A/N—in which things get interesting…
Here is the other half of the previous chapter, some angsty phluff for your reading enjoyment. I hope you like it!
Cyberhugs to the awesome Glacifly4POTO, givelove1morechance, Guest1, Guest2, Mominator124, Stemwinder, and Seraph12 for your awesome comments and reviews. Thank you so much! Your comments are always wonderful and give me the impetus to keep working.
The Usual Disclaimer—these characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, to Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and to Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, Paris, music, religion, military history, and the French and Farsi languages are unfortunately mine, and for that, I do apologize.
Please read and review.
A Second Chance
Chapter 16
Copyright 2003, 2004, 2016 by Riene
Zamora completed the first weekend run with no more mishap than a twisted ankle in the chorus. The principals relaxed and the new employees gradually realized that perhaps they would not make a hash of things and began to enjoy the process.
The debut of Gounod and d'Ennery's opera had been a great success. The reviews in the papers had been glowing, and the managers had been relieved to see that subscriptions were up. Repairs to the grand building were mostly completed, discussions underway for the next opera, and a series of lighter concerts were already scheduled. Christine had received offers to perform in both Berlin and Vienna, and could not resist teasing Erik about it. She had regretted it immediately, upon seeing the sudden wild look in his eyes, hastily concealed, and the pain in his voice afterwards.
"You would leave your Erik, then?" he had asked softly, not looking at her.
She moved closer, laying a gentle hand on his arm. He is so thin. "No," she said quietly, looking up into his face. "I am not ready for a international tour, I think. And how could I go alone without you, my teacher?"
He gazed down at her. "I would not ever hold you back from your career, Christine. It is what we have worked for all along. It would mean a great deal to know you were adored on the stages of Berlin and Vienna, even London and New York, as you are here."
She gave a shaky laugh. "Erik, you over-estimate my talents. I am not nearly so fine."
He covered her hand with his own, feeling the unaccustomed warmth spread into his arm and skeletal fingers. "How wrong you are, my dear. But perhaps we will wait awhile before accepting those invitations?" he said, and felt his heart begin to beat again at her smile.
Early on in their relationship, Erik had taken to leaving a handful of notes and coins in an elaborately carved wooden box on a shelf in the library. "For groceries, or whatever you may need," he had explained. Christine had occasionally availed herself of the francs to purchase dinner items for them. Now she was not surprised to see the same wooden box appear, this time on the console table in the flat's entryway. It also made an admirable place to leave his correspondence, she decided, for Erik sometimes received letters at the apartment. At first this had surprised her, but after a while she simply added them to the box and never inquired. It was his flat, of course, and what did it matter? The letters disappeared in the afternoons while she attended rehearsal, often the only sign he had visited.
Those occasional afternoons had become an odd secret pleasure to Erik. Careful explorations had revealed a back service entrance to the building and he had worked out times and routes that enabled him to enter and depart unseen. The flat was hers; he disturbed nothing save the piano. He would sit in the study, answering his correspondence, working on architectural plans or drawing, and could almost pretend that in a few hours his wife would come through the door, rosy-cheeked, to drop a kiss on the top of his head and tell him about her day. Once and only once had he paused in the bedroom, drawn to the side where she must sleep. His long thin hand had reached out of its own accord, bony fingers almost touching the hollow spot in the pillow where her head had lain. He had drawn them back, appalled, and afterwards resolutely kept his head turned from the bed, and the dangerous longings that it called forth. Toward evening he would make his way back to the Opera House in time to observe the evening performance, or to return to the increasingly lonely rooms below.
It was Madame Giry who first brought the rumors to her of a mysterious patron. The note left in her dressing room to "take tea with me please" had sounded much more like direction than a request, and Christine had obeyed, feeling that familiar trembling sense of half-guilt and half-fear from childhood transgressions. She had poured tea, a fragrant blend with notes of bergamot, into thin porcelain cups and observed Christine appraisingly over the rim before speaking.
Sitting in the immaculate office, Christine's eyes had wandered over the shelves, smiling at the familiar mementos: a stack of programs, faded photographs of a man and of herself and Meg as small children, a pair of satin pointe shoes with the ribbons wrapped around them, a drawing of Meg in arabesque. Christine smiled, suddenly recognizing the origin of that delicate sketch.
"Christine." Madame Giry's voice abrupt recalled her attention. "I must ask—where are you presently dwelling? For if I remember Meg's concerns, you were to have been out of your old rooms some time ago."
Christine sighed, unable to dissemble with her former teacher. "I am living in a flat on the rue des Arbres, Madame. They are his rooms; he has merely offered them to me for the time being, until I find a place of my own."
