Paladin119
Erik opened the bedroom window and took a deep, hopefully cleansing breath of fresh air to clear his wandering mind.
He inhaled the pungent smell of horse manure, which swiftly ended all amorous feelings he'd had when he was near Sophia. Eyes closed, he worked his shoulders up and down to relieve the last bit of stress bunching his muscles.
Nothing had gone as planned, though he couldn't say he was completely disappointed. Any time he had the opportunity to kiss Sophia could hardly be considered wasted.
Through the open window he heard his mother and Citrine speaking, but he couldn't make out their words. He was still breathing hard, his chest rising and falling with unfulfilled passion. If only there had been more time to whisk Sophia away or lock the parlor door. He would have explored her thoroughly, ran his fingers through her hair and down the length of her spine, cupped the fullness of her breast and kissed her tenderly until she gasped for breath and surrendered in his arms. They were both new and sensitive to exploration in each other's presence. More than anything, he wanted to discover what else he could do to make her breaths come quicker, her body writhe and jerk beneath his hands, his lips.
His fingers tightened around the window's shutter and he grimaced. Not even the odor from the stable could keep his feelings at bay. These thoughts, pleasant as they were, did nothing to urge him down the stairs and back into the parlor, which was where he belonged. By now he'd proven himself a terrible host, a complete disappointment to his waiting mother.
"No more," he growled under his breath. No more inappropriate thoughts at a time like this. What would she think if he greeted her half an hour after she arrived? Would she smell the lust on him and recoil?
He flung his overcoat aside and began unbuttoning his waistcoat. In his haste, he nearly tore his cravat, but he paid no heed. The smell of his thoughts still lingered. He knew for certain that she'd smell it on him and wonder what sort of crude, disgusting man he'd become.
The bed behind him creaked and he turned to find Fidelio with his front paws locked around the foot of the bed. He hadn't even realized that the dog had entered his bedroom.
"Oh! Where are your clothes?" Citrine exclaimed.
"Excuse m—" He jumped at the sound of her voice and glanced down to see he was wearing only his lawn shirt and trousers. "There," he replied, pointing toward the bed.
She peered through the door in the direction he had pointed, then backed away, her face beet red. "Oh, Monsieur, excuse me, I didn't think you'd be like this. You were dressed the last time I saw you."
"Stop that!" he ordered while the dog humped the bedpost, unhindered by the conversation. He barely glanced in Citrine's direction, his concerns trained on his insolent canine's raunchy display. "Fidelio, down this moment! I said down! Down!"
Citrine erupted with laughter. "You terrible, uncontrollable beast."
The dog ignored his master's commands and Citrine's giggling. He enthusiastically loved the carved wooden beam until his master neared. At last he dismounted and trotted away, tail wagging and tongue lolling as though nothing had happened.
"I'll castrate you myself," he grumbled.
The dog continued to smile back at him, oblivious to the threat. Erik ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. He would have found Fidelio a female companion, but the last thing he needed was a basket of puppies in the parlor.
Once Fidelio was back on all fours, Citrine dutifully entered his bedroom and retrieved his clothes, which had been tossed on the bed in a pile. She looked them over, smoothing out light wrinkles with her hands, then thrust them toward him.
"There is nothing wrong with these," she said firmly.
"Uh…no," he answered warily, afraid she'd smell the cologne of frustration on them.
"Then there is no use laundering them, is there?" She didn't wait for him to reply. "I'll be waiting outside for you, Monsieur, on the landing, should you need something else."
He blinked at her. "Tea," he started. "What about the—?"
"Sophia has handled it. She's entertaining your guest." She gave him a warning look, one that bordered on disapproval. "By now they've covered the most embarrassing moments of your childhood, I have no doubt. Make haste, Monsieur."
She clicked her heels and marched from the room.
-o-
In the middle of their casual conversation, Sophia was aware of footsteps pounding down the stairs and along the hallway. Finally, he'd decided to emerge from his room and act like a decent person. She couldn't help but feel irritated with him for his delay.
"And then we saw the dancers in their beautiful dresses. I described each one in detail to Monsieur Turro. He says I always give him the most exquisite details. You know Karl was color blind, so he only saw the world in gray tones."
Madame Turro was in the middle of a story about her and her husband's holiday in Spain when Erik burst through the door, his lips parted as though in question.
"My apologies for my late arrival. It wasn't my intention to leave you waiting." He paused, looked her in the eye, then cast his gaze to the side. "Mother."
Madame Turro smiled warmly and rose from her chair, stars in her eyes when she looked at her son. "I understand. Inspiration caught hold and refused to let go."
Inspiration, indeed. Sophia coughed delicately and prepared to leave Erik with his mother for an afternoon of uninterrupted conversation.
"Actually," he said before Sophia could make her exit. "It was the dog," he said, glancing from Sophia to his mother. "He was…being a nuisance, as usual," he said lightly.
"You own a dog?" Madame Turro questioned.
"Own is hardly the word for him."
Sophia furrowed her brow. "Fidelio?" she questioned. "What did he do to make you late?"
"He was…on…the bed," he answered carefully, apparently leaving out part of the actual story.
She blushed, realizing that she must have heard Fidelio upstairs. It was the weight of his body that made the bedsprings groan in protest. Suddenly she felt quite lewd and ashamed of herself for ever thinking that her Erik would ever act inappropriately with women downstairs.
