A/N: Thanks to all you guys who reviewed, it means a lot and thanks for the overwhelming encouragement... I'm reallyglad you're all enjoying the story thus far. And now, I present to you the next installment. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, they are the brainchilds and brilliance of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Any song lyrics used are strictly the property of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Richard Stilgoe and Charles Hart.
Chapter ten.
"Maman! Guess who's here!"
Madame Giry turned from her spot at the window. "Christine?"
"Hello Madame Giry, I know you must be very surprised to see me, well, so soon."
"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't. And who is this?" Christine had nearly forgotten about Patrick's presence; he had been so quiet.
"Oh, this is a friend of mine, Patrick. Patrick, this is Madame Giry, the closest thing to a mother I've ever known." Madame Giry nodded in greeting, the bewilderment still settled plainly on her face.
"Madame Giry, there's something I need to tell you."
Oh no! Thought Madame Giry is a panicked fashion, surely she doesn't know about Erik-
"Raoul and I... w-we're over."
"WHAT!" Christine fought the tears that threatened to envelop her, trying to keep her voice as steady as she could, as she recounted for her and Meg the dreadful events of the night passed.
"And then - Oh, God! I thought he was going to kill me!" Madame Giry pulled Christine into a tight embrace as she wept hysterically on her shoulder, stroking her hair softly.
"Oh, my dear child... my poor dear child, the horrors you've encountered... How could Raoul do such a thing to you...? Hush now, shhh, it's alright, it's all going to be alright."
Patrick's brows knitted in worry. Madame Giry released Christine from her grasp, rubbing her shoulder comfortingly.
"And you," she addressed Patrick. "if you had not been there..."
"I was merely in the right place at the right time." Patrick assured Madame Giry humbly.
"Oh nonsense Patrick!" Christine wiped the tears furiously from her eyes. "Do not be so bashful! You were caring and chivalrous - to a total stranger no less! And I haven't even been so courteous as to say 'thank-you'!" Christine's tone softened as she approached the man, taking his hand in hers.
"Thank-you Patrick," she gave it a light squeeze. "I really mean it, thank-you."
Patrick felt as though a huge balloon had swelled in his chest. He bowed graciously, kissing the back of Christine's hand. "Anything for you... Mademoiselle."
It was the first time he had referred to Christine as "mademoiselle." Usually he referred to her by "madame," as her marriage expected him to, but now that he had seen the break-down of Christine's marriage, he felt at liberty to call this radiant young women whatever he wanted, and "mademoiselle" suited her beautifully.
Their eyes met for a moment before Christine turned shyly away with a petite yawn.
"Christine, you must be exhausted. You will take a nap, and I will wake you at dinner." It was an order more than a suggestion; Christine needed some stability and someone to care for her in her life right now. Christine nodded sleepily, a sudden exhaustion of the last few days travel suddenly hitting her mercilessly.
"Come on Chrissy, you can rest in my room." Meg led a drowsy Christine down a nearby passageway and out of sight, leaving Madame Giry and Patrick staring awkwardly at each other.
"You, um Monsieur...?" Patrick was startled by his own rudeness - he had not even thought to disclose to Christine his own last name!
"Raynaud! My name is Patrick Raynaud."
"Well then, Monsieur Raynaud, I would offer you a place to sleep, but I'm afraid there are no spare beds; there are however some cushions and a blanket-"
"-I'll take the floor... believe me Madame, I have had worse." Madame Giry gave a wry smile.
"This way then, if you please, Monsieur."
