A/N I have no excuse with which to engage your patience, apart from that I hit a real roadblock with this. I did however post some new stuff, A Flame That Never Died and (Un)natural Selection. It would mean the world if you would check them out and maybe review. Speaking of which, thank you to everyone who reviewed this, despite the fact that I have not updated in ages.
So… in this chapter, Aimee starts her new job and learns an important part of her past. Oh, for those who didn't get it (or didn't ask…) the theatre that Aimee will work at is called Theatre de la Reine. In English it means The Queen's Theatre…which is, of course, the theatre in London that Les Miserables has been playing at for the last several years.
Here we go!
Disclaimer: As you're probably really cross with me, I'm not going to try and be witty. Not Victor Hugo, really sorry for lateness. *throws and runs*
Chapter Twenty-three
The steady rhythm of her shoes on the cobbles soothed Aimee's nerves somewhat as she traversed the route to the Theatre de la Reine for the first time. She had decided to come down to the theatre first thing in the morning, rising at the same time as Eponine, the scarlet and cerise slashes of dawn splitting the previously tranquil black of night. After a hasty breakfast with her friend, the two of them had set out from the apartment together, as Aimee was still unfamiliar with the grey tangle of streets that was going to become her neighbourhood.
The air was crisp and clear, though still extremely cold. Aimee was glad for her warm clothing, burying her frozen nose into the woollen folds of the scarf loaned to her by Joly. Around her Paris was preparing itself for another day, shaking off the relative peace of slumber, each muscle of the city testing its readiness. Peddlers pushed the carts displaying their wares up and down the streets; some already plying their trade to the other early risers, others hurrying to find the busiest places, their breath hanging in frozen clouds above them.
After getting briefly lost and asking directions from a friendly coalman, whose smile shone brightly out of his soot-blackened face, she caught sight of a large stone building, built in a style that had been popular some fifty or sixty years before. Glancing between the letter in her hand and the building before her, she double checked that, yes, this was the address of Theatre de la Reine.
A bustling group of lithe, young women, that looked to be about her age, surged past her, moving en masse towards the doors of the theatre, several of them jostling Aimee with elbows and bags, a few of them simply throwing her haughty looks.
Squaring her shoulders, Aimee walked after them, forcing herself to keep her head high and her walk determined. She only had one chance to make a first impression here and she wanted to come across as confident and independent. Ignoring the nerves swirling tempestuously in her belly, she approached the first person she saw for directions on how to find Monsieur Chavenage.
"Excuse me?" she called politely, hoping to catch the attention of a dusky skinned man who was shouting orders at…the ceiling?
Upon hearing her voice, he changed his point of focus towards her, his eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion. "Can I help you?" His accent proclaimed him to be of the lower classes, but he had obviously tried to distance himself from his past, for the roughness of his words had been smoothed and trained to the point that the argot accent was barely noticeable.
Stepping closer, Aimee smiled slightly in greeting. "I hope so. I'm looking for the owner, Jacques Chavenage?" Her eyes flickered to the ceiling, amazed to find a criss crossed pathway of rope and wood pathways hanging above her head.
His eyes travelled discreetly up and down her person, studying, judging, assessing, before he spoke again. "Monsieur Chavenage is in the auditorium."
Aimee, feeling a little unnerved by his scrutiny and also by his antisocial behaviour, fought the urge to cross her arms over herself protectively. "Would you mind pointing me in the right direction, please?" She cursed herself for the uncertainty in her voice, but thankfully the man didn't seem to pick up on it. Instead, he sighed heavily, as if he was doing her a great favour at his own personal cost, and offered to take her there himself. She gladly took him up on the offer and a moment later was following him deeper into the mysterious maze that was the back corridors of the theatre.
No words passed between them, not even pleasantries, and so Aimee was significantly relived when they finally reached a doorway leading into the auditorium.
The man disappeared back into the dark maze without a single word, the theatre swallowing him up. She stepped timidly out, the sound of her footsteps echoing in the vast empty space.
The size and splendour of the auditorium took Aimee by surprise. Built in the classic proscenium style, it was much larger than she had expected, filled with rows upon rows of seats, all dressed in red velvet, the arms made of dark, polished wood.
The stage itself was easily as big as Eponine's entire apartment, possibly twice over. It was difficult to tell as it was currently half filled with out of place scenery and a small huddle of people, one of whom was Jacques Chavenage. He seemed to be engaged in a fierce argument with a raven haired beauty, though his tone was controlled and restrained. Aimee assumed that this was his leading lady and one causing him more than a little anguish, given her petulant bickering.
From what Aimee could gather, through the unfamiliar voices and garbled words, the main female singer was refusing to rehearse as the rehearsal pianist was absent and the replacement was, in her opinion, totally inadequate.
Chavenage turned for a moment, his lined face tense with frustration, and inadvertently caught sight of Aimee hovering in the side aisle.