Adele Giry was silent for a minute. "I see. I was unaware he had any rooms in the city. Does he live there with you?"
"No, Madame," she said quietly. "He remains in the underground house and I rarely see him."
Experience warred with knowledge of what rumors and scandal could do to a young woman's reputation, much less a promising career. Adele leaned forward, brushing her fingers over the back of Christine's hand. "My child, walk with caution. We both know Erik has only your best interests at heart, but others will not be so understanding and will assume the worst. Be as circumspect as possible; there are already rumors afloat that you have found a lover or provider."
She fought an angry retort, seeing the concern in the older woman's eyes. "Yes, Madame," she said simply. "I will do nothing to bring shame or disgrace to myself or my friends."
The managers were less direct. M Andre frowned worriedly. "You are our ingénue, Christine. You must not be thought anything other than…pure," he said uncomfortably.
She drew in an outraged breath and Firmin held up a hand. "We are not implying anything, Mlle Daae," he said heavily, "only asking you to be discreet."
"I do not," she said furiously, "have a patron!"
The managers exchanged a long glance of consternation.
"From where," Christine asked heatedly, "are these rumors coming? I have done nothing but move into a new flat, a temporary lodging until the performance series is over and I have time to find other accommodations."
M Firmin leaned back, folding his hands across his midsection. "Who owns this flat, Mlle Daae? And who else is there?"
She had prepared for this, after her talk with Madame Giry. "An old friend, someone I have known many years, a composer. He is away right now and the flat is being renovated. It was offered to me out of kindness. If you have seen men about the premises, they are probably the workmen or perhaps even the employees of the accounting firm below. I do not know what rumors," she emphasized the word, "you are listening to, but I assure you there is nothing to be concerned with!"
"Yes yes, I'm sure it is nothing," M Andre interceded soothingly, "but please do understand we have your best interests at heart."
"I'm sure," Christine said icily. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have a dinner engagement and the hour is getting late."
He was waiting when she arrived back at the underground house, hot and disheveled from carrying the string bag of groceries.
"Oh, there you are," she snapped.
Erik rose and took the bag from her hands. "I am glad to see you as well, my dear," he said mockingly.
Christine sighed. Erik was always at his most difficult when he was in a sarcastic mood. She pushed back the hair from her face and untied the bonnet hanging down her back. "I'm sorry, Erik" she apologized shortly. "It's been a long day and I'm tired. Everything that could go wrong has today."
"Sr. Bartoldi?" he asked, eyes glittering.
"Him, the lights, the managers…and there was a mess with the orchestra today." She leaned against the entryway table, frowning.
He raised an eyebrow. "I cannot imagine M Reyer with a 'mess.' What happened?"
She tossed hat and shawl onto the sofa in the entryway and followed him into the kitchen, where he began unloading the items from the bag. "It was rather odd, a prank, really, but it caused such a delay and poor M Reyer was so flustered. Someone had taken all of the music—and I mean all of it—and had rearranged it. String parts with the brass. Percussion with the woodwinds. Everything mixed up. It was just all so pointless, a mean, petty bit of aggravation. The master score never did turn up."
He frowned. "There will be a run-through tomorrow, prior to the weekend performances."
Christine pulled a dozen long pins from her hair and shook her head to ease the strain, long curls falling down her back. "Do you think I don't know that?" she said crossly. "I will be so glad when this production ends."
"Yes, I suspect M Dumont feels the same. Have you any idea what the managers will want to pursue next?"
"No." She expertly twisted her hair up again and replaced the long pins, fanning her neck. "There is talk of a ballet and several operettas after the concert series." Erik took a deep breath and deliberately looked away, his hands twitching restlessly, stilling the urge to touch her again. To run his long fingers through her curls, to stroke the smooth column of her neck, to plant kisses on her throat until she sighed and leaned against him, her anger forgotten…and what that might lead to… He gritted his teeth and wrenched his mind away from that dangerous path, hating his weakness. It was unbearable to have her so close, yet he could not fathom surviving were she to leave him again. He forced himself to concentrate on dinner preparations.
She rested her head against the back of the tapestry covered chair. The small fire cast flicking shadows on the ceiling and she watched them, conscious of Erik's dark eyes focused on her face.
"What is troubling you tonight, ma chérie?"
She closed her eyes briefly, gathering her courage. "Erik, once the performance run is over, I must seek somewhere else to live."
He pulled back as if struck. "Christine, why? Is the flat not to your liking? Have I in some way offended you?"
