A/N - Is taking lines from (in my opinion) the greatest romance author ever to write cheating? I've cut out a bit of the prose and kept the dialogue, just to make it flow better :)
Stemwinder: *giggles* Well, I'll tell you one thing for free - he doesn't go back! Let me know if you still want to punjab him by the end ... :P
I honestly can't thank all my reviewers enough; you guys are what keep me going and give me inspiration when I'm writing, and it really makes my day to get reviews. Thank you so much! Hugs and kisses to Estella Havisham, Ayla, Christine Persephone, jo, Maya, Daroga's Rainy Daae, T'eyla Minh, angelofnight, Diana, Desolator-the Dragon, Trinity, Kt, Morauko, AriesSolar, diagram12345, Darkest-Knight88, panther7x, Angel of Passions, Jennifer, Kates, chicketieboo, Manaliabrid, Esgalfeniel, Jenny, Krista Shafer, Shiro, Stemwinder, psycho pixie, Phantomgurl33, Ash, Elenmir, Laura, kirby russell, Rai, Lavendar. Also to everyone who's donated ideas and encouragement outside the ff.n medium! I love you all very much.
Disclaimer: Quite a few of the lines in this chapter are taken from Jane Austen's Emma, and they're all hers :) Also mild spoilers for Emma (but nothing that any fan of Jane Austen won't figure out in the first few pages of the book!!) If anyone hasn't read Emma and has a problem with that, then email me cat_midas@hotmail.com and I'll try to rewrite it without the quotes. *crosses fingers* Hope I can!! Also a paragraph from Elizabeth George's A Suitable Vengeance (which was published in 1991, so not quite in the time frame - but it seemed to fit so well!!) Oh - and a line from Sonnet 116. Can't beat Shakespeare :)
Erik moved restlessly round the flat, the streetlights outside playing yellow over the dingy walls, sounds of the wrong side of Paris filtering through the walls. A girl's scream, the shouting of boys, a woman's laughter ...
He turned quickly away from the window and took a book at random from the shelves, barely registering the title in his haste for mental activity. If he could only think of something other than her, it would be all right. He would get through it.
He opened the book at random, two-thirds of the way in. The first paragraph leapt out at him.
He shook his head blindly, as if by that movement he could shake off his terrible desolation. "I think I shall die of loneliness, Helen." His voice broke horribly, the sound of a man who hadn't allowed himself to experience a single emotion in years. "I can't bear it."
He started to turn from her, to go back to his desk, but she stopped him and closed the remaining space between them. She took him into her arms.
"You're not alone, Tommy," she said quite gently.
He began to cry.
Erik slammed the book shut and dropped it, shaking all over. God. He buried his head briefly in his hands. It was no good. She was everything; she was in the very air he breathed. He would never be free of her.
Erik heard a knock at the door and swore with hopeless vehemence.
Damn you, daroga!
Would a few hours of solitude be so much to ask for without interference? The knock came again, louder this time. He sighed, downed his measure of brandy, and rose to open the door.
She had been looking back down the dark stairwell, but upon hearing the door open, she turned back to him and let down the hood of her cloak. She tried to smile.
"May I come in?"
* * *
Raoul took Cosette gently into his arms and stroked her hair. She was biting her lip, trying to compose herself, but he could tell how close she was to tears.
"I had to get away," she was saying. "I don't know what was worse, the ones who pitied me or the ones who thought he'd done the right thing." She sniffed and dragged a hand savagely across her face.
Raoul was shaking his head, his arms tightening around her. "The bastard," he murmured. "You deserve so much better."
She laughed bitterly. "You really don't know me very well at all, do you, Raoul?" she said miserably. "You have this stupid vision of me as some sort of wronged angel; but it isn't like that. It really isn't."
"What is it like, then?" he asked quietly. "If I see you wrong, tell me what's right."
Cosette took a long, shuddering breath. "There's something you ... don't know about me," she began slowly. She laughed suddenly. "God, I sound like a bad detective novel. But ..." she sighed and ran her hand back through her hair. "I was hired by Monsieur Firmin as ... bait, I suppose - to try and catch the Opera Ghost."
