Dearest Faithfuls:
Thank you once again for your patience. Though my obligations are not yet finished, I will try to be diligent and update at least twice a week. It seems that right now this story is nearly the only constant I have in my life. Again thank you for staying with the story, and being patient with the craziness that can so often interrupt the best laid plans of this author!
Nadir knocked softly on the door to Madame Giry's quarters. At first, no response came. He knocked several more times, and readied to retreat in order that he might write a note of apology instead. The door opened just slightly; Nadir peered inside. Madame Giry was moving away from it without response. He looked down at the ground and closed his eyes as he went in drawing the doors in behind him. Tonight they still had opportunity for private conversation, being the only breathing souls on the entire upper floors. He knew it would not be long when the Opera House would be brimming and overflowing. He could only pray that she would be willing to listen.
Madame Giry had gone into the sitting room where several lamps were already glowing in preparation for the descending evening. She'd been crafting a letter to Meg; something she did often in the twilight hours. It was then that she could think clearly and allow herself to be a bit unguarded. The letter would have to be abandoned now. She positioned herself in the center of the divan, leaving no room on either side of her for Nadir to sit. It would be his cue that if he wished to speak to her, he'd have to do so sitting on the divan across from the one she now occupied.
She wasn't angry, as she was certain Nadir would imagine her to be. Rather she was hurt, if not a bit unsettled by her reactions. In truth they both confused and terrified her. Her usual behavior was to maintain a stoic demeanor; for the most part she had, with everyone aside from Meg, Erik, and Christine. They had been the only ones for whom she'd cared in a fiercely loyal way. To find herself being able to be hurt by Nadir in this way meant only one thing to her…that she'd let him fully into her heart. It had happened little by little, like a small trickle begins from a melting glacier, so slight at first that no one notices. But then, seemingly by mystery, a glittering lake exists where a frozen form once resided. She glanced up at Nadir as he came in, taking his place across from her. Before he'd even rested on the divan, she knew in her heart she'd already forgiven him.
"Antoinette, there is little I could say in offer of apology." Nadir's eyes had yet to rise to meet hers. "To tell you simply that I'd intended to tell you, seems of little use now, as my lack of having done so seems much more as though I'd intended to keep this knowledge from you." Closing his eyes he inhaled, his head rising to look at her.
Madame Giry's gaze was fixed. She'd tried not to allow her face to take the stony lack of expression that was so characteristic of her when she felt vulnerable; for Nadir deserved far more.
"Antoinette….forgive my impudence. In my attempt to protect you from worry, I've made a grievous error, and injured you all the more. I know you shan't have been troubled by the knowledge that I was to travel to Chauesser. We've had a wonderful length of days together that have seemed a dream to me." He paused, glancing down once more, "and perhaps that accounts for my own hesitancy to interrupt such splendor, that gave me pause to tell you of my departure." He paused glancing down at his hands. He'd began rolling and fidgeting with them, a habit that Erik had taught him was a sign of weakness and vulnerability; the mere thought of his words echoing in his head caused him to smile. "I'll be gone two weeks, no more; that is my solemn vow to you. As historian I've been compelled…."
Madame Giry rose from the divan walking abruptly to the porticos leading out to the veranda. Pushing the doors open, she pressed through them out onto the stony ledge at the end beyond the statue. She'd felt a surge of tears welling within her. In the last two months she'd said goodbye to Erik, to Christine, to Meg, and now….she'd bid Nadir goodbye as well. It was irrational, it was nonsensical, but the tears came all the same. She'd never been that alone, that separated from all she loved. Though she knew them all to be well, and perhaps as happy as they'd ever been, she could not help but miss them bitterly. Perhaps having a life devoted to loving and protecting them had caused this, for she'd felt as though her insides had been turned outward, exposing her inner most organs to the world.
