For all of you rereading the original: you will notice major changes here. Please review and tell me what you think. Also, welcome new readers!
Ch 7
Sophia had spent weeks rehearsing her routine throughout the household. Before Monsieur Belmont's arrival she would walk from the parlor to the kitchen with her eyes closed, her hand skimming the narrow walls as she mentally counted the steps.
She walked up and down the stairs with her eyes closed as she slowly forced herself to memorize which step was uneven and which hallway floorboard was loose. Day by day she relied on her other senses until she could see the manor in her mind's eye.
While she folded sheets in the vacated bedchamber she thought about how she had sat motionless for a long while after the physician told her that her eyesight would not improve.
"How long do I have?" she asked.
The doctor shrugged. "You still see, no?"
She nodded, her throat too tight to answer. At first she thought she would simply need spectacles for reading, as her vision was blurred when she sat at night reading or knitting. Then slowly it changed. When she was out in bright light she saw halos in her vision.
"You're very young, Mademoiselle Dupree. Your eyesight may not deteriorate further for many years," the physician replied.
Sophia folded the last of the sheets and tucked them away in a chest at the foot of the bed. She glanced around the room and sighed.
It could have been much worse, she knew. She could have been completely blind. At least she could still recognize people from short distances.
As Sophia walked from the bedroom at the end of the hall and passed Monsieur Belmont's private quarters, she paused a moment and listened. She could hear him tapping his hand on the desktop and humming. Composing, she thought with a wistful smile.
She stood at the top of the stairs and closed her eyes a moment, bracing herself for the walk down. She could still see his face hours after she had spoken to him in his private quarters.
His eyes were so haunted, so filled with sadness. She had never seen such a face, regardless of its scars. From their brief encounters she knew he was gruff and defensive, though she couldn't bring herself to blame him for his actions. People were cruel and his eyes told a story of a child who had experienced the worst of humankind. A child who had been replaced by a bitter and lonely man, Sophia thought to herself.
She walked into the kitchen and wondered if he would be a good teacher. Perhaps it would draw him out of his shell, she thought. There didn't seem to be much further he could hide.
-0-
Erik hoped his first full day at Belmont Manor would be the hardest, although his heart ached knowing nothing would ever change no matter how long he lived there. He would live in the spacious house and occupy the single room until his last breath was drawn. The thought made him want to scream, to destroy the manuscripts of music he had labored over throughout the day.
For the life of him, Erik could find no salvation in writing page after page of music if no one would dare to listen to a single note, if no one would dare to share his love. While he wrote he thought of Christine, and the longer he thought of her the more bitter he became.
Periodically he rose and paced the room, smearing ink into his fingertips as he passed the mirror and double bed. His emotions gravitated from loving her unconditionally for the one gift she had given him, to extreme rage as he thought of how she had left him.
Each time he passed the mirror he cursed his reflection. It was easier to blame the right side of his face than the broken, cowardly man hiding inside.
When evening approached a tray was delivered to his room by a woman who breathed loud and hard. Erik didn't bother turning to acknowledge her presence. He sat hunched over his music, his face contorted as the nameless, faceless woman left his meal and told him to enjoy. He didn't understand why but he would have preferred Sophia. He wasn't fond of her but at least she was familiar.
Miserably, he dined alone, feeling like an animal that had ensnared itself in a trap. The house staff dined below him, their voices surprisingly clear through the floorboards. Monsieur Monteclaire and a servant woman named Anna were the loudest of all.
As he expected, their conversation waltzed around where their new master had come from and why he had arrived with less than a day's notice.
"Such strange people come from Paris," Anna said. "He didn't even turn when I brought him his dinner."
"He's a very private person," Philippe interjected.
"Did you hear about the opera fire? Poor Madame Giry! Her entire life was in the Opera Populaire and for it to no longer exist?" Monteclaire said.
Erik felt a sting of shame and guilt. He placed his fork on the edge of his plate and stared at his food. Once that night had ended he had seen his mistakes with overwhelming clarity. He had been a desperate, ignorant man with a foolish plan. It would never have worked. He had deceived Christine for years, building her confidence by giving her an angel. He knew it was over the first time she had seen his face.
