Five Golden Rings and a Promise
This one-shot is based on the couples in my LND series of multi-chapter phics. Each vignette tells a little bit about what is going on in New Horizons as well as providing a look behind the scenes of the pairs during the Christmas holiday. This story is my entry in #phantomsholidaychallenge presented by notaghost3.
Raoul and Meg
Raoul places the small, glitter-laden star atop perhaps the smallest evergreen Meg has ever seen. A mere three feet high, the spruce fills their hotel room with its fresh scent. Once the electrician left after installing a string of red, green and yellow bulbs, smiling brightly at the five dollar tip added to his fee for such a minimal amount of work, the young vicomte set about hanging some shiny bulbs he found backstage at the theater.
His blue eyes shine as he hangs each ornament, choosing exactly the right place for a red ball next to a green light, certain each color is represented evenly throughout. Satisfied with the decorations, he pulls out a cardboard box from a small wooden case he keeps in the armoire.
Meg understands this valise to be his personal treasure trove, containing cuff links, tie tacks, different fobs for his pocket watch and other valuables – including a small amount of cash. When she asked why he chose keeping everything contained and in the armoire, rather than utilizing one of the spacious dressers provided by the hotel for such things, he responded:
"If ever I need to leave somewhere in an emergency – such as a fire – I should have those things most dear and of need to me in one place and close at hand."
"Have you ever been in a situation that would create this fear in you?" she asked.
"No," he replied, "not really…not in that sense."
"Then why?"
"When I was a child there was little I could call mine – everything was a part of the estate."
"Even your toys?"
"I do not know if my toys and clothing were considered valuables," he laughed. "Nevertheless, if I found a treasure…a glass marble or a shell discovered at the beach, I wanted those things to be mine alone, so I used a wooden box at first. Later on, when I had some money to spend for myself, I bought this case."
"What is so precious about your little box?" she asks.
"The piece de resistance." Smiling broadly, he pulls out a few threads of tinsel already reflecting the lights of the tree, even as he holds them in his hands. "Would you like to help me hang these? I fear I took over the tree without even consulting you."
"I enjoyed watching you," she replies, folding the shining strands he allocates to her over her hand.
Taking a few at a time, each of them start at the bottom of the tree, making certain, as with the ornaments, the glitter is evenly distributed.
"Perfect," he says, wrapping an arm around her, kissing her on the cheek. "I believe this is the most beautiful Christmas tree I have ever seen."
"It is quite lovely," Meg says, resting her head on his shoulder. "How long have you carried the tinsel around with you?"
"Years, I suppose – I really cannot recall," he says. "One of our businesses was actually manufacturing tinsel as part of our inventory of metal goods. This box was from an earlier time, though – one of those things I always wanted to have with me."
"But you are using it now?"
"I feel at home…with you and the baby-to-be…even in this hotel room," he says, taking her hand, leading her to the chaise. As she sits, he goes on bended knee. Removing a small box from his pocket – an item from his case she failed to see.
"What is this?" she asks, cocking her head to one side, color rising on her cheeks.
Opening the box reveals a band of gold set with a square ruby surrounded with small diamonds. "I realize you are still married to Darius, but I am hoping you will choose to end that marriage and marry me."
"Raoul…"
"I realize I have been untrustworthy in many ways and you have reason for concern," he says, changing his position to sitting on the floor at her feet. "I am trying to be a responsible man…a good man…and want to be a good husband and father to our child. If you do not wish to consent now, I understand. Please, however, wear this ring until you find me worthy."
Tears fill her own cerulean eyes as she allows him to put the ring on the third finger of her left hand. "I do consent. Yes, I will marry you. I cannot imagine life without you – all we have been through together and we can still laugh and dress a Christmas tree."
"Thank you. I will do my best to be worthy of you."
"Just your saying I am worthy of love and admiration means so much," she says. "I believe a kiss would be appropriate."
"Yes, of course." Rising from the floor, he sits next to her on the chaise. Taking her face in his hands, he presses his lips to hers. "I love you, Meg."
"And I you. And I you."