XxXxXxX
Patrick had tried sleeping, he really had. His body demanded it of him, his weary limbs aching from lack of rest - yet his mind would not be at peace. He lay back on the floor, padded by the two blankets and pillows the Girys had offered him, and stared at the ceiling. He noticed with slight dismay that it was cracked in several places, and the paint was peeling and chipped. He sighed deeply, and closed his eyes. Once more the picture of Christine filled his mind, he could see every detail of her as clearly as if she were there, right in front of him. Oh, to hell with this! He cursed lightly to himself, before dragging his protesting body up off the floor and across the room. He had to see her. There was something, something that Patrick just couldn't place his finger on, that made him feel so protective of this woman; this woman who he barely knew. She was beautiful, there was no doubt of it, but he had seen and experienced beauty before... but had soon found that the beauty he had so amply shared in, was no more than pretty looks and caked on make-up. Patrick had given up hope of ever finding someone who was truly beautiful; both inside and out. But somehow this Christine was... different. She radiated an innocence unlike anything he'd ever seen before. And yet, she was like a fragile flower, of which the cold of winter's frost could kill.
Patrick stood in the doorway to her bedroom, his breath hitching in his lungs as he made out the faint outline of Christine's sleeping form in the soft light. He smiled to himself, taking a few tentative steps forward until he was at her bedside. She lay on her side facing him, her chemise rising and falling with her steady breaths, and her delicate fingers entwined around her necklace. She even looks beautiful when she sleeps, mused Patrick, completely enamored with the sight before him. He didn't know how long he stood there, watching protectively over her as she lay deep within the arms of sleep, and only once did she stir. Patrick froze, afraid Christine's eyes would fly open at any moment, along with a string of accusations; he was, after all, standing over a married woman's bed. Formerly married, he reminded himself. But Christine simply muttered something incoherent, and rolled onto her other side; emitting a soft sigh. Patrick smiled warmly, reaching out a solitary finger to stroke just one of her delicate gossamer curls.
"What are you doing?" Patrick retracted his hand immediately, jumping back in surprise at the accusatory voice from the doorway. He turned sharply. Meg Giry stared back at him, her arms folded about her waist, and her eyes narrowed. "What were you doing?" she repeated again.
"Uhm, er, I-er..." Patrick mumbled for a moment, grasping at any plausible explanation for his actions. He shrugged helplessly. "I just wanted to make sure she was ok."
Meg looked unconvinced. "While she's sleeping? Obviously you can see she's fine. That still doesn't explain why a grown man was leering over her bed!." Patrick stood stunned. Surely she didn't think...?
"I was not leering Mademoiselle-"
"Well, that's sure as hell what it looked like!" Meg placed her hands on her hips, blocking the doorway.
"I assure you Mademoiselle, I was doing nothing of the kind! I merely came to see that Christine was alright, and now that I have seen to it, pray, remove yourself from the doorway so that I may pass."
Meg reluctantly stepped aside, glaring at Patrick as he passed, obviously anxious to leave the room.
Madame Giry watched with bemusement as a very harassed-looking Patrick rushed past her in the hall-way, muttering incoherently to himself and dragging his hands through is blonde hair. He didn't even seem to notice her, as he passed, rushing quickly into his room with a slight click of the door closing.
Meg stood in the doorway for a few moments; watching Christine worriedly. Hopefully her dear friend hadn't been too hasty to take in a man she didnt even know; after all, all she knew about this Patrick, was his name. Her eyes narrowed. Why would a man put his life on hold to "help" a woman he barely even knew. Meg froze...
"Madame?"
Madame Giry looked up from the book she was reading, "Monsieur Raynaud." She acknowledged him with a small nod, folding a bookmark within the pages and closing it quietly in her lap. "How may I be of assistance?"
"Patrick, please Madame." He ran a nervous hand through his blonde curls; how was this going to sound? "I-I was wondering, just wondering whether you would be able to tell me a little more about C-Christine?"
Madame Giry sighed, for a moment it looked as though she was about to say 'no'. "Patrick take a seat." She indicated to the near-by arm chair. Patrick sat down slowly, his eager face turned to Madame Giry's in rapt attention.
"I guess Christine's story begins with the death of her father. Christine's mother died giving birth to her, and Christine's relationship with her father was the closest bond I've ever seen between two people; Charles loved that little girl with every fibre in his being, and Christine was full of nothing but utter adoration for him. For the better part of seven years they lived in Sweden before Charles and Christine moved to France, where -" Madame Giry took a deep breath before continuing. "-where Charles fell ill and died."