Yet still he tried, his madness and compulsions driving him up and down through five cellars as he watched her through the mirror, from the catwalks, and on the rooftop. Each time he saw her, he wanted to possess her even more. It was like a disease overtaking his heart. Soon, she was all he thought of day and night. He stopped sleeping so he could write music and draw sketches of her, so he could arrange the figures on the stage as he envisioned her becoming the lead soprano.
She would love him, he had assured himself. She would love him because he would make her into a star.
And then she left him, sniveling, broken, and more alone than he had ever been. When she turned her back on him, she issued a blow that resonated through him now just as strongly and just as painfully as it had that night.
Agonized, he reached for his wine glass and knocked it to the floor, sending shards of glass floating on a burgundy river.
"Damn it," he whispered, burying his face in his hands.
"What has your Aunt Ann told you of Monsieur Belmont?" Anna pressed.
There was a long silence filled only by the clinking of flatware and dishes.
"He has had a run of misfortune recently. His house was destroyed," Philippe revealed.
Erik could almost feel his butler's reluctance. Philippe knew something. Or, more likely, he knew everything. Ignoring the mess on the floor, he sat at the edge of his seat and listened, his hands clasped in his lap.
Anna laughed. "Perhaps his home was the opera house?" she chuckled. "It seems fitting for such an eccentric man."
"You do not know him, Mme Eree. How would you know what suits him?" Sophia snapped.
The dining room went silent. Erik's jaw went slack at her words, and for a moment he expected her to laugh at her own jest.
After a while other voices unrecognizable to Erik picked up bits of conversation about apple orchards and dairy cows, things he didn't know existed on his property.
"How much longer do you think he will stay in his room?" Anna asked as the conversation found its way back to Erik's enigmatic life.
"As long as he desires," Philippe replied. "What do you care? If he is not here he cannot see how little you do."
The woman snorted. "Rene said our new master wears a mask. What happened to him?"
Erik tensed. Now he would know how much they truly knew about him.
And how quickly he would need to leave this place in search of refuge.
"I know nothing," Philippe said.
"And you, Mlle Dupree, what did you see as you went prying about?" again came Anna's voice.
"I was not prying."
"You certainly raced up the stairs to give him his tea."
"I will not speak of a man not here to defend himself," Sophia hissed. "You should all be ashamed of yourselves." A chair scraped the floor. "I will see if he has finished his supper."
"No, you will finish your meal," Philippe said. Another chair scraped back from the floor. "I will check on our little ghost," Philippe sighed. "Clear the table."
Erik was certain a plow horse could have walked the stairs with greater finesse than Philippe Dupree. Philippe knocked and called for Erik twice before he walked in, oblivious to his new master standing behind the door.
Philippe sighed. He walked to the window and glanced outside as though he expected Erik had gone down the trellis.
"Did you call your former master a ghost as well?" Erik questioned from behind the door.
Philippe spun on his heel. "Monsieur, you frightened me half to death! You mustn't have heard me knock twice."
Erik turned away from Philippe. His anger flared. "From now on I no longer employ eight servants, Monsieur Dupree. You and your sister may stay on. Excuse four of them in the morning."
"But Monsieur Belmont—"
"The floors here are paper thin. I do not take kindly to those who speak ill of people not present. Pay them their wages for the week and send them off. Do not argue with me or I shall excuse you as well."
Philippe lingered, his arms tense at his sides. "Monsieur, Sophia's eye—"
"I know."
Philippe sighed. "The physician warned that her right eye will also fail. It's only a matter of time before she's blind and…."
"And?"
Philippe's eyes narrowed. "I heard you take her to the door last night and offer her lessons."
"I did. She refused."
"And this morning she seems to believe that you will still teach her."
"If she is willing to learn," Erik replied.
Philippe raised his chin. "Forgive me for my frank nature, but what do you want with my sister, Monsieur Belmont?"
Erik turned and faced Philippe. "I want to teach her music."