Chapter I
The Gift of a Hand
Before you read any further, please take note that Sofiya Newton's description in this chapter will be slightly different from the previous one. It might even border on Mary Sue-ish. However, rest assured that this is my intention. Sofiya has no supernatural powers, special talents, or enchanting beauty. The first part of this chapter is told from Jacques Castellaire's point of view, which will differ from Jeanette's quite a bit. He has been grieving over the loss of his wife and, as of late, has seen her personal maid in a new light. He is very much in love with Sofiya at this point, and therefore it would make sense for him to see her as some goddess of unearthly radiance, and I've always felt that most people see the ones they love as being beautiful no matter what. Know, however, that while most Phantom stories focus mainly on this idea, that is not the cynosure of this story. Sure, it's a nice concept, and I think we should all strive to see the beauty in people, but it's been done a countless number of times, and most of you already know my views on tautology.
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Paris, France, 1879
"Really, Jacques, you needn't spend so much on me."
"Is it not to your liking, my dear?"
"Oh no," Sofiya hastened to assure him. "It's exquisite! And so large – I would hate to think of the price."
Jacques Castellaire stared down at his fiancée's (he used the term tentatively) left hand. There upon her ring finger was a gleaming band of gold adorned with one of the largest diamonds Jacques had been able to find. Admittedly the stone had cost him a small fortune, but seeing the ring environ Sofiya's delicate finger made things like cost seem trifle and pushed them to the back of Jacques' mind. Nearly everything became a bagatelle when he was with Sofiya. Her clothing, her jewels, and any other requirements – Jacques knew that, whatever it was, he would gladly pay for it if Sofiya only mentioned that bottle of perfume or that lovely hat she had seen on display the other day. She might have said "I found Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment to be a bit of an ennui," but Jacques would have only had ears for "Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment" and would have rushed out to purchase a copy of the novel.
Sofiya never refused any of his gifts, though she rarely asked for any of them. Still, even when she was a maid she had always seemed pleased whenever he presented her with this or that. But engagement rings, Jacques realized, were different from perfume and hats and books. By wearing an engagement ring a person was making an agreement, scheduling an appointment they could not fail to miss. Unlike wedding bands that bound two people to one another, an engagement ring, Jacques had always felt, merely tied one person to a promise. Were Sofiya to keep that divine ring on her pearly finger, she would thereby be promising him, Jacques, that she would one day give him her hand in marriage. But Sofiya had yet to make that vow, for she took the ring and gently placed in its box, securely wedging it between two black velvet cushions. Her eyes were fixated on the piece of jewelry as she placed it in his palm and quietly said, "You shouldn't have, Jacques."
This was not said in the playfully insincere way that is oftentimes used by those who truly adore a gift but wish to appear polite, nor was it the soft, awed tone of a person who is grateful beyond belief. No, Sofiya's voice was uncharacteristically icy and stern with just the smallest hint of disbelief. It was as if she was telling him, quite plainly, that he really should not have purchased that ring.
"Is…is there anything wrong, Sofiya, dear?" Jacques asked uncomfortably.
"Does this mean," she murmured, not meeting his eyes, "that…you are proposing to me?"
"That is what an engagement ring usually means, yes," he replied with somewhat forced warmth.
They sat there, silence enveloping them like an unwelcome fog. Sofiya stared at the diamond. Jacques stared at her, willing her magnificent gray eyes to meet his own dark brown ones.
As he watched Sofiya gaze downward in tacit debate, Jacques decided that it would be best if he left the quondam maid – at the moment, it would be wrong to think of her as anything else – to her thoughts. No matter how much the eagerness for an answer was feasting on his patience, Jacques knew that no good would come from badgering the girl. Instead he leaned back in his chair and partook in a quiet observation of his own.
Sofiya was, to say the least, a beautiful specimen to study. Certainly anyone with eyes could see that – Jacques had upon first meeting the girl, though, he could no help but think indignantly, that was not the reason she had been hired. Sofiya was qualified and dependable as it was; her comeliness was simply a pleasant addition.
