A/N—daily life, or, the calm before the storm
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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.
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A Second Chance
Chapter 22
Copyright 2016 by Riene
Stars and Midnight Blue
Enya
Memories we share together
Moments no one else can know
I will keep them close to me
Never let them go
Once you filled my hands with roses
Then you gave your heart to me
When a kiss had followed this
Love was meant to be
Time goes by
And the snow is drifting
Slowly in the sky
Cold, cold night
As you lie beside me
I can hear your heart beat
You have lost yourself in dreaming
I have lost myself in you
Now we lie beneath the sky
Stars and midnight blue
He awoke the next morning, temporarily disoriented before the events of the night before came crashing back with a breathless rush.
They were lying curled together on the small bed of the Louis Philippe room. Christine was in his arms, her head on his shoulder, coffee-brown curls spilling in riotous abandon over his chest. His arm moved hesitantly against her back and Erik realized with a sudden rush of awareness that her bare breasts were pressed up against him. He was abruptly painfully hard, wanting her desperately, wondering how the intense thunder of his heart did not awaken her. Christine's hand moved sleepily against his hip and he caught his breath grimly. His precious angel was asleep and trusting and would be sore and uncomfortable from the night before. Erik had never expected the miracle of last night to ever be his to experience, and could not take for granted it would ever occur again. He would not touch her…but he was utterly unprepared for his own aching need.
She shifted against him, one leg rising, and he found his own knee aligned between her thighs, his almost painful arousal now pressed against her stomach. Erik gritted his teeth and willed himself control, but his disobedient body, so starved for touch, refused to listen. With a sigh he held her close, determined to appreciate the moment for what it was…the woman he had loved and longed for so long, in his arms at last.
Christine awoke slowly, feeling a languorous ache. She was warm and comfortable…and abruptly aware. Her face was lying against something hard and unforgiving, smelling faintly of sandalwood and spice, with an underlying masculine scent. She froze. Beneath her cheek she could feel the rapid beating of his heart, surely faster than normal, and warmth flushed her skin as she felt his leg between her own and the strange heated hardness against her belly. But he was unmoving, holding her gently, one hand lightly lying against her curls. Erik. Her husband.
Slowly she shifted against him, hearing his shuddering intake of breath, and knew that he would not dare to touch her even in his intense desire. For a moment Christine paused, but other sensations crowded the dull tender throb between her legs. Her left hand moved slowly upward, smoothing over his jutting hipbone and rising to caress his back. Idly she let her hand explore his skin, stretched thin and taut over nearly protruding bones. Her fingers gently caressed the uneven welts and scars cautiously, and when he did not move, she dared to raise her head and meet his eyes.
"Good morning, my love," she whispered, drawing his head down to kiss him.
"Christine," he breathed, his voice like a prayer. His hand gently smoothed her hair back from her face.
She continued to caress his back and hip, feeling a light sheen of sweat now on his skin as involuntarily he pressed against her, shuddering. "I am sorry."
"For what?" She pulled him closer, nipples grazing his chest, then laughed softly. "Oh."
"Do not touch me…it will go away," he muttered.
She angled her head upwards, kissing his rigid jaw. "I'm not upset," she murmured softly. "After all those nights of thinking you didn't want me…it's nice to know I was wrong."
He tried to pull back. "You should not have to lie with a monster."
Christine leaned up on one arm, and he shut his eyes against the sight of her bare soft ivory skin, his lust intensifying, feeling nothing more than an animal.
"Is that what you think?" She laid her palm gently on his chest, her fingers caressing. "That's not what I see." Slowly her fingers moved up his sternum, tracing his collarbone, curving around the too-prominent ribcage, lightly brushing the terrible scars. The heat in his body spiraled and tightened. Christine lowered her mouth to his again, trailing her lips down his throat.
"I do not understand how you can bear to touch me…to be with me…" he muttered. His long hands wrapped around her hips and tugged her above his body.
In answer, she ran her fingers slowly down his good cheek and turned his face toward hers, kissing him, long hair falling around them in a scented curtain, and with a growl Erik took her in his arms.
He had returned from the world above by the time Christine emerged from the bath, bearing fresh fruit and rolls. The tiny kitchen necessitated a coordinated waltz as the two fried bacon and added hot tea to the table. Erik's hands found excuses to touch his new bride as they brushed past each other, as if anchoring himself in the present, that she was truly here and not just a dream. More than once Christine found herself pulled her to his chest in a possessive grasp, and she brushed his dark hair back with loving fingers. "Stop that…unhand me sir or we will never get breakfast." He bent and kissed the tender spot between her throat and shoulder in answer, his golden eyes glowing.
Later that morning Christine packed the remainder of the larder into a covered basket while Erik left to secure the passages to the underground house, knowing it would be many days, perhaps even weeks or months, until their return. He had already locked the entrances to his study and lab. Thoughtfully Christine placed new candles and matches on the table by the entrance and refilled the lamps. Dust cloths covered the furniture; the walls and shelves were bereft of décor and books. The rooms held a forlorn, forgotten air.
