Disclaimer: Okay, this disclaimer is for both Chapters 12 and 13, because I'm not going to start off the next chapter with anything. Nope, not even an Author's Note. That's right, me, Clara, Queen of the ridiculously long A/N, is NOT going to have one next chapter (well not at the beginning at least… hehe). The next chapter is THAT BIG. Anticipate it. I know I let you all down with Chapter 7, but I think I made up for that with Chapter 8, and besides, this is already written, so I can freely say: Anticipate it. Stay up late nights wondering what it entails. Get nervous about when I will post it online. Write a review about how much you anticipate it. Or, you know, about how much you love the story, or about the farts your little brother always lands right as you're about to eat dinner. Maybe not about the last one. ANY WAY. Disclaimer. I do not own any of the characters who appear in the following two chapters, including (but not limited to) Christine, Erik, Raoul, Nadir and Darius. I do own Wesley Pryce and Winifred Evans, though their names (and strikingly similar counterparts) are owned by Joss Whedon and JK Rowling (for the last name Evans, which I knowingly stole from our beloved Lily). I own the Countess, and as she has no name besides her title, I own all of her. I do not own Paris. I do not own England. I do not own a pony (but I would like one very much). I think that just about covers everything, no?
A/N: I think my disclaimer had a lot of A/N in it this chapter… Whatever. I hope you enjoy this chapter, I had a lot of fun writing it. It's obviously what the last two chapters have been building up to… I've written so much Wesley/Winifred stuff that you guys are probably wondering if this is a Phantom story still! But, oh, believe me, it is. Sub-plots. I love them. It's obviously in the foreground in this chapter, but still considered a sub-plot overall. And when one sub-plot is completed… another one begins! (I had to re-read that sentence a few times to make sure there was no hint there…but in writing this parenthetical comment I'm actually hinting to a hint, aren't I? …The hint is spaghetti. With meatballs and red sauce and lots and lots of grated cheese on top.) Anyway, I love Wes and Fred—Wes and "Winnie" in Holy Darkness, because we already have a Fred (Garland) and, excluding Once Upon A Mattress, I don't think many girls went by the nickname of Fred back then. And Winifred's just so FORMAL. Christine can call her that; to Wes and Fred, she's Winnie. No, not The Wonder Years Winnie, her own kind of Winnie. I know this A/N is long, but I have to make up for not having one next chapter! You'll see why… I want to start it out a certain way… And if anyone wants to guess what happens, PLEASE don't do it in the review (not that anyone reviews…yes, I'm bitter. Sue me. I said PLEASE last chapter! I BEGGED!). I don't want anyone who guesses it to ruin it for anyone who hasn't. Email me if you want to guess. I guess I've written long enough beginning notes, eh? Well, I hope you enjoy this chapter a lot, it's very happy. It made me very happy writing it. And please review (last ditch effort). You still have my love and appreciation for reading if you don't, but imagine how much GREATER that love and appreciation is when I know WHO is reading because you've signed a little review! Oh and I rushed to get this out before Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince (WHAHOOOO!), so 13 won't come out until I'm done with that and talked about it as much as my brain can handle. Two weeks maybe? I mean, most of 13 is written…Anyway. On with TWELVE!
Chapter Twelve: Why Do You Doubt My Power?
Winifred had not been told that she was going to Paris. She had only been told that, due to her mistress's pregnancy, the couple were not continuing on their honeymoon and returning directly home. She assumed, by her new employers' accents and demeanors, that she was most likely going to France (unless by some chance they were on exile for some dastardly crime done all in the name of love and now were migrating seasonally from country to country, never staying in the same place long… Please forgive her. She used to have an active imagination. Every now and then it would catch up with her). Even with the possibility (or certainty) of going to France, there was no certainty that she would be anywhere near Paris, anywhere near… She would not let herself hope. She had given that up a long time ago, and it was only the greatest fool who resurrects lost hope without a miracle.
