Chapter Twenty Three

A thin strip of light poured through a gap in the curtains covering Isabel's window, hitting her directly in the eye. Groaning, she turned over, wrapping her blankets around herself tighter. It occurred to her, through the thick fog of sleep, that she had overslept, but she wasn't prepared to sacrifice the comfort of her bed just yet. The feeling of the soft sheets against her skin was too delicious to relinquish, and she sighed contently into her pillow.

Sleep was claiming her once more when a loud bang sounded behind her. She jerked her head up and quickly yanked her blankets around her.

"Daniel," she breathed, irritated at the intrusion. Her husband stood at the room's entrance, one hand still on the doorknob. He looked rather embarrassed to find her in bed and still in her shift, but an annoyed expression flickering across his face indicated his quick recovery.

"It's after seven, Bella. Surely Mr. Bertrand will not be pleased if you shirk."

Isabel had thrown the pillow at Daniel before she even realized what she was doing. As soon as it hit him square on the head, he stumbled backwards and she clapped a hand to her mouth in shock.

"Oh, Daniel! Are you alright?"

Her husband stared at the offending pillow, now lying innocently on the floor, with a sort of blank horror before turning his bewildered gaze to his wife.

Isabel lifted the covers up to her face to cover her grin – Daniel's nonplussed reaction was striking her as unreasonably funny and she didn't want to offend him by bursting out in laughter.

He looked at her sharply and she couldn't resist it any longer: she snorted into her bedclothes and fell back onto the bed, covering her head in blankets as she let out peals of laughter. She suddenly felt something soft collide with her side and realized that Daniel had pitched the pillow back at her. She felt around for it and threw it back at him, burrowing deeper under the covers. She felt the soft weight hit her again and she threw her blankets off, grabbing her other pillow and thwapping her husband in the head with it. He let out a startled gasp and ducked around the side of the bed, flinging his down-filled weapon at her with vigor.

"You… are… acting… like… a… child!" she choked out amidst the battle and her hysterics.

"You started it!" he retorted, aiming a particularly good blow at her chest.

Isabel shrieked at the hit and peeked at Daniel from under her covers, waving a hand around in the air. "I forfeit! You win!"

Daniel collapsed on the bed and attempted a glare at his wife. Isabel buried her grin in her blankets and let out one last string of giggles. Peeking from behind the sheets, her breath caught at Daniel's expression.

He was gazing at her with a tenderness she was wholly unaccustomed to and she felt her skin heat with embarrassment. She felt her muscles stiffen and she shut her eyes, turning her head away. "Daniel..."

"Shh," he whispered hoarsely. Slowly, he lifted a hand, hesitated, and gently touched her jaw line with his fingertips. "Do you remember when I asked you, Bella?"

"Asked me what?" she said softly, distracted by his finger's light movements.

"Asked you to marry me."

Her eyes opened at his words. "Yes," she replied, her voice barely audible. "I remember."

He smiled. "Nineteen and the quickest wit in the county." He paused, his fingers stilling their careful caresses. "You were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen."

Isabel was surprised to feel another blush creep up her face. She would have normally shaken off such a statement off, but this intimate interaction was giving her more pleasure than she was willing to admit. She had forgotten how simple it could be, touching and talking and remembering. She smiled.

"I was not. Anne Goodman was the local beauty. I remember overhearing the village boys discuss her in very ungentlemanly ways."

Daniel grinned. "Yes," he said. "She was a handsome girl, to be sure. But she never held a candle to you, as far as I thought."

A memory floated into Isabel's mind and she started laughing again. "You wanted your proposal to be so romantic and perfect… and yet, somehow, we wound up lost in the woods, covered in mud and very nearly faint from lack of food."

Daniel's smile turned sheepish. "I was trying to find the perfect spot, as you very well know. I simply became nervous and couldn't remember exactly where the right clearing was."

"So you stop in the middle of the forest, kneel into a pile of deer droppings and propose."

"Yes, well, I figured it was as good a place as any, at that point. Anyway, I reckoned it'd make a good story to tell to our children."

His last statement threw Isabel back into the present. Pulling her head away from his fingers, she cleared her throat. "You're right. It's late; best start the day now." With a look of regret, Daniel withdrew his hand and rose from the bed.