Nadir was swift in his reaction. Before her shoulders had even begun to shake from the tears that were beginning their ravages on her, he had her in his arms, guiding her head gently to his shoulder. If anyone could understand what it was to be separated from all that they loved, it would be Nadir. As he held her, carefully stroking her neck and back, his other arm drew her closer to him. It would be the last time he'd ever try to spare her, for in the end, he'd wounded her far more than the truth from the first would ever have. It had been a long while since he'd cared for someone in this way. He sighed, lightly brushing his lips over her temple. He was learning, all over again, the tender nuances of loving a woman.
XXXXX
Nicole was shivering. She and John Paul had conversed a long while after she'd pulled him from the ground, bidding him to come to rest next to her. She knew she'd interrupted what she could only assume would have been a proposal. She'd not wanted to seem callous, but she'd reacted out of fear. Her only hope was that she'd not given him the impression that she'd refuse him. His reaction had not been negative, a bit bewildered yes, but certainly not negative.
"Nicole, the afternoon has slipped from us. Your mother will be waking soon." He inhaled. They'd had a pleasant, though initially confusing conversation. They'd talked for hours as the sun had begun to sink in the Western horizon. "I think perhaps, if you'd not mind at all, I'd like very much to take you and your mother to dinner, should she feel up to it." He rose, gently placing Nicole's hands in her lap, immediately missing her touch as he did.
Nicole looked up at him as he stood to his full height stretching a bit. She'd not mention the cucumber soup that would surely go to waste now. It was a trifle in comparison to what he suggested, and she'd not want to seem ungrateful for the invitation. "I'd need a bit of time to make myself presentable," she said as she stood too, stretching slightly.
John Paul smiled down at her. He wanted to tell her she was beautiful to him all the more in her work clothes than she was in her finery. For in the garments she worked in, a hint of dust, and evidence of her toils, he saw a woman much more a wife than a thing to be put on a shelf and admired. But he knew a young woman would have want to be groomed and dressed properly for dinner. "Take what time you need Nicole. I shall check on your mother, and see to dressing myself. We shall depart half passed six. Should an hour be enough time?" He looked at his pocket watch to verify the time.
Nicole nodded, "yes, by all means." She'd have to hurry if she'd any hope of transforming herself into a lady suitable for escorting to dinner. She reached up placing a delicate kiss on John Paul's cheek before turning and departing.
As she moved quickly to the door and out into the street, she was keenly aware she was light on her feet, and her previous fatigue was now replaced by something else entirely. She felt giddy, light headed and for the first time in as long as she could remember, full of hope.
She ran through the streets, up and down until finally she was climbing the stairs to their flat. She'd come to realize that perhaps when God had closed the door to her future when she was younger, having separated her from her intended, he opened a window through which even now a more promising and fulfilling future would climb in. She'd been there for her grandmother, and now for her mother. To have found someone who loved her for her sacrifices was nothing short of a miracle. She smiled and found herself humming as she put the kettle on the stove to warm water to wash in. Returning to her closet, she rummaged through her closet. She'd a dress she saved for special occasions, quite typically a church holiday. Tonight, she was more than certain, would be as special an occasion as she'd ever been to in the totality of her life.
John Paul was stretching, twisting and turning every limb. He was stiff, assuming the emotions he'd managed that afternoon had caused his muscles to constrict. He walked toward the door to the room where Nicole's mother had been resting, pushing on it, but it did not give way easily. He shoved a bit harder, only to enter finding the woman on the floor. He gasped. "Dear Lady!" his voice was anxious as he bent lifting her into his arms, carrying her over to the bed where she'd been resting. He laid her down, quickly checking her pulse. It was there, weak and steady as it had been in recent weeks. He sighed sitting on the bed next to her.
She mumbled something, smacking her lips, turning over on the bed. John Paul scratched at his head. If he'd not known better he'd say she'd fallen asleep by the door….then he smiled. Looking down at the sleeping woman, he realized, she'd been ease dropping, and had fallen asleep there. He smoothed back the hair from her forehead. Perhaps his proposal would not then come as much as a shock to her as he'd thought. He patted her shoulder, pulling the covers up over them.