Patrick looked away; his heart breaking a little for the innocent young woman in the room across the way, orphaned and alone at such a young age.
"I took Christine in, bringing her to live with Megan and I at the opera house, where I was the ballet mistress, and Christine and Megan were my students."
Patrick frowned, "The opera house, Madame?"
"Yes, the Opera Populaire."
"Christine was part of the Corps de Ballet at the Opera Populaire?" Patrick asked in disbelief.. He had heard of the Opera Populaire and the stories of its infamous "Opera Ghost".
"Oh, certainly Monsieur, but she became much more than that."
"What do you mean?"
"Do you read the papers Monsieur?"
"Yes, certainly."
"Then I am sure you are familiar with the name," Madame Giry sighed, "'Christine Daae'?"
Patrick's eyes widened considerably. "C-Christine Daae?" He barely whispered the word. "S-She's? Christine Daae?"
Madame Giry nodded curtly, "One in the same I'm afraid."
Patrick sat back into the seat with a look of utter disbelief. "I would never have believed it!"
"Oh believe me, Monsieur," Madame Giry chuckled darkly, "bless my soul for I love her so, but extraordinary predicaments follow that girl wherever she may be."
Patrick frowned, thinking fervently back to every article he had ever read about the famed opera house and its inhabitants. "I don't understand –" Madame Giry glanced meaningfully at him, retrieving the book from her lap. Slowly something floated to the surface of his mind. He stopped dead, "Surely you don't mean-?"
Madame Giry's grim smile reflected the sadness in her eyes. "Not… the Opera Ghost?"
Patrick eyes widened even more so, his mouth falling slightly agape in the shock as he slowly made the connection. "The Opera Ghost… Miss Daae's disappearance from the stage…?" He let the sentence trail off into the silence of the room, blinking slowly. Madame Giry had ceased to answer, choosing instead to stare at the book's pages, determined to resume her lost place and bring the conversation to a close. Patrick sat still in anticipation, resolved to be undeterred. A few minutes passed before Madame Giry sighed with annoyance and snapped the book shut.
"I suggest, Monsieur, that if you wish to know more you should approach Christine on the matter. As for me, I have told all I am permitted to, and shall not oblige you with any more."
She flicked the book open again, glaring at the page before dropping it to her lap in resignation. She stood up quickly in irritation, glancing at the darkening skies outside and making her way to the kitchen.
"It is getting late Monsieur, so, if you'll excuse me I shall begin dinner."
He stood up hastily, "I'll help madame!"
"No Patrick, I assure you I am quite competent."
"Oh, I have no doubt of it," Patrick assured her, "I just feel so helpless; I would very much like to do something to show you how grateful I am for your allowing me to stay here."
Madame Giry waved her hand, sighing in irritation. "Ok, fine, if you're sure dinner for four is not too much trouble-"
Patrick laughed, "I've been an Innkeeper, and chef, for several years Madame, preparing dinner for four people is no task at all."
Madame Giry granted him a wry smile at that one.
XxXxXxX
The sounds of pots and pans clanging in the distance drew Meg from her reverie. She sat precariously upon a stool in Christine's room, gazing steadily out the window as night enveloped the day, leaving dark red streaks across the horizon. Christine still slept peacefully by her side, undisturbed by the apparent racket coming from the kitchen. Meg stood up impatiently, storming down the hallway ready to reprimand whoever it was who was causing the raucous, for fear of it waking Christine. As she reached to doorway she peeked curiously around the corner. Before her eyes lay the most bizarre sight.
Patrick bustled around the kitchen; his face red from the heat of the stove, and a woman's apron clinging to his form. A wonderfully aromatic smell wafted through the doorway towards Meg, and all thoughts of yelling at him over the noise he was making disintegrated as soon as the smell reached her senses. Meg stepped through the doorway, with a small 'ahem.'
Patrick looked up, "Mademoiselle Giry!"
"Monsieur…" Meg stopped in shock; she didn't know this man's name!
