Disclaimer: Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber are the creators of The Phantom of the Opera. My characters are based on the 2004 film. All new characters are mine, as is the plot.
A/N: In Chapter Seven, Marie finds out something very important about Erik's past. Please read and review; my thanks to those who already have commented on No One But Her.
NO ONE BUT HER
Chapter Eight—The Life You Knew Before
"Marie, why did you send for me? What is going on?" Erik paced in front of the fireplace in the library, a scowl darkening his face. "Does it have anything to do with the attack on Christine?"
Her heart thudding against her ribs, Marie sat on the loveseat near the fireplace and patted the space next to her. "Actually, there is someone that I would like you to meet." At that moment a knock sounded on the door and she bade them enter.
"Please come in. Erik, this is Madame Germont, Christine's cook. Madame, I think you have already made Erik's acquaintance, some years ago, I understand."
Walking up to him, her eyes awash in tears as she took the hand he extended to her when he stood, she stared up at him intently. The tears overflowed and ran down her cheeks. "Oh, yes," she said quietly but without hesitation, "this is the son of Eduoard Villiers, Comte de Charlesbourg, and his wife, Lorraine. I would know him anywhere."
Feeling as though he had been struck in the chest with a club, Erik fell back onto the loveseat, his mouth working but no sound emerging. Finally he swallowed and found his tongue. "You are mistaken, madame. I was—"
"Raised by gypsies; yes, I know. The woman who took you when your father—her name was—"
"Lianna," said Erik in a stunned whisper. "She died when I was— three or four, I'm not certain." He looked at Marie, who was quietly dabbing her eyes. "My memories of her are so fleeting, I barely have any at all. She did love me, of that I am certain. After she died, the band we were living with . . . sold me to the carnival, where we met." He took a deep, shuddering breath, his nerves feeling as though they would burst through his skin at any moment.
"Why?" His eyes bore into Marie, and she shrank back from him before she realized what she had done. "Why dig all this up now? Why, Marie?" He rose and went to stand in front of the fireplace, staring at the ashes as if he expected to find the answers lying there.
"Your Lordship?"
It took a moment to realize that Madame Germont was speaking to him. He turned and smiled at her as pleasantly as he could. "Yes, madame?"
"I—I just wanted to say—" She fumbled for her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. "I—I just wanted to say that I'm sorry I didn't do more to help you when you were a babe."
Patting her hand, Erik smiled gently. "I'm sure you did all you could, madame. Thank you."
After the plump little cook had closed the door behind her, he looked at Marie. "Why?" he demanded again in a furious whisper.
"I heard one of the maids gossiping and decided to go straight to the source—"
He cut her off with a glare. "That's not what I meant—why pursue it? Why not just ignore it as gossip?"
Taking a deep breath, she tried to justify her actions. "You're an aristocrat, Erik. I've felt it, known it, from almost the first moment we met."
"Leave it alone, Marie." His voice flat, he went toward the door. "If they're alive, I don't want to know. Obviously they cared nothing for me. If they're dead," he shrugged, "so be it. I—don't—want—to—know." He strode to the door and yanked it open, not bothering to close it behind him.
Sighing, Marie listened to his angry footsteps fade. "It's too late for that."
"A package for Madame Giry, madame." One of the maids bobbed a curtsey and gave the heavy envelope to Christine.
Seeing that the return address was a firm of solicitors, she frowned. "Why would they deliver it here?" She thanked the maid and took the package with her. She would make sure Marie received it when she went to visit that afternoon.
"This was delivered to the estate, but it's addressed to you." Christine laid the thick envelope on Marie's desk in her office at the ballet school she'd started after the disaster four years ago.
Walking to the large window that overlooked one of the studios, Christine smiled as she watched Meg teaching a class of beginners, tiny sprites in tights and tutus.
"Do you ever miss it?" Marie spoke quietly from just behind her.
They laughed softly together as one of the smallest girls slipped and landed on her bottom. Meg was at her side immediately, brushing away a tear, coaxing a smile from the would-be ballerina. Christine sighed. "Do I miss it? Yes and no. I assumed a new role when Raoul and I married and that really left me very little time to miss the opera house. Certainly not after Stephen was born."
