A/N: Thank you so much for the wonderful and encouraging reviews! :)
And now…
Chapter XLIII
.
The Phantom offered a morsel of bread to the black feline, who delicately took it from his hand between sharp little teeth.
"Now she has me feeding you like a child. Is this not pathetic…"
Clearly not opposed to the idea, Faust then sniffed at the wedge of cheese on the Phantom's plate. He nudged the little beast's head away.
"There is not enough of that for the mortals who inhabit these caves. If you are still hungry, go find a small rodent. God knows there are plenty about."
A night without slumber had led him no closer to a decision about the young woman who most recently betrayed him. The old vow that he once made the girl, prompted by his shamed disgust for offenses against her, would not allow him to eject her from his home to fend for herself. In his dark rage the previous evening, he would have thrown Jolene out onto the streets, but Christine's steady words of logic had broken through the red haze of vitriol that clouded his mind, and grimly he had relented.
What later compelled him to seek from his exasperating songbird coveted words that he knew he would never hear from her lips, he could not imagine. Insanity perhaps. Dwelling for years beneath the earth after living within the beautiful hell that was Persia could lead one to madness…
It was both droll and irksome that she thought him the Don Juan of the cellars when his last "wicked tryst" had been with Winnie, nearly three years ago. Yet in taunting Christine, his vengeful delight to witness her angry discomfiture had been fleeting, the hurt in her eyes a weapon that twisted his soul, inflicting a jagged blade of pain into his own heart...
With a soft curse, he straightened in his chair and hurriedly readjusted his mask, his abrupt actions causing the cat to leap down from the table and scamper away.
"How long have you been standing there?" he commanded without turning to look.
He heard her gasp at the realization that she'd been caught, then the light tread of footsteps as she came to the table and faced him, with Faust now cradled like a baby in her arms. Her eyes lowered to his half empty plate then to his face, the light of shock in them.
"Did you truly think I did not eat?" he asked in curt amusement.
Christine barely shook her head as though still weary, and he wondered if she had also suffered a sleepless night.
"At times, I wondered," she admitted. "I must be early again?"
"Yes, though it would do well if we begin the lesson. The boy will be up soon and will need tended to."
"Of course. I can make his porridge."
"It is already on the stove."
She gave a stiff little nod. "And Jolene? What of her?"
The words seemed torn from her lips, and he lifted his brow.
"I thought you had no wish to know…?"
"Never mind!" She spun around and tossed Faust to the ground, then moved to retrieve the silver urn of boiled water used for drinking. "I only wondered if she'd eaten." She poured herself a glass.
The Phantom watched her stiff movements, finding scant satisfaction in his silken taunt. In the first weeks she inhabited his home, he took vengeful pleasure in making her suffer with his verbal blows and derisive rejoinders. But such punishment had lost its appeal of late.
He took a lemon and sliced it in half. Approaching her from behind, he drew close, careful not to touch any part of her as he reached around and squeezed the juice into her water. Her breathing grew slightly elevated as she kept her focus on the wall ahead, her back ramrod straight. The nearness of her warmth and scent coaxed him to press closer…
Swiftly he moved away before he could give into the maddening lure.
"If you wish it, you may take Jolene a meal after your lesson," he said quietly then turned to ascend the stairs and take his place at the organ, to prepare.
The practice went surprisingly well, free of the drama that lately plagued it. One hour into the lesson, the boy appeared at the top of the stairs, and the Phantom put a temporary halt to operatic proceedings. He watched Christine dish out porridge and converse with Jacques through awkward hand motions and slow pronunciation of scarce words. A hint of grudging approval struggled to surface at how she endeavored to relate to the child. He had not presumed in these past four years that she had grown so entirely callous as to shun the boy for his differences, but neither did he expect she would frequently reach out to him with such diligence.
Christine lifted her head, catching the Phantom's steady eyes watching her. A light flush of rose tinged her cheeks.
"What should we tell Jacques about his sister?" she asked as the boy fiddled with his spoon, showing little interest in his food.
"We tell him nothing."
She frowned, clearly displeased with his answer. Not wishing to engage in another argument or have her sulk and become problematic during the continuation of her practice, he waved a hand toward her and turned back to his work.
