(a/n) Hi everyone, this site has been giving trouble, or else this would have been up earlier. If the troubles continue you can check out this story at the aria archives, link is on my profile, My user name and the story title are the same: dreamsofbeauty, This Present Pleasure.
Ok the quote from Kay last time was "For as long as I live, no woman will ever look on me with love." Belle smooches unseenhope18 on the cheek
As always, I love my reviewers! You guys are awesome.
Breedaberry: I am sorry you were confused. I must not have made the situation clear enough. I've probably confused everybody. Christine lives in two houses connected by an underground passage (she had to learn something from Erik). They back up on each other. The first one, which I dubbed "the love nest", is where she entertains gentlemen. The second, the cottage, is where she lives with Belle. She has the passageway so that Belle will not be involved in her courtesan activities. So although Erik knew Belle lived in a house just behind "the love nest" he didn't know Christine lived there. As to what his reaction will be now, you will just have to find out.
Ziroana: I am glad you like the parts from 1881, I must admit that sometimes I will skip flashbacks myself.
Crying Wasteland: Yes Erik was, and still is the perfect father for Christine's child. gives a happy sigh while thinking of Erik
LostSchizophrenic: Yes, Christine very much wishes Erik was Belle's father. Seems like she is playing a little make-believe here.
Amanda17: Thank you, and welcome to the story.
Okay guys, a lot of my description of Erik in this chapter is based on the Kay version, and there is one stray lyric from ALW.
Now I give you a beautiful quote about my favorite man, whom I fell in love with all over again while writing this chapter:
"A powerful sexuality informed his every gesture. Curbed and leashed, expressed in the enormous sensuality of his hands, this sexuality gripped every audience and made him a uniquely compelling performer." –Phantom, Susan Kay (a/n)
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London, 1890, Erik
His name was Erik
Those words reverberated through my head, and more than an hour later they still had not lost their shock value.
I had been wandering London, trying to sort out the implications of Belle's revelation. The poor child, she had had no idea who she was talking to.
I had come to only two conclusions: Belle was Christine's daughter, and she had described me as Belle's father.
How had Christine gotten pregnant? Where the hell had Chagny been? Why had she made me Belle's father? I laughed bitterly—I knew only too well that I was not Belle's father. For the past hour one theory had become more and more prominent in my mind, it explained the facts quite admirably. I was as convinced as I could be that this was the solution to the mystery.
Christine had gone off with Chagny and allowed him his rights before they were married. Cowed into submission by his brother, Chagny had then deserted Christine. She must have discovered her pregnancy later. Maybe she had contacted Chagny, and if she had he was rendered even more despicable. But even if she hadn't he had still abandoned her after taking her maidenhead—and he deserved death for his actions. I scowled, if I ever saw him again, I would gladly oblige. No other explanation worked so well, and no other explanation suited me as well.
At last I was allowed to truly hate my rival, and at the same time it explained Christine's current situation so well. She could not have supported Belle nearly as well with any other job available to her. Stripped of her virtue, she could have expected no decent man to marry her. I felt remorse rip through me as I remembered my vicious words to her that first night. I had not spared her. But then I could not have had any idea what she had gone through. Still, I should have known that something . . . oh, Christine.
But even as I accepted my own explanation as truth, the most perplexing question remained unanswered. Why had Christine told Belle that I was her father? It had to mean something! It meant she had not hated me, no more, it meant she had respected me. She must have hated the boy after he had left her, but she could easily have made up a man to be Belle's father. Instead she had chosen me. She had chosen to talk about me often and fondly, to describe me as a worthy man, a great man—and to enjoy doing so. She had even told Belle of the Angel of Music, as if it held happy memories. My heart beat wildly within my chest as I considered the implications. It must mean she had cared for me . . . and gave me the hope she had felt something greater.