Nadir and Adele
"Am I doing this right?" Nadir asks himself, as he drapes a garland of evergreen boughs on the hooks he installed over the French doors leading to the garden. Stepping down from the ladder, he examines the decoration. Satisfied the doors can still open and the garland is hanging evenly, he grabs a pair of holly wreaths, yelping as a sharp leaf pierces his finger. "Allah, be praised and forgive me for what I am thinking and doing right now," he mutters as he climbs back up the ladder to center a wreath on each of the doors.
"Nicely done, husband," Adele says, carrying a tray with her special Christmas porcelain teapot, matching cups and saucers as well as a sugar bowl filled to the brim with the cubes he could not resist dipping in his tea. Hoping the ghotab, a walnut and almond pastry he loved – and she spent hours learning to bake when they were courting, would limit the number of sugar cubes he consumed.
Her years as a dancer – and often a poor dancer, at that – made her very conscious, not only of her body weight, but what she observed in other dancers' behavior when they consumed an excess of sweets. In Nadir's case, he was becoming more and more portly as the years progressed and, if he exceeded eight cubes of sugar in his morning tea, he became moderately irritable.
Thankfully, he was a very active man and one of a very calm temperament, so that even when slightly on edge was still a person of amazing discernment. Nevertheless, she fretted, which was her nature. The challenge of being a perfectionist – nothing was ever entirely right in her estimation. Thus, she left the decorating of the house to him. Otherwise it would never have been finished.
"This Christmas business finds me confused," he says, as he closes the ladder, standing it against the wall, and take a seat at the table. Picking up one of the pastries, he takes a big bite, dusting the front of his shirt with powdered sugar. "Excellent as always, my beautiful bride. You could challenge any Persian baker with these – perfect balance of walnuts and almonds."
The ballerina nods her head, several small red bows dress her trademark braids now flecked with some white hairs. The red is also found in the silk blouse replacing the black, her previous choice for all her garments. Since her marriage to Nadir, the vibrant ruby tones, as well as deep teals have found their way into her wardrobe.
"What is confusing?"
"This is supposed to be a holiday – holy day – yet, most of what I observe is a focus on decorating with trees and other woodland plants more often connected with pagan rites."
Adele was aware what he was saying was true. "Erik said the same thing when I asked him to join me at Midnight Mass years ago when we were still at the Garnier."
"You do realize that all of this business with Christmas trees dates back to the Druid celebration of the Winter Solstice? It is said that St. Boniface, in the eighth century, was trying to convert them to Christianity and suggested a fir tree, with its triangular shape, representing the trinity was more appropriate than the oaks they worshipped."
"Well, all I know is that Adam and Eve were told not to eat the fruit of a tree and Jesus died on a cross made from a tree. Trees are a part of my religious practice – and that of most Christians – and I see nothing out of sorts in beautifying my home with one during the season celebrating Jesus' birth."
"I hope you understand my wish not to attend the church service with you," Nadir says, taking her hand, rubbing his thumb against the wide gold band she wears on her left hand. "I love you, my wife, but there are some things, I simply cannot consent to."
"My belief is you are a gift to me from God," she replies. "Many lonely years were forgotten when you came and filled my life."
"As with me, I give thanks to Allah every day for your company and love."
"So let us just think of this holiday – holy day – as one to celebrate one of the greatest gifts either of us has ever received – however it came to be."
"So be it," he says, kissing the ring, before taking another bite of his cookie. "How do the decorations look?"
Taking a close look at the doors for the first time since entering the room, she says, "The garland on the right is just a tad lower than the other – wait, perhaps it is the wreath – I am not sure." Getting up from her seat, she walks to the windows and makes a minor adjustment. "There. Perfect. Well, done," she laughs. "You are getting quite good at this Christmas business."
"Thank goodness."
"One more piece of greenery," she says, hold a sprig of mistletoe over his head.
"Ah, yes, I remember this one well."
Darius and Yasmine
The kitchen still holds the heat from the now empty oven, the windows of the stately Victorian are frosted thanks to the cold night air. A light snow begins to fall inviting Darius and Yasmine to watch the flakes settle on the branches of the bare trees outside, grateful for the warmth inside.