Her new mistress was obviously very inexperienced at having a personal handmaid. She insisted that Winifred call her Christine (though she knew she never would) and had introduced her husband only as Raoul, not as Mr. Daae. She looked at Winifred oddly too, like she was waiting for her to do something. Nothing bad, just something…surprising. Miss Daae seemed as if she felt indebted to Winifred; she inquired after her comfort consistently and went out of her way to make her feel at home. She even requested that Winifred site with her and her husband inside their carriage on the way to the boat, not next to the coachman as her station entailed. She couldn't remember the last time she had sat with her mistress inside a carriage… That was a lie. She remembered exactly when, because it became the last day that she ever took happiness for granted.
The Countess, the former Countess, God rest her soul, hated to be early for anything. She believed that her position in life dictated that she be the last to arrive and the first to leave, with the grandest entrances and exits. No, she made it a point to never be early for anything, and the only thing she showed up on time for was the theater, for it was abysmally rude to arrive after the curtain rose, as she would loudly tell anyone in violation. When she spent summers in London, she only ever left France the day after her servants were told to expect her in England. And so it came to no one's surprise one year when her son had to return to London a week early and the Countess refused to leave with him. She sent all of her things ahead with him, naturally, so that she wouldn't have to wait while they were being unpacked upon her arrival, and then she complained incessantly in the following week about how she had none of her possessions left in Paris anymore. When the time came to leave (promptly the day after they were expected), the Countess made the grand gesture of inviting Winifred to accompany her inside the coach, as her son and his young wife were not there to fill up the seats. Of course, Winifred immediately accepted.
They were running late that year, late even for the Countess. Actually, Winifred was stalling. Her fiancée had not shown up yet. They had said their long good-byes the night before, but he always came to see her off. Wesley was not like the Countess, he had never been late in his life; but he had recently been promoted to the Vicomte's personal manservant, and therefore head of the household staff, and his days were no longer as open as they used to be.
As Winifred re-strapped the trunks to the back of the coach for the seventh time, the Countess leaned out of the carriage. "Winifred!" she yodeled. "What are you doing? You're tarrying, girl."
"I'm almost finished," she called back. She couldn't linger any longer and risk the Countess's disapproval, especially since she was allowing her to ride with her. She knew it was petty to get angry at Wesley for being late, especially after he had given up his entire evening the night before, but those thoughts couldn't prevent her eyes from filling with tears. How could he miss her? He had seen her off before every trip, even when they were children, even when she was only accompanying the Countess for a fortnight. And now they were going to be apart for four months—a quarter of a year! Her heart was as heavy as her steps as she climbed into the carriage.
"Winnie!" The call came from just outside the gates and Winifred turned just in time to see Wesley pass through them, riding a brown palomino as if he was Robin Hood. Winifred laughed; her fiancée was many things, but Robin Hood he was not. Robin Hood would have at least changed out of his butler's suit before coming to rescue Maid Marion! "Good Lord," the Countess mumbled, but Winifred just laughed again and ran off. Wesley dismounted his horse quickly in a manner that would embarrass any fairy tale hero, and landed just as she jumped into his arms. They didn't cry; tears were for last night; now they only laughed and kissed.
"I'm sorry," he said breathlessly. "Two groomsmen were in a fight… One punched the other because he stole his horse's apple… I have officially decided that I loathe fifteen year olds."
"It doesn't matter," she dismissed and kissed him again. When they parted, Wesley smiled at her, his breath calmer. He pushed some of her tousled brown waves out of her face.
"What am I going to do without you for four months?" he asked softly.
"Summers always pass quickly."
"Summers with you do," he said. "This summer will last forever." He kissed her again, but interrupted it with his own laughter. "The Countess is staring," he whispered.
"Let her stare. She can't do anything."
"Winifred!" came the booming call from the coach.
"She can do that," Wesley laughed.
"I have to go," Winifred sighed. She smiled at him, hoping that her eyes told him everything she didn't have time to say. They kissed again, quickly, but as meaningful as they could make it. She pulled away and after one last smile, turned and ran back to the carriage.
"I love you!" Wesley shouted to her.
