Every first Friday of every even-numbered month was always a dreadfully busy and nearly painful anniversary for the ninety-eight residents of the Calverton Orphan Asylum; it was a day that stirred dread in ninety-seven children and one singular young woman, who was ordered always to ensure that the other ninety-seven parentless children be bathed, combed, and promptly buttoned into freshly ironed and washed cotton dresses or trousers.
It was always a busy week leading up to those Fridays, and poor Christine Daae - the oldest and most lonely of all the orphans- was due to handle the stress of it all. She had been able to escape the event for nearly a year now, yet was now again forced to present herself to a large number of curious Trustees, who would do no more for her than pat her on her unruly brunette head or, for some of the kinder, elderlier women: an uncomfortable pinch to her cheek.
She finished dressing the last of her fourteen room-mates: a young boy of only seven, who had lost nearly all his teeth the previous month and not one of his adult teeth had begun to grow in. Once she was sure his buttons were properly fastened and his gingham shirt straight, she sent him on his way, down to the large ground floor of the Asylum, and sighed to herself. It was nearly one o'clock now, and most of the Trustees would have arrived, taken their luncheon, and were likely contemplating taking their leave. She was alone now, and free.
Christine dropped down to the wooden window bench and laid her sweaty temples against the glass. She had been preparing all ninety-seven children since six that morning, and would soon need to present herself to whichever lingering soul was left; Mrs. Giry ordered it that way.
She let herself relax a moment before standing to undress out of her nightgown and into a properly cleaned and pressed dress. It would not compare or compete with the lavish full-length dresses the matronly Trustees or the young wives of the bankers wore, but she was not at all those women, instead a poor orphan who had nothing more than hand-me-downs and poorbox dresses to wear. What she wore now- just as old and well-mended as the rest of her gowns- was a plain yet nearly middle class frock of pink and cream. There was a small ink stain on the hemline that had been accidentally caused years before, from a girl now a decade her senior.
Christine hummed to herself as she dressed, which soon turned into a song, then hurried downstairs once she realized the time.
Now, as she stood before an audience of half a dozen remaining Trustees, she felt akin to a goldfish, swimming in circles in a glass fishbowl under constant, scrutinous gaze. The Trustees always liked to look at and pretend to dote upon their near-hundred young charges, and today was not any different.
She was eighteen, a woman now, and an uncomfortable handful of older male Trustees now looked at her as if she were a fresh strawberry waiting to be plucked from its stem and devoured for its sweetness. She loathed the way they looked at her. Others, of course- and these were the vast majority on a usual occasion- looked at her with a particular frown of pity that Christine detested even more. The men and women looked down upon her as if they were sorry for her orphan upbringing, and that the few dollars a month they donated would have made some sort of incredible difference. No, their donations would often not suffice, other than to ensure their guilty consciences felt a little less guilty and a lot more charitable and pure.
She smiled at all of them, knowing their kind donations were merely tax write-offs in their wealthy minds, and waited for each of them to take their leave. She had timed it right through years of practice, and only needed to stand for the last five minutes out of the total three hours the Trustees had gathered.
As soon as the final lot had left, Christine escaped back up to her shared dormitory room, wishing to grab another moment of peace alone before her fourteen roommates piled in. She was resigned to Floor Two, Room 5 for nearly seven years now, and a whole two years longer than she should have. Mrs. Giry allowed her an extra few year after her sixteenth birthday, which was substantially longer than any other orphans received. In usual, the children would be sent into work or to marriage at sixteen, so Christine was both humbled and cursed by her current status.
She found the window seat once more and watched, curiously and wistfully, as a steady parade of automobiles left the gates of the orphanage, all smoking from the back with a thick and foggy cloud of black exhaust. She imagined herself lazily stretched out and buckled into one, her belly full of orphanage hors d'oeuvres and sweet pies and feeling awfully charitable. She'd wear a heavy mink coat and feathery, velvet hat and would lean into the black leather seats, murmuring a quiet "home" to her driver, who would know to take her to her husband's marble estate where she'd drink sour lemonade until she grew drunk and tired from its sweetness.
Christine closed her eyes, allowing herself to dream.
She had a wild imagination, which had been cultivated and encouraged through years of travel and creativity, brought on by her late father. Years ago, they had traveled through the hundreds of coast-line cities, performing music and dance together in city squares, living off of coin and gratitude. But even then, she had never once stepped inside one of the millionaire mansions that their penny-givers owned, and she still now dreamed of it. Fortune had favored those people, many of whom were now Trustees of the Calverton Orphan Asylum, and yet fortune had never once shone down upon poor Christine Daae.