"Mademoiselle Lyon!" He waved a hand dismissively at the gabbling prima donna, cutting off her flow of words as he graced Aimee with a beaming smile; a petty gesture designed to enrage his adversary further. "What a pleasant surprise! I was not expecting you until possibly this afternoon."
Feeling extremely awkward at being caught in the centre of this situation, she replied meekly, "I can return later if this is an unsuitable time…" Inwardly she scoffed at herself; so much for wanting to make a positive, confident first impression.
"Nonsense, nonsense! You have, in fact, just helped to solve a particularly… tenacious… problem of mine." He gestured to the gleaming piano that sat on the stage and nerves exploded in her belly as she suddenly realised what Chavenage was asking of her.
The prima donna let out a dismissive, and rather unladylike, snort, the sound sharp in the cavernous space. "I strongly doubt that she will be any better than the last one."
"Yes, thank you, Evangeline. Your protest has been noted; now please give Mademoiselle Lyon a chance." Despite the almost pleading words, Chavenage's tone was firm and brooked no further argument. Obviously Evangeline knew how far she could push her manager, as she simply gave one last huff, accompanied with a dramatic eye roll and a bright red pout, before flouncing to take her place on centre stage.
The weight of many sets of eyes seemed to rest heavily upon Aimee as she made her way onto the stage, the feeling burning into the back of her neck more than the heat of the stage lamps as she took her place, nervously fiddling with the height of the bench and flexing her fingers several times to warm them up. Against her better judgement she found herself blurting out, "I do apologise if I make a poor job of it, for I am unfamiliar with this piece of music."
"Just play it, girl." The blunt words came from a man who had escaped Aimee's notice. Sat in the front row, he was smoking a pipe and watching everything with a keen eye. As regards to his age, he was perhaps as old as Chavenage, with raven-black hair going a distinguished silver at the temples, but dressed in the style of someone much younger. He successfully pulled off the affectation, managing to look somewhat more youthful than his actual years.
Not daring to speak another word, Aimee swallowed nervously, took a deep breath, released it, and then began to play. As always when she played, she was soon lost in her own world, barely stumbling over the unfamiliar score and keeping fairly good time with the, admittedly excellent, soprano accompanying her.
All too soon the piece was over and a ripple of polite applause came from the surrounding group and the man in the front row. Aimee felt herself relax and allowed a small, slightly bashful smile to flit across her face.
"Thank you, Evangeline." Chavenage addressed the soprano with a relieved smile as the rest of the cast and crew began to disperse. "Rehearsal is over now, so you may go back to your dressing room."
"As my manager commands." The barely concealed sarcasm surprised Aimee, but then again she knew very little of the inner workings and hierarchies of a theatre company.
Evangeline paused by the piano in her exit from the stage and gave Aimee a long, assessing look, her blue eyes piercing. When she spoke, her voice rose and fell in a sophisticated, lilting pattern that Aimee knew, from her time around the Amis, was the remainder of a southern accent.
"Your technique was…adequate." Evangeline's red lips curled up in what could have been a smile, or just as easily a sneer. It was difficult to tell. Without another word or backward glance, she exited the stage, everything about her collected and poised, almost regal.
"You…sing something." The demanding words came once more from the man in the front row.
Chavenage sighed. "Etienne, please. There is no need to be rude." Remembering his manners he briefly introduced Aimee to his companion. "Mademoiselle Aimee Lyon, may I introduce Monsieur Etienne Leblanc?"
Leblanc grunted, not even bothering to look up from his newspaper as he repeated his demand. "Sing something, girl. Jacques has been in effusions over your 'talent', and I would like to see if he has finally lost what little head for business he ever had. Now sing."
"I do apologise for my business partner's manners," Chavenage had the grace to look uncomfortable, "but I would be very pleased if you could sing something for us. As an audition? Perhaps the piece I heard you sing before?"
In answer Aimee simply nodded before sitting down and playing the song that Chavenage had heard her sing at the Musain only a few short days ago. Oh, how much her life had changed since then!
She had just begun the second verse when Leblanc's voice rose above the sound of the music, loud and shaking slightly. "Stop! Stop!"
Her fingers clattered clumsily down against the keys, the sound harsh and grating after the smoothness of the melody she had just played.
Leblanc leapt up from his seat and launched himself up the stairs onto the stage. "What the hell did you think you were doing?!" His fury, thankfully, was directed at Chavenage, not at her.
"I was giving a talented individual a chance." Chavenage seemed unmoved in the face of Leblanc's anger. "You need to put the past where it belongs; behind you."
"You knew, the instant you heard that song, whom she was related to! You knew!"
Chavenage held his hands up in a placating gesture. "Etienne, it was a long time ago. Honestly…" here he trailed off, and both of them glanced awkwardly at Aimee who was frozen in place in shock and was very, very confused. The two men seemed to come to their senses, but in very different ways. Leblanc spun on his heel, his shoulders tight with supressed emotion. Chavenage, on the other hand, stayed where he was and let out a heavy sigh as his friend's figure disappeared out of the auditorium.
