Rapeseed was a common sight in Canada. It grew wild near Nora's home, and by late summer waist-height yellow flowers covered the land for miles. She had been in the habit of walking around the fields of flowers in her younger years, more often than not accompanied by Anthony Worthy. That has been something she had loved about their time together—they would dance at the proper if smallish balls in Ottawa, later they would meet 'by chance' in New York or Philadelphia and share the utterly cosmopolitan pursuits of theater and fine dining, but then, always, they would end up walking through the fields of wildflowers.
It had been on such an occasion that Anthony had proposed. A simple thing, really. He had said, "Don't you think we ought to marry?"
Nothing had been more natural to Nora than to say, "why, yes, certainly."
They had said nothing more about it for the day, but Nora's heart had been a sort of Pandora's Box, this time filled entirely with blessings. Nothing could have been more wonderful—nothing could have been more inevitable—nothing could have brought her more joy.
There had been proposals after that, of course. These tended to be men who coldly informed her that she was the sole object of their fiery affections and could she please confirm the figure of her annual income. These 'romances' amused and bemused her by turns; occasionally upsetting her if she had liked to play cards with the man in question.
Nothing could have ever prepared Nora for what she felt after Erik's proposal.
It was a proposal, wasn't it? All of the right words were there—life and wife and could you ever. And his eyes! His eyes that she could only see in the half light! Yes, this was a proposal of the most serious kind. Such hope in his eyes, such marvelous hope...
It turned her heart to glass and laced it with such fractures that the slightest touch would cause it to shatter.
"Oh, Erik," she breathed. Did she actually manage to say his name aloud? She must have, for he clutched her hands all the more. She could not bear to raise her voice any louder than a whisper. "No."
She may as well have shouted the word. Erik practically collapsed onto himself and nearly broke Nora's hands in his iron grip.
"Don't—don't mistake me," Nora began. But what to say next? Everything that came to mind was either a lie or would have been insulting in its insipidity.
"I must—" his voice was so different now, vacillating between strong anger and fragile pain, "I must—I will leave you now."
It was Nora's turn to take a firm hold on his hand, "No, Erik, for God's sake, please do not go yet."
"What more is there to say?" he whispered.
"Let me explain," Nora said, drawing Erik onto the settee. How many times had she said that to Erik? Once, twice? It seemed like that was the only thing she did with Erik. Some of the explanations were light and nonsensical, but always punctuated by these frantic confessions. He sat, and he stared.
"It is my face," he said.
"No," Nora replied. She thoughtlessly reached up and laid her hand on his mask. She did not dare remove it. The time for that type of intimacy had long passed by. Had it ever really be appropriate, she wondered? Would she have let Erik expose her in an equal fashion? No wonder—no wonder he had thought to ask for her hand, when they had both allowed such liberties. "Never think that it is that."
"Then what?" He asked, singsong.
"I gave up on the prospect of marriage years ago," Nora said, "and in time I found that my freedom was far more precious to me than anything. You are done with the world, Erik, as you said yourself. I am not. I may never be."
"You may go… wherever you please," he said.
"And what? Wear your ring and leave you in a cellar?" Nora said. "I could not. I would stay. And I would loathe to stay."
They sat, hand in hand, for far too long. Every breath Erik took seemed to cause him to shudder, and the shudders stabbed at Nora. Could she have not simply said yes? Could she have not simply said no and sent him on his way?
Why could her dealings with Erik never be simple?
…though what was so difficult about walking arm-in-arm with him on Sunday? Wasn't a lifetime of easy Sundays worth the rest of the week?
"Do you not… love me?" he asked.
Love. Did she love Erik? What was it that she had been fighting against all this time, if not love? "I care for you more than anyone else I know," Nora said. She paused and before she could stop herself, she spoke the truth. "I do love you."
