Ch 3
Erik followed several steps behind as Rene Monteclaire labored up the narrow stairway of the Master's House. The old man had droned out directions to the parlor, the solarium, the greenhouses and gardens, servant's quarters, great room, dining room… There were a lot of useless rooms, Erik thought wryly.
"Normally this is not my duty, Monsieur," Rene said as he stopped at the top of the stairs and sighed. He didn't bother to turn and acknowledge the house owner as he trudged down the hall to the last door at the end. "Your room, Monsieur Belmont," Rene yawned. "Philippe will be up shortly."
The scent permeating from the room was overwhelming. It must have been closed off for some time, Erik thought, though the servants did their best to add cheer to the room by placing roses on the bureau to freshen the stale air.
"Who is Philippe?" asked Erik, the first words he had said since they entered the house.
"Philippe Dupree. Your butler, Monsieur Belmont."
Erik nodded and turned his back to the coachman. He wasn't certain how to react to his newly given surname. As it was, he was rather dissatisfied with his surroundings. Nothing was familiar, save the smell of roses downstairs in the parlor and now within this darkened room.
Rene lit a lamp and turned it up, then moved to light another but Erik told him it was enough. Rene shrugged and blew out the match, grumbling over how dark the room remained.
"I suspect the smell will improve soon, Monsieur," Rene said with his back still turned. "Once there is someone amongst the living occupying these quarters again I suspect it will be quite pleasant here."
Once Erik's eyes adjusted to the dim light he saw that the main bedroom was simply decorated, with several unlit lamps and a double bed against the wall. There was a bright white and yellow quilt on top of the bed and several pillows propped up that looked quite inviting.
The meager light played against the fabric walls, casting a soft glow onto the brown and sage floral wallpaper. Everything appeared plain and cold from the small desk in the corner to the cherry wood bedside tables. His gaze repeatedly returned to the double bed. If it was possible for his mood to descend any further it did when he considered the waste of having a double bed in his room.
Apparently Madame Giry had not seen the manor for herself as she assumed this would suit him. There was nothing familiar within the home, nothing that provided him comfort.
"Madame Giry sent a note, Monsieur Belmont. It is on the dresser."
Erik made no reply. He fingered the engagement ring in his overcoat pocket which Christine had returned to him. He checked his pocket repeatedly to make certain the ring was still with him, fearing he would lose the only thing he had left of his former angel. How distant that night now seemed, almost like a wisp of dream. It had only been a week yet it was as though she had knifed him open mere moments ago.
"May I take your cloak?" Rene questioned.
"No," Erik answered.
The man continued to linger a moment longer. "Forgive me. I am Rene Monteclaire. We are pleased to have you with us at last, Monsieur Belmont."
"Do not call me Belmont. I am Erik."
-o-
Erik refused dinner that night. He was too exhausted and irritated from travel to sit before strangers. He had seen the dining room and its long, empty table and knew it would never be occupied. He had no desire to make acquaintances. Wryly he thought he would simply exist at the manor until his days ran out and he could be buried.
"Beneath the earth once more," he muttered to himself. His stomach growled but his mood was so sullen that the thought of food repulsed him. Each second was like another stone added to this beautiful mansion in which he found himself imprisoned.
Still in his traveling clothes, he sat in a dark and unfamiliar room, on an unfamiliar bed surrounded by scents so foreign he was certain he would never find comfort at Belmont Manor. He had journeyed from one hell into another with no escape in sight.
Feeling the start of a headache, he walked to the window and peered out at the moonlit night. Dormant rose bushes clung to the stone exterior. In the summer he suspected the fragrance would be overwhelming, as there were many trellises of roses tangled with brown ivy. Beneath the window was a small garden with empty urns and small bushes which had been trimmed back at the end of autumn.
Through the fog of his breath on the window Erik watched Rene Monteclaire's stout form trudge toward the cluster of servant's homes located between the main house and the stables. His fingers grazed the smooth glass and he shivered at the cold beneath his fingertips. Thus far nothing had changed save for the location. He was still separated from the rest of the world, this time trapped in a cage above the ground.
Since the room was so stuffy from being closed off Erik decided to allow fresh air into his private quarters, hoping this would lift his spirits or settle him down for the night so that he could sleep.
Once the window was raised he bent and stuck his head out into the night, breathing in the crisp, clean scent of late winter. His lungs hurt but he didn't mind the sharp pain. Erik didn't know why but it felt good. It felt better than feeling nothing at all, and since the opera fire and Christine's departure he had become a shell.
