Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Phantom of the Opera. Only original stuff is mine.
AN: I hope that everyone is enjoying this story and will review. I live for feedback! Thanks!
Chapter 12: Why I Didn't See It Before:
Sighing, I sat in my bed and listened to the sound of dripping water. Erik had left hours ago, and I felt terribly alone. Even traveling to Paris from England, I had never been alone; Papa had always slept in the next room, and I could always hear his snores coming through the walls. Here in the caverns, I'd always known that Erik was there, as he tended to have a certain presence around him when he was here, lurking around the caves. At night, the sounds of his music carried over into my room as he played; light violin notes or the deep, pulsing sound of the organ, it always found its way to me, and I had the great pleasure of falling asleep to it.
Another sigh escaped my lips as I rolled over onto my side, my eyes drifting over to the open doorway. I had no actual door there, but Erik had kindly put up a large, thick curtain that was a good substitute. Since Erik had no intention of disturbing me here in my own personal sanctuary, there was no need for him to knock and ask for permission to enter. I was quite surprised to discover that I had as much privacy here as I did at home with my father.
'But am I better off here than I was with Papa?' I thought, my eyebrows coming together as I puzzled over the matter.
At home, I had many servants, books, and, of course, my beloved father there with me whenever I needed him. The servants were all very kind and carried out whatever I asked them to, and when I felt the need for company, I never hesitated to summon several maids to sit and talk with me for a few hours. Grandmother would have an apoplexy if she found out I had become friends with 'the help,' but they had so much more sense than the noblewomen my age!
'All the noblewomen can talk about is fashion, husbands, and money.' I gave an unladylike snort of contempt and amusement. 'Or, if they are married, they boast about how their children are growing or how they are improving their homes with expensive decorations.'
At lease the conversations with my cleaning maids were useful. They would talk about how it wouldn't be wise to wear fashions because it looked just plain foolish, or that tightening the corset would only make a woman unable to breathe and nearly kill her. The wisest thing they told me, though, was that money did not always buy happiness; if it did, then why were so many noblewomen wearing false smiles along with their expensive gowns and jewels?
Goodness, how I missed those girls! All of my maids had nearly burst into tears after hearing I was leaving for Paris, and I had nearly cried along with them. Although I had Meg to talk with as a friend, she was the prima ballerina, and always had rehearsals and practice to attend. At home, at least one or two maids had been free to talk during one part of the day or another, and I was sorely feeling the need for female companionship.
'Is this how Erik felt for most of his life?' I asked myself. 'It must be. How would it feel to grow up without love or friends? How does a man go throughout life without friendship or kindness?'
It was unthinkable, this idea of someone being shunned because of their face. I was positive that Erik's deformity could not possibly be that bad, and even if it was, I knew he had at least half of a 'real' face. Even with half a mask that covered up the right side of his face, I could tell that he had most of a nose. If he hadn't, he wouldn't have been able to sing in his opera or talk without sounding nasal; since he could clearly both talk and sing without difficulty, his facial flaw could (literally) be merely skin deep.
Of course, I wasn't going to ask him to take off his mask just to prove my theory; I had heard how angry he had been when he had been exposed onstage, and I did not want to end up dancing at the end of a rope because of my curiosity! If Erik wanted to show me his face, then he would do so under his own terms, not because of my forceful hand. That still didn't stop my mind from painting images of what he might actually look like, though…
The grating noise of the large portcullis rising from the lake made me sit up in bed. Reaching out a hand, I pulled up the lace curtain and listened as the sound of a boat being guided through water reached my ears. Erik was home! Hopefully the evening had gone well, and if it had, then perhaps he would let me go home back to my father! If we had a patron, so much the better!
Leaping out of bed, I put my feet into my slippers and fumbled to find my robe in the darkness. I had blown out most of the candles ages ago, so the room was fairly dark. However, there was one lit candle on the far side of the room, so I managed to carefully locate my robe and put it on without any unfortunate accidents or episodes. Once I deemed myself fit, I made my way out of my room and into the main caverns.
Erik had just finished poling up to the edge of the rock and was attaching the boat to shore. With a swish of his cloak, he was on land, and as he approached the hallway leading to his room, his fierce green eyes looked up and landed on me.