"Thank you for helping Adele with the ghota – her pastries, although good, are so much better since you have been teaching her. I know Nadir appreciates the effort," Darius says, standing behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, resting his head against the top of hers. "Is this a new hijab? I do not recall ever seeing you wear one so bright with color."
"A Christmas gift from Adele." Fingering the soft challis, a paisley print of pale corals and greens.
"I like it – the colors suit you, bringing out the green in your eyes and blush of your cheeks."
"Adele is most generous. It is a pleasure to help her, I am so happy to be welcome in their home," Yasmine replies, reaching up a hand to smooth the fine cloth.
"You forget, this is my home as well," he says. "As my wife, it is yours, too."
"Meg is your wife," she says, moving away from him to the sink, running water to wash the dishes dirtied from the baking.
"We are married in accordance with our faith," he says, following her to the sink, taking her by the shoulders, turning her around to look at him.
"I know, my love, I simply find the situation uncomfortable – Adele is Meg's mother and I often wonder what she thinks about our situation."
"It is none of her business," he replies, releasing her to sit in one of the wooden chairs at a small round table already set for morning coffee.
"Darius, that is disrespectful and you know it," Yasmine smiles at him. "Stop frowning. I know this is not what you want now, but it is a situation you created."
Running a hand through his hair, he says, "I know. It was foolish of me to marry her – we never lived as a married couple."
"Then why?"
"She was so troubled – after the attempt on Gustave's life and the shooting on the pier – Adele almost died. Meg was so fragile – ill. I believed I could help her…and I did. We love…loved each other, but…" He shrugs, "…she needed a caretaker – a friend – not a husband."
"And now – she is with Raoul. They are going to have a child, and yet she is still your wife."
"He asked me to divorce her," he tells her. "I told him that was up to Meg. None of us is sure of his loyalty to her – if he is simply using her for financial gain."
"Is that not her problem?"
"Part of the vows I made were to protect her. So long as she wants that protection…"
"What of us?"
"We live our lives as we have. You are my only wife as far as I am concerned. I am bonded to you as much as I am to Meg as far as your financial welfare and you are the only woman I wish to be with."
"I want to be your lawful wife under the law of the state – in the eyes of the world we live in every day."
"You mean Adele."
"I mean Adele, Meg, Nadir, Erik, Christine, Gustave…all of them." Tears form in her pale eyes, her cheeks flush pink, the same color as her hijab. "I work at the infirmary at Phantasma and I do not like how people look at me. I hear the whispers – your name. They do not understand and I am not understanding myself anymore." She lifts up the chain hanging around her neck that holds a gold band. "I want to wear this as a real sign of our marriage."
"You can do that now."
"No – not while you still have the bond with Meg."
His sigh is deep – his own dark brown eyes search hers. "You are right. I am being a stubborn fool – thinking I am responsible for a woman who has chosen a life with no place for me anymore."
"You will ask for a divorce?"
"Yes, as soon as I can speak with her," he says, walking over to her again. Taking the chain in his hands, he undoes the clasp and removes the ring. "May I place this on your finger? As my one and only wife?"
Yasmine nods as she holds out her hand. "Thank you."
"I thank you for loving this obstinate fool of a man."
Phillippe and Sorelli
The sound of sleigh bells on the street outside the window brings a smile to Sorelli's face. A young boy holds a ribbon with the round balls attached runs in front of a couple she assumes to be his parents – their arms heavy with packages. The ground is covered with snow and he slips almost falling on an ice patch. "Oooo," she breathes, pleased he rights himself with ease.
"What was the sound of concern about, my love?" Phillippe asks, entering their living room. Lit with one electric lamp and a dozen or so red and green candles on plates decorated with holly leaves the small room is still dark thanks to the heavy dark wood furnishings. A fire burns in the fireplace, the mantle decorated simply with an evergreen garland – a candle at either end.
"A boy almost fell, but righted himself – he might be a dancer, so refined were his movements."
Resting against the sill, he presses hand against her forehead. "How is your headache? Elizabeth was concerned – she sent you a piece of the pumpkin pie she baked for dessert."
"That was kind of her. I took some aspirin," she says, leaning into him. "I am afraid I am never good company when we gather."
"We are not the most entertaining group, I agree," he laughs. "Yet there is comfort in family." Looking around, he asks, "Where is your chair?"
