Ch. 3
After being soothed, time and again, into a fitful half-rest by her mother, Meaghan had returned to a sleep no longer haunted by that alluring voice. Instead, she dreamt of the dark, elusive figure across the room from her. Oh, how she wished she could recognize him!
It was golden morning sunlight that finally woke her. She twisted under her light blanket, searching for the other person in her room. Daddy? No. Mother. But why does she look so sad? James. Following the suspicious gaze of her mother, Meaghan saw the tall, muscular frame of the cruel, despicable man who had, apparently, found them.
Meaghan could not help noticing, again, how dashing he was. Before she really knew him, she had always thought that nothing evil could dwell within a man as formidable as him. Now, being all too familiar with the truth, she detested him for daring to show that perfect face again.
"Meaghan, love, it seems you're doing quite a bit better than you were three days ago. A moment of privacy?" he said, turning to her mother, a wheedling smirk on his face. Even with his ironic play at sounding caring, his words came out bitter and derisive. Meaghan opened her mouth to say something, anything, to demand that her mother stay with her as she recovered, but Angelique had already stepped out and closed the door. Meaghan instantly found a heavy, solid body pinning her onto her bed.
Meaghan's eyes widened in shock; he was trying to rape her! The only other time he had ever tried to take advantage of Meaghan was back in America, when she had still thought him to be as charming and decent as his face would suggest. She had been fifteen, and had given him good reason to never so much as think of touching her again. Thinking back, she almost laughed at how easy it had been to dissuade him.
"How do you expect to have a respectable marriage ceremony in Tunner if you arrive with me in tow, with child? You wouldn't dare!" Meaghan struggled to keep her tone low - there was no telling how far away her mother was. She hadn't known about the first time he had tried to rape her, and with any luck, she wouldn't know about this time. Suddenly, a large, smelly palm trapped her breath inside lungs quaking with fury, shifting only enough to allow breathing room.
"You listen to me now, you brat. I'll not have some nosey, good for nothing little whore spoil my chances at anything, especially something as important as your family fortune. You know for a fact that everyone else back home-" he said that word so sneeringly, "-will agree with me. About the little whore part, that is. The money will follow... after all, who would deny a kind gentleman the money he so rightly deserves after taking in a poor little tramp? This wedding will happen, one way or another," James sneered, struggling to restrain the fiery brunette in front of him.
Now, as his hand only covered her mouth, she could smell the lingering odor of whiskey, one he seldom hid these days, coming from his damp cotton shirt in waves. Repulsed by that ferocious stench, she steeled her resolve. She would never let him take her! His grip loosened as Meaghan resorted to licking his disgusting hand. Licking bastard's sweat was not one of her favorite pastimes! Meaghan used the slight allowance of space to bite down hard on his hand, gagging as she felt flesh give way to muscle, tendon, and bone.
Cursing loudly, James pulled his hand away faster than Meaghan could have even imagined. Backing away, eyeing her as one might a rabid animal, he stumbled out of her room, clutching his bleeding hand. As he left, muttering something about bloody medical bills and ungrateful wenches, he managed to knock down her prized possessions before slamming the door on his way out. Finally relaxing, Meaghan laid back down on her soft, comfortable bed, preparing to set herself to sleep, when she remembered something with piercing clarity: James should not be there. At all.
Minutes later, Angelique made her way timidly back into Meaghan's room, picking up the small, leather bound music journals that James had knocked over while passing. Furious, Meaghan found herself attacking her mother.
Whispering as loud as she dared, she questioned her mother. "How long has he been here?" Her mother was silent. Realization dawning, she thought back to the mysterious, shadowy figure that she had seen crouching at her bed, talking to a doctor. In her fevered trance, she had thought it was her father, come to help her get well again, with his enchanting stories of the old country. Glaring angrily at her mother, Meaghan bit back cries of rage and frustration as she realized her mother had bargained with James for the medicine that had so easily made her well.
"No," she found herself murmuring. "No, no, no... Mother, how could you?" She searched her mother's face, prayed that at least some of her mother's usual fortitude remained. Instead, she saw a face that seemed far older than its thirty-seven years. She hardly recognized the despondent face before her.