The sight of Aria standing there in nothing but a nightgown and robe made him pause. Her hair was loose, flowing elegantly down her back in dark brown waves that shimmered from the light off of the lake. She was like the mysterious Lady of the Lake in King Arthur's tale, and in the back of his mind, Erik was beginning to paint a portrait that would capture this moment forever.
Blinking furiously, Erik fought his way back to the present. "What are you doing awake?" he demanded, not wanting to be stuck in his fantasy much longer. "It is well-past midnight! You should be asleep in bed!"
He tried to keep himself from rushing to Aria's side as she stood there, looking at him with wide, dark chocolate-brown eyes. "I heard you come back," she whispered, looking downwards towards the stone floor. "I wanted to see how the evening went, but if you are tired and angry, I will ask about it tomorrow." She took a step back towards the red curtain that hung across her doorway. "Goodnight."
A stab of guilt pierced his heart. "No, wait!" Erik called out before he could stop himself. Aria stopped and looked at him. "I must change out of my formal attire. Would you join me in the kitchen in ten minutes?"
She gave him a small, timid smile before making her way towards their meeting place. As she did so, Erik began inwardly cursing this new-found conscience of his as he stalked to his room to change. Right now, he didn't know if having Aria Craven down here with him was a gift or a curse.
I knew that Erik was not happy about talking together on the subject of the opening night, but I still felt cheerful about it. There was the promise of my returning to my father, of course, but there was also the prospect of being informed about the evening's events and fashions. With Erik's deep, beautiful voice telling me everything I wanted to know, it was bound to be an interesting night.
While he changed, I put on a pot of tea and pulled out a plate of pastries that I had made earlier that night, right after Erik had gone. Since I'd had nothing to do, and since I was angry about being left behind, I'd decided to bake. For some reason, baking was something I tended to do while I was angry, and every time I made something while upset, the end result was always perfect. If I tried to make something while I was happy, sad, or calm, my treats turned out as it normally should, but for one odd reason or another, baking something while angry made things turn out better than it should.
While the water heated, I tried to decide which tea would go well with the tiny jam-filled tarts. I placed two cups and saucers on the table and chose a calming tea to help soothe Erik's nerves. When the kettle whistled, I put a few spoonfuls into the bubbling water to steep. Everything was ready by the time Erik arrived, and when he sat down, I poured him a cup of tea as he stared at the pastries.
"Did you make these?" he asked, inspecting the plate carefully with his eyes.
"Yes, I did," I replied while pushing a filled cup towards him.
Erik accepted the cup and took a sip. One hand reached up and hovered above the plate for a moment before picking up a tart. Giving it one last glance, he popped it into his mouth and began to chew. I watched in amusement as green eyes went wide before closing in bliss.
"How are they?" I asked, keeping my voice soft. His only reply was to open his eyes and reach for another tart as he sipped his tea. 'Well, perhaps Mrs. Gardener had been right: the way to a man's heart is through his stomach!'
As his second tart vanished into his mouth, Erik gestured for me to sit down. I gladly did so and leaned forwards, eager to hear how the evening went. Unfortunately, I had to wait for Erik to eat half of the pastries before he would finally speak to me.
"You have a talent with baking," he said as he wiped out a handkerchief and wiped his mouth. "These are delicious. If you continue to make more in the future, I would be reluctant to let you go."
The feeling of alarm I felt inside at his words faded when I saw his mouth tug upwards slightly. 'Oh, goodness, he's joking with me!' I thought as I weakly smiled back at him.
Then the amusement faded on Erik's face. "Seriously, mademoiselle, I am afraid I cannot let you go as of yet," he said, shaking his head solemnly. "Your father and uncle have not yet secured a patron for the Opera House, though they have several interested parties. Until someone formally comes forward and decides to finance the Populaire, I am afraid that you must remain with me, if only to as a way for me to get my way in the future."
I let my shoulders sag in disappointment. I had truly hoped that someone in the wealthy class would offer to be a patron, but no one had. Still, there was hope that someone might, just might, step forward to do just that; I would merely have to wait and be patient. Besides, living with Erik was not so horrible; he was not hostile towards me, and he had never really harmed me in any physical way. Oh, he sometimes lost his temper, but that I expected. If he tried to harm me with his fists, though, I would not hesitate to smash something heavy over his head in order to defend myself.
Across from me, Erik cleared his throat, causing me to look up at him. "I am sorry for denying you the right to see the opera, but I could describe it to you, if you'd like."
