A/N: Thank you for the reviews – they are much appreciated! :) And now…
Chapter LXIX
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The next afternoon, while Erik was immersed in the cumbersome project of moving her furniture to their bedchamber, Christine went in search of the boy. She had always felt an affinity with the amiable lad, made stronger now that she knew Jacques and her husband were half brothers.
Once she entered the boy's room she found not Jacques but his sister there. Perched on the edge of the bed, Jolene sat with her back to her. Christine half turned to go when she looked deeper beyond her initial tense, fleeting glance to note the slump of the girl's shoulders. A muted sniffle attested that the girl either had a cold or was crying. The slight tremor of her shoulders suggested the latter.
If she was wise, she would slip out as quietly as she'd come, without the maid ever knowing of her presence there. Christine still did not feel ready to confront her, silly as that qualm was, and she stiffened her shoulders, determined to prevail over such petty foolishness. She had Erik's love. He told her so. She refused to dwell on his sowing of wild oats in the past, especially with this woman.
And she would see to it that such behavior remained in the past.
"Jolene." Her tone was quiet but firm. "Are you unwell?"
The young woman jumped a bit then hurriedly swiped her eyes before slowly turning and offering her silhouette. "I am fine."
Relieved to go and eager to put distance between them, Christine began to turn away then remembered the message she had been asked to give from the young maid at the hotel. However, before she could speak, Jolene was first to do so.
"I- I spoke with the Maestro," she began haltingly. "He told me I could stay."
Knowing what she now knew about Jacques, the news did not surprise Christine, though she did not have to like it. She gave an abrupt nod.
"But you … you do not wish for me to remain?"
"Can you blame me for any reluctance I might feel?" Christine asked somewhat testily. "You were plotting to take my husband away from me; perhaps you still are."
If Jolene was surprised by her forthright manner, she gave no sign of it and turned fully to face her.
"You did not want him," she softly argued. "I did."
"And do you still?" Christine worked to keep her voice controlled. "Want him, that is."
"You would agree?" Jolene's eyes gleamed brighter then dulled before Christine quite understood what she was asking – or rather not believing she would have the gall to ask such a thing. "It is of no matter. He will not have me. He hates me now."
Stunned that the girl actually would believe Christine might condone the preposterous notion, she took a moment to reply. "It is of no account if he will or will not have you. Erik is my husband and not yours to have." She sighed to see the girl's crestfallen expression. "Why should you think he would hate you?"
Jolene wrung her hands in her lap. "I saw his face."
Christine gave a sharp nod of understanding. "You came upon him by accident then?"
The girl briskly shook her head. "He removed his mask. He – he wanted me to see." She looked down at her lap. "He wanted to frighten me…" she added the last in a whisper.
For two reasons he had admitted he willingly removed his mask – to instill fear with regard to the absurd gypsy superstition that to do so would cause an enemy's death, and to make his enemy flee. From his manner toward the girl, she doubted he sought her demise. He must have hoped to make her run. And foolish chit that she was, Jolene gave him exactly the reaction expected.
Christine moved forward the few steps needed and grabbed the maid's arm in a vice-like grip. "What did you do?" she hissed. "What did you say to him?"
The girl winced in pain. "I said nothing! Let me go." She wrenched her arm from Christine's hold.
"Did you scream?"
Jolene looked at her as if suddenly unable to understand the spoken language.
"Did you scream?!"
She moved her arm back as if to slap her and Jolene scooted back on the mattress to avoid contact. Christine just barely managed not to follow through with the angry impulse.
"No! I never screamed – I ran – to my chamber!"
"You little fool," she whispered.
"You don't understand –"
"No, it is you who fails to understand. It is only a face."
"But he wanted to frighten me." Her tearful blue eyes grew wider as Christine's words soaked in. "You – you have seen beneath the mask?"
"Of course – I am his wife. You should not have run – and after all he has done for you and the boy! After he has given you his protection and shelter." Christine took several steps away then whirled to look at her, so upset, she was barely aware of the words she spoke. "The Maestro saved your life – gave you a home – yet you treat him abominably – just as those fools who don't even try to know him for who he is! How could you be so cruel?"
