England: March, 1909
The Honorable Lady Lillian Featherstone, Dowager Baroness of Danby sat in her study, gazing out her windows at the sleeping gardens behind the house. She imagined she could hear the early stirrings of the flowers awakening from their winter sleep. Within a month or so, the first tender shoots would start to pierce through the cold ground and she wondered if she'd see them. She'd been doing that more and more of late. Just staring out the windows and wondering about things to come. She'd returned from San Francisco three years earlier to find things had changed for her.
Her fiancé had decided that he didn't want her. In fact, he'd married someone else while she was in America—someone younger, prettier, and richer. Several members of the Foundation's board of directors left their positions for a newer, more popular charity that didn't include disfigured children born into poverty, forcing her to take a much more active role than before.
For a year she worked harder than she ever had before. She'd filled the open spots in the Foundation's Board and trained her two adult stepsons to take their places alongside her in running the foundation that carried their father's name. Jeremy, the younger man, had an excellent head for business, running much of the day-to-day operations, while his older brother Adam, Baron Danby used his connections in the peerage to augment the Foundation's finances.
Lillian was tired but proud of herself, after a rocky start and an unrelenting year of fighting for the Foundation, things were running smoothly again. And then a small lump she'd considered to be a nuisance under her arm a few months earlier, was no longer just a nuisance. It was a cancer that was spreading.
She'd consulted with specialists across the United Kingdom and Europe and they all had the same grim news. There were procedures they could try that might extend her time a bit, but they would be debilitating and ultimately the cancer would take her life.
Lillian chose to dedicate what time and strength she had left to the Danby Foundation. The hospital in New York was a success. The meetings she missed in Chicago were delayed until she arrived and after three long weeks of constantly steering the conversations from the earthquake to the children, she'd acquired a dedicated committee and a firm commitment to build a hospital in the Windy City.
In the early months after her diagnosis, she'd collected money and support for future clinics while visiting doctors in Madrid and Paris. It had taken almost three years but the architectural firm for the hospital in San Francisco had finally been chosen and Danby was waiting for the final contracts to be signed and returned. The plan was to start their build work sometime in early May 1909 with a completion date sometime during the first quarter of 1910. She wished she would have been able to see that built, but she could see it in her mind's eye and knew it would be even more beautiful than she imagined from just seeing the drawings.
The hospital in San Francisco was put on hold for almost three years as the city's rebuilding had to take precedent. Once the majority of the rebuilding was complete and the local firms had the time and resources to dedicate to new structures, they'd received designs and bids from several architectural firms in San Francisco. The competition was impressive, but one design in particular caught her eye.
It was definitely a functional hospital building, Mr. Sholokhov saw that immediately, but there was just a feeling to it she liked. Almost an air of whimsy in some of the decorative pieces of the outer façade. Among other features, the architect added a fanciful archway over the main doors, small balconies at the ends of each patient floor, and what looked like minarets to each corner of the building on the roof.
The interior design featured soft pastel colors instead of the usual harsh white walls. Behind the central station on each floor would be a mural depicting scenes from well-loved children's stories. The wards would be less crowded than standard hospital wards, leaving more room for visitors and each of the private rooms had flowers stenciled around the walls.
A brightly colored canopy extended from the garden entrance, offering shade to those who wanted it while enjoying the space. The landscape design included low bushes of jasmine and there was a reflecting pool in the patient's garden at the rear. And at the base of one of the minarets, sat a gargoyle. The children would love it. Perhaps that was the architect's vision, to make what was a foreboding structure into something that the children might find welcoming.
The architect included additional suggestions not usually found in building designs, including pastel aprons to be worn for the female staff and small stuffed animals or dolls for the long-term patients. It was clear the architect wanted this to be a place for children to feel safe while receiving treatment.
She would have liked to go to San Francisco for the groundbreaking ceremony but she knew it was an impossibility. "If wishes were horses, "she quoted, "then beggars would ride."
A knock on the study door interrupted her thoughts. Her private nurse came in. "Is it time for my medication already?" Lillian reached for her watch.
"No, My Lady." The nurse did a quick pulse check. It was so routine that neither woman noticed it any more. "Mr. Sholokhov has just arrived and he says to tell you he brought a special surprise."
"Oh did he?" Lillian smiled. "Why don't you take the rest of the afternoon off? I'll be fine here with Tilly and Mr. Sholokhov until Mrs. Brunton arrives this evening."
"Thank you, My Lady." The nurse tucked a shawl around Lillian shoulders. "Is there anything else you need before I go?"
"Please, ask Tilly to bring tea and cakes for Mr. Sholokhov, and then go have a wonderful afternoon." She shifted a bit in her chair, hoping to find a more comfortable position before he came in to her.
Benjamin Sholokhov was one of her most devoted friends. It was he who delivered the devasting diagnosis to her. He'd taken over running the medical side of the Foundation, while Lillian's stepson Adam, the current Baron Danby, supported her on the fundraising side. She trained him to take over for her and it did her heart good to know the Foundation would continue after she was gone.