"Go. Take the fool little maid a tray. We will resume Act Four upon your return."
.
xXx
.
Christine approached Jolene's prison door, setting the tray down to unbar it. Once she entered, Jolene warily regarded her from where she sat up in bed then looked at the items Christine had brought.
She set the tray with breakfast on the ground near the cot, and pulled from her arm one of the girl's woolen dresses and a pair of black stockings, also setting her shoes on the ground.
"I remember how horrid it was to have cold feet," Christine said lightly. "I'm sorry, it's only porridge with a bit of bread and cheese. I'll try to bring something more substantial for dinner."
"Why are you being kind to me?" A sliver of remorse in the girl's tone battled with what sounded like resentment.
"Why would I not be?" Christine drew her brows together in remembered agitation. "It is partially my fault that you're here, Jolene. I misunderstood what happened last night. I spoke when perhaps I should have remained silent. I had thought…" She broke off flustered, not wanting to admit her misconception with regard to the Phantom.
"I know what you thought. It's what I wanted you to think."
Christine looked at the girl in stunned disbelief.
"My mistake was in believing that you would not care enough to go to the Maestro with what you had seen. I wanted you to see and to think he was with me. I hoped you would then escape with your friend and return to your world while the Maestro was absent. She was supposed to come find you. But he must have found her first."
Taken aback by her full disclosure, Christine shook her head. "You staged that? But - why would you practice such deceit? I don't understand. I thought we were getting along at one point."
"You don't belong here," the girl said bitterly. "You care nothing for him, only wishing to hurt him with your words and your actions. Always trying to escape - making him angry. Making him sad. He deserves to be loved like anyone else - and more than most!"
"And you think you're the one to do that," Christine whispered.
Jolene's bright blue eyes dropped to the blanket that covered her legs, her manner quieter after her outburst. "He is not like other men. At first I thought he was and behaved toward him as my uncle taught, but the Maestro was different. He held me and warmed me. With him, I did not have to pretend," she whispered bluntly. "He made me feel safe and has taken care of me, expecting no favors in return. No man has done that, not even my grandfather…"
Christine felt sickened by the girl's deliberate words, confronted with both another facet of her horrific past and the verity of her intimate knowledge of the Phantom.
"I wish only to make him happy," Jolene said, lifting her eyes, shining with tears. "Oui. I love him and wish again to make love to him, even if he can never love me -"
"You do realize I'm his wife," Christine interrupted, her voice hoarse.
"But you do not love him as a wife! You will not even touch him. I have seen. I have heard. You treat him as a beast and call him one. He is unhappy. You are unhappy. You should never have married him! You should go back to your world above -"
Christine stood to her feet. "I have no wish to hear any more of this."
"Why? Because you know I'm right? Do you wish to make him even more miserable than he is?" A tear broke free from the girl's dark lashes and rolled down her cheek.
"I am here to sing for him."
"You can do that at the opera."
"I'm not yet ready," Christine said faintly.
"And when you are ready, will you go away and stay away? It's what you have said you want. Then you can be happy, and I can make him happy."
"And what of your friend last night?" Christine asked a bit caustically.
"He means nothing. I met him once. He favors the Maestro in build and has the same black hair. I saw the opportunity and took it."
"I must return before the Maestro grows impatient." Christine hastened to the door, needing escape from the Phantom's potential young mistress and the bitter feelings of resentment the girl invoked.
"Who is Erik?"
At Jolene's soft, insistent words, Christine's heart froze. Slowly she turned to face her.
"Why do you ask?" she breathed.
"When you were ill and I sat by your bedside, you called out for him, begging him to come find you, to come back to you."
"He was someone very special." She could barely get the words out.
"You loved him?"
"Yes."
"You wished for his happiness and to be with him?"
"Always." Hot moisture coated her eyes and she rapidly blinked it away.
"Tell me, would you have done anything? - sacrificed anything - to make that possible?"
Her throat choked with emotion, Christine could give no answer. Jolene nodded quietly.
"I think you begin to understand."
.
xXx
.