And how could she convince Erik that the entire world was not against him when he experienced rejection and hostility within his own home? As he always had. God, was there nowhere safe where they could live in peace? On the wild and barren moors, five levels beneath the earth – it seemed there was no place for them to find a semblance of serenity.
"I did not wish to," Jolene insisted, jumping up to cross her arms over her chest and pace away in anxious irritation to the opposite wall. "I could not help my reaction. It was a shock – you say you have seen his face, then you know – and he wanted to frighten me!"
Recalling his bitter words of why he would do such a thing, she glared at Jolene's back.
"What did you do that should cause him to want to make you run?" she asked.
"I went to him, but he did not want me," the girl said bluntly. "He will never again want to lie with me."
A dart of anguish to be again so callously reminded of their past relationship pierced Christine's heart. "As it should be! He's married to me – a truth which you cannot seem to remember!"
"I don't understand why that should make a difference."
"You don't understand …?" Christine barely parroted the words, her mind reeling. She stared at the girl in dread shock. "What do you mean you don't understand?"
Jolene looked at her, sincere puzzlement in her eyes; oddly, her expression made her almost childlike, seeming no more than an innocent. "Many of the men my uncle made me visit in the nights were married. It made no difference to them. One man had his wife there, who wished also to be involved…"
Appalled by the maid's hardly subtle implications to share her husband, Christine brusquely shook her head. "That is not how things will be here! Don't even think it!"
"Don't you think I know that?" Jolene softly cried. "I did not care for the arrangement, though it didn't matter what I did or did not like. If I failed to please his customers, my uncle punished me and Jacques. The Maestro never beat me; he was kind … but, it doesn't matter. He will have nothing more to do with me. I told you. He hates me now."
"That is not the point. His feelings toward you – no matter what they are – have no bearing on this."
"Am I not allowed to wish for the same things?" Jolene asked in petulant aggravation then hesitated as if shocked to hear she had spoken what was clearly on her mind before pushing onward. "To be wanted and cared for, if not loved?"
"But you don't want him," Christine insisted, "Not any longer. You said –"
"I said he no longer wants me."
The barely audible words seemed to resound within Christine's ears with their dire suggestion. "I think perhaps you should go," she said firmly.
"Go…?" Jolene looked troubled. "Leave this place? But the Maestro said I could stay –"
"It makes no difference. This arrangement can never work." Christine realized she was being hardhearted and cruel, in light of what the girl once suffered, but above all she would fight for and protect her marriage, now that she again had a life with Erik. "Surely there is someone you know who can take you in, someone other than your uncle?"
The girl shook her head. "There is no one."
"Your grandfather perhaps?"
"He does not want me back, he was happy to be rid of both Jacques and myself," Jolene said sadly then looked up in quiet panic. "But I cannot leave without Jacques – and the master has said he will not let him go!"
Christine turned aside in frustration. Of course Erik would not want his brother out of his care, more so since the boy was so desperately in need of protection, due to his affliction. Nor did Christine wish Jacques to leave.
"It would seem that we have reached a stalemate," she clipped quietly, resigned to her fate. At least for the present.
"A stalemate?" The girl shook her head. "I don't know this word."
"An impasse … a standstill. Neither of us able to achieve our goal." Christine sighed. "I had hoped, once, that we could be friends. Never mind." Hearing light, quick footsteps in the corridor that attested to the boy's imminent arrival, Christine felt it necessary to add, "Clearly there is no evident recourse but for you to stay. However, let me make one thing perfectly clear, Jolene – you will stay away from my husband. He needs no mistress; he has a wife. And I alone will please him. Is that understood?"
The girl nodded, head bowed. Christine swept out of the chamber, not trusting herself to say more, her face warming in embarrassment with an indignant blush regarding what little she had said. She smiled at the approaching boy who always had a smile for her, and laid her hand against his head in passing as she returned to her new bedchamber she shared with Erik.
