Homecoming
Jennifer Hinds and Heather Sullivan
Chapter 2
"Mama! Mama, where are you?"
Christine sighed as she heard her daughter's plaintive wail and hurried to her bedchamber door. Opening it, she peered out into the corridor. "I'm right here, mon coeur ..."
Elaine emerged from the darkness like a little ghost and threw her arms about her mother's waist. "I had a bad dream, Mama," she wept into the folds of Christine's nightgown.
"There, there, mon chéri," Christine whispered, patiently stroking the child's bedraggled locks. "I'm here."
"Mama," the little girl murmured. "Could I sleep with you? I'd feel a lot safer..."
"All right," Christine answered; but Elaine was clambering under her mother's coverlet before the words had entirely left her mouth.
The little girl was asleep in five minutes, but Christine lay awake looking up at the shadows playing on the ceiling. Some problems, like Elaine's nightmares, she could deal with easily. Others were beyond her to solve; and the worst of all was money. Since Raoul had always managed their finances, she had had no idea exactly how close they had been to bankruptcy. Somehow Raoul had managed to maintain their excessive lifestyle on the narrowest of budgets; but she had not his head for figures, and could never hope to make what resources remained stretch far enough.
The home she and Raoul had occupied since their marriage would pass, not to Christine, but because of a quirk of inheritance law, to a male relative of Raoul's – a cousin, Henri. He had been kind enough to allow Christine and Elaine to remain there for the time being, but Christine knew this could not last. Nor would she wish it …
Her only claim was to Raoul's remaining liquid assets – and these were hardly substantial. At best the money could last little more than half a year.
There was no way around it: Christine would have to become the breadwinner for herself and her small daughter.
But what was she to do? The only trade she had ever learned was music ... And though her voice had become a brilliant instrument under Erik's tutelage, she felt self-conscious about employing it again now that she had lost contact with Erik forever. Something inside her thought it was wrong to use for profit the gift that he had bestowed out of love.
Nevertheless, she knew that she was still capable of reaching the front and back rows of the Paris Opera House with equal clarity …
When morning cast out the shadows of the night, Christine rose from bed. Elaine was still sleeping peacefully, she noted; but she herself had not been afforded such fortune. The mirror on the bedroom wall revealed an astonishing visage. The sleepless nights had taken a toll on her: her eyes were bloodshot, and her complexion was rosy in all the wrong places. The tears she had shed over Raoul hadn't helped the picture any either. Her hand trembled as she put it up to her long dark hair. Even this, which she considered to be her best feature, was dull and lifeless.
She looked helplessly at herself for a few moments, dismayed at what change a few weeks of woe could accomplish. But as she turned to watch her sleeping daughter and heard a slight sigh escape her lips, Christine suddenly realized where her new focus was. "I must forget all of these small worries for Elaine's sake," she told herself as firmly as she could.
But her determination was scattered to the wind when she heard Elaine's plaintive little voice.
"Mama? Why don't you sleep in your old bedroom anymore?"
Christine had been unaware that the child was awake; but she had been for some minutes, lying still and taking in the sights of the guest room where Christine had been quartered since Henri's arrival.
"Because Cousin Henri wanted it, mon coeur," she explained patiently; "and you remember I told you that this is his house now."
Elaine shifted huffily beneath the blankets; it was clear that, although she understood the arrangement, she did not care much for it. "If this isn't our house anymore, then how long are we going to stay here?"
Christine sighed and stepped towards the bed, retrieving a hairbrush along the way to tame the child's locks. "I don't know, Elaine. I shall try to find us a new home soon."
"Cousin Henri won't come with us, will he? I do hate him – he's an old grouch!"
"Elaine!" Christine exclaimed sternly, though she was tempted to laugh. "You mustn't speak of your cousin that way – it is quite ungrateful."
"But Mama, he's so mean and awful! He's always telling me where I can play, and not to make noise. I can't stand him!"