He stood, moving once more toward the door. Perhaps he'd let her rest. The pair could dine alone; they'd not be gone long he was certain. And there was the cucumber soup Nicole had prepared, and they could bring the woman back a slice of the torte she so loved. The thought of having Nicole alone to himself was exhilarating. His thoughts tickled at his memory. He'd have a bit of digging to do before dinner. There was a box that he'd buried away, those things from his mother and father, his grandfather, for among them, there was a special small box he'd be looking for. He'd be needing that tonight…if he'd not misinterpreted Nicole's initial trepidations.
XXXXXXXXX
Lucien settled down with his bowl of broth, inkwell and parchment. His glass of ale sat off to the side. He truly didn't prefer ale, but something about the drink seemed to set the mood for the writing that would follow. It was the drink of the common man. Inexpensive, free-flowing, and preferred accompaniment for the foods eaten by the proletariat. He was neither of their class, nor a high-brow, and wished not to be allied with any class. That, not withstanding, he was a sympathizer and devotee of what was right. He neither chose a side, nor considered himself a fence rider, but perhaps something more of a paradox. A third party of enlightened thinking, preferring higher moral ground to safety, popularity, or allegiance. He'd learned long ago that bravery to be oneself, to stand up for what one believes to be true, was nothing more than beholding the clearest vision, danger and glory aside, going out to meet the challenge of it.
Should anyone try to discover the origins of his letters, they'd guess a million times in the negative. He was as obscure a creature as the Phantom had been. Whilst the Phantom had stirred fear and reverence with his actions, Lucien created unrest and question with words alone. For it was not his employ as a propsmaster that had been his primary passion, though he was perfectly suited, and duly trained for it. What burned beneath the skin, what no one could see with mere eyes, was what kept him up late at night, and fueled his distaste for the quagmire of humanity that walked the streets of Paris. Parasols twirling in the breeze, men in top hats and waistcoats, looking down their noses at the hoi polloi.
He knocked back a deep, long drink from the glass, letting the stray liquid run down his cheek and chin, trickling down his flesh, wiping at it with his shirt sleeve when he finished. It was not his usual manner, but it was his way…his way to commune with the spirit of the movement that was growing stronger each day in Paris. Soon it would boil, rupturing all peace and place amongst men. He dipped his pen, placing the soot black ink on the parchment.
"Such should emerge as the independent principalities, a man is a man, whether by birth right or nay, he is worth equal weight with those born into privilege. Why do we recline to our situation when all is an outrage? When born are we all not naked and helpless, relying only on the graces of those who've brought us into the world, bloodied and screaming? Thus as the cord is cut from our mother's womb, do we not all learn to suckle, breath, and exist under the same sky, partaking of the same essential elements that God gave to everyone without regard to rank or birthright?"
He sat his pen to rest as he took another long drink, satisfying a thirst of both mind and body. It would be a long night.
On the morrow he could personify the man the woman had come to know. Intelligent, and as of recent months, quite the conversationalist, and much more suitably groomed. He smiled to himself. She'd even started to slowly join him for strolls in the garden, though he knew she'd taken harsh criticism for her association with him… "the scraggly propsmaster from the dungeon…" he'd heard the words, and watched as she'd shrugged them off as if seemingly impervious to them.
Through calamity they'd come to know each other. Though he'd no hope that more would develop between them, he'd found in her a friend. One who would care if he died or lived, and that was a welcome relief from his years of near seclusion. They were bound together at first by a secret, and now by friendship.
He shook his head. His pen once more dipped in the inkwell it returned to the page. There was much to say, and finishing before the rising of the sun was an absolute requisite. Sunday was a day of rest; that was certain. However, the papers were crafted and proofread before they were published on Tuesday. If he'd any hope to have his letter included, he'd need to finish well before dawn. Delivery of such, without detection, was of the utmost importance.