His mind picked itself up and wandered away unnoticed as he watched the afternoon sunlight as it filtered through the gauze curtains and cast his indecisive maid in an enchanting aura. For a moment, her crown of hair appeared to be as golden as an angel's halo. Behind several wisps of that hair Jacques could see a fair, heart-shaped face that, at the moment, was utterly devoid of emotion. Beneath a pair of long, fluttering lashes was a pair of gray almonds that were her eyes.
His gaze lingered on her nose – small and upturned ever so slightly – for a time before at last drifting downward to his favorite feature: her lips. Jacques Castellar knew – and this was something he would admit to himself and only when he was certain that the words would not spill from his mouth – that he loved Sofiya Newton's lips above all. The rest of the girl was very pretty, indeed, but her lips outshone everything else. Like two rose petals, they were curved just right. The upper lip was remarkably small, making the lower one appear deceptively fuller, but together they formed a small moue that sulked in a most adorable fashion.
It reminded him of Marfa's mouth.
It shamed him to think that not even a year had followed his wife's death before his infatuation with Sofiya had began. How unlawful he was! His poor Marfa had been nothing but loyal to him, completely devoted until the end, and he chose to repay her by dallying with the maid? Neither Marfa, nor Sofiya, nor any other woman deserved a man such as he.
But with Sofiya came thoughts of Marfa, he reminded himself. He saw his wife when he looked at Sofiya – his precious, departed wife as well as a new one. He desired the little maid because he longed for Marfa so, for her maternalism, her lips…
Jacques had often fancied telling Sofiya about his feelings regarding her lips, but he had always dashed the notion when he realized how pathetically lovesick it sounded. Informing the maid – his dear wife's maid, no less! – that he took great pleasure in staring at her mouth was no way to win the young lady's heart. If he were to tell Sofiya how deep his fascination for a sole characteristic ran, then she would surely wash her hands of him. So Jacques kept his unexplainable love concealed within the darkest regions of his mind, swearing himself never to reveal it lest Sofiya think him mad.
He cleared his throat as both a distraction from his unlawful thoughts and a means of ridding himself of the inconvenient dam of mucus that seemed to have built up in a matter of seconds. Sofiya, to Jacques's mounting embarrassment, took it as a signal of his impatience and snapped her head up at once.
"Forgive me, I was swept up in my thoughts," she apologized hastily, sweeping a blonde lock behind her ear.
"Quite all right," assured Jacques gently.
"No," she said shortly, causing a shower of maroon skirts to rain to the floor as she rose from her seat. "It is anything but. It shouldn't take me that long to give you an answer, should it? Of course not," she said before Jacques could reply. "After all, your question was simple enough, therefore, its response should be equally facile; either a yes or a no, correct?"
"I suppo – ah, well…" Jacques coughed, bewildered by her diction and the situation itself, and lowered his eyes. He looked at his hands, which still clasped the ring box and was suddenly reminded of a clam encasing its pearl to protect it from harm.
"Sofiya," he began in an attempt to assuage the clearly distressed girl, but she quickly intervened.
"Jacques, please, do not think me unappreciative. The ring…it's lovely, and as for your proposal…I…I am flattered – honored, darling, it's only that –"
But whatever 'it' was exactly Jacques never knew, for at that moment their conversation was forestalled by a polite knocking at the parlor door.
"Yes?" he inquired, turning his head toward the noise.
A small figure stepped into the room.
"Eloise," Jacques greeted, smiling warmly at his eldest child and only daughter.
"Good afternoon, Father," Eloise returned, sinking into a curtsey. Her light blue eyes flickered to the young maid. "Mlle. Newton."
Sofiya gifted the child with the briefest of nods before turning back to Jacques and beseeching him to give her leave to go.
"So soon?" His thick eyebrows knit in confusion.
"Please," she entreated. "I have much to busy myself with."
"Sofiya, you know that, now, you are no more a servant in this house than my dear Eloise is."
She smiled modestly. "I merely meant that I have several things to tend to. We are going out this evening, yes?"
"Of course," Jacques assured her.
"Then I must ready myself at once."
"Dear, we aren't leaving for another three hours!"
"All the more reason to begin preparations now."
"Oh. Very well, then," Jacques allowed, albeit, reluctantly. "Be off with you."
Nodding her thanks and sparing not another moment, the girl began her retreat only to be called into abeyance, her porcelain hand frozen on the doorknob.