Staring blindly at the view before her, she sighed again. "And now that Raoul is gone, and Stephen is getting into everything, and with Annaliese to care for, too . . ." She leaned against Marie as the older woman slid an arm around her. "Yes," she whispered, "sometimes at night . . . I hear Erik singing to me, in my head, just as he used to years ago. And . . . I've missed that, although I know I shouldn't."
"Bah! Who is to say what you should or shouldn't?" Marie gave her a little shake. "To be perfectly honest, chère, I think you and he will always have that connection." Gently she added, "He loves you so much, Christine. And whether or not anything ever comes of it . . ." She gave a shrug. "Perhaps it is not for us to say." Pressing a kiss to Christine's forehead, she said, "Now, away with you. I have work to do, boring work from which you can distract me all too easily, but which must be done today."
She waited for several minutes after Christine had gone then locked her office door and went to her desk. The packet lay where the younger woman had left it, and for a long time Marie just stared at it. Finally she tore away the outer wrapping, revealing a thick sheaf of papers. "Mon Dieu, but he is thorough," she murmured.
There was a copy of marriage documents for Eduoard and Lorraine, a copy of a baptismal certificate for Erik Gerard Villiers, and a paper dated a few months later, signed by a physician, stating that the baby had died from "internal injuries."
A letter from the solicitor himself stated that he'd discovered that Eduoard and Lorraine had been killed in a carriage accident in the south of France approximately five years after Erik's birth, and the couple had had no other children. A distant cousin had been the only relative to be located at the time and he had taken over the business holdings but had refused the title.
Also included were several tintype photographs, one of them a wedding portrait, and individual portraits of Eduoard and Lorraine. These Marie studied closely for several minutes. "Madame Germont was right," she said, smiling to herself, "Erik is the image of his father. But," she picked up the photograph of his mother, "he has his mother's smile." After a moment she laid the tintype aside and rose from her desk, going to stand in front of the window and stare at the now-empty dance studio below her. "And how in God's name do I tell him that?"
Someone knocked on her office door, startling her. She gave no thought to the things on her desk as she unlocked and opened the door. Christine stood there, shaking her head.
"Some days I think I would lose my head, if it weren't fastened to my shoulders," she said laughingly. "One reason I came down here, other than to deliver your package, was to invite you to bring all the students out to the estate for the day on Saturday. We'll have a picnic and they can play and perhaps run off a little excess energy." She glanced at the desk and saw the photographs, gasping as she recognized Erik—or so she thought. "Wherever did you get a photograph of Erik?" Picking it up, she looked at it carefully then frowned. "This isn't Erik—and yet it looks just like him. What's going on, Marie?"
Erik jerked the door open and scowled. "What do you want?"
In reflex Marie took a step back. "That's not a very hospitable way to greet your guests," she said reprovingly.
"Even when the guests are interrupting? I'm working on a new composition." He closed the door behind her with a little more force than necessary and she flinched. "I'm sorry, Marie," he told her with a sigh. "But this piece is at its critical point and I really don't want to be disturbed."
"I apologize, chèr, but this really can't wait until a better time." There will never be a 'better' time for this, and I have no doubt that it will do more than 'disturb' you, she thought. Looking at him questioningly, she waited.
He blew out a deep breath, feeling his concentration fly right out the window. "All right," he said. "Let's go into the kitchen."
Once they were seated at the table, Marie took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I need you to promise me that you will not interrupt me, but will let me finish completely before you say anything."
Arching an eyebrow at her, he nodded once, and she unwrapped the small bundle she'd brought with her. Inside it were three tintype photographs and several sheets of paper. "I have presumed to interfere in your life yet again, mon chèr," she said quietly, "and I can only hope that someday you will be able to forgive me. That day, when Madame Germont told you who you were, I know you said you wanted to know nothing more of your parents."
Erik opened his mouth and she held up her hand. "You promised not to interrupt." Clenching his teeth he glared at her again and she smiled slightly. "I had already asked M. Gaspard, the solicitor, to investigate and see what information there was to be found about your parents."
Gesturing to the photos and sheets of paper, she continued, "This is what he was able to discover about them." She picked up the pictures one by one and studied each for a short time, then laid them back on the table.
The anger and resentment practically radiated from him in waves. "Dammit, Marie, I told you to leave it alone. Why didn't you listen to me?"