One month later…

Although the Atlanta Opera House was still in the process of being completed, Brett's other business interests dictated that he was to return to Paris for a few weeks.

During that time, I had decided I would take a train to Memphis and visit my mother. I had done a great amount of soul searching about it. She was the only living relative I knew of at this point. It seemed silly for us to be estranged forever. Despite my misgivings about her behavior in the past, she was still my mother.

Also, I would see what I could do in regards to getting a divorce from Franklin. Granted, there was no pressing need to be free anymore. But I still did not want to be shackled to my past.

My old childhood home, tucked away in the farmland of Tennessee, seemed smaller and more desolate than ever before. As I hired a buggy to drive me through the miles and miles of endless fields, I was glad that I was at least residing in Atlanta now for I knew that I would never be able to tolerate a life in the country again.

The house was ramshackle in appearance with straggly weeds all about. The white paint had chipped away in many places along the front of the house. There was a creaky old rocking chair on the front porch which had collected dust and cobwebs on its arms. The dilapidation was depressing.

With bated breath, I used the rusty knocker of the door which creaked horribly.

Isabella DuBois looked like what she had become…an embittered widow stranded in a wasteland. A fallen aristocrat forever yearning for the golden past of her youth. Her face had creased with long wrinkles of scorn. Her dark locks had grayed over the years.

With a gasp, my mother was shocked to see me at first.

Although I had halfway expected it, I was still disappointed to see her face become cold and hard. The envy in her eyes was obvious as she looked me up and down. My silken sky blue dress was of the sort far out of her means now...so different from her beige gingham dress.

"Well, the prodigal daughter has returned, I see?"

"Hello, Mama. How are you?"

How did my mother always have the ability to make me feel like a shy adolescent misfit? I had charmed the gilded halls of Paris as Aphrodite. Yet in her eyes, I would always be the eccentric daughter of Gerard DuBois, her late alcoholic of a husband.

"Since when did you acquire such a concern for your mother?" she asked harshly.

"Mama, can't we let the past remain in the past? You are my only mother. I am your only daughter. Must we constantly remain at odds with each other?"

"It is all well and good to preach forgiveness and family ties after you have spent so much time flitting about Paris and wasting away all of my mother's money! What happened?" she asked cattily. "Did the well run dry?"

"No, there are some things more important than money. Family, for instance."

"Spoken by a woman who must have plenty. Well, of course you do. You must have found some fine gentleman to keep you in Paris in order for you to be able to wear such a luxurious dress. I assume you no longer had such an abhorrence of intimacy once widowhood set in."

"Widowhood?"

She laughed cruelly at my surprise.

"Oh, no, you wouldn't know, would you? Well, why should you? I am sure you had better things to do than to keep up with news from home."

"Please tell me what you are talking about..." I snapped.

"Not too long after you left for Paris, your husband was shot dead in a gambling hall. I imagine his disappointment in you led him to drink and debauchery and all sorts of disgusting habits. Just another nail in the coffin of the family's reputation."

As much as she tried, her biting words could not hurt me.

What hurt me was the knowledge that Franklin had been dead all along. If only someone from home would have contacted me or written me...

Erik and I could have been married right away. And then maybe things would have turned out different somehow.

"Don't tell me that all of a sudden you care about Franklin or anyone else besides yourself!"

Her sarcasm jolted me out of my regrets.

"I am sorry that you hate me so, Mama."

There was no sign of reaction in her eyes. None.

"I am sorry that I remind you of Father. For I know that once you truly loved him."

With her soft gasp, I knew that I had struck home. And somehow, I had changed enough where I knew I had the courage to face her. I was no longer the little girl she could bully anymore.

"I know that you miss him every day," I continued. "And I know that every time you look at me, I remind you of him. And you are consumed with guilt and regret at how you berated him daily until he drank himself to death. You look at me and you see your past. And for that I am truly sorry."

Her large eyes pierced me as they filled with tears before she slammed the front door in my face. It was only then that I realized that she had never even let me into the house.

As I left, I was overwhelmed with memories of my father. How upset he would be to see how things were between me and Mama! I so needed his calm and sturdy presence in my life now. Yet at the same time, I was also so angry with him. Why did he have to drink himself to death when I had needed him so? Why did he leave me?