Her reverie was cut short when six year old Gabriel Bassett came bounding up the stairs and through the many straight-lined hallways of the Asylum and right into Christine's daydream. She was forced to pull away from the image of traveling motorcars to face reality once more.
"Christine, Christine!"
"What is it?" She asked him, feeling the anxiety rise in her throat when she saw his expression.
"Mrs. Giry wants you in her office. I think she's mad."
Gabriel had worry in his face, and though he and Christine did not often get along- Gabriel was a reckless and often bratty character- he did have a spot of sympathy for his elder foster sister, for Mrs. Giry could be awfully sharp when she needed to be.
Christine went down to the office without another word to Gabriel, who nosily followed her down, his too-big feet making smacks against the hardwood floors of the orphanage's creaky staircase. The way was silent save for the stomping (as Gabriel truly did not know how to properly walk toe to heel despite his age), and Christine used this time to think of all the possible scenarios that could warrant her discipline. Would Mrs. Giry be cross with her for taking too much time preparing her brothers and sisters? Would she insist Christine be present for the entire three hours of the next visit? Or -oh, horror!- would her time finally be cut at the Calverton Asylum?
Christine was nearly choking on her own heartbeat as it pounded upwards into a blockage in her throat when she arrived at the office door of Ms. Giry. She paused, checking her lop-sided and warped reflection in the door's central beveled mirror-glass before tapping her knuckles upon it and then sitting down upon the worn bench seat beside it. She waited anxiously for Mrs. Giry to call her in.
The long hallway where Mrs. Giry's office was stationed was illuminated by a single flickering light bulb, purposefully not yet replaced so the Trustees would notice and dip into their deep pockets for their checkbooks and find charity in their hearts to donate. For Repairs - the memo line would always say.
As Christine waited, a last Trustee was making his way out of the building, having already passed the door where she now sat beside. Christine caught only the shadowy silhouette of the man who was now being ushered past the front foyer and into the sunny afternoon sky, and she contemplated his form: tall and lanky, dark with grey shadow. There was a whisper of a rich sangria-red at the back of his neck and a gleam of light by his side, which were both curious colors starkly opposing the black frame of him. The sun (which had blinded all else) cast shadow of grotesquely elongated legs and arms that spread in long, parallel lines up and down the pale white walls of the asylum corridor, making the Trustee's grim shadow look akin to a large, awkward daddy-long-legs spider.
Christine gasped at the sight, rising to a stand to inspect further, but the heavy front doors closed upon his shadow before she could develop any further impression.
In all her curiosity, Christine had failed to notice the open door by her side, which only caused her cheeks to turn a more embarrassingly red shade. Hopefully, she worried, Mrs. Giry had not been kept long.
She crossed the threshold into the tiny office sheepishly, though she fitted her face to hold a sturdy mask of courage. She wore a small, pleasantly warm smile to greet the matron, and, to her surprise, Mrs. Giry smiled back.
Antoinette Giry, the headmistress of Calverton, nearly never smiled. It was not to say she was an angry or intolerable woman (though in fact, she was rather strict with a sternness of a drill sergeant), but she had nearly a hundred little children to watch over, and smiling was very last on the list of a hundred chores and duties that clogged her daily schedule.
"Sit down, Christine.
She did, of course, dropping down into the hard library-style chair by Mrs. Giry's desk. There was a glimmer of reflected sunshine that circled the room and Christine's eyes followed it to the large window, where a black, topless motorcar passed by.
"Did you notice the gentleman in the hallway?" Mrs. Giry asked, looking out after the car.
Christine shook her head no, for she saw no more than the back of him.
"He is one of our wealthiest Trustees; he has given large sums of money towards the care of our children." At this, Mrs. Giry looked back towards her young charge, who had a line of confusion at her brow. "I will not tell you his name, he has explicitly requested to remain nameless. Unknown."
Christine's head tipped slightly towards the side as the matron continued: "This man has been rather gracious to some of our older boys. Do you remember Andrew Sorell? John Papin? Both of them were sent to college by Mr. -," she coughed, then corrected herself, "...by this Trustee. Both of your brothers have worked hard and have landed great successes for themselves. Why, Andrew is now an architect, if my memory serves me correctly! But, I digress… This man's interests have solely been directed towards the young men in our care. I have never before been able to interest him in any of our girls, no matter how willing or deserving. He does not, I will tell you this, care at all for girls."
As Mrs. Giry came to a pause, Christine grew only more confused. Never before had she been called into the office to discuss the eccentricities of girl-hating men, so the confused lines on her brow grew steadily more permanent.