She felt Raoul stiffen at the mention of the ghost. "I'm not a dancer. I'm just here as ... God knows what, really."
Raoul withdrew his arms from around her, looking confused and hurt. "I don't understand ..." he murmured. "Why would you take a job like that?"
She sighed. "In the town where I come from ..." She took a deep breath and continued. "There was a woman named Madeleine. She was very old when I knew her, of course ... but there was something about her. There was something of ... almost a local legend about her. She had a son, when she was much younger ... her first and only child. He was ... deformed ..." She felt Raoul stiffen and continued, "deformed from birth. The village persecuted them; he was stabbed, her windows were broken ... they called him a child of Satan." She drew a deep breath. "He disappeared ... he ran away. Everyone thought him dead ... but Madeleine was so sure that he was alive. So sure that he would have survived ..." Her face hardened. "She had suffered, so much. What sort of son would pain his mother like that?" Her voice lowered. "She and I became very close; I was very young, but we were so alike. She was almost like a surrogate mother to me ..." She sighed. "And when she died, I was heartbroken. I missed her, so much. And then I heard the rumours ... a ghost, deformed, a musical genius ..." She shook her head. "I don't know. I wanted to meet him, to tell him how unhappy he had made his mother, to find out why ... I was so sure it was him."
"And ... was it?" Raoul's voice sounded guarded.
She laughed suddenly. "To be perfectly honest with you, I have no idea. I've never been able to get close enough to even think about talking to him ... I just don't know." She sighed. "And I'm not even sure Madeleine would have wanted me to know."
There was a long moment of silence, before Raoul reached out and took her hand. "It doesn't matter now," he said quietly.
"No," she agreed sadly. "Let the past be."
There was another moment of silence, before she laughed uncomfortably. "Goodness, I've been monopolising your time most shamefully. Thank you for coming to see me; I dare say I'll see you around the Opera from time to time."
Raoul didn't move. "And that's what you want, is it?"
She laughed again, awkwardly. "What other alternative is there?"
"Marry me," he said in a rush, taking her hand. "I love you, Cosette, and I won't believe you couldn't come to love me. Marry me, and I'll take you away from all this. We could go to Germany, or to England, Sweden ... anywhere you like."
"I ..." Cosette felt faint. "I don't know what to say."
"Say yes," he entreated. "I love you."
"I ..." she swallowed, going scarlet again. "Yes!"
He stared at her for a moment, then began to laugh, taking her into his arms. She laughed helplessly, covering her face with one hand.
He stroked her hair back from her eyes, tipping her head backwards so that he could look her in the face.
"Are you sure about this?" he asked softly. Cosette nodded slowly, but the flicker of fear in her eyes did not pass him by.
"Yes," she said, but there was a tremor in her voice.
He pulled her closer to him, feeling her stiffen slightly and then relax, and he realised just how afraid she was of commitment.
"We'll take it slowly," he promised. "Just as slowly as you want it."
As he kissed the top of her head, he could feel that she had begun to cry, and he tilted her face up to his.
"What's wrong?" he asked softly.
She snuffled and dragged her hand across her face. "Nothing!" she said fiercely. "It's so stupid! I never cry!"
He laughed and pulled her close to him again. "Hardly a wronged angel," he said with a smile. "You're one angel I'd never dare wrong."
Cosette laughed through her tears and buried her face in Raoul's chest.
* * *
Christine stepped into the house and stopped at the sudden darkness.
"Erik ..."
He brushed past her and lit a gas lamp, shaking out the spent match and dropping it onto the table. He was suddenly very aware of the emptiness of the flat; apart from the vast wall of books he had retrieved from the Opera and the violin which lay slowly gathering dust in the corner, it was utterly devoid of any personal effects. He could see her looking around the flat with horrified astonishment and suddenly wished with all his heart that he had prepared it properly for her. Not that he could seriously entertain the hope of her staying for longer than a few minutes; but it was so wrong to have her in such an atmosphere. Even for a moment.