"Sofiya?" Jacques repeated, feeling deplorably hopefully. "I've merely noticed…my offer…I didn't receive an answer."
He chose not to acknowledge the look of puzzlement that graced Eloise's face, devoting his attention entirely to the woman who seemed so keen to make an exit.
"Jacques, I…" But her speech engine guttered and stalled, and it was only after Jacques slipped the ring box into his pocket did Sofiya's voice begin to work again.
"May I think about it…for a while?"
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"The blue one, I think, Jeanette. Thank you."
Sofiya Newton sat before a hansom vanity in her newly acquired boudoir carefully pinning her hair into place. She had taken to residing in the bedroom – so lovely with its lilac walls and mahogany paneling – on the orders of M. Castellaire. Though he had never given and indication of it, Sofiya often suspected that he had given her the comfortably furnished room as a token of his affection. If this was true, Sofiya knew that she would not mind in the least, for she, like most, enjoyed her comfort. She adored fine clothing and glittering jewels, though she herself would never purchase the trinkets unless she thought they could harbor some type of use.
What nettled Sofiya was that ring, that accursed, beautiful ring that had, in one fleeting instant, wreaked havoc upon her world, leaving it buried under miles of debris and triturated beyond recognition. Sofiya had known that, the moment she had set eyes on the diamond, that it would no longer be the same between her and Jacques. Their childish liaison would cease to exist, replaced instead with a far more dangerous form of intimacy.
Sofiya was no coquette, and even if she had been one, Jacques was such a charming man, she would have found difficulty in taking advantage of his hospitality. In truth, she found him to be quite companionable. Polite, generous, and trusting – he was the quintessential gentleman. What's more, he was handsome. Jacques had managed to avoid Time for the most part, escaping with only a few streaks of gray in his full, black hair and moustache and several creases around his eyes and mouth. Any woman would have eaten up the opportunity to make him her husband with voracious speed, and yet she, Sofiya, had fled at the sight of his engagement ring.
Did she fear marriage? No, the idea of wedlock did not upset her in the least; it was almost appealing, even. She did not care for the idea of dying alone, albeit, that was not to say that moments of solitude were unwelcome. But if it was not marriage that distressed her so, then what was it? Jacques?
At once Sofiya scolded herself for such foolishness.
Of course. There is nothing more terrifying than a kind and giving man.
Scowling at her reflection, Sofiya secured another lock.
Eloise, whether the child knew it or not, had excellent timing. Despite finding her to be more trouble than she was worth – a feeling Sofiya knew was mutual – Sofiya could not help but be grateful for Eloise's interruption. Knowing that Jacques was expecting an answer that she could not give and had been expecting said answer for several minutes, Sofiya had hastened for time, ransacking her brain for a solution to her problem when it had come knocking at the door.
Ashamed of using a child to escape a marriage proposal made by a man she obviously cared for caused Sofiya to jab a hairpin a little too forcefully at her scalp. She pursed her lips but directed her frustration toward her mirror rather than the instrument that had inflicted the pain.
"Take care, Mademoiselle," Jeanette said, though one could hardly consider it a reprimand when her voice barely rose above its normal alto level.
"Please, Jeanette, you needn't call me that," Sofiya insisted, watching the willowy, auburn-haired maid stride across the bedroom with a gown of royal blue fabric draped neatly across her arms.
"You are no longer a servant, but a guest in M. Castellaire's home," Jeanette stated mechanically, laying the dress on the bed. "It's my duty to treat you as such."
"Oh, very well," Sofiya muttered with a soft sigh of vexation. She stood and walked over to her bed where she gripped the ornate baseboard and looked over her white shoulders at Jeanette. Ever acquiescent, the maid wasted no time in lacing up Sofiya's corset.
"I don't recommend becoming too comfortable," Sofiya gasped each time a string was tugged, "with calling me 'Mademoiselle,' anyway, for I suspect I'll be 'Madame' soon enough."