XXXXXXXX
Raoul took Meg into his arms, his hands wandering to her back, drawing her closely to him. Their eyes both closed, he turned his head slightly, kissing her temple. There was a warm Southerly breeze, and the sky was glowing the most delicious amber and blood-orange. On the veritable cusp of twilight, nature provided a symphony all its own.
"My dearest Meg, I am compelled by conscience to make confession to you." He leaned away just slightly, never releasing her from his arms. "I am, at most times, a man of my word."
Meg looked at him, a bit of confusion in her glance. She'd kept so many things from him, but she'd never imagined that he'd withheld something of importance from her.
"Before you arrive at an inaccurate conclusion, indulge me but a moment to explain." He ran his hand lightly up and down her back to reassure her. "Do you recall when first we arrived at DeChagny manor?" His eyes were twinkling.
Meg nodded her head, running her hand along her cheek. How could she ever forget? She'd felt like a fish taken from the salty water of the sea, tossed into a pond of fresh water, being bid to change the very way she breathed. She'd been injured, vulnerable, and he'd not only rescued her, but extended to her every kindness. She'd been so entirely uncertain of what would come of all of it. She smiled, her eyes glancing downward before returning to meet Raoul's, "yes," she managed.
Raoul smiled copiously. "Then I should think you'd remember the small room that you, your mother and I found ourselves in?" He'd almost no need to ask. It had been a pinnacle moment in their relationship; surely she'd remembered it as vividly as he. "I made a promise that day…a promise to your mother." Raoul was looking down, his hand having disappeared into his pocket.
Meg's brow began to twitch, she'd not remembered a promise.
"Meg," he slipped both of her hands into his, "I made promise to your mother, that I think, if she were here, she'd release me from the terms of it, as my actions are in good faith."
Meg was more confused than ever. The only promise she could recall Raoul making was that he'd not ask for her hand in marriage until he'd had her mother's…….permission! Suddenly Meg's pulse began to race, her breathing grew shallow, was he suggesting…
Raoul's eyes were glowing as he saw Meg take full realization of what he was implying. He glanced around her face, taking in every inch of the wonder of it. A tender blonde curl found its way into his hand. He caressed the flaxen strands. He looked around the lawn, and into the deep purple hues that had grown on the horizon, giving way to the brilliant and blue imbued skies. He inhaled, leaning down slowly but with purpose, tenderly taking Meg's lips into his, for one tender kiss. He ran his hand up beneath her chin raising it so that she'd look directly into his eye. "Meg, I cannot keep the promise that I'd made her." He paused, taking her once more fully into his arms.
Meg watched Raoul with eyes nearly immoveable. Slowly released her, sliding his hands down her back, and carefully coming to rest on one knee in front of her. Her heart nearly stopped beating. It was the moment a young girl waited for all of her life, prepared for all of her life…and now arrived, she only prayed she'd not faint, nor ever forget each breath, each word, each gesture.
"Meg, my love, I've thought a considerable while about our circumstances. We've much in common, and much that is different, perhaps that is what makes you and I a match. All opinion of society, doubt, and fear, must be laid aside lest we travel through our days long enough and find ourselves at the end of the journey utterly alone."
Raoul repositioned himself as he dug into his pocket retrieving a small leather box. He inhaled once more; it was the single moment that he waited for. "Meg, I love you. All sycophancy aside, my heart fills with joy when you enter a room, and grieves for you when you leave it. There are many reasons that I love you, but perhaps the greatest of these is your understanding. You understand what travels my heart has taken, and know better than even I know myself of what has mattered most to me. I cannot imagine my life now without you in it each hour of the day. Soon we shall return to Paris, two very different people from those that left. I want there to be no mistake in my intentions, nor in your mind." He inhaled once more, this was the moment of truth.
"Meg Antionette Giry, I love you. To have found the one that I was meant to be paired with for a life filled with passion and compassion, is a great gift. It has long been felt between us a commitment that went far beyond words. My desire is to have you at my side, for the remainder of my days here on earth. Dear Meg, my heart would fill to overflowing if you would agree to share my life with me. To have and to hold during times of wellness and infirmity, and to love with undying devotion. Meg, would you do me the honor of being my wife?" Raoul stared deeply into Meg's eyes as she began to cry.