She wallowed thickly; this would be harder than anticipated. "No," she said softly, "but I cannot stay. It was always meant to be temporary, and…"
He leaned forward, amber eyes fastened on her face. "Christine…we both know the flat was meant for you. Always. Some place you could be safe, protected, some place worthy of you. Not some inferior rooms in a boarding house."
"I will find something, I have some money from Raoul's family," she said softly, not wanting to hurt him, but he blanched.
"And you would accept money from that boy's family, and not a gift from me?"
"It is different," she pleaded, avoiding the hurt anger in his voice.
"In what way is it different?" he hissed.
She swallowed again. "Erik, there are rumors, rumors that I have a rich lover, a provider, a…"
He nearly leapt from the chair, pacing the room. "I see. And this offends you?"
"Please." She looked up, tears gathering in her tired eyes. "Please, Erik. The managers have already warned me about my career."
"I will not let you live in some squalid boarding house!" he nearly shouted. "You will ruin your health! You will be in danger!"
She stifled an angry sob, trying to keep her voice level. "Erik, I'm sorry...I don't know what else to do."
"Then why will you not let me assist you!" He glared down at the top of her head, trying to retain his fragile control.
Christine looked up, her eyes full of misery. "Because it's too much. I can't keep…taking from you."
He took a deep shuddering breath, trying to force the anger from his mind. Why could she not see? Her shaking voice broke into his rage.
"And I keep receiving these notes…from men…admirers offering things …wanting me to…" She stood abruptly, needing to release the building tension in her body. "I am so tired of people trying to manipulate me! It is my life, my choice!"
His head snapped backwards as if struck, a red haze filling his vision. They dared to think…they…wanted to…she was his! Grappling for a calm he did not feel, Erik turned to her.
"Then I propose a solution that would solve your problem. I am willing to become your patron."
"My patron?"
"It is a business proposition, no more and no less. I will become your patron. You may continue to live in the apartment alone, or with me, or I will provide you with a suite of rooms elsewhere, alone, even an allowance if you wish."
"And in return?" she asked, eyes blazing. "All patronage has a price."
He shrugged, maintaining his façade of indifference. "You will sing for me. For me, with me, if I wish. You will sing my music."
Her furious eyes met his and he gave her a derisive smile. "I am much older than you; it would only be for a while. And I am…quite wealthy. You would be well-provided for when I am gone."
"I would be prostituting myself!"
He caught her hands and pinned them behind her back, imprisoning her within the circle of his arms. She was abruptly acutely conscious of his lithe power, of his heated eyes boring into hers. "It need not be…unpleasant, Christine." The heat from her body was too much. His mouth came down on hers, hard, slowly becoming warm, searching. He bit her lower lip gently and released her mouth, his breath soft on her cheek, and then Erik pulled her into his embrace, sandalwood and smoke, heat and ice. One hand clasped her waist, the other moved to tilt her head. His thin, scarred lips trailed down her jaw and under her ear, and Christine's knees nearly buckled. "You know it would not be," he murmured against her throat.
Raoul's kisses had been pleasant, soft and respectful, and she had enjoyed them, but Erik's were primal and Christine responded as she had the first time, freeing her hands and pulling him upright. His black eyes were gleaming with desire as she raised her face to his, winding her fingers in his dark hair, reaching to caress his unmasked cheek.
But he raised his head, his breathing harsh, his hands unsteady, and smiled mockingly down at her. "You see, it is quite simple. I give you what you need, and you…"
He caught her hand before she could strike him, laughing softly. Furious, Christine shook her head, angry sparks in her eyes. "What you propose is immoral."
"Then I offer you the same choice I gave you once before. Marry me."
The very air seemed to stand still between them. Her eyes met his steadily, then Christine nodded once. "Yes," she said softly, "I will marry you." In the electric silence that followed, she walked to the door and laid a hand on the frame. "Goodnight."
He took a step toward her and she paused.
"Even knowing what lies beneath this," his hand jerked toward the mask, "you…"
"Yes." Her gaze was steady.
"Christine," he said harshly, and she turned back. "Christine…I would not be a ….celibate…husband."
"No, Erik," she said quietly. "I did not assume so."
The door shut behind her with a soft click.
The Louis-Philippe room was a welcome refuge. She sat before the dressing table, the words still echoing in her ears. The memory surfaced again, his hands so cold on her back, the unexpected warmth of his lips, the strength and heat and hardness of his long body pressed to hers. God help me, she thought. I do not love him. And yet I still desire him. What is wrong with me? Christine raised trembling fingers and touched her lips, staring in the mirror, wondering if she had wanted to stop…if he had thought she had wanted him to stop. She covered her burning cheeks with shaking hands.
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