Slowly, her mother backed away, a bittersweet smile plaguing her tragically beautiful face. "Mon cherie, my darling... But you're well, again, don't you see? We can make another life... what of it if it includes James?" She turned and left, abandoning Meaghan to her lonely thoughts.
Why must life insist on always getting worse when it should be getting better?
Crying softly, Meaghan leaned back slowly, hating the pain that coursed through her body, flooding her nerves with wave after wave of stabbing pain. Her head was beginning to feel as if a small horse were inside it, kicking and rattling everything around. Glancing around, Meaghan wondered where she would find a towel, to clean up the blood of her drunken fiancé - who, it seemed, she would indeed be marrying.
Sitting up once again, Meaghan gazed intently at the trunk at the foot of her bed, wiping at the tears streaming down her face. Would there be clothes in there? Meaghan had been sick for so long, she hardly recognized her own bedroom. Dragging herself over to it, she felt her mouth hanging open - that was not her trunk! Squinting, she clambered onto the floor in her nightgown - clean, she noticed - and ran eager fingers over the large box.
Suddenly, the room seemed to become hazy, like a mist was settling. Blinking, she forced the box back into focus. Letting her eyes wander across the carved trunk, she felt her attention drift to a song piping in from the street - "Masquerade... paper faces on parade! Masquerade... hide your face so the world will never find you..." That sounds about accurate, Meaghan thought, with more than a hint of chagrin. Who wasn't pretending anymore? She trailed her fingertips across the mahogany trunk, wondering how she would open the lock on the latch.
The key is behind the handle What was that? Shaking her head, trying to deny the foggy memories that ghost voice gave rise to, Meaghan complied, searching both the handles on the sides of the trunk, first the left, then the right, barely expecting so much as a cobweb. She gasped as her hand felt a cold brass key. Slowly, hardly daring to accept this good fortune, she unlocked the trunk.
Lifting the lid tenderly - for this was not her trunk - she rapidly inspected the contents of the box. Gowns, corsets... was that a tutu? So many clothes! All of them seemed about her size - what did it matter if they were a bit outdated? Fitted to the lid of the trunk was a mirror. Glancing at her reflection, Meaghan was startled to find a different image than she was accustomed to. Hair pulled back, a small amount of face powder - strange, that somebody would apply it in my sleep - had transformed her into a hauntingly beautiful young woman.
Wide brown eyes, accented by a hint of eyeliner, graced a smooth, fresh face. And her hair! So dark, so thick! What had once been wavy, mousey brown hair had transformed into a mass of thick, wild curls. Her lips seemed to have grown fuller, her face a bit whiter... Lack of sunlight, she tried telling herself. Your mother's beauty How did that voice keep returning? Attempting to turn her attention, she lifted the topmost gown out of the trunk.
Shaking it out, Meaghan gasped at its sheer beauty. It was white... simple, but beautiful - an exquisite gown, with a full skirt that had gems apparently sprinkled across its billowing entirety. The skirt was pure white, long - Past my feet... A simply angled neckline and a deeply cut waist told her it was to be worn with a corset. But she couldn't wear it! Or could she?
Walking over to the full-length mirror situated against the opposite wall, Meaghan slipped out of her nightgown, grateful for the lock she had insisted upon having installed, with James now residing in their apartment. After hastily lacing the corset, Meaghan quickly pulled the lovely thing over her head.
Letting it settle, Meaghan gazed in amazement... this was not the same shapeless girl whose reflection had gazed back at her but moments ago. Instead, she found herself face to face with an exhilaratingly beautiful young woman, an angel! She stepped within a hand's breadth of the mirror, gingerly reaching out to touch the shimmering image before her.
Suddenly, Meaghan heard a sharp gasp from across her room - her mother! Somehow, she had managed to get past the lock on Meaghan's door. She does have a key - But Meaghan could not admit that, accept that blow to her pride, so she shook her head, daring her frail mind to come up with another rational explanation to put a stop to the color quickly flooding her face.