My interest was peaked, and I found myself leaning forwards, listening as Erik described every aspect of the performance.
Never in his life had Erik made anyone laugh before…or, at least, not intentionally. Many of the shows the gypsies had displayed him in had made the crowd laugh at him and his horrid face, right before rotten food was thrown at him. This time, however, was different. He was relaying the events of the evening to Aria, and she was laughing at his critiques about the dancers and singers.
"Oh, goodness," she was saying as she wiped a sleeve over her eyes. Tears of laughter were running down her cheeks, and for some reason, it made him happy to see her laugh. "Oh, that is wonderful…you should be a critic for one of the newspapers, you are so much more truthful and humorous than they are!"
Erik felt himself preen at her compliment. "Thank you," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Of course, that would be the exact reason I could never be hired to work for them." He snorted and shook his head. "Honestly, the critics of the Paris newspapers are as thick-headed and foolish about opera as children. They do not know what is good and what is bad, only praising one singer over another just because her face is attractive or her other 'assets' are noticeable."
Aria laughed again, though this time she kept her tears under control. "Yes, that is true," she said with one last giggle. "Of course, I know something about music, as my grandmother took me to several countries to see and hear music and opera at its best, but there are others who would not know a good performance if you shoved it down their throats."
"Exactly," Erik said, nodding in agreement. "To be brutally honest, Aria, your father and uncle have hired a relatively good singer, if only she would not try and force the notes out. She sounds like a cat having its tail stepped on…by a horse! And good Lord, the dancers…"
Another bout of laughter erupted from her lips. "Are they really that bad?" Aria asked. "I mean, Madame Giry is supposed to be a wonderful teacher, and she seems strict enough to keep them in hand. Surely she has her ballerinas work their feet to the bone at every rehearsal."
He offered his empty cup, which she quickly refilled. "Yes, Madame Giry is very good at what she does, but there is only so much she can teach them." He took a sip of tea, savoring the warmth it gave him in the coolness of the caverns. "The dancers work hard, but some do not work hard enough to learn the routines and merely try their best to look like the others do. Little Meg Giry, for instance, is one that the others try to emulate, but fail in their tasks to do so. Little Giry works like mad to stay in her position as prima ballerina, and to please her mother; thus, she is successful."
"It's because she has motivation," Aria said while pouring herself another cup of tea. She then set the pot down and reached for a jam tart. "She has something to work for, and so she does it. Perhaps if the other girls had something to work for, or at least someone to please besides the ballet mistress, they would work harder?"
He was silent for a moment as he thought over her words. Perhaps if he asked the managers to give them a little monetary bonus for every performance done well, the ballet rats would work harder. It was worth considering, and might be worth it, if only to make the operas better. As for the lead soprano…a few well-placed notes in her dressing room to practice more often should do the trick.
"What about the party? What was everyone doing or wearing?" Aria asked as she bit into her tart.
Erik barely bit back a sigh. The last thing he wanted to talk about was feminine fashion, due to the fact that he knew nothing about the subject. But if fashion was what she wanted…then that was what she was going to receive.
As Erik described all of the gowns, jewels, and hairstyles, I found myself lost in his voice. When he had been talking about the music of the opera, it was as though he were speaking from his soul; his very being seemed to glow with excitement and knowledge of it. I believed every word that he said, especially when he criticized the lead soprano and the dancers on their flaws. I knew that what he said was true, as I had often heard the leading lady sing at rehearsals, right before I had been brought here.
'Bad enough that the woman has an accent that could ruin a perfectly good opera,' I thought as Erik described one woman's diamond-and-sapphire necklace that clashed with her bright green gown.
The dancers…well, the only truly talented one there was Meg, and that was because she had probably been taught to dance since the day she could imitate whatever her mother showed her. No doubt Meg was also probably born with talent, as her mother had been a dancer for nearly all of her life. Since the day of their arrival at the Opera House, the other ballerinas had had a great deal to learn, and not as much time to learn it. In a way, I pitied them for that, but knew that if they wanted to succeed, they needed to work to get far in the theater world.
Just then, I heard something chime in the background, the noise stopping Erik mid-sentence as he turned his head to look for the source. The chiming rang out three times, then stopped. Erik rose from his seat and went out into the main cavern, leaving me puzzled as to what the sound was. He returned momentarily with a small smile on his lips.
