A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) And now …
Chapter LXXI
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Jolene closed her ears and mind to the raspy breathing above her. She had learned long ago to remove herself from the present moment, and instead allowed her thoughts to revolve around the cause for her current act of desperation.
Christine had told her she should find new lodging. In the next sentence she grudgingly changed her mind, speaking of stalemates and impasses and again issuing a warning not to pursue her husband. But Jolene did not trust Christine's decision to be final, and she strongly sensed her Maestro would do whatever his new wife wished.
Jolene could never return to the stark life to which her uncle imprisoned her, not after knowing what it was to be free. Even in servitude beneath the ground to a man often churlish in behavior, she had experienced true liberation…
She sensed her lover hesitate, as if questioning her interest, and remembered to moan. Why was it men always required vocal appreciation when seeking to fill their desire and giving so little in return? Only once had there been no need to pretend, only once had she felt … loved, and her eyes grew moist with tears to realize she had been no more than an accidental substitute.
She had found pleasure when they came together in the soft darkness of his bed. A night unforgettable, contrary to every previous experience at the hotel. Every detail still sweetly clear to her, since she had not been filled with spirits as he had. His hands had been strong but gentle, and what he'd done with those hands had heated her inside. She'd given every part of herself, employing every skill harshly and doggedly learned with an ease newly born to her. In the climax of the act, her own breathless cry burst from her lungs, absent of the artifice so commonplace. Afterward he held her, kissing her tenderly. Sensual bouts of touch had been broken by light slumber, when he held her close, cherishing her. He had given her something she'd never known – being truly wanted – not just her body, but her person, and long had that night lived in her dreams.
Many were the evenings in the months that followed when she was tempted to slip into his bed while he slept, hoping he would awaken, drowsy, and draw her close, even if just to be held. His stern warning never to approach with her favors again, lest she find herself without a home, was the sole reason she'd kept her distance.
But such pleasures had never been intended for her gratification. At first, possibly, when she was ice cold and he warmed her with his hands and body, he did not mistake her identity. But later, in the darkness, in his drunken state, he had thought he was with her.
With Christine.
It had been impossible not to hear their quarrel from the bath of what had become her new bedchamber. A heated argument abruptly went silent, soon followed by dual moans of passion that made her cover her ears, while salty tears ran silent down her cheeks to slide into her mouth and drip into the fast-cooling water.
His desire had always been for the beautiful singer, even before she entered their lives. Jolene had seen the signs but refused to heed their warning: his insistence on the rose-scented soap – and fury when Jolene substituted with the lavender…his obsessive desire to fashion a bedchamber and provide clothing fit for a royal, better than anything Jacques or Jolene or even the Maestro possessed – though the woman then unknown to her was only to be held captive for her song…the lost, forsaken expression that came into his eyes when he was unaware she watched from afar – a look absent since Christine joined them below ground this second time. Since then he wore an expression never seen on his face – of satisfaction, even happiness...
Now Jolene was the one forsaken.
Foolishly she thought his rejection after their one shared night had been because, upon sobriety, he considered her too young, despite that she then had all the curves of a woman. She had hoped her growth over the years would spur the alteration of his feelings toward her. But she never had a chance. