Chapter Five
He took her arm as they walked along her favorite path to the ancient olive grove. There was only the thinnest curve of the moon visible in the night sky, but the stars were bright enough to light the way for them.
Beyond the grove, they could look down on the old villa and…far beyond, the fire-tipped shadow of Mount Etna.
The sweet smell of almond blossoms rose from the gardens below them as they found a seat beneath the twisted limbs of a venerable olive tree.
She let her head rest on his shoulder and she felt his lips brush against her hair as the distant volcano flared against the night sky.
For a long time, they sat together in silence…then, without a word or warning, he was pushing her down onto the soft earth.
She was startled at first. It was not like him…not out here in the grove.
The heat of his lips grazed her neck as he tugged open the bodice of her dress and she moaned in anticipation as he caressed her breasts…his palms engulfing them.
He pushed apart her legs and she reached down to draw up her skirts for him, crying out as her body welcomed his.
Strange that the eyes that met hers were not gray, but green darkened with passion.
But it did not matter now as she wound her arms around his shoulders, grasping and twisting the cloth of his shirt as she shivered with pleasure.
This is not Theo…this is not my husband…
It was only then that she reached up and felt the smooth leather mask that concealed his face.
Helene opened her eyes slowly, still trembling.
The comforter has fallen to the floor. Her nightdress was twisted around her torso and drawn up above her waist.
She hurriedly pulled her gown straight, flushing as she realized her fingertips were damp.
She wrapped herself in the light blue quilt and, resting her head on her arms, began to cry.
For the first time since her husband's funeral, she let herself cry.
Helene sat alone in the green warmth of the conservatory. The perfume of the orange blossoms did nothing to ease her tension.
They reminded her of home…and of that dream.
"My sweetness," he'd whispered against her skin as he took her over and over again…for the dream had returned each evening for a fortnight.
It was only a few moments…he tried to kill me…I don't even know his name…
It was not always the olive grove, though…sometimes it was the cool, quiet bedroom of the villa. Once it was a lemon orchard on the lower slopes of Etna…another time it was in plush and gilt of a theatre box.
As the dreams became more vivid…more passionate…the bruises on her arms faded away.
"Madame? A letter has come."
She looked up to see the butler with an envelope in his hands.
"I thought it best to give it to you directly, Madame, since Monsieur le Comte is not at home."
She took the envelope from him. It was filthy and wrinkled, the address was barely legible. But the handwriting was familiar.
She hurried up to her room and found her little mother-of-pearl letter opener. She slit the envelope open and shook out the note.
To my dear parents,
I write this in haste from a little train station north of Gothenburg. I do not want you to worry for me.
I was not harmed when the chandelier crashed into the stage of the opera house. The things which took place after are not easily explain in a letter. Someday, I will tell you.
I have married Christine Daae. I know you had your misgivings about such a match, However, I love her and it is for her sake that I cannot yet tell you where we are going.
I assure this separation from you is temporary and that we will return as soon as possible.
Give my best to Phillippe and Helene.
Your loving son,
Raoul de Chagny
She looked at the date…it had been written three weeks after the tragic fire at the Opera House.
The letter must have been lost for months…
She rang for her maid.
When the woman came, she handed her the letter.
"Jeannette, give this to Monsieur le Comte the moment he returns home. Without delay. Now, fetch my cloak."
Ten minutes later, her carriage was brought to the door.
"To the Opera Populaire," she ordered the driver as he helped her into the vehicle.