Arabella alighted from the carriage, a determined spring to her steps. Her attempts to speak with Madame Giry last night had failed, a dancer explaining that Madame had left on an errand and she didn't know when to expect her back. Whether it had been a ploy of evasion, Arabella was uncertain, but the girl clearly had been too tense to say more.
Arriving at the end of rehearsal ensured that she would gain an audience with the ballet headmistress, and she smiled in victory when she spotted the somberly dressed woman as she instructed her dancers on their errors. Arabella listened to the mild tirade, realizing at once that Christine never had a chance with what little she'd been taught. And yet, within one week of her arrival, the Phantom announced she would sing the lead while keeping the identity of his diva a mystery to all within the theatre. It was still a mystery to those who worked at the opera house.
Nothing added up, and for Christine's sake Arabella needed to understand.
She warred with her conscience in leaving her sweet friend within the chill dark caverns and in the company of such a dangerous man, no matter that she'd had little choice at the time. Christine actually seemed content to be there from what she heard, which also made no sense.
The silk scarf Arabella had knotted at her throat hid the bruises from his stranglehold, and there was still a slight rasp when she spoke that Raoul noticed once he returned to their suite after his ventures the previous evening. Of course her cousin possessed no inkling of her investigation that had led to an evening stroll to the Phantom's hideaway, thinking her helpless and in need of continual protection. Because of his insistence to treat her like a china doll, she decided to leave him in the dark, at least for the present. Raoul had admonished her to stay in bed, thinking her hoarseness due to a cold, then retired for the night. An hour ago, after wishing her a pleasant good morning and advising her to take care of herself, with a brush of his lips to her forehead that surprised and pleased Arabella, he had left on his never-ending search to find a way to capture the Phantom.
Arabella had found the Phantom, but now must learn more about his ways…
"Madame Giry," she said approaching the stage after the girls' dismissal, before the ballet instructor could retreat to the wings. The woman always seemed to be in swift motion, rushing to and fro.
Madame looked less than pleased to see her and gave a curt little nod. "Lady de Chagny."
"I should like to speak with you."
"My apologies, I'm very busy."
"Ten minutes of your time. That's all I ask."
Madame hesitated. "Very well. We can speak in my office."
She led the way down a backstage corridor to a cramped room cluttered with memorabilia of the dance, and motioned to a chair opposite a desk just as cluttered, behind which she then took a seat.
"I'm sorry I have no refreshment to offer."
Arabella waved the courtesy away. "I don't need anything to drink."
"Why did you ask to speak with me?" Madame asked with pointed caution.
"I wish to know more about the Phantom of the Opera."
Madame shifted papers around on her desk. "I'm sorry. There's not much I can tell you."
"I talked to several members of the chorus. All of them told me that you work as his assistant."
She frowned. "Be that as it may, I cannot help you."
"Madame Giry," Arabella said pleasantly, folding her hands in her lap. "I think we both know that the Phantom has Christine, and for you to play this continual game of avoidance is tiring to us both. If it eases your mind, whatever you reveal to me will be kept in the strictest confidence. I have no intention of leaving here to contact the authorities or even to tell my cousin."
Madame narrowed her eyes pensively. "Then you must no longer suspect that Christine is in danger."
"Clearly you do not think so. And you don't strike me as a heartless woman who could so calmly sit there, day after day, and give no aid - if a young woman's life was in jeopardy."
A grudging smile tilted her thin lips. "You speak correctly."
A look of mutual respect passed between them, and the tension in the room eased a degree.
"I would like to know about the morning of Christine's audition. I understand the Phantom dropped you a note. Will you tell me what it said?"
Madame struggled within herself. Arabella waited as patiently as possible, understanding the woman's desire to remain loyal to her employer, even if it was a source of Arabella's current frustration.
"He told me not to let her go."
"But her audition was so badly done that you hired her as a maid? Is that correct?"
"It was preposterous. Her dance was abysmal, and she would not sing."
"She would not sing?" Arabella repeated in curious surprise, recalling Christine's clear bell like tones ringing distantly from the belly of the monstrous caverns.
And yet, for all that, within days this Phantom of the Opera who ruled the theatre with iron control and stern demands had abducted a newcomer to make her his star?