"Of course."

A sudden movement at the open doorway grabbed both of their attention and they simultaneously turned their heads towards it.

Thomas stood there quietly, his hand resting on the doorknob, a look of surprise on his face.

There was a moment of silent staring between the three that Isabel found nearly unbearable.

"Been up long, son?" Daniel strode over to Thomas and gently guided him from the room. "Mama needs to get dressed now; we best leave her to it."

As her husband turned to shut the door, Isabel noticed (with a hint of relief), that he made no attempt to meet her eyes.


Erik gently ran a finger down the page of music before him. The piano he sat at remained untouched – he hadn't played it in weeks, preferring to simply arrange the notes in his head. He had no desire to share any music with the other members of the household. He groaned, pulling his hand from the paper and running it through his hair agitatedly. Not for the first time, he sorely missed the secluded confines of his underground home. The soothing sound of the water lapping against the stone floor, the endless labyrinth of tunnels and passages, even the comforting restriction of the coffin he had slept in.

At the thought of that narrow box, Erik released a shudder and brought his elbows down onto the piano heavily, resting his forehead in his palms. The keys shrieked under his weight and the angry noise resonated in the room for a moment, throbbing in his ears.

"What a dramatic fool you have been," he muttered, rubbing at his sore eyes. God, but he wanted to be alone. He had managed to avoid Isabel and her… attachments, but Nadir seemed to have taken an oath to protect Erik from himself and was therefore appearing at his side at any given moment. It was beginning to irk him unimaginably.

Straightening himself, he took a pen and dipped it carefully into the inkwell sitting beside the paper. Crossing out a few lines, he let his shoulders slump and rolled his head back, wincing as he felt a muscle protest. Bringing his hand up, he rubbed the spot gently, working the soreness out of it. He ran the hand through his hair, irritated by the feel of the bandage still covering it and, drawing the injured hand in front of him, he took hold of the tightly-wound cloth and began unwrapping it from around his palm slowly. After several seconds, it fell away and he gazed at his open palm, now healed, a thin scar crossing it horizontally. The red strip of raised flesh was still tender to the touch, and he surprised himself by shuddering as he felt a flicker of pain shoot up his arm as he pressed a finger to it. He would still have to be careful with it. Somehow, that thought depressed him.

A faint rattle sounded outside the window on the other side of the study and he focused his eyes towards it. A thick velvet curtain hung over the window, blocking out all possible sunlight; the dreary dimness of the room suddenly startled him and he stood from his seat, striding to the window and throwing the drape open.

The room lit instantly: Bright sunshine pouring in through the glass panes and basking him in its rays. His eyes slid shut as the exposed side of his face warmed with the sun's rays; he took an immeasurable pleasure in the sensation. He opened his eyes once more and gazed out of the window, watching a bird flit around the tree before him, hopping from one branch to another with comical speed.

He saw a movement from the corner of his eye and he glanced towards it: Daniel Bauer was striding towards the orchard, his head held high, his back erect. Erik's eyes instantly narrowed. The man, while perfectly polite to him on the very rare occasion when they met, had an irritating air about him, a sort of misplaced confidence that grated on Erik's nerves. He had been observing both Daniel and Isabel closely – more closely than either of them realized – and found their situation most puzzling. The husband seemed content enough, particularly when in the presence of his son. Whenever Isabel entered the room, however, the man's demeanor changed. He gazed at her with a wistful expression that would have been comical if it hadn't been so pathetic, and the moment she had disappeared from sight, he would release a long, loud sigh, that ridiculously regretful look not leaving his face for several minutes.

Isabel, however, seemed utterly indifferent towards her husband, if not slightly unnerved by him. Ever since he first learned of their long period of separation, Erik had suspected some form of abuse being involved, but he could see clearly now that Daniel Bauer was not a violent man – indeed, given his knowledge of and experiences with the woman, Erik was confident that if man and wife had ever found themselves in a brawl of any sort, Isabel would have triumphed quite easily. Her husband was larger than her, to be sure, but he simply appeared too meek to put up any sort of fight, whereas Isabel would most likely kick and bite her way to victory.