But what would I do with this information? Immediately I though to confront her, but even as I swiftly turned to walk back towards her house, another thought came to mind. What if I didn't tell her I knew? If she cared for me, trusted me, could I not get her to tell me herself? I wanted her. I wanted her body, her soul, and her mind. I could deceive myself no longer, and after this discovery I no longer wanted to. I loved her still and Belle's revelation had given me hope such as I had never dreamt of having. I would not ruin this chance, I would tread cautiously now. Once before, I had not been so cautious, and the results had been disastrous. No, I would not tell her, but rather hope that she would confide in me. I would give her reason to trust me, and perhaps even love me.
With reckless daring I set out to woo Christine Daae.
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London, 1883, Christine
"So this is your decision?" Madame Giry questioned me quietly.
"Oh Madame, you know that no other job offers me the money this one does. I am terribly out of practice, and could only get a job as a chorus girl at best, even then, admit it, I could hardly afford to support us all."
"Us all? Child, I hardly expect you to support me."
"Madame, Meg is married now, with one child and another on the way. Soon she will have even more children; I know that you do not want to lean on her for support. They will have enough problems as it is. You have been looking after Belle with me ever since she was born. I don't know what I do with out you, and if I am to get any job I must have someone to look after Belle. I could hardly expect you to do so without support."
Madame Giry sighed, "Christine do you even understand what you are getting yourself into?"
"Madame, Mr. Bradbury seems like a very kind gentleman, I am sure he will be considerate enough. If he isn't, I can always leave him; it is not as if we will be married."
I bit my lip before continuing, "Madame I have not told you all yet. Mr. Bradbury wants me to go to England with him. He has promised me a house and an extravagant allowance. He knows of Belle, and says he does not care, as long as he does not see her. I am sure we could work something out."
"But Christine, England? What will happen after he is done with you?"
I blushed, and fidgeted with my collar, "Well I hear that in England, French women are quite the rage in . . . umm . . . certain circles."
Madame Giry eyed me, "So plainly you expect to get another protector. What if you can't?"
"We will hardly be worse off than we are now. Madame I have to do something. Erik's money finished a month ago. I have had no success finding a job that pays well enough even to support Belle and I, and no assurance for the future. Soon we will be out in the street."
Madame Giry was silent for a time, before replying slowly, "Christine you were always a delicate girl, but you have gained immeasurably in maturity over the last year. My common sense says this is our best option, and although I hate the idea of our coming to this, I will agree to go with you."
"Oh Madame thank you, I hope that through this I will have found the way to save Belle from poverty forever."
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London, 1890, Christine
I should have felt odd arriving at a gentleman's lodging dressed for dinner, but my nerves prevented me from thinking of anything but the night ahead of me. When Erik had invited me to dinner I had been surprised, and I still hardly knew what to expect. What would happen? How would Erik behave? Should I apologize? Mustering my courage, I rapped sharply on the door. Almost immediately it opened, and Erik stood before me. I drew in a breath—his figure was as formidable as ever. His tall frame was not bulky, but anyone could sense the sinewy strength lurking beneath his clothing. The man exuded power and sexual magnetism. I had always felt the attraction, but in my innocence I had not identified Erik's pure sexual power. Now it overwhelmed me.
"Welcome, my dear," he said, stepping back to allow me entrance.
All the polite replies that came to mind died on my lips, none seemed appropriate; I entered in silence.
I walked into a small, elegantly appointed front hall. Erik came behind me and his hand found the small of my back, sending a wave of warmth through me. He guided me into a small parlor, dominated by a beautiful grand piano. Sitting there in its dark majesty, the instrument reminded me of Erik. Each had the capacity to produce divine music. Memories washed over me, transporting me to another time, when Erik had been my Angel of Music. I could hear his magnificent voice echoing in my memory, and I suppressed an urge to ask him to sing for me—but perhaps later?
"Would you like a drink," he asked, his voice beautiful even in speech.
"Yes thank you," I replied, and watched as he poured a sparkling amber liquid into my glass. I accepted the wine glass from him, our fingers brushing as it exchanged hands.