Once there, she arranged her belongings the way she wished, hopeful to forget the disquieting conversation she had just concluded. But it was of no use, and the cause of it led her to remember the scandalous stories told her with regard to the notorious Phantom of the Opera on her first day at the theater…
Christine slammed a perfume decanter down on her vanity table with more force than necessary, grateful she had not chipped the beautifully cut crystal. Sinking to her velvet cushioned stool, she planted her elbows on the table and buried her head in her hands.
.
xXx
.
At the sound of a step behind her, Arabella turned from the window.
Raoul walked to where she stood and pressed a kiss to her forehead. His eyes clouded with concern once he pulled away. "Something troubles you, my dear?"
Many things troubled her, but she chose to speak of that which was of most concern.
"Will he agree, do you think? Your father…"
"To our union?"
Arabella slightly nodded, and he shook his head.
"It is too soon to know how he will respond. I only sent the letter informing him of our plans three days ago."
"Yes – and we shan't hear anything for weeks yet – but Raoul, his intent was that you should find me a husband of means, was it not? To pad the de Chagny coffers which have become somewhat diminished?"
"We are not destitute," he argued. "Far from it."
She turned away, her gaze going out the window to the street below. "Your father was hoping for my marriage to benefit your family's situation. You cannot deny that."
"How do you know all this?"
"I overheard your conversation in the library when your father last visited," she confessed.
He sighed, troubled, though she heard the smile in his voice. "Trust nothing to get past you."
"Then you do think we have cause for concern?" She gripped her arms above the elbows, rubbing her hands over her sleeves as if at a sudden chill. "He might still insist I marry Lord Cavendish."
"That will not happen, since he put me in charge."
"You did let his lordship down easily, I hope? He was kind."
"Of course. He left the hotel with every bit of his dignity intact."
Arabella vaguely nodded in acknowledgement. In the street below, she watched a young woman she suddenly recognized as their maid, Giselle, scurry across the street and grab a strapping young lad's arm. He turned in aggravation. They seemed to be having a row, which lasted no more than under half a minute before he stormed down the street and the girl slowly returned back to the hotel.
"Arabella, listen to me. It doesn't matter what Father thinks," Raoul said, turning her by the shoulders to face him. He lightly cupped her jaw with his hands. "We will find a way to be together."
"And if he disapproves?"
He shook his head a little. "Don't trouble yourself over such matters. I vow to you as I'm standing here, we will be wed before the year is through, as we planned."
"What if your father disowns you? Could it come to that? I could never allow myself to become an obstacle to your future."
"I am Father's only son and sole heir. Indeed, the entire line of de Chagny ends with me. To cut me off would be to cut off his right arm." He lowered his hands to rest at the top of her shoulders and smiled gently. "Perhaps what is needed is to leave these stuffy rooms and dwell on more pleasant surroundings. Would you care for a ride in the park?"
She shook her head, distracted by his smile. "Later this afternoon, perhaps … You are right. To leave these rooms is an important change that must be made."
His brows drew together at her strange phrasing. "Very well. Where do you wish to go?"
He lowered his hands to clasp hers, the brush of his thumb further stimulating her senses and leading firmly to her resolve.
"I must acquire other rooms, Raoul. I can no longer stay here."
"What?" He blinked, taken aback. "Are these rooms no longer to your liking?"
"The suite is lovely. It is the presence of both of us within that must be rectified." At his blank stare she sighed. "We are no longer simply cousins sharing rooms. You are my betrothed, and for appearance's sake we must maintain all standard levels of decorum. If word of our living arrangements was to reach your father's ears, he might not be inclined to favor us with his blessing. And what should your mother think of me? I don't wish her to look upon me with disfavor."
Ever since they made their deeper feelings known to one another, a novel tension filled the atmosphere when they were alone together. Attraction had intensified to awareness, with every sense heightened in anticipation of what Arabella could not yet allow. She had broken many rules in her short lifetime, but in this she would remain steadfast. Reputation was everything to the nobility, a class to which, like it or not, she belonged. And it was her own wish to remain chaste until her wedding night. Understanding Raoul's inherent sense of honor, she was not surprised to see his face flush, assuming his thoughts ran along the same channel as hers.