Stepping to one side, exposing the wall next to her, she indicates her canes – ebony black with simple silver heads, designed to mold to her hands. "I try to walk as much as I can. When I do not, my legs feel useless and heavy and my hips stiffen. I fear if I only use the wheelchair, I shall never walk again under any circumstances."
"Shall I carry you back to the chaise, you must be tired – just standing here."
"The pleasure is mine," she says, throwing an arm over his shoulder. "It was actually quite pleasant watching people going back and forth – some holding themselves close against the cold. Others, like the boy, enjoying the snow."
"Are your feet causing any pain?"
"Dear husband, my feet have caused me pain since I was a small girl learning to dance." The tone rueful and amused at the same time. "It was worth it."
"You miss dancing." It is a statement, he sees the longing in her eyes whenever they go to the ballet. Scooping her into his arms, he carries her to the burgundy chaise, the wood scrollwork on the arms and legs gilded. In contrast, the oak and cane wheelchair sitting next to the sofa is unadorned and utilitarian.
"One of our neighbors was carrying a very large doll dressed in a soldier's uniform, reminding me one of my favorite roles was the Sugar Plum fairy. The Nutcracker is what I think of when Christmastime comes around. I cannot wait until we see it."
"You were indeed a diva," he remarks, setting her down, covering her legs with an afghan in shades of red and pink, before returning to the window and the small table where he left her pie. "Do you want this or should I put it in the kitchen for later?"
"Later I think," she says. "Leave it there. Come sit beside me. I want to hear what your sisters had to say about Raoul and the baby."
"I do believe your headache was not entirely due to being tired," he chuckles.
"It was actually anticipation of a headache prompting me to leave." Her own chuckle matches his. "I daresay, the conversation may have rivaled what I suspect you heard when announcing we were to be wed."
"I could not leave Paris without you and there was no reason to play the nobility game any longer," he says, running the back of his hand over her dimpled chin and chiseled jaw to her dark hair, pulled into a chignon at the nape of her neck. "I am only sorry I made you wait until we arrived here – the French government has so many rules, it is a wonder anyone marries there at all. In truth, Raoul was actually more astute about marrying Christine – let the public and family be damned."
"One cannot truly blame you – his marriage was less than a success," she smiles, taking his other hand in hers. "Christine is happy now? Did you get the sense of that?"
"Christine and the monster are delighted with one another – Gustave is becoming a fine young man."
Pleased with his response, she says, "She telephoned me."
"When? You did not tell me."
"Days ago – I have been wondering what to say to both of you. I was unsure of bringing up the past – your feelings…your sisters' feelings about what happened between her and Raoul. Her feelings about what happened between her and Raoul – truth be told."
"As I said, she asked about you. I advised you were with us – that we were married – not much more than that…the meeting was about Raoul, so the subject was dropped. What did she want?"
"All we former Garnier dancers and dance mistress to meet in Manhattan for luncheon, shopping and an overnight stay." Shrugging, tears form in her gray eyes, despite her attempt at a small laugh.
Meg was her protégé – a beautiful dancer, delicate and fragile looking, a direct opposite to her own fierce attack of the dance. Adele Giry was more like her as a dancer in her day – their personalities were much alike. Meeting with all of them again excited her as nothing had in months, years.
"You would like Phantasma, I think – Erik – the infamous phantom created quite a magical place. Perhaps we could take the train and stay at the hotel," Phillippe says. "I should like to speak with Raoul again. It would do him good to see us together, I think."
"Oh, Phillippe, I thought you learned from him about following your heart," she says, holding up her left hand, pointing at her simple gold wedding ring.
"We are different."
Gustave and Julia
Julia hums along as Gustave sings the lyrics to the carol drifting into the room from the hallway. Volunteering to plate the assorted cookies and cakes Chef from the hotel prepared for the Christmas party Erik and Christine arranged for the employees at their home, the two find sanctuary in the kitchen of the Bay Ridge house. The site of their first experiences in courtship and where Gustave stole his first kiss from the pretty housekeeper with hair the color of maize three years earlier.