I gestured to the piano, "Have you been playing much lately?"
"I play," he replied, gazing at the instrument fondly, before focusing his penetrating gaze on me, "Music will never cease to be one of my life's ruling passions."
He looked at me in silence for a brief moment, before asking, "And you Christine, have you been singing?"
"Oh," I said, "Not professionally of course, but I still sing occasionally—at home or at social gatherings. I couldn't let that leave my life either; it wouldn't have been fair to . . ." I stopped abruptly, Belle's name frozen in my mouth.
Erik's eyes seemed to pierce my soul. "Who would it not have been fair to Christine?"
I laughed uneasily, "Myself. I think I would have withered away without music."
"I see," Erik said, almost exactly as if he did see. I shivered. Erik was not all seeing—no matter what I had once thought. Seeking to change the subject I asked, "Have you been living here long?" I didn't see how he could have been, surely he would have heard of me—if he read the newspapers.
"No, just a couple of months now. I moved to England to work with my present partner, but until now I have done most of my work from the country. However, James said he was tired of having to travel to see each other or correspond through the mail. He eventually badgered me into moving to London."
I laughed, "He badgered you!" I found that strangely at odds with the all powerful figure of my youth, and yet it made him seem far more approachable.
His eyes glinted with amusement, "You find that funny do you?"
"Terribly." I replied mischievously, "I must ask James the secret of it."
"Surely my dear, you know you need not badger me for anything, all you need do is ask," he said, his voice low and earnest.
Suddenly I felt hot all over, and a deep longing surged up in my heart, if only we were two young lovers ready to take on the world. I could make-believe, I thought to myself. It is dangerous to think make-believe is real. But I don't think its real, I defended, I know it's just pretend.
"Well my dear, I think its time we went into dinner. I am afraid you must do with me as your server, as I don't keep a manservant."
I felt a little rush of pleasure at the thought. Dining together with no servants seemed like such an intimate act. "I'm sure nothing will be lacking," I replied, placing my fingertips on his arm.
The whole situation was highly unusual, of course when in the cottage there were no servants—only Antoinette, Belle, and I. But this was different. We were dining formally, but yet very very informally.
Erik served me all the food, refusing my help; he seemed to take a special delight in the act, requesting my preferences as if he were offering me the world. As he worked, I watched him, once again marveling at the strength he represented. Wouldn't it be wonderful to have that strength to depend on, to allow him to shoulder my burdens? Abruptly I felt tears start to my eyes, and I quickly repressed them. This was foolish speculation. But even though I could not have that, at least I had this present pleasure.
If Erik had noticed my watery eyes, he did not comment. Instead he set out to be a charming companion, engaging me in conversation on a number of subjects. Throughout the night I often stole little glances at him when I thought he was not looking. As much as I was enjoying myself I was a little at a loss. What could this mean? It was almost as if . . . as if he were wooing me. But that was ridiculous.
All too soon the dinner came to an end. Erik shushed all my offers of help like I was a foolish child, and led me back to the parlor.
"I hope, my dear, you did not suffer too much from my amateur cooking."
I laughed, "Don't fish for compliments Erik; you know you excel at everything you do."
He dismissed my comment with an expressive gesture of his elegant hands, but his eyes darkened.
"Erik, I was wondering."
"Yes? What is it you desire?"
Once again heat suffused my body, but I quelled the wanton thoughts that flew into my mind, and focused on my original object. "Well, I would be happy . . . that is, I would dearly love to hear you play," I fumbled, and then added in a lower voice, "to hear you sing."
He said nothing, his amber eyes searching mine, as if questioning whether or not I knew what I was asking, what I was getting myself into. And then, "As you wish."
He moved towards the piano, and opened the instrument, exposing the ivory keys. Seating himself gracefully on the bench, he laid his fingers gently down, and, as I looked, I was struck anew by the enormous sensuality of his hands. My eyes were fixated on those strong hands as he began to play a beautiful melody, most likely of his own composition, for it was foreign to my ears. There was something strangely arousing in watching his fingers move over the keys, and I could easily imagine myself subject to the same attention.