Instantly he dropped hold of her hands and took a quick step back. "Of course. I hadn't thought, though I should have. Pardon my ignorance…"
"Raoul." She closed the worried distance he forged and laid her hand on his coat sleeve. "Don't look like that. I don't believe you will pounce on me or seduce me where I stand."
"Don't think I don't want to," he admitted quietly, to her surprise. "You are a lovely woman, Arabella. I long for the day you will be mine."
His frank words shocked her. Nor had she ever been called lovely, never once believed it so. Women like Christine and Giselle were lovely; landscapes and sunsets were lovely. But Arabella…? Yet in his eyes, she saw that he believed his words, and she could not resist lifting herself on her toes to press a gentle kiss to his lips. The warmth of his mouth made her linger, and soon he was kissing her, his hands lifting to spread along her spine, until breathless, they parted. The emotion darkening his eyes to blue flame must certainly mirror her desire. Yet it was not Raoul she did not trust; it was her own impulsive nature.
Instantly his expression again became contrite. "Forgive me, in light of your qualms I certainly had no wish to be untoward…"
"Raoul." His name came firm as she lightly and briefly pressed her fingertips against his lips to silence him. "If you would be so kind as to tell the concierge I need a room."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
"And as I said, there simply is no other option."
"What kind of gentleman would I be to push you out of these rooms that are at present your home?"
"You are hardly pushing me out, Raoul; it is after all my idea."
"Nonetheless, I will go. You keep the suite; I shall make arrangements elsewhere."
He pivoted to leave. Before he was halfway across the room, Arabella stopped him.
"Raoul, wait." He turned in question and she moved to stand before him. "There is one other matter. The maid who daily tends us, I wish to acquire her exclusive services while we reside here. I find I miss the loss of a lady's maid more than I imagined. Perhaps the management will allow her to fill that need?"
The idea, she hoped, would be mutually beneficial. Each morning the girl helped lace her into her corset, and in the evening when she banked the fire, she unlaced it. Arabella had experience in executing the remainder of her toilette, since boarding schools did not allow for girls to keep ladies maids, and at The Grange, the girl appointed for her aid gave her cause for concern, so she rang for her only when necessary. A few odd and sundry items had been mislaid, never to be found; a velvet ribbon, an ivory comb, a fan. Nothing of great value, and Arabella never spoke of her suspicions that her maid conveniently misplaced them, as she could not prove the girl a thief. It had been far less troublesome to leave her behind in England. She missed Christine's companionship, and with Raoul relocating to another room, the sitting room would seem even emptier.
"Raoul?" she prodded when he did not respond.
He heaved an uneasy breath. "The maid? Are you certain that's wise, Arabella? After all, she is not trained for such duties."
"All the better. In fact, I would prefer it. I can then instruct her to my specific needs."
He looked away, toward the window. "I am still not certain she would be … suitable for the use of a maid to a lady."
"Whyever not? She's not intrusive, is quick to please, and performs her duties well."
He winced slightly at her frank words. "There are matters you don't know…"
"Then enlighten me." When he said nothing, she continued, "Perhaps you refer to her unfortunate employment under the hands of the beast who mishandles her."
His attention swerved back to hers in surprise. "What do you know about that?"
"I would have to be blind not to notice anything amiss. The girl has more mishaps than any creature I know. It is evident he beats her with regularity."
"Ah." His eyes flickered as if just coming to an awareness of the maid's distress …
… or perhaps the awareness that they were speaking on two different subjects.
"Is there something else you know about Giselle of which I'm unaware?"
"It is not a subject fit for a lady's ears."
"Oh, for God's sake, Raoul, I'm not made of spun glass. Please, tell me what you know."
He compressed his lips. "Very well, if you insist."
"I do."
"The concierge provides a service to the hotel's male clientele, one not spoken about in polite society."
Arabella's brows gathered in curious puzzlement then cleared in horrified understanding.
"You mean…"
"Yes."
"But – how did you learn of this –"
Raoul was quick to correct her misassumption. "I was approached our first week here. The concierge was under the false impression that I scheduled … a meeting. That's as far as it went."
