Chapter 79 Deliverance
'Decency be damned,' Raoul thought, as he pushed past one of the maids and strode into Christine's bedroom. "Darling," he said, crossing the floor quickly to sit down upon her bed and take one of her hands in his.
'Raoul," Christine tried to smile, but she was so very tired.
"How are you feeling?" He leant forward to brush a curl from her cheek and test how warm her skin was in the process. Thankfully her temperature seemed to be returning to normal; though her face was still deathly-pale, and she had large, dark circles around her eyes, as if - inexplicably - she had been crying for hours.
"Much better," she managed, trying to sit up slightly, yet not having the strength to do so.
It was too hard to reign in his curiosity. "But why were you out there? All alone?"
She swallowed, then took a deep breath. Isabelle was right, there was no way she could explain the truth to Raoul. The lie would protect him - yet leave her open to many more incidents of threat and humiliation, no doubt. "I was looking for you," she began. "But I couldn't find you in the crowd. I wandered out to find some air and became lost in the dark."
"But why did you lock the church door, you silly goose?" he tried to smile, but felt like breaking down before her. He'd never been as terrified as when he'd seen Philippe carrying her lifeless body towards him through the main doors of the house. For one sickening moment he'd been sure she was dead and lost to him forever.
"There were noises outside," she lied, "I was scared."
"My poor darling," he said, bending to kiss her hand, then held it to his cheek. "I should never have left you alone. I was talking to Oscar; he's coming here for a hunt at the weekend. If only I'd known, if only you'd come back onto the terrace where we were talking."
Christine pulled her hand gently from his grasp as he spoke, hoping he wouldn't notice. She'd have to face Oscar Bereton again already? How could Raoul have invited him for a whole weekend? Why couldn't he see that she needed to be protected from such a detestable man? No, she wouldn't do it. She wouldn't be here to greet him and have his eyes raking over her body as they had the night before.
"And look," Raoul continued, "this came for you this morning." He held out a small letter.
In that instant every thought about Oscar Bereton was forgotten. Christine's heart leapt into her throat as she saw the Opera House envelope. Her hand shook dreadfully as she reached to take it from him. Then her heart sank to the depths of her soul when she recognized the childlike handwriting. "It's from Meg."
"And what does she say?"
She shook her head slightly, still too devastated at the letter not being from her Angel to even think of opening it. "I shall see," she muttered, turning the envelope and breaking the seal. Her eyes moved from side to side as she quickly read the words. It was all excitement and anticipation, gossip and delight and only served to fill Christine with even more sorrow. How easy Meg's life was, with her head filled with the Bal Masque, her new friends, the new production, the hat Madame had promised her for Christmas…
"I trust she's well? he prompted, anxious to ensure the news was suitable. It would do Christine no good at all to hear any nonsense from her old life when she was in such a delicate state. If it had been at all possible, he would rather have burnt the letter, than let her be upset again. But Isabelle wouldn't hear of it.
Christine folded the letter, too disappointed to speak. As she did a piece of card fell from behind it, she hadn't even noticed it was there before.
"What's this?" Raoul asked, picking it up. "An invitation?"
"Please, can I?" she asked, suddenly acutely aware of what he had in his hands. A note. It was a note. She could hardly breathe.
"Of course," he gave the card back to her instantly.
In all her years at the Opera she'd never received a single note from the Ghost, but she knew as soon as she saw the writing, that it was from him. She wanted to run her fingers over the words, read them over and over. Hold them to her heart, never let them go.
"Well?"
She was careful her voice not betray her emotions. "We're to attend the Bal Masque, on New Year's Eve."
"I'm not sure you'll be up to –"
"No, Raoul, we must," she was suddenly frantic, he couldn't stop her, she wouldn't let him. Did her Angel somehow know of Oscar threatening her? Was he saving her from when Oscar would return within the week? She wanted to be gone from there before she ever had to see him again and now her Angel was giving her the chance to escape. She grabbed hold of Raoul's hand. "You must send a reply – today. Tell them we'll definitely attend."
He couldn't think of anything he'd rather do less than attend anything ever again at the Opera Populaire. Hadn't she run from the place? Hadn't she begged him to save her from it? With the fright she'd just given them all, the last thing she needed was more excitement. "Darling, are you sure?"
"Yes," she forced herself to smile, "it will be another chance for us dance all night together. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"Of course, but –"
"Now I must rest," she said, hoping he would leave. "The Dr said I shouldn't talk too long."