The study door opened once more and Lillian smiled at her friend. "Benjamin, thank you for coming today." She gestured to a comfortable arm chair near her own. "Sit and tell me all about last evening. I'm so sorry I couldn't be there."
His eyes shone as he leaned forward and took her hand. "It was perfect. Everything was done exactly as you planned it. People listened to your story, although I'm sure Adam and I didn't tell it nearly as well as you."
"Then you'd better start practicing," she said. "It's up to both of you now to take the story forward and continue our work."
There was nothing he could say. He knew she was dying as well as she knew it. They'd been friends for twenty years. He'd been a newly-minted physician from Russia, forced to leave his homeland because of the pogroms. She'd been a brash young upper class woman who wanted to do more with her life than attend teas, visit the dressmaker, and bargain her status as an heiress for marriage to a title.
No one understood the friendship that sprang up between the darling of Society and the impoverished Jewish doctor. They'd shared a passion for helping others and once she'd trusted him enough to tell him the story of The Boy, he was as devoted to her cause as she was.
"So how did Rebecca enjoy the gala?" Lillian had known Rebecca Sholokhov when she was still Rebecca Rothstein, an assistant designer and seamstress at the modiste where Lillian purchased many of her clothes. She played matchmaker between the two shy people, and no one was more delighted than she when Benjamin and Rebecca married.
"Ah," he sighed, "exactly as you think she enjoyed it."
"Hated every minute of it." Lillian laughed.
"Actually, no. She loved the entertainment."
"Oh, yes, the music." It was Baron Danby's wife who suggested they offer entertainment to go along with the dinner and speeches at the Foundation's fundraiser. Lillian wasn't sure it would help, just making the event run that much longer, but she was delighted to find out that she was wrong. People loved feeling they were getting something in return for their donations. She wasn't sure exactly how much payment the singer was receiving, but it probably wouldn't put too much of a dent into their overall operating budget.
"Rebecca loved the singer." Sholokhov sipped his tea and reached for a piece of lemon cake. Lillian knew it was his favorite and made sure it was available whenever he visited.
"I saw her once a long time ago when she was just beginning her career and I've heard such wonderful things about her since." Lillian sipped her own tea. "I so wish I could have heard the recital."
Sholokhov put down his tea and stood, brushing crumbs off his trousers. "And that, my dear Lillian is why I am here." He pulled her wheeled chair away from its place against the wall and helped her make the transition from her armchair. "Come my dear, we're taking a short ride."
"Where are we going?"
"It's a surprise." His tight-lipped smile annoyed her, as he knew it would. She hated surprises. As long as he'd known her, the only surprise that ever made her happy was finding her Boy in San Francisco.
Lillian sat back in her chair. There was no point in prodding him further. She was a bit surprised when he wheeled her into the spacious living room in her home. She hadn't been in the room for months. There was no point. She never entertained any more. Her eyes opened wide when she saw the dust covers had been removed from the furniture and a beautiful woman stood by the grand piano.
"The Honorable Lady Lillian Featherstone, Dowager Duchess of Danby," Sholokhov began dramatically. "It is my great pleasure to present to you, in recital, for one performance only, the toast of opera houses from La Scala to Covent Garden, the incomparable diva Miss Christine Daaé."
"Benjamin, what?"
"I thought since you couldn't attend the performance, I would bring the performance to you." He kissed her forehead, then pulled a chair up to sit beside her. The younger woman bowed her head gracefully to her audience and then signaled to her accompanist.
For the next half-hour Lillian sat enthralled by the glorious soprano. When the music ended, her enthusiastic applause was genuine. "Bravo, Miss Daaé, bravo."
Christine curtseyed gracefully, then pulled a single white rose from a bouquet resting on the piano and handed it to Lillian. "It's an honor to meet you, Baroness."
Lillian was almost speechless. "Thank you so much for coming. And Benjamin," she took his hand and kissed it. "Thank you. I so very much wanted to hear Miss Daaé sing."
"The pleasure was all mine, Lillian."
"And mine as well, Your Ladyship." Christine's speaking voice was soft.
"We must make sure Miss Daaé is compensated for her time today," Lillian told Sholokhov. She didn't expect the performance came for free. Nothing came for free.
Christine glanced to Sholokhov, holding up her hand. "There is no charge for my performance this afternoon. In fact," she opened her handbag and took out two small pieces of paper. "I asked Mr. Sholokhov to bring me here so I could meet you and give this to you personally."
Lillian took the folded papers and opened each one slowly. "No," she said, "I cannot take this."
Christine folded her hands demurely in her lap. "You must." Then she raised her chin and transformed into the Diva written about in gossip columns across Europe. "You will not argue with me." Then her lips split into a smile and she laughed. "Oh, I do so love playing La Carlotta."
"La Carlotta?"
"Yes," Christine gasped, pulling in her laughter "When I first began in the opera, I was an awkward, skinny not-too-terribly-talented dancer and chorus singer. La Carlotta was the opera's leading lady, and everything you'd think a demanding diva would be. I hated her and I was terrified of her and I thought that should I ever become a true opera singer, I would never treat people the way she treated all of us."