It hurt to think of her. He could still see her face in his mind and it made him want to cry out. For hours he had tried to pinpoint exactly where he had made a mistake but it was impossible. At times he swore it was at birth, and at moments he wanted to believe it was at the very end, when he had sunken so low that he decided to steal that poor girl from the stage.
"Tea, Monsieur Belmont?" a woman asked.
Erik rammed the top of his head into the window at the unexpected voice. He stifled a curse as he slunk back into the room, the top of his skull throbbing and little black spots dancing before his eyes.
"Oh. Oh my, are you hurt?" the young woman asked. In her panic she nearly threw the tray on the dresser top as she rushed toward him, then backed away as he motioned her off. Her left hand bumped the tray and a splash of steaming water lapped onto her skin, which caused her to suck in a breath.
He turned, his head still hooded so that she saw nothing of his appearance. "I'll survive," he replied as he rubbed the top of his head.
"My goodness, you could have killed yourself."
"Hardly," he spit back. "Why are you sneaking about?"
The young woman looked taken aback by his comment. "I knocked, Monsieur Belmont," she explained. "You did not answer."
"Not exactly an invitation to enter," he said under his breath.
"I didn't know you were in, Monsieur." She reached for the lamp, still looking at him as she did.
"Leave it. It's fine as it is," he growled.
"It's so dark…"
"Do you think I am ignorant? I realize it is dark! Now leave it."
He watched as she shook out her scalded, throbbing hand. "I apologize," she said softly. "I just thought you would be out for the night, Monsieur."
"And where would I be?"
She pressed her lips together, standing a little straighter. This nameless servant had obviously not expected to be scolded for bringing him tea and making light conversation. With a shrug, she spoke. "Perhaps out for a walk to inspect the grounds. They are quite lovely, even at night. With a wrap it's quite enjoyable."
The rationale of her reply irritated him. "Was that all?"
"Yes, Monsieur." She stepped forward, her eyes narrowed curiously as she attempted to see his face.
"You may leave."
"But dinner—"
"I said you may leave. Can you not hear?"
The girl stared hard at him for a moment, her face flushed and lips tight as though no one had ever spoken to her in such a short manner before. She curtsied stiffly, arms akimbo.
"I apologize for the intrusion."
"Make certain it does not happen again, do you understand?"
"Yes, Monsieur," she said with another nervous curtsy.
He snorted, mumbling under his breath, tired and sore from travel and aggravated by this child intruding on what was to be his private space. He had no desire to see anyone, least of all a bumbling girl.
"Have a pleasant night alone here," she added, her tone somewhat condescending. "I will not trouble you again, Monsieur."
Erik exhaled and crossed his arms, watching as she arranged the cup and bowls of milk and sugar on the tray. Her movements were ridged, her face set in a determined scowl.
My God, he thought, pulling on the hood to be certain it still covered his face, she is genuinely upset. What a peculiar girl.
The longer she remained in the room the more uncomfortable Erik became following his outburst. If this was to be his new life he needed to put forth greater effort. He looked at her and felt a small tug of remorse at his heart.
"Mademoiselle? Your name, if you would be so kind?" Erik said, surprising himself by asking her a question in a pleasant tone.
"Sophia Patrice Dupree," she said haughtily despite her black dress and white apron.
He found her air of confidence amusing. She was a pretty girl, he noted, not that it much mattered. Perhaps her nose was a little too long and her eyes...there was something strange about her eyes, as though she wasn't looking where he thought. Exactly what was peculiar he hadn't quite discovered, but he was in no position to go about listing the faults of others.
"Thank you, Sophia Patrice Dupree," he replied. "I apologize for being short with you."
She nodded, still attempting to see beneath the hood. "You have had a long day of travel. I suppose it is only natural to desire solitude. I'm certain that after a long day on the road I would not want to be bothered either."
The last thing he wanted was to be alone but he nodded nonetheless, satisfied at last in the conversation.
The girl offered her hand with a smile as a truce but he hesitated, his hand recoiling from hers. Her eyes traveled up and he could have sworn they penetrated through the deep hood, locking on his eyes, and past his flesh into something much deeper. A soul, he thought, if he ever had a soul to begin with.
"I see," she said softly, watching his hand return to his side. "Good night, Monsieur."
Erik owed her no explanation but still he wanted to say something, anything to lessen the insult, the mockery of her denied gesture. He was still attempting to form the words in his mouth when the door slammed shut and the girl named Sophia stomped down the stairs.
With a weary sigh Erik sat on the end of the bed and rubbed his temples. Not even an hour had passed and already he had made an enemy.
"Perfect," he muttered under his breath. "Bloody perfect."
He was never going to grow accustomed to that girl.