There was that spark of hope again. "Then why—"
"Love is not enough for me," Nora said, "I am selfish, Erik. I have never been anything but selfish, and I will not change. Not even your love is enough to change me."
"Oh, Nora," he whispered, "not quite my Nora."
"Only my own," Nora agreed. "Can we not... continue as we are? As we were?"
"A friend," he murmured, "a friend, at least for some weeks more."
"I am your friend forever," Nora insisted. She could not quite stop herself from saying it, though everything told her not to. How dare she fuel him, give him false hope? Or was it her own illusions she catered to? "I may not be here forever, but you can always call on me. You are always welcomed in my home, wherever that might be."
"Then why not into your heart?" he asked.
She wanted to say that he already was there, and always would be. But to his mind, her heart and her hand were the same thing. To agree to one would be to agree to the other. She simply leaned over and kissed his masked cheek. She stayed close and whispered, "At the moment, Erik—" how odd that she had to make a point of not saying my dear Erik, for such would be a slap in the face to him now—"I am not sure that I have one."
They did not embrace, and Nora did not cry.
Nora did not see Erik for the rest of the week. He had departed, cold as she had never seen him before. He pantomimed a kiss over her hand, and had nodded stiffly when Nora had mentioned seeing him on Sunday.
She had managed to maintain composure until he left and she had barricaded herself in her room. She did not cry, though her eyes burned as if acid had been thrown in them. She merely paced the length of the room, up and down, up and down in infinite laps.
How had she not seen this outcome? Erik meant much to her—why had she not realized that she might mean just as much to him? Oh, he talked, of course. But he was so prone to dramatics, to theatrical rhetoric—how she to know what was true or false?
You could have known. One look at him and you ought to have known. Were you really naïve enough to think that you were playing with your heart alone?
Her thoughts turned repetitive, constant chastisement for a thousand small wrongs that had led up to this one unfortunate event. The only interruption came in the form of Mr. Carey and his would you prefer to dine in your room tonight, Miss Farley?
The entire day was gone and Nora had scarcely noticed. She had declined and retired for the evening, refusing Perrine's help to undress or Daniel's concerned attempts to joke through the door.
Tuesday was little better, though she had the distraction of a meeting with her bankers. Daniel had come along, and tried to draw her out in conversation in the carriage. He had failed.
"It's something to do with your Erik," he declared. "One or both of you have been foolish, and you are now paying the price."
"I don't want to speak of it," Nora replied, all the while cursing his perceptiveness.
She looked forward to Sunday like it was the Day of Judgment—dread and hope taking turns for prominence in her mind. She ignored her heart completely.
She confessed her entire relationship with Erik that morning, and the priest had the nerve to not find fault with it.
"You perhaps did not act with due discretion," he said, "but you have not committed any particular transgression."
Nora could not quite believe that, and so had the burden of unforgiven sins to carry upon leaving Notre Dame.
She convinced herself that Erik would not be waiting for her. Why would he? Why would he come? And yet—
"Good morning, Mademoiselle," he said.
"Good morning, Monsieur," Nora replied. They stood, simply staring at one another. Nora took the first step forward, and linked arms with Erik. He was as stiff as wrought iron, though he relaxed fractionally as they began to walk.
Their dialogue was almost formal for some time. Finally, a rhythm appeared, friendly and conversational. She smiled and he laughed softly, and for a moment Nora thought they might just get through the day. It was at that point that she asked what he had been doing recently.
After a long pause he said, "composing."
"The new opera?" Nora asked.
He nodded, "yes."
"What I heard was remarkable," Nora said. "I'm sure the rest will be equally so."
"It will be," he said firmly, "though it would be best to reserve judgment until the entire work is complete."
"And when will that be?"
He looked at her, colder than she could have ever guessed, "not for some time."
Nora broke the eye contact, nearly… intimidated?
How did she ever believe they could somehow move back into the past, and continue on just as they had been?
Well, we've gone from paradise to purgatory. Any guess what's next?...