Then he began to sing, and it was fortunate that I was seated, for I felt my knees weaken and I closed my eyes involuntarily. Oh God, my memories were a faded grey in contrast to glorious reality of his voice. My dreams could never have replicated the extraordinary resonance, the depth of timbre, and the sheer magnitude of power that was Erik's voice. I willing surrendered myself to its bewitching influence, and like a moth to the flame I found myself rising and moving towards him.
I drew near to him, until only a thin veneer of air separated our two bodies. My hand moved to his face, imitating a gesture from the past, but this time no thought of removing his mask crossed my mind. I only wanted to caress the strong line of his jaw, to run my fingers over the curve of his cheek. Erik leaned his head back under my touch, as a flower opens to the sun. His eyes were closed, and his voice slowly trailed off into silence.
He sat there just a moment, before his hand rose to cover mine. Gently he took my hand, and rising, led me over to the chaise. Seating me beside him, he turned to me, a searching expression upon his face.
My name escaped from his lips like a long held breath, "Christine."
I gazed up him, not wanting to break this precious moment, desperately holding on to my make-believe.
Then he spoke again, his voice stronger, determined, "Christine, we are both people with a past now. You know that I have done many terrible things. I know, better than anyone, how cruel life can be. Circumstances can drive you to do things you never dreamed possible. Christine, I would know what your life has been. I will not condemn you for anything—that I swear. Just confide in me."
Just confide in me. Oh God, if only I could; if only I could pour out my sorrows, my trials, and my tribulations, without fear, into his listening ears. But could he really keep that promise? After all, he did not know what had happened. And I could not, would not, tell him all. I could not tell him I had left Raoul the very next day, descended into his domain, and lived there like a mad woman. I could not bear to see the pity in his eyes, pity he had scorned so many years ago. I didn't want his pity, I wanted his love. What if he was so ridden with guilt that he pretended he still loved me? What if he does? No, impossible, just days ago his actions had not been those of love. What game he was playing now I knew not, but less than a week ago he had called me whore.
I clung to that thought. If I told him of my past, he would know just how thoroughly I had sold my soul.
Unbidden my eyes filled with tears, and I turned my head. "I cannot. I cannot!"
I felt his hand reach for my face, and I trembled under his touch. He gently turned my head so that he could look into my eyes—and so that I could look into his. There, in his golden orbs, I saw a little hurt, but mostly sadness. But in his eyes all the sadness of the world. Only now he mourned not only for himself, but for both of us, for me.
"Christine, just know, whenever you are ready to tell me, I will be ready to listen."
Almost I yielded, but the memory of Erik's temper, of his mercurial moods, held me strong. His mood was sweet and tender now, but it was as changeable as the tides—one moment gentle and lulling, the next vicious and deadly. Caution won the day.
I smiled weakly, "Thank you Erik, I will keep that in mind."
I could see the disappointment in his eyes as he spoke, "I hope you do. Now I suppose it is time for you to go home. I will see you to your carriage."
Silently he helped me don my evening cloak, and we walked out of the building together, my arm threaded through his. We walked up to the carriage and disengaged arms, before Erik opened the door and prepared to hand me in. But to his surprise, and mine as well, I suddenly launched myself into his arms, and pressed a passionate kiss upon his lips. Needily, I devoured his mouth, and after the initial shock, he returned my kiss will equal fervency. We pulled apart, breathless, and I quickly entered the carriage bidding him a hasty good night.
As the carriage rolled into motion, I looked back at his dark figure, countless feelings swarming through my heart, and among them one small emotion flickered to life—hope.
(a/n) Thank you for reading, please read and review! Side Note: for anyone that likes dark Erik, don't worry that side of his personality is still lurking in the shadows (a/n)