Lillian nodded. "I understand. I have met my share of La Carlottas, too." She held out the papers. "I will accept the return of your payment to the Foundation. Thank you. But this," she held out the other cheque, "is beyond generous. You've already given, there is no need to give more."
"If I could, I'd give everything I have."
Lillian barely heard the soft whisper. She saw Christine's face crumple for a moment, then the diva lifted her chin again, blinked, and gave a vivacious smile.
"I thank you for your time, Baroness." Christine gathered up her coat and bag, "but I fear I've kept Mr. Sholokhov away from his duties too long."
"No, stay," Lillian reached out a hand. "Please. Benjamin, I'll send Miss Daaé back in my carriage. I must talk to her a little longer."
He knew a dismissal when he heard one. "Of course. Miss Daaé, thank you again, you were magnificent." He bent and kissed Lillian on the cheek. "Please don't tire yourself. You need to rest."
She frowned at him. "I'll rest when I'm dead, Benjamin." She watched him leave, wondering how much time remained to her until his visits would end.
"Tell me Miss Daaé, what did you mean when you said you'd give everything?"
Christine looked away. "Nothing. I didn't mean for you to hear."
Lillian saw the woman grow pale. "Please, I can see you're upset. Did something happen last night at the gala?"
Tilly entered the room, wheeling a tea cart. "Mr. Sholokhov thought you might like tea served for yourself and Miss Daaé." She poured them both cups and then left, closing the sliding doors behind her.
Lillian waited a moment until Christine took a drink of tea. "What's wrong, dear?"
Christine shook her head, tears escaping from her eyes. "I've never told anyone. I never could share the whole story with anyone. Not even my….fiancé."
"I understand. Some stories are almost too difficult to tell." She set her own cup aside, she had no appetite. "I'm dying, you know. That's why I wasn't there last evening. I have very little time left." She leaned forward, smiling at Christine. "Sometimes it's easier to share your troubles with strangers.
"I can see how deeply this is hurting you. Don't let this wound fester until it destroys you. Did someone hurt you?"
"No." Christine set down her cup and looked into Lillian's eyes. "I hurt someone a long time ago. I thought I'd been able to put it—him out of my mind; I could go for days, weeks even, without thinking about it. Then, last night, Mr. Sholokhov told your story about the disfigured boy, and it all came back to me. Every last detail."
"It's true, you know," Lillian said. She could feel the pain radiating from Christine, pain even worse than that she suffered with her cancer. "The boy. The story. Every word."
"I believe you because I knew someone like that. A man who was so disfigured that he was forced to hide away from the world."
"Tell me you story, Christine."
So she did. Christine told the story of her teacher, the musical genius with the golden voice who gave her everything, the man she destroyed, the man she realized too late that she loved.
"That's why I never married Raoul." She looked at her bare hands, twisting her fingers. "I finally gave him back his engagement ring because I realized the only ring I truly wanted on my hand was the ring I'd returned to him a year earlier.
"I'd told him his soul was distorted." She shook her head, pressing her fingers against her temples. "All he ever wanted was to be loved. And I took that away from him. Oh I was such a fool!"
Lillian sat quietly, listening without judgement as the younger woman poured out her heart. In her own mind she reached back three years. She could still hear the notes of Ave Maria floating through the smokey air of a damaged church. She could still feel the hand of a man who pushed himself beyond human endurance to save her life and others' as he lay semi-conscious in a medical tent and whispered a name that wasn't hers.
So this was his Christine. Her heart ached for him. "Oh, Erik."
"I beg your pardon?"
She looked up at Christine. "Sorry, I was thinking of a dear friend. Remember I told you the story of the boy was true?" Christine nodded. "His name is Erik."
"You found him again?"
"I did." Lillian smiled, letting the memories wash over her. For a moment her pain dissolved under the memory of his touch. She remembered the look on his face and the bitterness in his voice when he told her of his only experience with love and his resolve to never "make that mistake" again. And everything fell into place. She didn't believe in coincidence. God, or Fate, or Whatever brought Christine to her at this time for a reason. She knew what she had to do and she prayed she'd be granted the time.
"Christine, do you have another engagement soon?"
"No. I'm at the start of a six-month sabbatical. Why do you ask?"
"I realize I'm being very forward, but as I said, I'm dying and I don't have time for the usual courtesies. I must ask a favor and I believe you're the only one who can truly grant it."
"Of course." Christine reached out, gently holding Lillian's hand. "I feel a connection between us. I know that sounds strange…."
"No," Lillian affirmed, "I feel it too." There was a bond between them, only Christine didn't yet know what it was. "Please, can you stay for a little while? My family are going away on a short holiday today and I hate being alone."
"I'd like that." Christine looked around the room. "Have you a telephone? I can call the concierge at my hotel and have them deliver my things here."
"It's just out in the hall. Thank you, Christine. I won't forget your kindness."
Lillian sat quietly until Christine left the room, then leaned back in her chair exhausted. "Please, give me the strength and the time for this one last task. Then I can leave in peace."