Meaghan could only stare as Angelique, her mother, seemed lost in the very mist that had crowded her mind mere moments ago. She felt angry... Why did she have to come into my room? ...but that was soon overcome by pity for her mother. She tried to say something, to explain how curiosity had, again, gotten the best of her, but found herself wordless, save for -
"How did you get in?" She regretted her tone instantly, knowing that her mother did have a key, hidden at the bottom of her jewelry box. Painstakingly, Meaghan forced herself to see this accusation through. Her voice seemed to wake her mother from a sort of trance.
"Meaghan. Come now, sit with me. It is time I told you everything," Angelique murmured in a forgiving tone. She locked the door once again, and, sitting on Meaghan's bed, gestured that Meaghan do the same.
After seeing my Meaghan's face when she recognized James, I almost regretted giving her back to him. Almost, but not quite. After all, captivity is better than death. I myself am quite familiar with that truth.
I truly had no choice but to tell him the truth... or what of it she could handle. He would have found us, one way or another, and I believed with all my soul - what was left of it - that he would not hesitate to kill one, or both of us, to get his hands on the money Ian had left for us, if I did not willingly tell him where we were.
Sighing, crouching outside her bedroom door, I hesitated to believe that she had truly dreamt of Erik throughout her illness. After all, she also claimed to have seen Ian beside her during her fevered sleep, when in reality he had been dead for nearly two years. Listening to their hushed dialogue, I hardened myself in preparation for the role I would have to now play.
I knew I would have to, again, play the part of a cold, indifferent mother once he exited her room. As long as I gave James the facade he had always believed to be a part of my relationship with my daughter, he would never question my going to see her. Before he had a chance to finish what he had gone in there to do, I bit back a cry of triumph as he cursed loudly and stampeded past me, refusing to look me in the eye.
I, however, waited until he was gone a fair time, leading me to believe he had left again. Rising, I rushed to my bedroom, and hurried over to the trinket box on the vanity. Much as I hated to interrupt my daughter's privacy, especially after such an ordeal, I knew I must enter her room. After a quarter hour, I used the small, silver key to open her door. What I saw was entirely too much.
I saw an angel, a beautiful young woman, alive, healthy, glowing - exactly the way I once was. I had not noticed any cosmetics on her face before... who had styled her hair? I could only assume she had found some of my old makeup lying around, seen an old portrait of mine. But I was most startled by the fact that I felt as if I were looking into a mirror. Her lips, her eyes, her hair, her body... all of it was so entirely reminiscent of the reflection I myself had once been stunned to find in my mirror. And the gown...
It had been mine, or, at least, one I had worn for one of my all too few performances at the Opera Populaire. I did wonder how she had come to find it... glancing about her room, I noticed an old trunk of mine, one I had never bothered to take with me, even for my initial voyage from France. How had it gotten in her room? I was so caught up in my memories, until...
"How did you get in?" I was unused to the sharp tone she was using, but I was prepared to forgive her.
"Meaghan. Come now, sit with me. It is time I told you everything," I said, trying so hard to keep the tears out of my voice.
Settling down, though, I knew I could only reveal so much...
"Meaghan, darling, you must trust me when I say this... Believe me, it is no easy feat to reveal what I now will," I said, holding up a patient hand, warding off any questions... giving her at least the appearance of total honesty. "Many years ago, before you were even born, I was an opera singer. I was the leading soprano at the Opera Populaire, envied by many, equalled by none. My voice was pure, so unlike many others... It had drawn the attention of a genius musician, and with his help, I became an angel, if only in voice. He woke me up to music, woke me up to living through it, breathing through it. He saved me from a painfully silent existence," I paused here, reveling in Erik's music... it had never left me - wouldn't, as long as I had my Meaghan...
I drew in a breath, searching for a way to continue my tale without revealing everything. I gazed at her curious face, stroking back familiar dark curls from her face. How I loved my daughter! However, I could say only this: "Meaghan, that tutor was the one who arranged my passage to America, who arranged for me to meet your father, Ian. Without him, I would not have you, my beloved daughter." Liar!
I yearned to tell her the truth, to take her dove-white hand in my own and give her the answers she desired, but I knew I must wait. I knew I was better off waiting until I knew for certain that she had contact with Erik, that he hadn't been invented in her mind through delirium. For now, that would have to be enough.