"I do apologize," she said sincerely.
He gave her a peculiar look but still smiled in return. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
"It's me." With a weak smile, she stood and met his eye, fighting the urge to take his hand or put her palm to his cheek. She'd unfairly judged him and wanted to make amends, even if he had no idea what she had thought. "If you need anything, please, call for me at once. Enjoy your afternoon, Monsieur, Madame."
-o-
Angelina Belmont Turro could barely believe she sat in her old parlor with her long-lost son. She looked at him, marveled over the child turned man, and wanted to weep in joy. He served her tea after Sophia left the room, and each time her hand touched his, she found confirmation that he was real and he was safe.
"How do you like it here?" she questioned.
"It's…peaceful," he answered thoughtfully. He slipped his thumb under his mask and scratched his cheek. When he caught her staring, he turned away, removed it from his face, and met her eye. "I look forward to seeing the grounds in the spring."
She smiled at him, finding no shock or horror in his face. To her he was handsome, as she'd always managed to overlook his appearance from the time he was an infant.
At first she'd been uncertain of how she could care for a child with such a serious deformity, but once he began crawling at seven months of age and then, it seemed, running at ten months, she realized there was nothing wrong with him beyond a skin-deep imperfection.
He learned swiftly, paid attention to her when she read aloud to him and watched her as she wrote letters. Through imitation he learned to play the piano, and through hard work he learned to write music. The rest of him was perfect and she saw it. It was her hope that someday a strong, intelligent woman would also see that he was a good, worthy man.
Suddenly Erik looked away, his face dark and troubled.
"You're not feeling well?" she questioned.
"I'm fine," he answered, though his words sounded forced.
"You look…" Miserable, she thought. Perhaps they should have waited a few more days before they met, though she could barely stand to know he had returned home and not act on the desire to see him. "You look tired."
"Honestly, I'm fine. I merely don't know what to say to you and I feel foolish. It's been such a long time and I should have much to say."
"But it's difficult." She placed her hand gently over his. "I know. I feel it too. But we'll find plenty to talk about in time, won't we? We have, or I should say, we had much in common long ago. Remember how I gave you those charcoals to draw with?"
He nodded, his expression changing as he brought forth a fond memory. "I think I sketched every tree around the house."
"And climbed them all as well."
He rubbed his knee where he had a scar from falling off a tree branch one summer. The thin branch had broken rather than bent, and he crashed to the ground, scattering birds perched in the highest branches and nearly scaring her to death.
"Do you still enjoy drawing?"
"I haven't done much lately," he replied, his legs stretched out and body at ease. He looked comfortable and at home in the dark brown armchair. She could imagine him sitting with his wife in the evening, reading stories aloud while they enjoyed the warmth of a fireplace. It was how she'd enjoyed spending her evenings in this same house.
"Your music must take up most of your time," she said.
He frowned slightly as though embarrassed by her words. "I haven't sold anything," he answered.
"You will," she assured him. "I've heard your work. It's…modern."
"When did you ever hear my—" He stopped abruptly and looked away, his jaw tense. "Ah. You mean that."
"I attended two rehearsals," she said proudly. "I would have liked to have attended a performance but there were no more tickets available."
"I had no idea," he muttered.
"That it was sold out?"
"That I could have…if you'd been there you would have, you may have, there is a chance that you would have been…"
"My husband needed me," she said softly. "Our son was of no help."
Their eyes met, hers filled with sorrow, his filled with anger. "Your son?" he questioned.
"Antole's son. Karl. He kept me away from you because he couldn't manage to care for his father for more than week while I was away in Paris."
His expression changed again, but this time it was unreadable. This was the second time she'd mentioned Karl's name and received a peculiar look.
"Let's talk about something else, shall we?" she asked, becoming increasingly uncomfortable.
He nodded but didn't speak. In her memories he'd never been this quiet. She still remembered a gregarious and happy little boy who always tested her will to keep him by her side. They hadn't lived in this house, and she realized suddenly that they'd only been inside of it together a handful of times. She'd had her pains upstairs in the bedroom he now claimed, she'd nursed him in this very room. Once she'd healed enough to travel, they had been placed into a wagon and escorted across the property. After that, she'd never looked back at this place and thought of it as her home, even after he'd disappeared and she'd returned to live with her husband and his occasional mistresses.
"Would you care to begin?" she asked, shaking the memories from her mind.
He thought a moment, his eyes trained across the room. What she wouldn't give to know what he recalled from this place. "I'd like to know how you've been all of these years." He looked at her again, a slight smile on his face that seemed anything but genuine.
She sat forward and studied him, at the grown man that had emerged while they'd been apart. It shouldn't have been like this; awkward and uncomfortable. They should have been sitting closer, they should have been acting more like mother and son instead of strangers.
She answered honestly. "I've been worried, happy, in mourning, content, regretful of my past and suspicious of my future. Erik, I've been everything imaginable."
"As have I," he replied, but all she could see was the sadness in his eyes.
He looked back at her, a child still peering from adult eyes. She remembered how compassionate he was, how it upset him when he found a baby bird cast from its nest and covered in ants and flies. She remembered his question about why the mother didn't come down and carry the baby back to the nest and how she'd never had an answer. It was the way of nature, the mother protected the strongest of her offspring while the weak perished. Did he know he was strong? Did he think she'd cast him from their nest?
"What are you now?" she asked.