"Oh! Raynaud, Mademoiselle! My apologies for not informing you sooner!"
Monsieur Raynaud… Patrick Raynaud… Meg mused thoughtfully, Hmmm… sounds nice.
"Monsieur Raynaud, may I be so bold as to enquire what exactly it is that you are doing?"
"Certainly! I'm making…well, actually I don't know what it is called," he smiled buoyantly, "would you care to taste?" He held a large wooden spoon out to her; the smell wafting towards her enticingly.
Meg walked over to him, hesitantly taking the spoon from his hand and bringing it to her lips.
The taste was overwhelmingly good! She smiled a little as the spices infused in her mouth.
"It appears, Monsieur Raynaud, that you are quite the talent in the kitchen. Perhaps you would consider preparing dinner more often?" Meg smiled warmly.
Patrick blushed a little at the compliment, "Certainly, my dear mademoiselle, any time my assistance is required, all you need do is ask."
"I'll remember you said that Monsieur," her lips quirked a little as her eyes smiled at him mischievously.
A sudden scream pierced the air. Patrick and Meg looked at each other in alarm, before running down the hall towards Christine's room.
XxXxXxX
Christine thrashed around violently, her sheets twisting about her form as cold sweat dripped profusely from her brow, soaking her bed clothes. "Erik!"
She felt as though she were suffocating, a large hand clapped down over her mouth as the smell of cheap whisky filled her nostrils; the stench was unbearable.
"Ahh my pretty, why do you scream so? There's no-one here to save you… no-one hears you screaming…" The shadowy figure leered over her, she couldn't see his face, but the smell… like death, and liquor… breathing heavily in her ear, as he pushed down on her, barely allowing her to breathe, "Erik!"
"You truly are alone…" Chuckling, a maniacal laughter rang through her ears, drowning her thoughts. She was drowning, suffocating under the immense weight, being pulled further and further down into an empty void, as his laughter filled her mind…
"Erik!"
Madame Giry violently shook Christine, desperately trying to wake her from her nightmarish hell. She could not. "Christine! Christine! You must wake!"
"Erik…" A weak cry issued from her parched white lips, her voice was hoarse and cracked.
"Meg! Bring a towel, quickly!" Madame Giry barked. Meg flew past an extremely concerned looking Patrick standing in the doorway, utterly unsure of what to do. He was torn in two; he desperately wanted to help, yet he didn't want to intrude, he didn't know what to do.
"Christine, you must wake! You are safe here! Christine!
Suddenly Christine sat up, screaming. Madame Giry grabbed her shoulders as she hysterically cried Erik's name over and over again. She forcibly took her face in her hands, demanding that Christine look at her eyes, she's still in the fits of her nightmare!
"Christine! Christine, look at me!"
Christine did as she was told; weeping pitifully as she looked into Madame Giry's concerned and alarmed eyes.
"You are safe Christine. You are here, in London with Meg and I. Nobody can hurt you here, do you understand me? You're safe, Christine, you're safe."
Christine was clinging to Madame Giry when Meg arrived with the towels, wrapping one around Christine's shivering body; she was as pale and cold as death.
Rushing Christine's huddled form from the bedroom, they pushed passed Patrick and headed straight to the bathroom. Patrick followed in tow, wanting to keep as close to Christine as he could, to let her know that he was there for her.
"Meg, take Christine inside now, draw a bath," she pointed towards the bathroom door, before halting Patrick with an upraised hand. "I'm sorry Monsieur, there is nothing more you can do for her." And with that she whisked inside the room, closing the door resolutely in his face.
Patrick felt both dejected and helpless. He stormed angrily to the kitchen, slamming pots and pans down on the tabletop to alleviate some of his frustration. He stopped for a moment as a cloud of jealousy began to slowly unfurl within his heart. Erik? Who the hell is Erik?