No longer working at the house, but with Adele at Phantasma, the opportunities for the two teen-agers to see one another, much less share intimate moments were few – the absence increasing their longing rather than the opposite as his parents wished.
"Papa longed for Maman for years – ten of them here in America," Gustave told her when he realized her new employment had as much to do with his infatuation as her skills as a bookkeeper.
"From the look on your face, young man, your relationship with Julia has proceeded to a point where I cannot trust you to be alone with her."
"We care about each other."
"The type of caring you are experimenting with leads to the birth of children – you know that fact very well considering the books you have read on the topic."
"Only once – it was only once."
"So my suspicions are correct. Well, young man, once is quite enough. The girl excels at math – a position at Phantasma will be created for her. She should not lose her livelihood because of your inability to control yourself."
"To be loved like that must be wonderful – your mother is always so happy when she is with him."
"I believe I take after him in that regard as much as I do with music and architecture," he asserts.
"You have so many of your parent's talents, Gustave." Julia says softly, taking the time to be certain each platter has equal amounts of each type of cookie – chocolate chip, oatmeal with raisins and butter cookies. Macarons have their own platter – Christine's favorite, meringues – Adele's favorite – and a larger tray hold decorated gingerbread men. "I wonder sometimes why you even like me at all."
He stops his own piling of candied treats haphazardly in large bowls – chocolate drops, peppermint candy canes and saltwater taffy. "But you are perfect, Julia. Do you not know that?"
Her cheeks flush, taking on the color of her red velvet dress. "Hardly that. I was a housekeeper who was good at addition."
"A perfectly respectable set of skills," he tells her, risking placing an arm around her waist. "You are kind and honest. The brats love you and, well, Papa and Adele cannot speak more highly of you."
Pulling away, she huffs. "There is nothing special about any of those things."
"Really?" He stands, folding his arms and tapping a foot. "Do you have any idea how truly rude and awful people can be – I see them at Phantasma all the time. Henry and Margaret cannot walk down the street without someone commenting on them being midgets – making certain they hear no less."
"That is cruel. They are children!"
"Exactly, but people are mean," he tells her, this time wrapping his arms around her, pulling her to his chest, pressing a soft kiss on her forehead. "You are beloved at the park. Not a day goes by when I do not hear someone talk about how sweet and lovely Julia is."
"Really." Her blue eyes search his hazel ones.
"Really." Taking a deep breath, he leads her to the banquette beneath the window looking out at the garden where they both sit down. "We are too young now, I know, but maybe we could be betrothed to be betrothed."
"Gustave, what are you saying?"
"I hope someday to make you my wife," he says, reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat, drawing out a small box wrapped in holiday paper with a gold bow and hands it to her.
"What is it?" Not waiting for his reply, she tears off the wrappings and opens the box. "Oh, Gustave, it is beautiful.
Taking the chain holding heart studded with small diamonds from her, he says, "Lift your hair, so I can put this on you."
Bending her head, she does as he requests, biting her lip as he fumbles with the clasp.
"It is truly beautiful – I have never owned anything so nice – it must have cost a fortune."
"Worth every cent," he says, lifting her chin. "Let me see."
"How does it look?" Giggling she models the jewelry for him. "I feel like a princess."
"You are a princess and, if you will have me, I should like permission to be your beau until we are old enough so I can put a diamond ring on your finger."
Nodding eagerly, she throws her arms around his neck and kisses him full on the mouth.
"Julia!"
"I love you, Gustave. I am so happy you love me."
"I do, Julia, with all my heart. Never doubt it. Promise me."
"I promise."
Erik and Christine
The snow storm over, drifts form on the smallest shrubs to the limbs of the trees bare of their summer leaves. The now clear black sky a perfect canvas for what looks to be a million stars overhead. The full moon reflects on the sparkling white crystals – providing enough light to walk from the conservatory to the gazebo without any other lamps or lanterns.
The air crisp and clean pinches Christine's nose as she follows Erik through the French doors. She pulls up a pale blue scarf to cover her nose and mouth, and adjusts the matching cloche to protect her ears. Each of them is bundled in a woolen coat – Erik's black, as is usual, only a hint of beading on the collar, forfeiting his fedora for a beret hat with earflaps. The icy winters near the ocean finds him sacrificing style for comfort. In the same vein, eschewing a long skirt, Christine dons a pair of navy blue woolen knickerbockers and long stockings with her boots.