She found him in the music room standing by the old piano, his long bony hands resting on the fallboard, with something akin to grief in his eyes. Christine came to stand beside him, one arm around his waist and her head against his shoulder.
"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I hate leaving it down here too." She stroked the wood gently. "We spent a lot of time in this room."
"The damp will ruin it, I am afraid. It was a faithful friend to me for many years." Silently Erik pulled the heavy green draperies over the old instrument, his hands lingering a moment longer.
She held the lantern aloft as Erik pulled the heavy wooden door shut and bolted it, before sliding the mock stone façade in place that concealed the entrance. Christine walked in front of him, and periodically Erik disappeared, testing the snares or traps along the Rue Scribe route. He had warned her rather harshly to not come down this pathway again without him. "There should be no need for you to return here without me," he said firmly. "I have set traps on each of the routes; no one should be able to access the underground rooms. Promise me, Christine, you will not attempt to do so."
"Of course," she'd responded.
A short carriage ride later they entered the apartment. Morning sun fell through the windows, a golden haze of light. Christine took the basket and busied herself unpacking and setting the kitchen to rights while Erik propped the doors to his study open with the heavy brass griffins, and removed his jacket. They were home.
The summer season at the Opera was passing rapidly and had held a number of successes. The musical evenings, a combination of popular orchestral pieces, arias, duets, and solos had proven very popular with the culture-loving Parisian society. The themed events had drawn in nearly full houses with each performance, and the company members were delighted with the various opportunities to showcase the talent of the individual performers. Burgmüller's La Péri had opened to a near full house as well, and Christine had come to watch the ballet, slipping backstage to congratulate her corps de ballet friends. Meg had been full of chatter and high spirits, and even La Sorelli had condescended to smile and acknowledge her presence with a nod, flushed with success and multiple admirers. Few frightening events had occurred recently, but there was still talk amongst the crew of tapping sounds and an eerie light and of a cloaked figure which moved through the darkness after hours, only to disappear upon investigation.
Slowly healing from his ordeal, Raoul began to spend time again at the Palais Garnier. Though he attended performances regularly, his real objective was finding Christine. He had pressed the managers and Charles Dumont, the director, but they had only said that Christine had requested a month's leave from the house and would return mid-July.
On several occasions, Luigi Bartoldi, the tenor who had replaced Sr Piangi, had made a point of locating and befriending the younger naval officer. In Luigi, Raoul found a sympathetic ear for his frustrations. Luigi had become adept at manipulating the young man's anger at both Christine and the former opera ghost, smoothly directing conversations to events of last autumn, and Raoul had let slip more than one bit of intriguing information. Raoul, it seemed, was convinced an entrance to that spectre's passageways lay in Christine's dressing room, a thought which both excited and irritated the tenor. The section of women's dressing areas lay in a different hallway from his own, and the doors were kept locked. Christine's room was located at the end of the hallway near a juncture of thick supporting walls, a seemingly likely place for a concealed passage, but the door was secure and thus far he had been unable to access it.
The weeks that followed their marriage passed in a haze of bliss. Their lovemaking became more passionate, as uncertain and shy, they discovered together the pleasures of each other's body. But always, always, in the dark, for though she learned with kisses and caresses every inch of him, Erik simply could not bear her gaze. Or perhaps it was his own, she wondered. The nightmares grew less frequent but always horrific, and he would never speak of them the next morning. Night after night he would wake, crying out and thrashing, as if warding off blows, and she would cradle him against her body afterwards until he could stop shaking. Even in sleep, the lines on his face did not smooth away, though his watchful, severe, forbidding expression would relax somewhat, leaving him austere and weary. Erik slept on his back or left side always, avoiding any pressure on the damaged bones and flesh of his skull.
Her gentle affection began to slowly ease his decades-deep craving for simple human touch, and gradually Erik too grew more confident in his approach to his young bride. Christine could hear his love expressed for her in the music, the way his long fingers stroked the keyboard or caressed the violin. Just watching him play, swaying slightly, his eyes shut and caught up in the music, was often enough to send a pool of liquid heat to her very core.
One day returning from an afternoon's shopping, Christine was surprised to find a white envelope lying on the floor of their entryway. Frowning, she scooped it up and turned it over to examine it after depositing her reticule and hat on the entryway table. Heavy paper, embossed with the name of a Parisian publishing house, and unfamiliar handwriting. Puzzled, she neatly slit the top and began to read.
Dear Sir and Madame,
Allow me please to introduce myself. My name is Joseph Allard, and I have had the privilege on several occasions now of overhearing the superb musicianship issuing from your apartment. Forgive me for being so forward, but I must ask—are you the same E. Rouillard whose name has appeared as the composer on the enchanting arias and stirring orchestral numbers I have been so impressed with at the summer evening concerts series at the Opera Garnier? I am employed by a music-publishing house, and inquiries into this composer have come to naught. I am very much interested in making the professional acquaintance of M Rouillard, pursuant to publishing his works, if he would be so inclined. If indeed you are he, I may be contacted at the address below, and remain
Your humble servant
Joseph Allard
Christine raised shining eyes to the frowning stoic man before her. "He wants to publish your songs, Erik! Isn't this marvelous?"