The air was already electric with her presence; he was already clenching his hands into fists in an effort to stop them shaking.
She turned back to him and tried to smile. "I ..."
He raised one eyebrow. "What can I do for you, my dear?"
She laughed forcedly and gestured awkwardly around the flat. "We didn't exactly get off to an auspicious start at the Opera ... I thought it might be easier to talk away from there."
He nodded with studied calm and gestured to a chair. "Do take a seat, my dear. May I get you anything to drink?"
"Oh ... tea, please." She smiled nervously as she watched him move with studied feline grace into the kitchen and heat the water. "Thank you." She took the cup from him, noting miserably how automatically he moved his fingers away from hers.
"So ..." he settled back into a chair and made a slight, graceful gesture with his fingers in the air. "You say you want to talk."
She nodded nervously, closing her fingers around her teacup. "Yes ..." she coughed and sat up straighter. "There was just something I wanted you to know ..."
He gestured lightly with his fingers again. "Yes, my dear?"
"It's about Raoul." She looked up cautiously, as if unsure of what his reaction would be.
"Yes?" Erik's voice was guarded.
"Well, we've ... we've broken off our engagement."
Erik nodded cautiously. "I had heard something to that effect."
Christine smiled nervously. "I just ... thought you ought to know."
There was a long pause.
"What I haven't heard is why."
She looked up sharply and saw him cradling Ayesha, his eyes fixed on the little cat. She sighed and dragged a hand back through her hair, unaware of Erik's eyes on her as the light caught in her curls. Her eyes met his, and he looked away, drawing one finger lightly down Ayesha's back, the cat arching in ecstasy under his caress.
Her explanation was short and stilted, leaving out - although whether by accident or design he couldn't tell - the one detail he really wanted to know.
He finally tipped Ayesha from his lap onto the floor. She stalked away, offended, and he looked Christine in the eyes for the first time.
"Do you love him?"
She looked up, startled. "I ..." she began, colouring, floundering, then finding her words. "No." She sat up a little straighter. "I don't. I think I did ... I won't go all Austian heroine and claim I never cared for him, but ... not now. Too much has happened. Too much has changed."
She tried to laugh in an effort to relieve the tension. "Although God knows I think Meg will kill me when she finds out I've broken it off!"
There was a brief pause, in which she looked down at her hands folded in her lap, then she heard him laugh softly, and looked up in surprise.
"Do you remember last Easter?" he asked softly. "You were ill ..."
She laughed and nodded, shaking her hair back from her face. "You read me Emma." She smiled wistfully, remembering how tenderly attentive he had been to her then. "I wasn't really ill ... it was just a cold, really."
There was a brief pause.
"Read it to me again," she requested suddenly. Erik looked up in surprise.
"As you wish," he said cautiously, rising to pick the book out of the vast wall of bookshelves. Austen, Austen ... right at the beginning of the collection. He selected the book and sat back down on the chair opposite Christine.
"Where would you like me to start?"
She pondered for a moment, then smiled. "From the discovery of Frank's engagement ... when Mr Weston comes to tell Emma. You remember?"
He nodded. "Of course." He flicked through the novel for a moment, and found the chapter he was looking for. He glanced up at Christine and smiled suddenly. "Are you sitting comfortably, mademoiselle?" She giggled. "I'll take that as a yes." He heard her laugh and smiled inwardly.
He cleared his throat. "One morning, about ten days after Mrs Churchill's decease ..."
For an hour or more, his voice rose and fell, and Christine found herself lost in the story again. Erik was aware, about fifteen minutes after he had begun to read, of Christine rising, and moving silently across the room to kneel at his feet, her head resting on the arm of his chair, her hair spilling over his fingers.
" 'My dearest Emma,' said he, 'for dearest you shall always be, whatever the event of this hour's conversation, my dearest, most beloved Emma - tell me at once. Say 'no', if it is to be said.' "
There was a brief silence. " 'I ...' " Erik cleared his throat and began again. " 'I cannot make speeches, Emma. If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more; but you know what I am.' "
Christine lifted her head slowly to meet his eyes. The moment was suddenly strained, fraught with tension, as he hesitantly took her hand and raised her to sit beside him.