"Are those Gustave's?" Erik eyes the unfamiliar wardrobe.
"No, they are mine – I bought several pair once I viewed them in the windows of a shop when the Girys and I went to Manhattan to shop. They are the newest thing for woman – warm and comfortable."
"I must admit I rather like them," he says with the smallest of snickers coloring his tone. "Reminds of your costume in Il Muto before…" A shadow appears to flash past his eyes, darkening the bright amber to the near black of obsidian – the volcanic energy of the stone takes hold of him momentarily.
"The chandelier was not your fault," she takes his arm – you said Buquet meddled with the mechanism."
"There is no way it should have fallen – I designed the mechanics – that nosy bastard must have spent hours sabotaging the masterpiece Charles designed." Stepping away from her he presses a hand to his forehead. "Who knows when it might have fallen? At that moment in time, however, my rage might have brought it down by sheer will."
"You could not have known." Reaching out, she touches his back lightly, but he keeps moving away from her.
"I should have – you might have been killed." The memory of the deadly event, a woman in the audience died, several others injured, erase the festive mood of just moments ago. Tension grips his body and his pace increases, long legs moving along the path, seemingly of their own volition, leaving Christine running behind.
"But I was not and that was a lifetime ago. We are here now and everything you build is quality controlled until you drive Alfred mad with inspections." Catching up to him, she grabs his arm, pulling him around to look at her. "You have done your penance. You would not have this life now if the gods still found you guilty. You paid for so many sins you did not commit – I have to believe somewhere, somehow the debt has been paid. The whole point of this holiday we are about to celebrate addresses that very issue – forgiveness."
Stopping…her words reach him. With a nod, he takes her hand, they continue their walk over the red brick path, now dusted in white, to the gazebo. "Your presence in my life – loving me, bearing my children – tolerating my erratic temperament. I feel I must be doing something right – at least I hope so. I am weary of crises."
A guttural laugh erupts from Christine. "You thrive on crises."
"At least they have to do with the affairs of the park – not create chaos at an opera house – haunting it, as you were, to fill a lonely existence." He leads her up the steps into the gazebo, so far still untouched by the snow – the bench and Adirondack chairs clean and dry.
Erik lifts the seat of the bench and removes two large plaid blankets. Laying one down, he indicates Christine sit. Joining her, he drapes the second blanket over their legs. "This is perfect. I am so happy we chose this house. Although close to the city, the sound of the bay lapping against the bulwarks and the trees on the property suggest we are in the country."
"This is the best time, after the storm," she says. "Everything is so clean and bright – whatever darkness or fear or upset wiped clean by the beauty of the glistening snow."
After sitting quietly for a moment, he dips into the pocket of his jacket and brings out a small square box. "Take off your glove, please."
Tilting her head to the side, an eyebrow raised, the barest of smiles on her lips. "A ring? I already have the black diamond – is this another from your past?'
"In a manner of speaking," he coaxes, "just take off the glove, please. The one on your right hand. As you say, you have your marriage ring."
After removing her woolen mitten, she holds her small hand out to him.
He opens the black velvet box to reveal a gold band set with six small stones – turquoise for Gustave, topaz for Angelique, Opal for Emilie, pearl for Joshua and two emeralds – one on either end for Henry and Margaret.
Counting the stones and noting the differences, she exclaims, "A Mother's ring – oh, Erik, you even included one for Angelique – I love the stone – it matches your eyes."
Taking the ring from the box, he places it on her right hand ring finger. "Happy Christmas, my love. You have blessed me with your love and with the children represented here." Taking her hand, he kisses her palm.
"I love you, my husband – I will treasure this ring as much as my marriage ring."
"Oh, look," he says, pointing up at the sky, "a shooting star. Make a wish."
"What to wish for – I already have everything I could possibly want," she says, looking first at the sky, then at his face, full of wonder as a child. "A kiss – I should like a kiss."
"You do not need to wish on a shooting star to get a kiss, but a kiss you shall have – as many as you want, whenever you want."
"Those are the best Christmas gifts of all."