"Today, the question of your future was brought up. As you know, children at our Home are sent off after they reach sixteen, but I made an exception for you- for your father." It was true, Christine had now two years more than most of her siblings, but only because her father had befriended the matron Giry years before and, on his deathbed, begged the woman to place care upon his only daughter for as long as she needed.
This was not overlooked by the fact that Christine had worked hard for the past two years to justify her extended boarding. She spent nearly every waking moment caring for her ninety-seven little siblings, through singing them each to sleep to staying up late to scrub each of their grimy toes. She was diligent, astute, and so caring that many of the Asylum's paid workers would pass off the more difficult and rowdier children to be handled by the poor girl.
"This Trustee will not be placing you in college or off to work, no. It seems his interest lies elsewhere, Christine," she placed a soft emphasis upon her given name, which felt like a much-needed hug to quell Christine's growing anxieties. "Fortunately for you, Mr.- that is, the generous benefactor of yours, has heard you sing today, and has offered to fund the tuition and all relevant costs for a conservatory."
"A conservatory?" Christine spoke for the first time since entering the headmistress' office, her voice as crystalline as Terpsichore's harp and as curious as Pandora. Her blue eyes grew large as Mrs. Giry nodded affirmatively.
"He discussed the terms with me just this afternoon, right before I called you down. I warn you, they are… unusual, shall I say. This man is a bit eccentric, you must understand. He heard you sing and believes you have a great potential; he hopes the conservatory will educate you to become a singer."
"A singer? Oh, Mrs. Giry, I couldn't possibly-" She stumbled as she spoke. It was true; she had never before even thought of a future beyond Calverton, thinking providence would only grant her to be one of the few paid caretakers, balancing the dozens of children with the minimal allowance of $1.75 a week. Her destiny, she thought, was predetermined by her status.
"Yes, that is his wish." Mrs. Giry continued, "Whatever will come of it is entirely up to you. He is granting you a very liberal allowance - too liberal for a girl who has not yet learned to balance it. I tried to argue that perhaps a weekly bond would suffice, but he has planned the matter in great detail and was not willing to hear my suggestions."
Mrs. Giry explained the mysterious man's three-year plan to Christine, who felt faint at hearing all the pricing and expenditures the man- a total and complete stranger!- was willing to make for her account. She quickly added up the gifted weekly allowance in her head with the pricing of new gowns, books, and other supplies the man deemed as absolute necessities, and blanched white when she found the round-numbered sum. She had never seen more than four numbers in a row at once!
"Your tuition and boarding will be sent via cheque to the Conservatory directly, and you will receive from that your allowance that will enable you to stand the same as the other students. In return, you will write to him a letter of acknowledgement each month, postmarked before the last day. You may not thank him for his money- keep mind of this, Christine-, but you must detail your progress in your studies and in music.
"These letters, as he has requested, will be sent to Mr. John Smith. This is not his name, of course- that is forbidden- but he would prefer to keep his anonymity. He will not respond to these letters; Mr. Smith detests letter-writing and thinks you may become a burden upon his busy schedule if he must write back." Mrs. Giry then stressed the importance of her continued writing and the respectfulness and appreciation that surely must be kept, as this was, after all, a very respectable man of society.
Christine stood breathlessly, and advanced to the office window where she looked out onto the busy Baltimore streets. How was it, just shortly ago, that she had been dreaming of mink coats and automobiles? Her brain pounded with a growing headache at the overload of information she had received. Her finger-touch against the glass was faint and left soft, swooping prints in their wake, and she let herself momentarily imagine being nothing more than an oily fingerprint, left forever unburdened by human emotions.
"Not many girls receive this opportunity, Christine, to become a member of the world. I trust you are grateful for it."
Christine nodded her head an inch, unsure of whether or not it was an answer or confirmation.
"Your father would have wanted-"
Christine dashed from the office before the sentence could be completed and the heavy door crashed to a close behind her, shaking the entire hallway with it.
A/N: Here goes nothing! This my first chapter fic; I imagine it will be around 20-ish chapters.
Calverton Orphan Asylum is based off of a real-life orphanage in Baltimore, the Hebrew Orphan Asylum. The orphanage used to be the Calverton Mansion (named for the famous Calvert family) and was transformed into an orphanage following a mysterious fire in 1874. Pretty cool, huh?
In case you missed the references, there are a few names in this chapter you might recognize: Gabriel, Sorell (after Sorelli) and Papin, all three references to the Leroux novel. Christine also lives in Room 5, a bit of an allusion to Box 5.
And for anyone concerned with Christine's young age: this story takes place over the course of 3 years and she will mature and age appropriately.
Don't forget to review :)