With a final kiss to her forehead, he reassured her that he would instantly reply and send a letter back to Paris the moment he returned downstairs.
The second the door closed behind him she read the note again, quite unable to believe that she held something of her Angel in her hands. What exquisite penmanship – did she imagine it, or did her name seem to be written with particular flourish? He'd asked her to return, he must have forgiven her for leaving. She knew what she was doing was cruel, but she'd given Raoul too many chances. If he wouldn't break their promise to each other, made when she'd been frantic with fear, then she would have her Angel break it for him instead.
She may dance with Raoul that night, but it would be their last and she longed for the moment she could escape through the Opera crowd, run to the Chapel and call for her Angel instead. They could stay hidden from everybody until Raoul left without her. She knew he may grieve, but surely that was a better fate than living his whole life with her on a lie?
She'd always be grateful that he'd taken her away – she'd needed time to settle her heart and discover what she truly wanted. But unfortunately for Raoul, it hadn't been him.
Perhaps if they'd been alone this whole time, they might have rediscovered the closeness they'd had as children. But being constantly surrounded by others, whose kindness had only ever made her feel less than worthy, had only pushed them further apart.
And with what happened last night, she still felt sick at the memory. Raoul had promised he'd keep her safe. And he'd completely failed the first time she'd been under threat. If Oscar Brereton was to be arriving after the New Year, thank God her Angel had thought to call her home before then.
Home. She knew it then with a clarity that stilled her. He was her home. It wasn't a place – it wasn't the Opera, it wasn't here with Raoul - it was a person. She belonged to him, no matter what he'd done. If God could forgive even the most mortal of sins, then so could she. He'd killed because he loved her, he'd killed to protect her. And the moment she was in his arms again, she would thank him for it, understanding at last the kind of outcome that may have occurred if she'd gone to Buquet's rooms that night.
She settled down to sleep, the note clutched against her heart. And though the few days between now and New Year's stretched painfully before her she at last felt content. She was going home.
-oo000oo-
Raoul managed to delay their departure until the very last minute. It made sense to arrive only hours before the ball, and besides, Christmas was already upon them, and it was simply not the done thing to travel around and keep the coachmen away from their families, surely? But as he presented each excuse to Christine, he could see the light fading further from her eyes as she retreated back within herself.
But to take her back to the Opera House? To let her be surrounded by people who obviously never took proper care of her, considering the lonely and confused state he'd found her in? To again have to deal with all the insufferable people there and have them perhaps upset her again, when she'd come so far? There was nothing on earth he wanted to do less.
And besides, he didn't want to have to bother with a trip to Paris and the time it would take. He hadn't told her, but he'd settled on two choices of estates in which they'd live after their marriage. He'd wanted her to visit them both and help him make a final choice. But he hadn't been able to broach the subject with her as yet. She had, quite necessarily of course, stayed in her room a lot over the past week, recovering from her night in the cold. He'd visited her as much as was permissible, but it was not the same as it had been when she'd been out with them all each day. And now the day had come where he had no choice but to take them both to Paris.
There was no way on God's earth he'd let her return to the Opera once they were married. But perhaps he could endure one more night there, for her sake? She'd practically glowed with happiness that morning, when a ball gown arrived for her, with strict instructions for her to wear what she'd been sent and nothing else. She and Isabelle had run to try it on, but quite vexingly hadn't let him see it. She wanted to surprise him, she'd said. And the breathless excitement the dress had brought to her made him think it wasn't possibly the worst decision he'd made, to accept the Bal Masque invitation, as she'd requested. When she'd seen the dress, he realized, it was the first time she'd genuinely laughed since the night of the ball. The sound had been quite delightful.
She'd been more excited by the dress, though, than by the engagement ring he'd given to her at last. Women were such fickle creatures; would he ever understand them? He'd asked her to take a walk with him alone, two days after Christmas, and presented her with the ring on a bench near the estate church, underneath the arbour. It would have been more picturesque, perhaps, if the roses there had been in bloom, but he had no other choice, seeing as it was the dead of winter after all. Remembering his mother's criticism of the ring Philippe had presented to Isabelle he chose a plain cluster of diamonds, not wanting to give her any more ammunition against Christine than necessary.
Christine had professed to like the design and had returned his kiss, after accepting his formal proposal. Yet there was none of the excitement he was sure Isabelle must have shown Philippe when he'd been in that position. He could well imagine her squeals of delight, as she no doubt showered his brother with kisses, and not for the first time did he wish his own fiancé was more forthcoming in her affections. She seemed content, of that he was certain, yet his fright after their last ball still unnerved him.