Meg could barely respond, at first only nodding. A gentle breeze blew in behind her, blonde strands taking flight, going this way and that. Tears were running down her cheeks.
Raoul too had begun to shed tears. Slowly, his eyes never wavering, he rose looking down into Meg's eyes with such emotion. He was entirely certain, that he'd never felt this kind of love before. He loved her as a man ought love a woman. He pushed her hair away from her cheek, looking down from her eyes, he took her hand into his, slipping in it the small box. "Open it Meg."
Meg looked up into Raoul's eyes, her heart was fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird.
Raoul placed a reassuring kiss on her cheek. Nodding at her.
Her hands were shaking, as she turned the box in her hands slowly raising the cover. Her eyes were wide with wonder. Inside the deep blue velvet held the most exquisite emerald ring, surrounded by a cluster of diamonds. "Raoul…."
"It was my mother's ring Meg." He looked into her eyes, the smile through her tears told him that she was as touched to receive it, as he had been to bestow it upon her. He took the box from Meg's hand, stowing it in his pocket. He smiled at her, taking the ring from her trembling hands. "Meg" he looked deep into her eyes, "will you agree to share my life with me, as the love of my life, without hesitation or reservation, forsaking all others, abandoning your individual life, for one joined with mine?" He blinked, staring down at her. "I love you Meg."
Meg's tears were flowing freely. "Raoul, I shall love you without hesitation or reservation, through all that lays before us, with all that lay behind us, joining with you for all that lies within us." She stared deeply into Raoul's eyes, running her hand along his cheek. "Raoul DeChagny, it would be the greatest honor I could imagine to be your wife."
They smiled at one another for a long moment before Raoul took her left hand into his right. The pair stared at their hands as Raoul slid the ring onto Meg's finger, the last shafts of light from the setting sun, and the luminous aura of the lanterns made the emerald and diamonds twinkle, but even that luminescence paled in comparison to the love that shone more brightly than a thousand moons. The pair joined hands and once more looked deeply into one another's eyes.
Raoul lifted Meg into his arms, spinning her round and round until she thought she might be dizzy before he set her once more lightly on her feet. Raoul kissed Meg tenderly on the lips at first, more earnestly as his passions for her grew, until finally he pulled away gasping. "Meg, my dear Meg," he closed his eyes exhaling slowly.
Meg's cheeks had grown crimson, and thankful for the cover of shadow. Their affections for one another were most obvious.
Raoul cleared his throat, "It is settled then my dearest, a wedding we shall be planning when back in Paris. If you'll permit my sister's assistance, she could be of some assistance to you and your mother. She rather fancies this sort of planning, and with no sister of her own…." Raoul smiled at Meg, lifting her once more into his arms spinning her about. "I love you Meg, I truly love you."
Raoul paused as the dogs began to bark. He gently put Meg back to her feet. The pair stood looking down the road that led away from Plum house. They could spy the small wobbly lantern dancing about on what could only be one thing, the carriage carrying Raoul's father. Raoul turned to Meg, "I'd have much preferred that your mother be the first to know of this, but it seems…"
Meg swallowed, she agreed with Raoul, she'd have preferred that herself. However, timing would not allow for it. Perhaps it was only fair. Her mother had been the first to know of Raoul's intentions, now his father would be the first to know of their engagement. In truth it would likely come as no surprise to the man, he'd been helping groom Meg for months in order that she might fit into the position of viscountess.
Raoul turned Meg around in his arms, holding her back against his chest as they stood looking into the darkening sky watching the carriage grow closer and closer. They could only hope that the elder DeChagny would be as pleased as they were. A decision finally made, paving the way for a future to be formed.