"I did not think the song would still bring him such pain." His words were spoken half to himself, but Aimee heard them clearly. Strangely, the emotion she felt was a pulse of anger, flashing up through her chest and into her throat.
"You are keeping something from me, monsieur." Despite the heat inside of her, her voice was glacial, copying a trait of Enjolras'. The angrier or more frustrated he was, the colder and more controlled his voice became.
"Yes," was his simple reply, "yes, I suppose I am." Another deep breath on his part. "How much did your mother tell you?"
All of the air departed from in Aimee's lungs and she felt the colour leave her face. Chavenage must have seen how unsteady on her feet she had become, for he stepped forwards quickly and guided her back to the piano bench, a concerned look on his face.
"Your mother was Leonora Allegri?"
She tried to steady her breathing, this monumental piece of information causing her head to reel. "I don't know."
Before he could speak again, Aimee blurted out her entire story of the last few months, watching as Chavenage's face changed from horror to disbelief to sadness and back again.
"What causes you to believe that I am the daughter of the women you and Leblanc have a…history with?" Aimee worded her question carefully, very unsure about this whole situation.
Chavenage looked out into the empty space before them, and Aimee saw the mist of memories from many years before drift across his eyes. "Leonora Allegri was a young and incredibly talented singer who was originally a costume designer for the theatre. She was vivacious, charming, and had a temper that belonged in someone twice her size, not a tiny slip of a girl like her." He chuckled briefly, shaking his head in amusement at echoes of past mirth. "Somehow, Etienne heard her singing one day when she about her work late on an evening and insisted that she have a role on the stage." He paused once more, casting his eyes up and down the expanse of bare boards surrounding them. "To say she took to it well would be an understatement. She became the toast of the town, envied by women and desired by men," a mirthless laugh left his lips, "Etienne and I included in the latter category. It was a severe bone of contention between us for some time as we each attempted to outdo the other to gain her affections. The song you sang just now was one that Etienne wrote for her, a very long time ago. No one but her knew it; it was never performed."
Aimee stayed silent, disjointed fragments of memories surging through her mind. Yes, she did remember her mother talking about the stage, her voice holding a wistful note for a moment, soon replaced by laughter and content as she danced with her husband or played with her daughter.
Chavenage heaved a sigh, the veil pulling away from over his eyes. "Our attempts came to nought in the end, for not long after Etienne gave her the song she left the theatre, saying she was getting married and moving away, to the South somewhere I believe."
"Did you ever meet my fath…the man she left with?" Aimee's heart sank as he shook his head.
"We never met him, though I assume he had seen her on stage and became enamoured. Only he succeeded where I did not." He rose to his feet, a rueful smile on his lips for a moment. "I do however remember his name, if it is on any use; she told us it once and I never forgot. It was Alexander Lyon, a fact that solidified my suspicions that you were in fact Leonora's daughter, as if the voice hadn't been enough." He offered her his hand, and, in an almost trance like state, Aimee accepted it and rose to her feet.
"I do hope you will still take my offer of a job." Chavenage's tone was cautious as he guided her off the stage and led the way up the aisle between the seats. "I am sorry if this has made you uncomfortable, but the simple fact is I want to hire you, whether you are Leonora's daughter or not."
Still dazed from the monumental piece of her past that had been handed to her, Aimee was slow to reply, only speaking when the two of them were stood in the formal foyer just inside the audience entrance to the theatre.
"As we are choosing to be honest Monsieur Chavenage, I must confess that I could not turn down your job offer even if I wished to, due to my recent change in circumstances. However, turning down the offer is definitely not something I wish to do and I will start as soon as you would like."
Chavenage was extremely pleased with her response, and promised to send word to her new residence with details of her job and the days she would be required to work. After a further few business formalities, completely at odds with the almost intimate moment the two of them had shared on that empty stage, Aimee made her way out of the front doors of the theatre.
She had no awareness of where she was walking to; she only knew that she walked. She felt unsteady, her head too light, her legs feeling as if they would give out from underneath her at any moment.
"Hello there, stranger!" A familiar voice pulled her from her daze and she spun to find the grinning figure of Grantaire strolling across the street towards her. He narrowly avoided being hit by a fiacre as he did so, exchanging a flurry of good-natured insults with the driver as he leapt the frozen gutter at the side of the road to reach her side. Her face must have reflected her dazed state, for his smile dropped and he became serious all of a sudden.
"You look like a woman in need of fruit pastries and spiked coffee," he announced, grandly offering her his arm. "As it turns out, I happen to know exactly the place and I'm even sober enough to remember the conversation we will inevitably have as you tell me what is wrong." He began to walk, his long strides causing her to have to hurry to keep pace.
Her head still spinning slightly, it took a moment for Aimee to finally process the words that Grantaire had spoken. "Did you mention spiked coffee?" she asked, a smile forming on her face at the hearty laugh her words evoked from the artist.
"Indeed you did, my dear." He patted her hand. "Indeed you did."
A/N Am I forgiven? Please review, I really want to know what you think!
Until next time, mes amis!
Libz