"I love you!" She jumped into the carriage and, as the coachman drove off, stuck her head out and blew him a kiss. Winifred continued waving until he had completely disappeared from view, ignoring the Countess's demands for her to sit back down, and she knew that he was watching her vanish as well.
The Countess fell ill as soon as they had arrived in London, and the physician gave her a fortnight to live. Apparently she couldn't even be on time for God, for the Countess died exactly a month later. Winifred wrote to Wesley of the sorrowful news, but at that time, she still intended to return to Paris at the end of the summer. But soon after, the Countess's son, who now had claimed the title of Count, announced to the household staff that they would not leave London. His wife was with child, he told them all, and he wished for his child to be raised in the country of his heritage. Winifred took the news numbly. She wrote Wesley another letter explaining the change in her situation, but still she didn't feel as if it were happening. His response was equally as calm, as if he was trying to sooth her, and in it he wrote that the Vicomte would gladly hire her. As much as she would love that, she was far too young and it was much too soon after the Countess's death for her to break the vow of loyalty she had once given her departed mistress. She had promised to take care of her and her own, and now that her daughter-in-law was pregnant… She wrote Wesley to refuse, still feeling detached and apathetic.
She lived in this state of denial until Wesley's next reply came. This letter was full of a surprising amount of anger and despair, and more passionate words than she had ever seen him write. But her resolve was solid. She never wept for loss of him, not even when, two years later, he wrote that their correspondence must end. She could not leave her mistress (who was once again with child), and he could not leave his master, who was as good as family to him. Their epistolary communication did nothing, he thought, but increase their suffering. She heard no more news from him after that, only a short note on each birthday, but she saw much more of Frederick, his cousin, in the three years since then. And through him, she could keep Wesley in her life, however distantly.
But now she was not so young and not as loyal to a family whose wealth had become so plenty that they valued their quantity of servants over the quality of the ones who had served them best. It had been time for Winifred to move on for awhile, and that is why she accepted Miss Daae's proposal so quickly. Se needed to stop holding on to the past simply because she knew nothing else and accept that she would forever be without Wesley. He would have accepted that long ago, she thought. Perhaps he had even married someone else. Even though her dreams had been smashed the day that the Countess died, she had always lived in her head, whereas Wesley never had. He lived in such high spirits for each coming day, full of energy and vivacity. It was much easier to crush a dream than kill as soul.
"Almost home," Miss Daae said, breaking through Winifred's reverie. She smiled back at her new mistress and then focused her attention once more out the passing scenery. They weren't in Paris, just outside of it, but yet their surroundings seemed vaguely familiar. Odd. The Countess's house was in the heart of Paris, and Winifred had never really left the city, except to visit Wesley, who lived just outside…
Winifred's heart began to flutter, but she refused to let herself hope, even as she asked, "Excuse me, madame. Do you happen to know the Vicomte de Chagny or his family?"
Monsieur Daae looked back at her incredulously and began to laugh. His wife looked very confused for a moment before her eyes enlarged and she clamped her hand over her mouth, also laughing. Winifred did not see what was so funny.
"Christine, my darling, what is the meaning of this question?" he asked, placing a hand on his wife's dark curls.
"Forgive me Raoul, Winifred," Miss Daae said, her laughter slowing and her face shining with pink embarrassment. "I was so nervous when I went to meet you, that I gave my maiden name out of instinct. I guess I completely forgot to correct that mistake!"
Her husband laughed again and kissed her forehead. "You have to love her!" he said to Winifred, and then extended his hand towards her. "Please allow me to introduce myself to you properly. My name is Raoul de Chagny, and this is my wife, the Vicomtess de Chagny, who has not been a Daae for quite some time and would do well to remember that fact from now on." Winifred shook his hand without saying a word, her mouth slightly open in awe. Her mind, usually so active one might even call it overactive, seemed to have stopped working completely. As he released her hand, the carriage halted to a stop outside of a grand house that Winifred was very familiar with. The two Chagnys joyously hurried out of the carriage, but Winifred couldn't move; she was too shocked. Her mind still wouldn't work properly; she could think no longer than to wonder if her heart was beating. Her mistress stuck her head back in the carriage and excitedly pulled Winifred outside. But she didn't want to leave the coach, she wanted to stay, stay inside until her brain started working again.
