheeks.

In my dreams there was no Armand, no abusive past marriage, no inhibitions in my ability to love Erik, no damaged anatomy preventing my carrying his child.

I would have sold my soul if my dreams could have been fact.

I sat up, brushing away my tears, going to the door, pulling on my robe. Even before I flicked the lock open I heard the quiet sobbing and knew it wasn't a running boy.

I threw open the door and stared.

Marie and Jeanette stood on the other side, tears streaking their pretty faces, their noses swollen.

"Genevieve," Marie cried, putting a hand over her mouth, choking. "Madame Lefevre is dead."