"It is late," he declared, holding up a small watch. "I designed this to chime when it grew too late in the evening to continue composing. It is meant to signal that it was time to stop for the night and to go to bed and rest."
Well, if the watch was made to chime at such a late hour, it was no wonder I had never heard it before! I was usually asleep by eleven o' clock, at the latest, but Erik tended to keep late hours as he worked on his music; small wonder that he needed something to tell him to go to bed.
I quickly stood up from my chair and reached for the dirty dishes. "I'll put these away before I go to bed," I said while stacking the tea cups. "You've had a long evening, and should get some sleep."
Erik shook his head. "It is late for us both. The dishes can wait until morning," he sternly replied as he walked over to me. His hands gently took the cups and put them down on the table. "Go to bed and sleep as long as you like. You know I rise late, so you should as well, if only this once."
"Thank you," I said, giving him a tired smile. "Will I see you in the morning?"
He was silent for a moment before shaking his head. "I have business to take care of tomorrow," he replied, shifting from foot to foot as he looked at the ground. "However, I will be back for lunch…"
Green eyes glanced upwards and met mine. I felt my heart swell inside me, a burning warmth suddenly spreading through my veins to the far reaches of my fingers and toes. A blush filled my cheeks as I ducked my head, trying to hide my embarrassment.
"I will see you tomorrow afternoon, then," I muttered, my eyes staring deep into Erik's.
"Goodnight, Aria," he whispered, quickly backing out of the kitchen and into the main cavern.
By the time I followed him, Erik was gone.
Lying in bed, Erik started at the ceiling and wondered what had happened. Why did he act like a besotted schoolboy whenever Aria laughed, smiled, or blushed? After Christine, he had sworn never to love another woman; after all, who in the world could compare to his Angel? Christine had been everything he desired in a woman: gifted in song and music, beautiful, sweet, and with the most innocent brown eyes he had ever seen.
'Aria has brown eyes.' The sudden thought rose unbidden in the back of his head.
Furious, Erik pushed the thought away. Yes, Aria had the same color of eyes that Christine had, and the same hair color as well. But where Christine's hair had been curly, Aria's brown locks were straight and flowing, like a stream in spring sunlight. Aria was also shorter than Christine, and not as thin and wisp-like, nor as graceful; instead, Aria bore the curves of a full-grown woman, a figure that many woman were sure to envy.
"Stop it!" Erik hissed to himself, rolling over onto his side.
Why could he not get Aria out of his head? For five years Christine had been at the forefront of his thoughts, and now his memories of her were being replaced by those of another woman! How could he betray her memory that way?
'But it's not really a betrayal,' whispered that voice again. 'She left you for her Viscompt, remember? She loved him and married him five years ago, if you remember the newspaper printings. You are betraying nothing to a woman who never loved you as you wished she could.'
Clutching his head, Erik tried to shut out the voice, but failed. Whatever it was, it was right. Christine had never loved him, or if she had, it had been the love for an Angel believed to be her dead father. Once she had seen him as he truly was, she had been horrified; he should have seen that as the first sign that she could never love him or be with him.
'But I was desperate,' he thought, a tear slipping down his face.
Alone for so many years and shunned by the world, Erik had felt that Christine was his last chance at finding someone to love, someone to be with him always in the darkness of these caves. He had heard her clear, beautiful voice singing a hymn for her father, and believed that their love of music would be enough to bond them together. Music had always been something he'd loved, and in sharing that love with Christine, he'd hoped to change that love of music into a love she could feel for him. For ten years Erik had trained and molded his Angel into the perfect soprano, and just when he had gathered the courage to reveal himself to her, that fop the Viscompt had appeared to woo his childhood sweetheart, Christine. And now he was alone again.
'Not really alone,' that little voice whispered. 'There is a very attractive young woman sleeping just down the hall from you…a woman who has been kind to you, and has talked and laughed with you in a way no one else has. When had Christine ever done that?'
That little question made Erik stop and think. Christine had thought of him as a creature without emotion, an Angel or a Ghost. Aria, however, saw him and treated him as a man; she engaged in intelligent conversations with him, she listened to him when he spoke, and she laughed delightfully at his words. Perhaps it was time to move on and forget the past.
And perhaps Aria Craven would be just the woman to save him from his solitude…
AN: Aw, poor Erik! I hope you liked the chapter and will review! Thanks!