Yes, however bothersome he may be, Daniel Bauer did not strike Erik as the sort of man who would raise a hand to his wife.

There were, of course, other varieties of abuse that humans applied to each other. He knew that only too well.

His mother's face flickered in his mind.

He rolled his shoulders as he let the curtain fall back into place, the room once more shrouded in darkness.

No, that was not likely, either. The simpering man who Isabel had, for whatever reason, married did not appear to possess enough intellect to be much of a psychological torturer. Again, Isabel seemed to have the upper hand over her husband.

Erik muttered a curse at the heaviness that had settled in his chest and he silently stalked back over to the piano, seating himself and picking his pen back up, making some notations on the page before him. He hardly noticed what he was writing; he simply needed a momentary distraction while he gathered his scattered thoughts together.

He stared at the ink-blotted paper for several silent minutes, reveling in the clearness of his mind, when someone shattered the peace by knocking on his door.

Still seated, he felt an unreasonable rage grow in his chest – dwelling on the comforts of the opera house's cellar had been an idiotic thing to do: He was now thoroughly weary of this new home, this new life, this new country. A shock of longing blazed through him at the thought of Paris and he barely suppressed a groan for want of it.

Another knock, louder this time, came from the door and he rose from his seat in agitation, striding to the entrance and pulling the door open violently. "What?" he snapped.

Two jade eyes stared at him in surprised silence and, after a tense moment, blinked slowly, their owner apparently waiting for Erik's anger to abate.

"What is it, daroga?"

Nadir quickly glanced over Erik's appearance, taking in his ink-stained hands and wrinkled, soiled clothes with a critical eye.

"Isabel has served lunch and asked if you were going to partake of any of it. Your appetite has been rather sporadic these past few days, so I told her that I would come and ask you myself." His gaze rested on Erik's eyes. "I can see, however, that I am interrupting a conclave with your muse."

"My muse deserted me, in case you have forgotten," Erik hissed, turning his back on the Persian and returning to his instrument.

Nadir allowed his eyes to roll while he muttered a quiet oath under his breath. "Always a flair for drama, Erik. Perhaps you do belong in an opera house." He paused. "Although I maintain that the torture chamber was unnecessary."

"It proved useful." Erik smiled grimly at the keys in front of him, flicking a speck of dust off of the ivory.

Nadir released a sigh. "Given your obvious state of distress, I will choose to ignore that statement. Now, come, eat some food. For my sake."

"I am in no mood to humor you, Nadir."

"You are very rarely in a mood to humor anybody, my friend," Nadir said with a laugh.

Erik turned to face him, his mouth set in a grim line, his eyes narrowed to slits. "How much longer are you planning on remaining here, daroga?"

Nadir sobered instantly. "Do you wish me to leave?"

"Perhaps."

The two men held each other's gaze for a long moment.

"I cannot go."

Erik gritted his teeth together so tightly that his jaw ached. With deliberate slowness, he rose from his seat and approached Nadir.

The daroga was not a particularly imposing man, yet he showed no intimidation in his eyes as Erik approached him. The masked man's taller stature was somewhat diminished by the severe thinness of his body, but still, he towered over Nadir and leaned in closely, his face mere inches from the Persian's.

"Nadir, you should not be here. Your presence is beginning to cross the line of irritating into infuriating, and you are well aware of how I am when angry."

Nadir simply stared back at him, a cool expression of unconcern on his face.

"Well?" Erik barked.

"Erik, I am not going to leave you alone now. It is simply not possible."

Erik gazed at Nadir, his anger quickly melting into indignation. "Why the devil not?"

The daroga shrugged. "Think back at what happened the last time I left you, my friend. Indeed, bearing that in mind, I may never let you out of my sight again."

"The last time you left me, as you put it, I traveled through Asia and Europe! I aided in the creation of an opera house, the likeness of which has never been seen before!"

"While running yourself mad, Erik! You ran yourself utterly mad! Human beings cannot shut themselves away from the world like you tried! We need each other – each one of us needs another person to connect to, to confide in and comfort. I will not let what happened to you happen again – I tell you, I will not allow it!"