She stumbled out behind her mistress, her head down, urging herself to think, think! But she was still numb, as she had been for years—
She heard his voice before she saw him. "Welcome back, monsieur, madame. How was your trip?" She must be imagining this…she had imagined it so many times before. She couldn't look up, not if her eyes would prove that she was losing her senses entirely. She closed her eyes, praying that her hallucinations would stop.
"Wonderful," she heard the Vicomte say. "We even saw it fit to bring you back a present—a little addition to your staff." She was going to faint, she was shaking…
"Winifred?" She opened her eyes. And there he was, standing on the top step before the majestic house, just as she remembered him. Her Wesley. She had to be dreaming; any moment she would wake up and find herself still in London, angry at herself for having these foolish and impossible visions.
But then he was embracing her, holding her so tightly that it hurt. Dreams didn't hurt. And she could smell him… She had forgotten his scent. She couldn't be dreaming!
He pulled away slightly and she found herself staring into his eyes, his beautiful dark blue eyes, the color that the sky turns to warn you that it's about to rain. And it was raining; well, no, the sun was shining, but it was raining in his eyes. He was crying. And as she whispered his name to confirm he was real, she believed, and she let herself weep as she hadn't in five years. Even his ardent kisses could not stop her tears from falling. This was a happiness she never could have imagined. She wanted to praise God, thank her new mistress for bringing her here, tell Wesley that she had never stopped loving him, even though she had given up hope… But she just closed her eyes over the torrent of tears and kissed him back as passionately as she could. There was a time for words, a time for thoughts, but now was just a time to live in the present, and she didn't want to miss this moment for anything in the world.
Christine was staring at them unabashedly. What was going on? Without a single word, Wesley had embraced her new maid, and now they were kissing and crying like lovers reunited after a long separation. …And then the words of a poem, stored away but not forgotten, drifted across her mind. "And so they thoughts when thou art gone," she recited quietly, "love itself shall slumber on."
She will do very nicely in your employ, he had said. Promise me not to forget.
Erik. Of course. She should have known immediately. Only he was audacious enough to play God and orchestrate life like an opera. It seems he had power over more than just mind and matter, but over people as well, strategically moving them all like pawns on a chessboard… But what was he trying to do? Hearts were not made of wood; they could be easily broken and even the most skilled chess player had to forfeit some of his pieces. Christine began to wonder who had to suffer for Erik to make this reunion happen, but her thoughts were interrupted as Wesley tilted back his head and laughed. It was a sound like she had never heard before. His laughter filled the air around him like a prayer, laden with unrestrained joy that Christine somehow connected to the Prodigal Son, welcomed home without hesitation. His laughter was brief—he was already kissing Winifred again—but it echoed through Christine's body for much longer.
There was no need to question Erik's motives; she knew he didn't have any, really. He had done something good and selfless for Wesley, who had done something good and selfless for Christine and her husband. If this was how he saw the world, she could follow him anywhere.
"Do you think they know each other?" Raoul asked, smiling. She smiled back, and turned away from the lovers, bringing Raoul with her towards the house.
"Come," she said to him softly, "let us leave them alone. I'm anxious to see how well our bedroom was restored."
"Strange coincidence, isn't it?" he asked with his eyebrow raised as he guided her up the stairs.
"If you think I had anything to do with this," she replied steadily, "I must tell you that I am just as surprised as you are."
"Just checking," he said, kissing her forehead. He opened their front door and they were greeted with applause from their household staff. They both beamed, finally back home. They had forgotten how much they loved this house, and now they were both looking at it through new eyes, imagining how it would be with a child running through its halls.
Later that night, Wesley came to see her as she was dressing for dinner, continuing their pattern of breaking the rules between servant and mistress. If anyone should find out that her husband's manservant was speaking privately with her in her dressing room, it would create a great scandal in the house and probably Paris, seeing as how well known their family was. But neither thought of this; they just knew they needed to speak with each other, and this was one of the few times when they were guaranteed not to be interrupted.