"Elaine, that is enough!" Christine said, fixing her with as firm an expression as she could manage. "Now go to your room – I will come soon to help you dress for breakfast."
As Elaine's golden curls bobbed meekly out of the room, Christine thought about what her daughter had said. She had of course been grateful for Henri's invitation to remain in their former home as long as she and Elaine required; it had provided for the child a much-needed sense of stability, and for Christine a short respite from worry about the rather bleak financial situation in which she now found herself. But she had not been a guest in her former for a week before she realized that she must make their time there brief.
Despite Henri's voice having been among the chorus of disapproval after her marriage to Raoul, he seemed to see nothing wrong with admiring her openly now that her husband was dead. He had made no attempts to conceal his growing interest in her figure, which would draw his glance no matter how conservatively Christine tried to adorn it. As yet he had made no advances towards her, but she could not feel certain that he never would. Elaine's question about the shuffled sleeping quarters had struck a chord in her: At least he did not invite me to share my old room with him, she mused wryly.
Before long Christine had completed her toilette and dressed for the day, and gone to help Elaine on with her dress and pinafore. The child scampered off with her doll in hand, her chagrin of Cousin Henri momentarily forgotten. Christine watched her with eyes filled with new purpose, then returned to her room, where she seated herself at the writing desk and began composing a letter to an old friend ...
"Are we in Paris yet, Mama?" Elaine asked for what seemed the fiftieth time since they had boarded the train.
"No, Elaine," Christine answered, with a little weariness beginning to show through the neutral words. "We won't reach Paris for another hour, at least."
"Tell me about the Opera House again!" Elaine demanded, her little pink cheeks glowing with anticipated delight.
"But I just told you, silly goose!" Christine answered, putting down the score she had been studying and trying to suppress the urge to laugh. "Won't you grow tired of it, if I tell you again?"
"No, Mama! Never!"
Christine gave in good-naturedly and began again the narrative that Elaine had begun to regard almost as a fairy tale. "All around the Opera, the roads spread outward, like spokes on a wheel. The building is made of beautiful marble and stone, and it shines like a great gem at the center of a crown. At the top is a grand golden dome, like the very ceilings of Heaven; and all around the building are statues of angels – angels playing on harps and flutes and glorifying God with their voices, just as do all the musicians and actors who perform beneath that dome."
The little girl's eyes were dreamy, but she was still excited enough to prompt her mother onward. "You forgot to tell about the rose garden!"
"I did not, cheri - you interrupted me." Christine resumed the story with grace. "Before the steps that lead to the grand foyer, the garden is spread out like a carpet. The drive for the carriages passes through it, and they have many flowers there. White, pink, yellow, red – even a bush whose roses are so dark, they're almost black. No one knows who placed that bush there, but it has been there for as long as I can remember."
Elaine looked at her mother with eyes like an addict's, pleading, almost desperate. "Please, Mama, tell me about the stage!"
"My silly cheri… If you stand on the stage, you will see the seats spreading outward like a sea of red velvet; it covers everything, the orchestra seats, the railings of the balconies, and the hangings in the boxes where the richest patrons sit. Scattered among the velvet are hundreds of tiny glints of brass, shined up like little stars by the Opera folk before each performance. High above your head the red and gold will go, until you see what is held up by the pillars made of marble: the ceiling is painted with scenes of Paris and all its wonders. And in the center of it hangs the chandelier, its glass beads twinkling like a thousand stars." Christine repressed a shudder. "It is very beautiful to see."
"Oh, Mama!" Elaine sighed, clasping her hands together. "Will Aunt Meg let me see all of it – every last thing about it?"
"I'm sure she will, dear. The Opera is always more magical when you have a friend to help you explore."
Elaine flounced back into her seat and lay her head dramatically against a cushion, a contented smile spreading across her face. Christine was grateful that these small descriptions had been enough to make Elaine think of the Opera with the promise – and to distract the child from asking her mother about her time there. As much as she hated to conceal it from her child, she could not bear to tell the rest of the story ... nor, she reasoned, was a child so young ready for such a tale.