"She stressed that she could not do so and refused to try, no matter that I told her it was a condition of joining the chorus."
This sounded like Christine of the past three years, once she woke from her catatonic state. A pale replica of the spirited girl she'd once been, quietly refusing all persuasions and requests to hear her angelic voice in song, due to her broken heart over the loss of a childhood friend.
"But then…how…?" Arabella rubbed the scarf at her neck, just stopping herself from asking how the Phantom initially would even know Christine could sing, and sing well enough to become a new lead. She had no desire to reveal anything that would divulge her encounter with him and carefully searched for words. "Why exactly did the Phantom wish for her to stay on, since it's my understanding that he only takes an active interest in the performances, especially in the singing?"
"That I cannot tell you, because I don't know the answer."
"Is there anything you feel comfortable to share about the man himself?"
She waited a moment to speak. "He is a composer and a magician. A true connoisseur of the arts and a genius in many fields. The managers of old will tell you they were the cause, but it was the Phantom who saved the opera house from going under. Music is in his blood."
"You have heard him play?"
"Once. From a distance. He plays the violin with such beauty and depth of emotion, he should be manager here. He understands what is best for the opera. His directives when obeyed never fail to enhance the quality of the performances."
Arabella soaked in that information, beginning to understand with Madame's forceful declaration that she was enamored of his skills, which in part must be why she would serve such a dangerous man in the capacity she did. The woman was as intelligent as she was shrewd. She would not act against her better judgment.
"When did he first come to the opera house?"
Madame sighed. "He first made his presence known to me three years ago."
Three years…
The pieces sounded as if they should fit, but the puzzle still lacked sense.
"Do you know where he lived before that?"
"No…only…"
"Yes?" Arabella urged, eager for whatever morsel of information she could glean.
Madame narrowed her eyes, recalling that day. "He spoke with an accent foreign to France."
"Do you know what country?"
"I have collaborated with many foreigners in my profession on the stage. My first thought was England, but there was also a hint of a more fluid intonation unfamiliar to me. Since then he has adopted the French and speaks with little inflection of his old accent."
"Would it be pushing things to ask for a description of his appearance?" Arabella quipped, knowing only that he was tall, lean, and strong of build, from being held captive against him. And his voice was both decadent and lethal…a beauty and a terror…
Madame smiled secretively. "There are many here who could tell you that."
Arabella curbed a sigh. Yes, she had heard the bizarre accounts of the crude stagehands - from a monster with no nose and burning eyes to a skeleton and a corpse. She didn't believe any of them, but remembered all accounts bore one trait in common.
"Does he always wear a mask?"
Madame gave a cryptic nod.
"Do you know why?"
"I never asked."
"What of his name?"
"That I never asked either." She looked at a clock on her desk. "I really must return to my duties."
"Madame, one last thing. Can you tell me if the accounts are true - did he kill one of the stagehands a year ago? Is he indeed a murderer?"
A guarded look entered the woman's pale blue eyes. "There are always bizarre accidents at the theatre that find their way into becoming legends. It is the way of the stage, by those who daily take on other roles, the boundaries between what is real and what is fantasy becoming blurred. Some here will tell you in sound belief that he is a true ghost who haunts the theatre - thus the name he was given." She spread her hands in a shrug. "You see why such a question is impossible to answer with accuracy. From one you will hear the Phantom strangled the man. From another you will hear he was a true ghost seeking revenge. When in all probability late in the night Monsieur Buquet's brother stumbled on the ropes in the flies and became tangled in them, falling to his death."
Arabella noted that the woman did not reply with what she believed was true or sound as sure as her words.
"Thank you for your time, Madame Giry. I'll see myself out."
The woman gave a vague nod, her eyes watchful, and Arabella felt sure she was still hiding something.
Once she returned backstage, Arabella made a point to speak to a few dancers, all who were eager to tell what little they knew of the Phantom. She learned that two of their number who no longer worked there had actually seen him in close quarters, their accounts of his appearance striking.
"Juliet said he wore a white mask over the right side of his face, and Winnie swore it was black and full, like a bandit's - but both agreed he was dark and alluring and had the most riveting golden eyes - like flames that burn," the little dancer, Jammes, excitedly told her.