XXXX
Erik had risen, pulling over him his white nightshirt. The winds had begun to die, the crackling thunder, and blistering lightening had peeled across the sky as day gave way to night. Now the gentle patter of the rains danced on the greenery so filled with energy after such a storm, you could nearly hear it growing if one would listen. Erik went to the windows, drawing them closed. The breezes had brought a much soothing relief to the terrible heat that had filled the afternoon, and now the slight warmth radiating from the fire was a welcome treat to the skin. It would be a most pleasant evening, as evenings after great storms often were.
Erik turned around to look at Christine's sleeping form on the bed. He smiled. The swell in her middle was carefully tucked under the silken sheets he'd carefully coiled around her. He'd placed a small pillow under her stomach as she lay on her side; he hoped it would bring some comfort and ease to her frame. Her growing middle would usually be much smaller thus far in a pregnancy, but with three, nothing was usual about it. She'd come thus far with little sign of undue affects, save her fatigue. She was the most beautiful woman with child he'd ever seen. Then to know it was his children she bore…the beauty grew tenfold.
Erik knelt before the fireplace, nestling in a few more slivers of tinder. He'd not want a roaring fire to be certain, but he'd want the room a comfortable temperature when Christine awoke. He sighed, stretching as far as he could above him, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the mantel. Even after all of this time it took him off guard. He wondered if he would forever expect to see a man in a mask rather than the smooth cheeked, dark-haired man that stared back at him from the looking glass. He looked back at Christine, then glanced at the mirror again. How could one man be so blessed. A year ago this would have been more than a fantastically absurd dream. Tonight, it was reality.
He turned, he'd heard something. When he glanced at Christine his suspicions were confirmed. She was smiling at him, her arms propped above her head.
"Erik?" she said, smoothing her hand over her stomach. She glanced toward the window, shuddering slightly. "I see that the storm has passed. How long have I been sleeping?"
Erik smiled, returning to her, pulling up the blanket, sliding it over her shoulder. "Not long enough my dear." He ran his finger along her cheek. "You rested so well, I'd hoped you'd sleep through the night. It has been a long while since you've slept so soundly." Erik carefully climbed into bed, sliding beneath the covers, taking Christine into his arms. "My dear what caused you to stir?" he inquired, nestling in next to her, the cool of his skin quickly warming next to hers.
"Why your son of course." Christine said, trying to turn about in Erik's arms so that she might face him. What had formerly been a rather simple thing to do, now took a bit of maneuvering. As she came to rest in his arms, having settled her form close to his, she looked deeply into his eyes. "It seems he feels I've been remiss."
Erik laughed kissing the tip of Christine's nose. "How so my love?"
"Well, you see it is now well past the dinner hour, and the afternoon tea was hours ago. I dare say he's somewhat of an appetite." Christine's eyes grew wide. As if on cue, her stomach began to growl.
Erik laughed, scooping Christine into his arms, rubbing his hand along her back. "Then I should think we should feed him!" Erik made swift work of the bed, wrapping Christine in the covers, carrying her over to the divan in front of the fire. He went about finding his trousers. "Is there anything in particular he might request?"
Christine smoothed her hand over her stomach, the growling grew louder. "At this juncture it likely will matter little my love. It seems he might like even the leather of an old shoe just now!" She smiled, somewhat embarrassed by the protestations of her stomach.
"I'll not think of shoe leather, but perhaps something with a bit more sustenance." He pulled his suspenders over his shirt. "I will return my dear with a feast." He walked over placing a kiss on her cheek. "You rest my dear." He glanced at the window. "Enjoy the music of the rain my dear, it is heavenly tonight." He walked over, opening the window just a fraction to let the sound drift in. The crickets were chirping loudly as the rain pattered softly on the leaves. In the distance was the faint hints of thunder retreating.
Christine smiled as Erik left the room. She ran her hand over her stomach, talking to her children as she so oft did these days. "Your father has a wonderful ear…he can find the music in anything." She sat staring into the fire. It had been a pleasant evening indeed. She inhaled leaning her head back. She was for the first time, in a long while, utterly relaxed.