She was already so fragile; what would going back to the Opera House and lurid tales of 'Ghosts' do to her? He hadn't spent all this time proving to her that such rubbish couldn't possibly exist, only to have them undo those months of hard work the moment she walked back into the place. The sooner he married her and took her away from all that, the better. Though that would, of course, necessitate a visit to his parents to make the arrangements. But that was a small enough price to pay, to obtain Christine's eternal peace of mind.
-oo000oo-
Erik had one task left to do.
He went to the locked Front Office through a panel in the back wall and straight to the tray that held the day's mail. Flicking through the envelopes he, at last, found the one he'd been waiting for. The seal had already been broken; the acceptance noted. His eyes lit up with malice as he read the card again and again. Raoul de Chagny and his guest, Mlle. Christine Daae would, of course, be attending the Bal Masque on New Year's Eve.
That the bastard had accepted was no surprise. That de Chagny thought he could parade Christine's lost virtue in front of the whole company only fed the hatred burning in Erik's gut. It would be an evening few would forget – he'd promise them that.
-oo000oo-
Christine clutched a hand to against her ribs as the coach lurched into life and started upon its journey away from the Dechanet Estate. She leaned back against the seat, grateful that the coach ride this time was not as bumpy as their flight from Paris, so many months ago. Today as before, she sat alone on one side, while Raoul and Philippe occupied the other, talking through some minor points of business Philippe was to attend to whilst they were back in Paris. She was grateful that the dress she wore had so much material in the back that it was impossible for Raoul to fit in the coach seat next to her.
Saying goodbye to Isabelle had been harder than she'd imagined. Isabelle thought they'd be returning within days, but Christine knew this was goodbye. More often than not lately she'd hid from their well-meaning smiles, spending more time alone in her room, counting down the hours until this day. How she longed to have a pure and unfettered heart, like Isabelle, remembering how she'd clung to Philippe, crying at his departure, even though it would only be for a few days.
She smoothed down her voluminous skirt and swallowed nervously. She'd been overjoyed with her dress until Raoul had reminded her that the invitation had stipulated three colours only – white, black or gold – and nobody was to deviate from that request. The dress delivered though, was a subtle pink, with an underskirt of even brighter colour. Yet the note with it had said it was for her to wear and she knew instinctively that her Angel had sent it, recognizing his hand again in the instructions. Both of those notes were now inside the pocket of her cloak. They were the only things she'd been able to take with her without arousing suspicion. She'd have to send for the rest later.
Raoul looked up at her worried sigh. "Don't worry. No one will dare say a word when you're with me."
She could only give a small smile in reply. How little he knew of the true nature of people. They certainly might not say it while she was dancing in his arms, but she could well imagine the remarks that would spring forth once he was out of earshot.
"I did say it would've been better for you to have ordered it from LeFey's," Raoul smiled. "At least then we would have had time to make any necessary changes, rather than having to wait for it to be sent from the Opera House."
"I didn't wish to trouble you again," Christine protested. She still felt guilty for allowing him to buy the clothes she'd left behind. The clothes she wouldn't ask to keep, when she sent for her things. "You've already been very generous."
"My darling girl," Philippe said, wishing Isabelle was so protective over his money. "You were put upon this earth solely so that Raoul could spend the rest of his life showering you with gifts and squandering his fortune satisfying your tiniest desire."
Christine started slightly at his choice of words, even though she knew by his wide smile, that he was only being his usual convivial self. Would he still be smiling later that night, when she ran into her Angel's waiting arms and left Raoul with a broken heart? Or when Isabelle found that everything Raoul had brought her lay neatly upon her bed, back at the Dechanet Estate? "That's as may be," she said softly, "but you've brought me enough."
"For you, I'd buy the whole world," Raoul answered. She looked more beautiful than he'd ever seen her. He wouldn't admit it, after all the hullabaloo it had caused, but he rather liked that the dress was such a fetching colour. It only highlighted the natural rosy pink of her lips. Lips that he longed to kiss again after he'd held her in his arms all night upon the dance floor. Thinking of that made the night ahead infinitely more tolerable. "You need only say what you want, and it will be yours."
Christine looked out of the window before he could see the look of anguish in her eyes. 'But what if the only thing I truly want,' she thought wretchedly, 'is the one thing you'll never let me have?'