It wasn't necessarily true, but, as is human nature, Sofiya felt the need to discuss her predicament with someone and thus vent her concerns and frustrations out on them. Perhaps they would be interested in her problem and offer even a small sliver of advice, though with Jeanette, whose curiosity was never piqued and whose only passion appeared to be housework, Sofiya doubted this. Needless to say, she was stunned when the maid gave a soft "Oh?" that only suggested the tiniest possible iota of intrigue. It wasn't much, Sofiya admitted. In a moment of desperation she might have taken an "Oh" of feigned interest for an "Oh" that begged her, however subtly, to continue. Either way, Sofiya rattled on, eager to unload her problem on someone else's shoulders.
"M. Castellaire has asked for my hand in marriage."
"I see," was all Jeanette had to say.
"I didn't say yes," Sofiya continued, stooping to pull on a pair of stockings now that her chest and waist were securely confined to a prison of fabric and whalebone. "But I didn't say no, either. Why, I didn't say anything at all! I asked him to give me time to think about it!"
"Hmm…" The maid busied herself by helping Sofiya don layer after layer of suffocating petticoats.
"I suppose you think me foolish," Sofiya murmured quietly, "for not accepting his offer at once."
"Madame left us no more than a year ago," Jeanette said, assisting the smaller woman with an unwieldy hoopskirt. "M. Castellaire's proposal…" She hesitated, causing Sofiya's eyebrows to rise with interest. "…is…unexpected, given the conditions. Therefore, your reluctance to answer is…understandable."
Sofiya nodded vaguely, her eyes growing dull with clouds of cogitation as she gazed off at some distant point that only she could see. Some part of her was aware of Jeanette instructing her to lift her arms, but, for the most part, Sofiya only had thoughts for Jacques.
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At age fourteen, throwing a temper tantrum was quite beyond a young lady, especially one as urbane as Eloise Castellaire was. For one like her, an outburst of any kind was out of the question. What would people have thought if they ever learned that charming Eloise had been so livid upon hearing about her father's marriage proposal that she had stormed into her bedroom and, in a most unladylike fashion, hurled one of her China dolls at the wall?
The result of this uncharacteristic abuse was a thin crack along the toy's white forehead and a missing little finger. Eloise picked the doll up from its disgraceful station on the floor, taking time to untangle its ringlets and smooth its rumpled pinafore before returning the doll to its rightful place: on the bed, settled cozily amongst a neatly arranged pile of pillows. She paused for a moment to absorb the image of the porcelain figure: dark curls and eyes – a complete contrast to her own pale blue orbs and colorless hair – a small retroussé nose and heart-shaped lips…
It took several seconds for Eloise to realize that the last two features belonged not only to her doll but to Mlle. Newton as well, the very person who had so infuriated Eloise that the girl had performed a terribly childish act. Aghast, she withdrew her hand so quickly the doll tipped over onto its side, its stiff body soundlessly making contact with the mattress. The figure stared at nothing, its eyes deep but sightless. Again Eloise found herself comparing her doll to her father's servant. Within seconds her blood threatened to over boil, so great was her rage.
The idea of her father remarrying – and to the hired help, no less! – was an insult to the family, but also more importantly, to her mother's name. It had been a year – no, less than ten months since Death had arrived to extinguish the feeble candle that was her mother's life and escort her soul to Heaven. Barely a month later, Sofiya Newton had been spotted alone with Eloise's father, a man who was in ostensible mourning.
Mourning, ha! Courting is much more befitting.
He certainly had been courting Mlle. Newton, though her elders had oft told Eloise that the little maid had been a wonderful companion during Jacques Castellaire's hour of need and that he simply wanted to repay her by giving all he thought she deserved.
He thinks she deserves to be his bride? her mind scoffed in outrage.
Upon seeing her enter the parlor, Eloise's father had been quick to whisk the piece of jewelry out of sight, but not before Eloise's line of vision had snagged on a circular, golden hook that offered a glittering diamond as bait. A second glance had not been necessary; one even as young as Eloise's little brother Bastien could identify an engagement ring.
The thought of her sibling only surfeited the flames of Eloise's fury. The boy had a meager four summers to count. A child so small needed a mother – a title that Eloise doubted Mlle. Newton could live up to. The maid barely qualified as an adult herself! How could she be expected to raise a family when her own juvenility was clearly extant?