Any antipathetic feelings that lingered in Erik's mind dissipated as Nadir's words were spoken. His will to argue had been destroyed by the raw emotion that the man before him was showing, the determined lines etched deep in the dark skin of his face. Once more, he simply did not understand. Perhaps neither of them did.

When Erik gathered his wits enough to respond, his voice was low and hoarse.

"Why do you bother, Nadir?"

The Persian's expression was firm in its resolve. "I said it once, Erik, and I will say it again: you have the distinct ability to excel beyond any other man, dead or alive."

Erik snorted.

"Believe what you must, my friend," Nadir said, "but I speak the truth. I cannot stand by and watch that unique genius go to waste. I simply cannot."

Erik smiled sadly. "Nadir, I do not believe that I have any genius left to give."

"Nonesense," the Persian said dismissively. "I am sympathetic to your pain, Erik, but remember that I, too, have lost the woman I loved, and yet I have managed to forge on. And I am nowhere as near as strong in spirit as you. No, I am confident that a chorus girl, as lovely as she may be, is not enough to rob you of all your senses, despite… er… events which may make that appear to be the case."


As the voices grew soft and footsteps sounded from inside the room, Isabel felt a stab of panic. She picked up her skirts and made a mad dash across the hall, running up the stairs to the third floor as quietly as her heavy-soled shoes would allow.

She hadn't meant to eavesdrop, exactly, but she knew Nadir had gone to speak with Mr. Bertrand: when neither man had come down for their meal, she was overcome with curiosity and went upstairs to see what was causing the delay.

The door to Mr. Bertrand's study was ajar and the two men's voices were low, rapidly speaking in French. She could make out a few of the words exchanged – the lady's maid to Mrs. Northing had been French, and Isabel had gleaned bits and pieces of the language over the years at Weatherby. Not that she needed to translate the conversation – Mr. Bertrand's angry tone was enough to tell her that he had sunk back into a black mood, one that even Nadir may not be able to drag him out of. As she was turning to go back downstairs and enjoy a quiet lunch with Thomas, she made out a sentence quite clearly that had caught her attention.

"Why do you bother, Nadir?"

It was a question she had pondered herself many times.

Nadir refused to go into any sort of detail regarding his relationship with Mr. Bertrand. She knew how their friendship had begun – he had told her of the shah's demand that the masked man be brought to Persia, sending Nadir to Russia to collect him – but beyond that, he had always been carefully vague. Mr. Bertrand had stayed a few years in Persia, then had left for some unknown reason, apparently going back to his native France and doing heaven knows what. Brooding, most likely, Isabel thought, walking over to the window in her room and lifting the lace curtain to gaze out at the orchard.

So. Nadir Khan and Erik Bertrand had known each other for many years. According to comments Nadir had made to her, Mr. Bertrand was not, in fact, named Mr. Bertrand, and he had been an easily irritated, violently-tempered, slightly dangerous figure for a very long time.

Why, then, did Nadir bother? Clearly there was no changing this leopard's spots, and the Persian, of all people, would know that. Yet he still reached out, extended the hand of friendship nearly every day, only to be rejected, usually with a sarcastic snap, by Mr. Bertrand.

Unfortunately, Isabel's French was far too rusty to be able to translate what Nadir's response had been, so she was still quite at a loss.

She was about to tear her gaze from the cherry trees, now weighed down with ripening fruit, when Daniel strode into view. She felt a sigh grow in her throat. He had approached her earlier in the day and informed her rather brusquely that he was "going out on business". Slightly bewildered at this seemingly pointless announcement, Isabel had nodded and wished him joy in his exploit.

He paused beneath one of the fruit trees and selected a particularly red cherry, holding it up against the sun and smiling. Lowering it, he popped it in his mouth and chewed, wincing suddenly.

"They have pits, dear," Isabel muttered, snorting at his pained expression.

Spitting the pit out, Daniel continued on his way down the orchard's path, his smile entirely too self-satisfied for Isabel's liking.

"What on earth are you up to?" she breathed, narrowing her eyes as his figure disappeared from view.


Sorry for the shortness; I've already started the next chapter and hope to have it done semi-soon.
Chocolate-covered Brettishness to Chat for her tireless spiffyality. Hip, funny and helpful. What more could an author ask for?
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