I myself am hardly ready for it, she thought grimly. She had shirked, in the end, from the decision to return to the Opera; she could not bear the shame of applying to the managers as a supplicant. But surely there were those among the company whom she could still name "friend," and who would be so kind as to tend to her daughter while she went out into the vast world to make a living for them both.
Elaine was soon lulled to sleep by the rhythm of the train, but Christine stayed awake; her nerves jangled at the prospect of once again entering the structure that had been Erik's domain. She had not been able to crowd out the memory of him, not even with her new, grown-up concerns of finance and family. Perhaps it was he who prevented her, after all, and not the managers; but she checked herself firmly. I will not think of the past, she told herself; the present is far more important.
To steady herself and bolster her resolve, she cast a furtive glance at her daughter; the child was sleeping soundly, and Christine returned to her music.
"Oh, Christine! How lovely to finally see you again!" Meg was glowing with joy as she embraced her old friend. "And can this young beauty be Elaine? My, how tall you are! – are you sure you're only six, cheri?"
Elaine dropped a pretty little curtsey. "Enchante, Aunt Meg!"
Christine impulsively kissed her friend and replied, "So is it nice to see me, even if you will have a visitor for a while?"
"Of course!" she answered. "I will love getting to know Elaine. I only wish I had been able to meet her sooner." The jibe was gentle but did not go unnoticed by Christine. Of course she felt responsibility for their long parting, but she could hardly have done more to prevent it. Raoul had been adamantly opposed to her inviting Meg for a visit, even after they had been married, and her wish to choose the ballerina as Elaine's godmother had met with flat refusal.
"I cannot thank you enough, Meg," Christine began softly, meaning to explain; but she was interrupted by Elaine.
"Can we go see the stage and the balconies and the chandelier?"
"Of course," Meg responded with a smile, after a hurried glance at Christine.
"Now?" Elaine demanded impatiently.
"Elaine," Christine chided her daughter. "Your Aunt Meg and I have some visiting to do. You'll have all the time in the world for touring – later."
Elaine pouted a little, but brightened when Meg found a stable-boy that was willing to take her to see the horses. As soon as she was led away, the two friends made their way arm-in-arm to Meg's dressing room, where two matching red chairs awaited them.
"Christine ... I'm so sorry about Raoul," Meg's voice faltered. "Please tell me truly – are you all right?"
Christine reached out for her friend's hand. "Thank you, Meg. I am as well as can be expected, I suppose. It has been hard …"
Meg held on tightly to Christine as she told the entire story; her eyes widened at the bits Christine had left out of her letter. "Oh, Christine," she said tersely when her friend had finished; "I know it's not Christian to speak ill of the dead, but …!"
Christine shook her head sadly. "It wasn't all his fault, dear. I feel responsible for his feelings – for certainly I must have failed him somehow, for his heart to change so drastically." Setting her jaw, she added, "Though I don't know what else I could have done – I did so much to make him happy …"
Embracing her impetuously, Meg sighed, "You mustn't blame yourself. Let his death bury the sorrow you shared."
Christine nodded and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. "Thank you, Meg," she said, giving her friend's hand a grateful squeeze. "You've been so good – I want you to know that I appreciate it."
The little ballerina smiled and cast her gaze downward. "I only wish that I could help you and Elaine more than this."
"You are the sweetest and the best friend I have in the world," Christine smiled gently.
"I feel so useless to you, though. All I can do is watch Elaine for a while ..."
"Your assistance is essential to me, Meg. I could not very well take her all over the countryside; she needs stability, and a place to call home. She will get both in Paris; and with you, I know she will also be loved and wanted. I could never live with myself if I made her feel abandoned."
Meg smiled and then frowned as a thought passed her mind. "How much does she know about your career at the Opera?"
Christine set her jaw again, assuming an expression of determination and maturity that Meg had never seen her wear before today. "Only that I sang here and left to marry her father. She knows nothing else."