"But ... you know what I am, better than anyone else in the world. And ... and I cannot be wise." He looked away from her. "Silence is golden, they say ... and the truth painful. But sometimes it must be spoken ..." There was a moment of tense silence.
"That isn't from Emma," Christine whispered, barely knowing what she said.
"No ..." She could feel Erik draw a deep breath. "No ... I can't script happy endings as well as Jane Austen could."
"I don't think many people can," she whispered, acutely aware of how close they were to each other, slightly frightened by the intensity of the expression in his eyes.
"No ..." They had unconsciously moved closer to each other.. He swallowed hard and searched his mind for words, but now that the moment had come, they all seemed to have deserted him.
She reached out to him, unsure of whether she was doing the right thing. "What are you trying to say?"
He looked her in the eyes for the first time. "How can you even need to ask me that?" he asked quietly. "I love you."
There was a long moment of stunned silence, in which Christine stared wordlessly at him and Erik turned away from her in despair.
"Erik ..."
He raised one hand, shaking his head. "No ... don't say it. Just ... don't say anything. I know --"
And then suddenly her hands were on his shoulders, forcing him to face her, one hand tracing his hair, before she threw herself into his arms and buried her face in his chest. Erik stiffened and made as if to pull away, but she caught hold of his arms and began to speak, very fast.
"Don't say another word," she whispered, her fingers tightening around his arms. "Let me do the talking for once." She took a deep breath. "God, Jane Austen would have done this better."
He turned his face away from her. "Christine, please ..."
"I love you," she whispered.
There was a long moment of utter silence. Christine sank to the floor, suddenly feeling weak, and felt rather than saw Erik kneel beside her.
"Erik ..." she whispered, on the verge of tears. "Say something. Please."
He was shaking his head. "I ... I don't ..." He passed a hand across his face. "Oh, God. I ... I can't think what to say."
And then she was in his arms, sobbing into his chest, her hands in his hair, clinging to him with a desperation which made his heart tighten.
He held her very gently for a long time, treasuring the soft weight of her body against his, until she ceased to cry and lay still in his arms. She turned slowly and looked beseechingly up into his face.
"Please don't send me away," she whispered.
He looked into her eyes for a long moment, then shook his head and buried his face in her hair. "No," he whispered, his voice muffled. His arms tightened around her and she relaxed against him, laying her head on his chest and listening to the steady beat of his heart. She felt him kiss her hair, and she snuggled closer to him, his arms gentle around her.
"I love you," she whispered, and felt him shudder.
"Oh God." His arms tightened around her. "Oh, God, I love you."
She let out a little sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and buried her face in his chest. He held her very still for a long time, until she finally drifted off to sleep in his arms.
Erik lifted her gently and lowered her onto the bed, covering her with a blanket and brushing a lock of hair away from her face.
That he had ever entertained the possibility of forgetting her ... he knelt by the side of the bed and watched her sleep.
"Ah, no," he murmured to himself, his lips curving into a smile, "it is an ever-fixéd mark, that looks on tempests and is never shaken ..." He touched his fingers lightly to her face and rose lightly to look out of the window.
The sky had darkened, spotted here and there by stars, clouds drifting across the surface of the moon.
He could remember Marie Perrault once taking him by the hand and leading him out into the garden to look at the stars. "If you wish upon a star, Erik dear, your wish will come true."
He hadn't believed her. Dreams didn't come true, he had known that even at the age of seven, and nothing in his adult life had occurred to shake that conviction.
But now ... he turned back to look at Christine, beautiful in sleep, her lips curved into an unconscious smile, her hair tangled on the pillow.
Now, he wasn't so sure.
An ever-fixéd mark ... he knelt beside Christine and kissed her hand.
Perhaps sometimes dreams do come true.
~ FIN ~