XxXxXxX
It had been a week and a half since Christine's horrific nightmare, and still she had not opened up to Patrick, nor really spoken to him since. He wasn't sure whether she felt embarrassed by the incident, or if it were truly too horrific to speak about, but either way he felt miserable; he wanted Christine to be able to trust him! Still, he knew he shouldn't be so insensitive to her feelings; if she didn't wish to speak of it, then that was her decision and he should respect it either way. She knew he was there for her, if ever she needed him. He ground some oregano and added it to the stew he was making, stirring it thoughtfully.
Meg wandered aimlessly down the hallway, humming a simple melody from the ballet she was now dancing at the theatre company. She had just spoken, or rather checked in with Christine. She was still having nightmares, but none so violent as that of a week and a half ago; she now simply murmured a little in her sleep. Meg sighed with worry; she hated seeing her friend like this; so upset and jumpy. Meg caught whiff of a delicious smell wafting as she passed the kitchen door. Patrick must be at it again, she mused silently.
It was strange. Despite the fact that he had been living in her house for nearly two weeks now, Meg had barely gotten to know him. That very first day he and Christine arrived he appeared to be an extremely pleasant man; both caring and noble. He had an aura about him that exerted friendliness, and although she had questioned his intentions at first, she had seen by the vast concern drawn across his face at the sight of Christine in pain, that his heart was good and true. But since that night something had overcome him. Now he cooked and mended the house non-stop; he was morose and silent the majority of the time, preferring to keep to himself, whilst regularly trying to converse with Christine. Meg noticed that his eyes seemed to light a little whenever she entered the room, but when she'd leave once more without a word of greeting to him, his eyes would darken once more. Meg felt for the man, she really did. He genuinely cared for Christine, and it was killing him to know that she was openly ignoring him. Gosh, he needs something to distract him for a while, to get him out of the house, she thought.
Meg doubled back to the kitchen, popping her head through the doorway in a would-be casual way. "Oh, Patrick?"
He looked up from his stew, the sweat glistening on his face. "Yes Mademoiselle?"
"Really Patrick, must you always call me Mademoiselle? You make it seem so formal all the time."
"I'm sorry… Meg, is there something I can do for you?"
"There's no need to apologize, you make it seem so-… oh never mind! Yes, Patrick, there is something you can do for me." He waited silently, absently stirring his stew.
"Yes?" He asked irritably.
"I was wondering whether," she took up and pen and piece of parchment, scribbling some unnecessary items on it to make a list, "you could take this and go to the market for myself and maman?"
"You just went yesterday," he protested.
"I know, but there were some things I forgot yesterday," she apologized, "please Patrick?"
"Yes, certainly Mademoiselle," he sighed. Meg noticed that he always reverted back to 'mademoiselle' whenever he was irritated. This was one of those times.
"Thank-you Patrick." She went to leave the room.
"Wait please, mademoiselle." Meg halted. "Would you mind at least looking after my stew?"
XxXxXxX
Patrick returned from the market place alone, balancing two bags of groceries and a small trinket he had bought for Christine. Perhaps it might cheer her up a little. As he opened to front door, something caught his attention. Shifting the bags to one hand, he bent to retrieve the letter that had been pushed under the front door, and continued into the kitchen, placing the groceries upon the counter-top. A terrible smell filled the air and he noticed his stew sat thick and gluggy within the pot; Meg was nowhere to be found. Patrick sighed in dismay, his attentions drawn once more to the letter. He stared at it, shocked to see "Christine de Chagny" printed in eloquent handwriting upon the front of the envelope.
Who would be sending Christine letters here? He turned the envelope over slowly in his hands, his eyes growing dark as they scanned to small print upon the coat-of-arms wax seal. "de Chagny."
So, that wretched man of a husband of hers knows she's here. Patrick quickly looked behind him, his eyes hardening as he slipped the letter into the inner pocket of his coat. You don't deserve her de Chagny, you don't deserve her forgiveness... not ever.
A/N: Okay, now it's your turn; review! Please...? I'd really like to know what you guys are thinking about how the story is panning out. I'm sorry for the lack of Erik, but he is coming, I promise you! (The more reviews, the more inspired I'll feel to write quicker, hint hint) lol, cheers!