Arabella gave a stiff nod. She did not question his honor though she knew of the nobility's custom to stray, bedding servants and taking mistresses seeming to be an acceptable standard, if concealed and kept discreet.
"Arabella, look at me…" He tipped her chin so that her eyes met his. "I'm not my father. I don't live by his rules."
"I know that." And he was not her father either. As a child, on occasion she recalled glimpsing her papa always without his knowledge and in situations she shouldn't have known existed, usually in embrace with one of the housemaids. She had lived four years at The Grange, in Raoul's company, and learned enough about him to know his words were sincere. But what troubled her most at present was the news she had just discovered.
"If anything, you have further persuaded me to do what I must to get Giselle out of that horrendous man's clutches. At least while we're still in Paris."
When Raoul only stared, she shook her head. "What?"
"I was just recalling that we've had this conversation recently but with the tables turned. Christine being the one in danger, stalked by the Phantom at the Opera House."
"Oh, that." Arabella turned away at his dry words and again looked out the window.
"And it still puzzles me that you show very little concern of his blatant interest in her though she is your closest friend – indeed, imploring me to put such thoughts of his capture and retribution far behind me."
"Raoul, please, let us not discuss this again." She rubbed two fingers against her forehead. "I told you, she is safe and with her teacher. All is well."
"Safe. And well. Both are such relative, basic terms, Arabella … which does not explain the anxiety that rolls off of you in waves when the subject of Christine and her teacher is introduced."
She did not know how to respond – how could one explain away so many lies? To do so disturbed her. Regardless, she offered them freely, a necessary sacrifice to aid the fierce and misunderstood love that Christine and Erik shared, and to atone for her own wrongdoing against them. But each act of duplicity bred another, and especially now that she and Raoul had grown closer, were that much harder to give…
And to bear.
She was saved the need for any reply at the soft click of the sitting room door as it closed behind her.
.
xXx
.
Jacques sat across from Christine, popping bits of juicy figs into his mouth from a bowl there as he trekked one of his demon soldiers along the edge of the table. She bent to give her end of the table one last swipe with a dishcloth, then pivoted in retreat – to collide forcefully with Erik's broad chest.
"Oh!" she yelped in surprise.
Before she could do little more than blink, his hands clasped her around the waist to steady her. His golden eyes danced with amusement which strangely both addled her and sparked her irritation.
"Which reminds me," he said, his voice low and mildly stern. "We must work on your presentation today."
"My presentation?" she repeated, baffled at his reference.
"Your rather graceless movements in your performances of late."
Her face warmed with embarrassment as her annoyance increased. "If you wouldn't always sneak up behind me, as you've done ever since we were children, I might have known you were there and prevented the collision!"
"I walked as I always walk…"
"Too damn silently, like a cat stalking prey!"
"…But I certainly don't mind such a 'collision' if it leads to present circumstances such as this," he continued in a low, silky tone as if he'd not heard her accusatory hiss.
Realizing he still held her much too close, with his hands spanning her waist and Jacques only a few feet away and staring curiously at them, she pushed Erik's hands from her body and took a step in retreat.
"There was nothing wrong with my performance. Indeed, Madame Giry actually complimented my dance form last week. And you likely know her well enough to know she also rarely gives praise."
"I am not speaking of the ballet."
"What then?"
"In the last performance you gave, in addition to the unfortunate alterations you concocted, you moved quite awkwardly when turning and ascending the bridge."
She gaped at him. "Of course I was awkward! What else would I be? I sensed you up there watching and that you were likely upset –" Her incredulity escalated to vehemence. "And the changes I made most certainly were not unfortunate, since my rewrite of your opera brought you back to me – which you as much as admitted to!" she ended on a triumphant note.
"You wish to speak of this now?"
She ignored the mild warning in his voice. "The audience loved the ending. Surely you heard – surely you know since you were there and saw their reaction to the changed act."
He narrowed his eyes. "What are you saying, Christine?"
"It should remain that way for future performances."
"No. It most definitely should not."