When would I ever find someone I could love who would stay?


Two months later...

Why did I ever allow Brett to talk me into this? I fumed.

Not only was the first show of the season set to be with local talent, including Ella Kennedy, but he also wanted the show to be excerpts of various operas.

"That way, we can get an idea of what sort of pieces will appeal to our audience," he had said.

That was sensible enough. But then he insisted that Beauty and the Beast be part of the repertoire.

I had fought him bitterly on the subject for I had no desire to ever hear that cursed music again.

"Angelica, I know those days bring you painful memories. But you should not throw out the good with the bad. It is a beautiful piece. And so many people in Atlanta have heard of your accomplishment in Paris and want to see it."

After I continually refused, he once again pulled rank on me, insisting that it would be performed.

As I sat in on the rehearsal, I had to grit my teeth to keep from screaming.

Ella's voice was pleasant enough, but she had no projection at all. And sometimes her southern accent was so thick that one could not clearly hear her words. So challenging was the task of singing for her that there was no expression in her face at all, no passion, just emptiness.

And Beau Wilkes as the Beast was even worse.

Beau was a nice enough young man, part of the same Saturday night musical group that Ella was part of. And I was instructed sternly by Brett not to agitate him in any way. Ashley Wilkes, the kind gentleman I had met a month ago, had sent several more sizable contributions to our theater once his son became involved. So I just had to endure his son's voice, yelling when he should have been singing, harsh when he should have been soft, and his accent was even worse than Ella's. If his voice had been too soft to be heard, it would truly have been a blessing for everyone. As it was, his voice with all of its faults came out loud and strong.

And all along in the back of my head, the same words of the Song of the Beast were being sung in a magical voice...a voice so beautiful my toes would curl in pleasure...until I remembered that it was just a voice of the past...

I threw my notes down in irritation, scattering papers everywhere along the aisle of the theater, before storming off to my office in the back hallway.

The tinkling notes of the piano stopped.

After a few moments, there was a timid knock on the office door.

"Miss DuBois, are you well?" Ella asked with genuine concern in her eyes.

How anxious she was for my approval. How like Christine, yet she did not even have one iota of her talent.

I tapped the pencil against my desk in irritation.

"Miss Kennedy, I must be honest with you," I replied in a cold voice. "I had reservations all along about allowing local talent to sing in this theater, but you have managed to charm Mr. Watling into forcing my hand on the matter."

Before she could reply, I continued on.

"But the plain hard facts are that you cannot be heard or understood. Your voice is too soft. Your accent is too thick. You are a pretty girl, Ella. But it takes more than a lovely face to keep an audience's interest. Now it is not my responsibility to teach you how to perform nor am I even qualified. But I must advise you that in a few weeks, we will open. And if you continue on in this fashion, you will be laughed at and criticized most harshly by a very large audience."

Her luminous eyes shone with tears at my criticism.

"I am not saying these things to be cruel to you, Ella. Believe it or not, I have your welfare in mind. But you still have time to improve if you apply yourself."

"I-I-I shall tr-tr-try, Miss D-d-duBois..."

"Good."

I sighed with irritation as I heard her run down the hallway sobbing.

Oh, well, I had my own problems to deal with.

There were whole blocks of seats that had to be reserved for all of the important social groups of Atlanta. I scanned down the list. The Sewing Circle for the Widows and Orphans of the Confederacy. The Association for the Beautification of the Graves of Our Glorious Dead. The Saturday Night Musical Circle. The Ladies' Evening Cotillion Society. The Young Men's Library. And so they went on and on. It was truly mind boggling.

As I was making a list of the number of seats needed for each group, I was startled out of my wits by the slamming of a door.

"God's nightgown, Angelica! What has come over you?"

Brett Watling stood before me angrily, his hands resting on his hips. With his hat and coat still on, he looked as if he were ready to challenge me to a gun duel out in the middle of the street.

"Brett! I didn't know you would be back from Paris so soon..."

"Indeed I am!" he growled. "And just in time, I should say! What do you mean by terrorizing one of our lead sopranos only a few weeks before we open? Poor Ella was hysterical."

I sighed with consternation.