But her husband merely folded his arms. "Perhaps." She followed him into the study where he took off the thin leather mask, rubbing his face tiredly. "Perhaps I have also had enough notoriety and do not wish it."
She slid her arms around his slim waist and kissed him between his shoulder blades. "I will support you in whatever you want," she assured him, "but I think your music should be shared, it is so wonderful. And," she rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, "I would be so very proud of you. Think it over, Maestro." Christine stood on tiptoe to give him one last kiss and departed for the kitchen.
Erik sighed. He was content with his life, his apartment, his wife. The consulting work he did with architectural firms brought in sufficient money. The occasional evening performances of his violin or orchestral works were enough recognition. Publishing those and any other pieces meant exposure to another person or even a group of other persons …meetings, contracts, agents. He took another deep breath, making an effort to curb his temper and sarcastic comments. Christine only wanted the best for him, he knew, but this was a step he would need to think long and hard about.
The summer day was bright and sunny, and Meg, arriving before she did, had claimed a table under the awning's shade. Once the waiter left with their orders, Meg leaned forward, eyes sparkling.
"How are you, Christine? I've missed you so much."
"I am fine." Meg studied her anxiously. Christine wore a new gown of teal and gold that turned her eyes sapphire blue. Her creamy skin had a wild-rose tint, and her eyes were smiling.
"Married life agrees with you," Meg said wickedly, and Christine blushed. She leaned back. "We were worried for you, you know, marrying him," Meg said somberly, then squeezed her fingers. "I'm so glad to see you happy."
"I am happy, Meg," Christine said softly, her eyes bright. "Tell me all the news from the Opera House. I will go back next week, but it feels as if I've been gone for years!"
Meg cheerfully relayed all the gossip of the previous weeks, the little flirtations of the ballet girls, the screen painter who had run off unexpectedly with a seamstress, the ballets and operas rumored to be debated for autumn performances, what the managers had said, and of the new summer dress her mother was having made, before turning to a more serious topic.
"Raoul was there again yesterday, still asking after you." Her friend's face had gone tight as Meg studied her. "I've told him and so has Mamman, that you don't wish to see him, but he's being most insistent. We've not told him anything about you, don't fret. But Christine, I think you'll have to meet him eventually. You can't avoid him forever, and he is still a patron of the Opera."
Unsurprisingly, Nadir Khan became their first houseguest, stopping by twice after dinner to join them for chess and conversation. Christine had made tea and set out salty crackers and cheese for the Persian while Erik enjoyed a glass of brandy. The verbal fencing match between her husband and his guest had proven amusing, and Christine had enjoyed both evenings, curled up with a book and watching the game progress. Emboldened at this social occurrence, Christine had asked if she could invite Meg and Madame Giry to afternoon tea. Reluctantly he'd assented, and Christine had spent a great deal of time since then making sure every detail was perfect. She'd ordered little cakes from the bakery and polished everything, ironed table linens to crisp perfection, and set out the delicate tea and coffee service Erik had given her as a wedding gift. When the day arrived Erik had greeted Meg and Madame with a stiff nod and immediately retreated to his study, shutting the doors. Though disappointed he had not joined them, Christine passed an enjoyable afternoon with her friends and began to entertain thoughts of further such happenings.
Her husband, characteristically, did not.
The first time she outlined plans for a dinner party, inviting friends from the opera house he had listened silently. Eventually his baleful expression slowed her chatter.
"Erik?"
"I will not do this. I will not participate in this…this…farce. Erik does not want people in his apartment…he only wants Christine. No others."
"But why?" The abrupt dismissal of her plans had Christine frowning. He hated it when she was disappointed, but on this there would be no compromise.
"Because I do not wish it," he hissed. "You would put Erik on display, have people staring at him? No, Christine."
She hadn't seen him this agitated for some time, and caught his hands. Black eyes glittered down angrily, and she could tell he was visibly trying to calm himself. "I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't think of it that way. I'm sorry, Erik. Of course we won't." Fighting back her disappointment and tears, Christine mutely held out her arms and embraced him. A moment later she felt Erik stiffly return the gesture before shutting himself away in his study.
In her excitement and pride in the delights of having her own home at last, Christine had forgotten that her husband was still a very damaged man, that their life was, in many ways, only a façade of normalcy. Erik would in all likelihood never be comfortable around other people. Even after these weeks together, he would retreat to his study for hours at a time, avoided meals, and flinched at unexpected touches. He was trying to change for her sake; she would be patient.
Luigi threw the cards on the table in disgust. Another losing hand. He knocked back the last of his gin before rising unsteadily to his feet. Moretti—however had the man tracked him here from Roma?—would not be pleased. In the anteroom, Luigi grabbed his hat and stick and paused to survey the street. If the truth were known, there were others aside from Moretti who might be pleased to find him alone on the back streets, other figures pressing him for debts. If only he could find the treasure beneath the opera house, he could settle these old scores. Pulling up his collar, Luigi staggered out into the night.
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