Nodding, Meg reflected silently on this new side of her friend. "What should I tell her if she asks any questions?"
Christine unclasped her hands and turned them palms upward. "The truth, I suppose."
"All of it?" Meg's voice carried a small note of skepticism and worry.
"As much as she can understand."
Meg's hand traced the pleat in her dress. "I will do my best to keep her identity secret. I know that this is important to you."
"By all means," Christine replied with conviction. "I couldn't stand it if she were the object of stares and whispers."
"I shall do my best."
"I have complete faith in you," Christine smiled; but Meg noticed it was a sadder, more knowing smile than the one she had formerly known. Rising, the former Vicomtesse wandered to a table laden with many bouquets. Meg had clearly done well for herself since her departure and marriage; the room was filled with flowers from her various admirers. "But now let us talk of merrier things – tell me of all the beaux who I am sure are tripping over themselves in the hallway, their arms full of roses!"
Meg laughed her pretty, pearly little laugh. "They are all so foolish, Christine. I honestly can't understand how they believe such ridiculous behavior would win a lady's heart." She rose too, and joined her friend in running her fingers across the velvety petals. "The flowers are lovely, but I never accept any other gifts; I will not allow myself to be beholden to any man until I am certain he's the right one. And …" she paused and looked down demurely. "… Besides, I rather enjoy the freedom of being unmarried." Looking up again, she captured Christine's gaze and grinned broadly. "Do I shock you?"
It was Christine's turn to laugh. "Not in the slightest," she replied. "But your mother …"
"Oh," Meg fluttered. "Since I became prima ballerina I can do no wrong in her eyes – except, perhaps, in that one area."
Christine smiled, noting to herself how Meg had grown – not just taller and more lovely, but in spirit as well. She was no longer the child she had known. "And how is her health?"
"As well as can be expected after a case of pneumonia like hers. She misses being able to come to all of the performances, but she makes it to as many of the ballets as she can manage. And she is very much looking forward to meeting Elaine. Her words were, "It is about time some childish voices rang through our house.'" Meg laughed gently. "If she's hinting towards the possibility of grandchildren, she'll be waiting a while longer."
"Well, you may be right not to accept flippant offers of undying love and devotion." Christine teased.
Meg leaned over and picked a nosegay from amidst the various blooms. "They all speak of 'eternal happiness' and 'undying bliss.' I wonder if they even know what the words mean!" But here she bit her tongue; she had been about to remark that Christine, of all others, must understand that all the glittering proposals of suitors do not really promise gold.
Instead, she confessed a secret she had been smothering since she had first received her friend's letter. "I do wish you would stay here and sing, Christine. I know it would be difficult, but ..."
"No," Christine sighed, shaking her head. "I could not, even if I wanted to … People still remember, and I would not wish Elaine to suffer for that. Perhaps …"
She trailed off, for she had caught a glimpse of herself in one of Meg's long ballet mirrors. She was standing in Meg's dressing room, far from the location of her own former cubby; but the mirror's silver surface still raised gooseflesh on her arms, and troublesome memories surged forward in her mind despite her knowledge that this mirror concealed no dark geniuses.
Christine had tried as best she could to shake off the urge to reminisce about Erik, to pass quickly in and out of the Opera again without thinking of him, so that her resolve would not falter or become bogged down in regret. There was no changing what had happened here, and there could be no turning back from her current course …
Meg's expression was quizzical; Christine shook herself mentally and continued. "I will simply have to make my fame elsewhere." With a smile, she entwined her arm with her friend's. "In time, I am sure I will have established myself in comfort; and I will return for Elaine as soon as I possibly can."
As if speaking the child's name had summoned her, Elaine's footfalls could be heard approaching, as always, at a run; and moments after they thumped to a stop in the hall, the child burst into the room.
"Mama, Aunt Meg! Look what I found!" she cried.
"Dearest," Christine admonished her gently; "it is very rude to interrupt grownups when they are talking."
But she caught her tongue as Elaine held out a single red rose. "It was just outside the door."