Perhaps Father has gone mad…? Eloise did not want to hear such distressing things, even within the safe confines of her mind, but want proved an ill-crafted barrier when an army of thoughts were determined to carry out an invasion. And so, Eloise found herself pondering over the various ways her father may have been driven to insanity. The loss of her mother may have been too great a blow for him to handle. She toyed with the idea that her father might have been mad all along, and that he conspired with Mlle. Newton and formed several machinations to do away with Eloise's mother, each one more wicked than the last. But the notion was soon devoid of her father, leaving only Mlle. Newton, the servant, the temptress, the murderess…
Has she bewitched him? Eloise ventured wildly, but she quickly dashed the thought, for Mlle. Newton was much too empty-headed to delve into a sinful practice of any kind.
Eloise eyed the disheveled doll beside her, idly fingering the pale blue ribbon in its hair. Mlle. Newton and the toy truly were akin to one another. Both were small and delicate. Neither questioned their orders for neither had a mind to do so, though that was not what one would consider a negative trait. The way the maid spoke in that high, sweet voice… if dolls were capable of speech, Eloise felt certain that they would sound like Mlle. Newton. What's more, the doll had once been a pretty little plaything for Eloise, and now the maid was one for Eloise's father.
He wanted a toy, the girl determined, something that would sit quietly and be pleasing to the eye whenever company stopped by; he wanted a sort of dummy that would replace her mother. Well, that was a part Mlle. Newton could play splendidly.
However, Eloise remembered, there was one attractive aspect about dolls: In most cases, children outgrew them.
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Again, do not expect this to be updated regularly. The fact that I am actually on schedule with this chapter surprises me greatly. Know that, however, updates will occur on Sundays…just not every Sunday. Also, I recently (as in, this past Wednesday) had the pleasure of seeing the ALW musical, as well as the wonderfully talented Gary Mauer as the Phantom. I'm still in awe, needless to say. And anyone who thinks that Erik is really kind and gentle and that Raoul would abuse Christine…Mauer!Phantom would completely change your opinions. He chased Christine (Marie Danvers) around, grabbed her, shook her, screamed at her, and came close to backhanding her a few times. Yet his love for her was still undeniable and his heart was obviously shattered in the end, which goes to show you what an amazing actor Gary Mauer is. :) I am telling you guys this because now I do not feel nearly as uncomfortable about my characterization of Erik, who will, I assure you, make an appearance in the next installment.
Notes"It's exquisite! And so large…" - having just now realized what this line could imply, know that a sexual innuendo was not my original intent, but you guys can feel free to think them, if you wish.
Crime and Punishment - I do not own the novel; all credit goes to Fyodor Dostoevsky. That said, while I do not despise the book, it is not one of my favorites. However, unlike Sofiya – or Jacques's interpretation of her, I should say--I didn't find the book to be boring. I just thought that Raskolnikov needed to die (or at the very least go away and never come back) after the first three pages. Aside from him, I very much enjoyed the story.
…as golden as an angel's halo - as much as I love Jacques, I am indescribably glad that I won't be writing from his POV very often. Honestly, though, if you think about it, the poor guy's in serious mourning over the loss of his wife and is in desperate need of a replacement companion. Therefore he's only focusing on a Sofiya's good qualities and, obviously, exaggerating them to sort of give himself an excuse as to why he likes her so much.
Like two rose petals… - Jacques...you're killing me, dearest, you really are.
A Simple Request from the Author
I would not like to have to take this story down and rewrite it again. Therefore, I am asking all of my readers to alert me at once if anything is historically inaccurate, anyone is out of character, words are improperly spelled, grammar isn't up to par, or if anything seems Mary-Sue-is, even in the slightest. Remember kids, praise may be nice and make the author feel good about him or herself, but constructive criticism is more helpful in the long run. Politeness is preferred, though you may be harsh if you like – sometimes a little severity is the only way to get the message across. But also take note that by merely writing "Dear God, you suck big time. You suck. Your characters suck. Your story sucks. My eyes are bleeding from how much it sucks. Don't write anymore, I beg you" you aren't helping me anymore than people who say "OMG! U rool i wanna marree u!11 erik n sofiya r teh ulteemate OTP!1one1!" are. So please, help me out, but be kind about it if you can.