Christine was already dressed when he knocked and she admitted him at once. Wesley came and knelt before her at her vanity in a deep genuflection. He seemed different to Christine; he was glowing with euphoria, and she had never noticed how charmingly handsome his features were before. Whereas he was usually so serious and collected, tonight he couldn't stop smiling. And she grinned right alongside him, mirroring his own joy and making it her own.
"Madame," he said as soon as he could manage to form his mouth in any other shape besides a smile, "I cannot express to you how grateful I am for what you have done for me, for Winifred."
"I would gladly accept your thanks, if it were mine to take," she replied. "But it isn't. I knew nothing of your relationship with Winifred, nor nothing of her at all." He looked up at her, slight confusion glimpsing through his beaming face. Christine took his hands into her lap, as he once did the night of the fire. "The last time I saw Erik, you remember the night—" (he nodded) "—he told me that when I was in London, I should find a photographer named Frederick Garland and enlist him to help me hire a woman named Winifred Evans." Wesley laughed, not as heartily as he had before, but it held the same kind of joy. It seemed that it would become a permanent fixture in his personality.
"Erik…" he said. "I should be surprised. I told him about her, and about Fred, he's my cousin."
"He was a very delightful man. And helpful."
"Yes… He looked after Winnie—I'm sorry—Winifred for me when…circumstances kept us apart. He likes to play the detective, my cousin. Actually, he's very good. Winifred told me that he was involved, how he insisted that she go with you without questions… I have to believe that he spoke with Erik at some point."
Christine thought back to her meeting with the photographer, although it seemed like a lifetime ago, the day that she found out she was pregnant. "I did mention Erik, not by name, but it might have been just enough for him to work it out, to find him."
"Leave it to Fred to find a man as slippery as a ghost without much of an effort…" Wesley chuckled. "I know where the man lives and yet I can't seem to find him anywhere."
"What?" Christine asked, surprised.
"I've tried to contact him several times since you went away, but he hasn't responded to any of my letters, and when I was there two days ago, they were still lying untouched. But never mind," he said standing, the grin still plastered on his face, "now that I know what he has done for me, Erik himself could not stop me from finding him." He bent down and kissed her on her cheek. "Thank you, madame, you have made me happier than you will ever know."
"It wasn't me," she replied with a blush, releasing his hands. "It was all Erik's doing."
"Yes. It seems that we are merely his pawns, aren't we?"
Christine laughed. "I had the same thought earlier!"
"Well, if this is how he plays the game, I am happy to be one." He bowed quickly and then hurried form her room, undoubtedly anxious to share his findings with his beloved. Christine watched him go, about to break out into another smile, when she suddenly caught herself. She was happy not because Wesley was, but because she was proud of Erik. He had done something wonderful. The love she had been tempering so well rose to the back of her throat. This would not do. He wanted nothing to do with her, and furthermore, she was pregnant with another man's baby. Another man, his enemy, her husband, Raoul, whom she loved and who loved her.
She hoped Wesley never found him. If he did, she knew that she could not resist going to see him herself, to speak to him about what he did. And these feelings would never stop, and then he would see that she was pregnant, and it would only hurt him more, and hurt herself, and no good could come of it! She was rambling, she had to stop him… What could she do?
She didn't know where Erik could be if not in his house, and so she did the only other thing she could think of. She pulled out ink and paper and wrote a quick letter to Frederick Garland in London, begging him not to tell his cousin anything about Erik that he might have found out. She would see that the letter was mailed personally as soon as dinner was over. And she would make sure that, by whatever means, Wesley's letter to Frederick would be sent out much later than hers.
Christine got her wish. Five months later, Wesley still hadn't been able to find Erik, and had given up hope at ever finding him. All he could find was more questions, more points in the wrong directions. And Christine, her baby mere weeks from being born, was appeased. He had disappeared; she had not. She could now forget him without guilt. Or at least attempt to…