Most peculiar to her in attitude was Madame's daughter, Meg, who no longer seemed the least bit worried about her new friend. "You needn't be concerned, Lady de Chagny. I'm certain that Christine is alright. She'll return to us one day." The dancer spoke as though she knew the words to be fact, a mysterious smile tilting her lips. And though Arabella heard from the Phantom's own mouth that Christine would soon return to take the stage - she wondered what caused the quicksilver change in Meg. Clearly she knew something she wasn't telling, but Arabella had pushed her advantage and didn't linger to demand more. She had no wish to aggravate those from whom she might require future answers.
Arabella returned to her carriage in a fog, all of what she learned making no more sense than when she first arrived, yet much of it striking a vague, familiar chord.
Where had she heard such things before?
Halfway to the hotel, she at last began to recall those similarities, enthusiastically shared with her throughout all of one night, two years ago upon their return to France - about another man she had barely met and his genius and mastery on the violin and piano. His magic. His artistic skills. His innate ability to compose music and lyrics. His protectiveness and deep soul ties to Christine and hers to him during the decade they had grown up together, with shared plans to take on the world with their music - their relationship so powerful and complex that Christine had lost the fight to live, then later the will to sing once he was so ruthlessly taken from her…
Until three days after her arrival to Paris as a fugitive, when suddenly she was to become the Phantom's star in his new opera.
"…I must confess, when we went to see Tristan and Isolde, I felt as if he was there with me in Box 5, watching me. Of course I know it couldn't have been …Did you see him, Arabella, that night he came to the Grange after I fell? Did you see his eyes behind the mask? No? A pity. You would never forget them if you had…They were golden, his lashes thick and black with a slight curl to their tips - the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen and ever will see - like candles glowing in the night and scattering the darkness from my soul…though he was sometimes so dark, so very dark with his talk of curses and revenge. And he could be so difficult, demanding his way most of the time. But I didn't care because I loved him. He made me feel complete…"
"My God!" Arabella gasped, numb with shock of the revelation, her eyes going wide…
Shaken by what she knew couldn't possibly be true…
(The dead didn't come back to life!)
…a surreal conviction burning inside her heart that it was no vain imagining - as at last the puzzle of the Phantom and Christine clicked into a clear, sharp picture that finally made sense.
.
xXx
.
Once Christine returned from taking the little French maid her tray, the Phantom noted that his songbird had become quiet and more sullen than before she left.
"Did something happen of which I should be made aware?" he finally asked after several minutes of this behavior, weary of her brusque movements and covert glances toward him when she thought he failed to notice.
He turned the full strength of his gaze on her.
Abruptly she looked away from him and took the boy's bowl from the table. Jacques now played a short distance away, sitting beside the lake.
"No. Nothing at all."
Her words held a distinct bite. The Phantom harshly exhaled a breath wrapped in a curse. It was clear they would get little accomplished in this hour.
"Go. Eat your meal," he ordered curtly.
"I have no appetite."
"Are you unwell?"
He critically appraised her figure. The dresses he selected from the costume room no longer hung on her, now molding her form to perfection, the nearly skeletal girl that had entered his home more than a month ago a thing of the past. The hue of roses bloomed in her creamy skin, her eyes dark and shining bright, and he felt the damnable quickening in his loins, which of late happened with frequency when she was near.
"I wish to sing." She smoothed her hands down the sides of her dark skirt, the customary act serving to draw attention to her slender waist and the wider flare of her hips. "It is after all the agreement. That I would sing for you."
Her odd choice of words and unconscious behavior did little to soothe his temper or cool his blood. He warily watched her approach.
Damn the wretched girl for her alluring beauty. She had always affected him strongly and been a continual enticement, since the moment he first set eyes on her slumbering form through the looking glass. His cutting words of disinterest to bed her had been both a punishing lie and a necessary defense. In hearing himself wield the cruel slurs, he could almost believe them, could then draw away and adopt the cold, indifference vital to the success of his plan.
Yes, that would have been preferred. Except a shift had occurred since they were wed, a contradiction he never anticipated when in his hard-won detachment he coolly formulated the idea of marriage to his captive a year ago.