"I am sorry, Brett, but when you hired me, I assumed that you wanted me to make this place a success. It was not my intention to be cruel but someone had to open your girlfriend's eyes about her performance."

"And isn't that what our director is for?" Brett snapped.

"To be honest, I don't think much of the director either."

"Well, I am sure Ella's mother would approve heartily of your actions."

"Is that supposed to be some sort of insult?"

"You're damned straight it is! That poor girl spent her entire life in the shadow of her mother. Later on, it was in the shadow of her dead sister, Bonnie. When her mother ever bothered to pay attention to her, it was usually only to criticize her for being silly or having no attention span. Or being too much like her father. This is Ella's chance to rise above all of that; and you are ruining everything!"

I did feel for Ella's plight, considering that I also had such relations with my own mother.

"I am truly sorry, Brett," I said sincerely. "I am just trying to do what is best for the show."

"Artistic discipline and integrity is admirable, Angelica. But you should not allow it to turn you into some sort of shrew. You should hear some of the names that you are being called behind your back."

I shrugged. "People always dislike a person who has authority. And they never stop to think of all of the responsibilities involved."

"Well, perhaps you should return to Paris. I could always find someone who is more pleasant to work with."

Slamming my hand down on my desk, I glared at him in anger.

"Would you speak this way to me if I were a man, Brett? After all, Monsieurs Andre and Firmin fired singers for much less."

For a moment, he paused.

"Perhaps not. Let us change the subject."

"I would be most grateful if we did."

"We have a booked full house for opening night. And some good publicity in the local papers."

He placed a newspaper down on my desk, but I did not bother to look at it.

"That is very satisfactory."

"I was hoping for perhaps a little enthusiasm from you on the subject," he commented dryly.

"Of course, I am enthused."

"You could have fooled me. But you have been working so hard, Angelica, especially since I've been out of town You're bound to be overwrought. Perhaps we should celebrate our newly found success? My father is in town for the opening of the theater. I think you two would get on quite well together. How about we talk him into a nice dinner and a bottle of wine downtown?"

The idea of going out and having to pretend to be sociable and friendly made my grit my teeth.

"No, thank you, Brett. I'm really not very hungry. And I don't care to drink any more. I should go home and go to bed as I have an early rehearsal to oversee tomorrow."

With frustration, Brett leaned his hands on the desktop, tapping his fingers.

"Whatever happened to that charming goddess in Paris?"

I scowled at the memory.

"She was murdered along with Christian Deveraux, I guess..."

"What do you plan to do, Angelica? Hide away here in this theater like the goddamned Phantom of the Opera?"

A resounding crash echoed throughout the room as I threw an inkstand against the wall.

"Don't you say that!" I raged. "Don't you ever say that name to me!"

With a handkerchief, Brett calmly wiped a few blotches of ink from his jacket.

"I'm sorry, Brett," I apologized. And I truly was sorry. "But you know how I hate to remember those times. I lost a great deal that night at the opera."

There was a long silence between us. I sat down awkwardly.

"How about the name...Erik? May I say that name?"

I gasped in shock as I could not stop the tears from welling up at the sound of his name.

"What is he to you, Angelica?"

"I don't care to discuss..." I could not even say his name. "I don't care to discuss him."

"Very well, I shall hazard a guess. For a time, shortly after you had been given the laudanum on the ship, I had sat by your side just to make sure that you were well. You had said his name over and over in your sleep. You had called him your husband."

I shook my head, refusing to talk about it.

Brett's mouth was set in grim determination.

"There was another reason that I had come by today. And it had nothing to do with the success of the Atlanta Opera House or the rehearsals. I was hoping that I could have discussed this with you under more relaxing circumstances. Perhaps after dinner if you had agreed to it. As it is though, I have some news from Paris...something that I think you will be interested to hear..."

"Well, you thought wrong," I snapped. "I don't want to hear anything about the Paris Opera House or about anyone who was ever in it..."

"This concerns Erik..."

Again, my heart raced at the sound of his name. How could I still feel so much pain when my heart seemed to have been broken beyond repair months ago?

And for Brett to know of his name could mean only one thing.

"He is dead, isn't he?" I asked, gripping onto the edge of my desk tightly.