"But you saw –"
"No, Christine! Enough!"
He paced away from her, clenching his hands at his sides.
"Why not?" she insisted, following him and trailing his steps. "Give me one good reason."
"It was contrived and felt that way, damn it. Completely disproportionate to the way I wrote Aminta."
"And therein lies the basis of the problem," she snapped back. "You must rewrite Aminta!"
He laughed without humor. "Absolutely not."
"But why not?" She stamped her foot in aggravation. "You as much as admitted you patterned her character after mine, though I am nothing like that vain, evil, and disgustingly selfish and contemptible woman!
When he did not respond a pang ripped through her heart. She stared at him as he stared at the still, green waters of the lake and the white mist that rolled in over the surface.
"You don't truly think I'm anything like her, do you, Erik?"
He sighed when she would not relent. "Evil? No. Wild … spirited … reckless. Yes. But never inherently wicked. Vain – once upon a time, most assuredly, but no longer. And selfish…" His lips twisted in a wry smile as he faced her. "I suppose we are both of us selfish, Christine, or you would not be here now. And you cannot tell me that you do not still do as you please – and damn all the consequences." His arm shot out and hooked around her waist, drawing her flush against him.
"Let me go," she bit out, pushing her palm to his chest to no avail, her strength no match for his.
"Selfishly, I do not wish to. Nor will I. Ever again."
His lips covered hers in a kiss meant to possess and all the fight left Christine as she melted against him, a candle to his flame. Her lips and tongue just as eagerly sought his as the warmth he generated trickled through her bloodstream, and she held to him as fiercely as he held her. When she felt she might faint from the need to breathe, he withdrew his lips from hers but did not loosen his hold from around her.
"Will you kiss me into submission then?" she managed.
"Will you submit?"
"Never."
A reluctant smile tilted the corners of his lips, that twisted and mischievous smile she adored and remembered so well; it made her want to kiss him again. Instead she pulled away, loath to let him dissuade her.
"The opera reflects what you think of me, Erik, tell me it's not so. Changes are made to the production all the time – I've seen and experienced enough through rehearsals to understand how such matters work."
"Bloody hell." He threw his hands up in exasperation. "It is an opera, Christine. How many times must I say it? A dramatic and tragic tale of fantasy. If you insist on drawing parallels, that alone is your problem. To make changes to Aminta's temperament, so as to make sense of your complete alteration of her feelings in the final act would take an excessive amount of time to accomplish. Weeks. Perhaps months."
She felt he was stalling for an excuse and doubted it could take so long to make a few tweaks here and there. "Then you will not change it?"
"No, Christine. The opera will remain in its original state."
She pushed away from him and whirled in the direction of the main corridor, noting that at some point Jacques had left the chamber.
"Where are you going?" Erik asked after her.
"For a walk in the tunnels." She did not look at him but continued on her course.
"Be back within the hour, ready to practice," he said with cavalier authority from behind her. "It would not do for you to grow lax in your voice, and as I previously stated, there is much room for improvement in your mannerisms and comportment…"
The insufferable, pigheaded, arrogant beast…
She almost bit her tongue in half not to turn and lash out at him.
Evidently he did not care to consider her injured feelings over his wretched opera. Her changes had been excellent and well received. That should count for something. But when it came to his music, he was still very much the intractable Phantom and so damnably obstinate.
Her ire increased to glimpse Jolene lurk in the shadows near the chamber exit before the girl quickly ducked out of sight, an obvious eavesdropper to their confrontation. Christine hastened her pace but once she reached the corridor entrance, the girl was nowhere to be found.
Livid to realize the entirety of what Erik's maid-whore-mistress had overheard, Christine felt it only a matter of time before her feelings could no longer be silenced, then wondered why she should bother to silence them at all.
Turning mid-stride, she glared at her poised husband, the self-established king of his underworld, as he resumed writing his music, unaware of Persephone's eyes burning twin holes into his broad back …
Though surely that abducted queen was much more docile in nature than Christine.
Wild. Spirited. Reckless…
If that's what he saw, she would by no means disappoint him.
xXx