With the knowledge that Christine was now his wife, he burned for her until he thought he would go mad. The heated dreams of them entwined in passion returned en force, the desire suffocating when he woke, the only strand of reason holding him back from taking her to his bed and ravishing her into submission the truth that brought them here, to this place of cold and damp and darkness.
Her act of heartless betrayal. His vow of eternal revenge.
She did not want him.
He would not have her.
Never could he again allow himself to fall under her spell, and in regaining that knowledge, the Phantom composed himself. His ardor cooled, he studied his taxing student with aloof scorn.
"You speak in truth, Madame. The agreement is that you will sing for me and I will teach you. So let us begin."
A fire impassioned her voice, the angelic quality diminished and a temptress rising to the fore, the excellence of her tone unbroken. He closed his eyes in utter delight, pushing aside the stir of intense feeling she roused in his excitement to hear what he had so long dreamed. THIS was Aminta! His creation…her voice…a masterpiece in the making.
Once the last clear note rang through the chamber, he pulled his hands from the keys, shaken. When at last he turned his head her way, he noted her curious surprise to see the moisture that wet his lashes. Her gaze lowered to the faint upturn of his lips.
"Bravissima," he said simply. "You have attained that which I knew burned deeply within your soul."
A pleased smile lifted her lips. "Then I am ready?"
At the reminder of her keen desire to leave him and return to the world above, his elation faded somewhat.
"Not yet. There is still much you have to learn. But today marks the first true progress you have made."
Her smile did not waver with his pronouncement, and he took foolish satisfaction in the knowledge that her delight was in her accomplishment, not in the hope of abandoning his dark caves. As she hinted or asked about nearly every damned day.
Forcing strict and somber distance he continued with the practice.
When the time came to conclude, he was satisfied with her vocal performance despite that she still lacked in major areas needed for the stage, to engage an audience of hundreds of critical spectators. He dismissed her and returned to his budding opus, his senses aware of her movements as she bustled about his chamber.
At the clanging of a chain slowly winding upon itself, he looked over his shoulder in surprise to see her raise the trunk he had waterproofed to hold food. So, she had made that discovery, likely with the boy's help, and he watched Jacques scamper to her side to hand her the pole.
The Phantom turned back to his work.
Chopping sounds and the clink of metal punctuated the air, which soon filled with the aroma of vegetables cooking. His eyes drawn to where his mind wandered, he watched her stir something on the stove. Jacques sat at the table, eating his meal. It was his sister's custom to feed the boy and put him to bed before the evening practice with Christine concluded, when she would then eat. A third time, the Phantom looked away to concentrate on his work.
When he glanced in that direction again, they were both absent. In all likelihood she had put the boy to bed. He also should leave to make the weekly check of his traps, to ensure they remained in working order, obtain mortar to finish the barricade, perhaps go above to speak with Madame. He decided to first finish jotting another stanza, picking out chords as he did.
The warm touch of Christine's hand upon his shoulder startled him to flinch away and swing around on the bench in stiff question. Once she had approached from behind with a dagger to seek freedom, another time to rip his mask away in her quest for truth. Strangely, he had never felt more vulnerable than by the gentle touch of her hand…
She blinked in embarrassed confusion, dropping her arm to her side. The nearby candlelight played in her dark hair, shimmering ripples in an enchantment of red and golden highlight and black shadow. Flame and darkness.
"I'm sorry - I did try speaking to you, but you were so engrossed in your work that you didn't hear."
While true that he often grew absorbed in his compositions, he highly doubted that he would not have heard her, as bloody attuned to her as he felt, unless she spoke at a whisper from across the chamber. A night without sleep - a host of them actually, if one counted the dreams that gave no rest - must be catching up to him.
"What is it you wish to say?" he asked carefully.
She clasped her hands in her skirts, looking very awkward, and he narrowed his eyes and tensed, waiting for her to speak.
"I only wished to extend an invitation for you to join me…"
Unclenching one of her hands she motioned to the table, where he glanced to see two place settings had appeared along with a many-branched candlestick that glowed between.
"…For supper."
Her last two words coaxed him in their softness…
While a sense of impending dread made his mouth go dry.
xXx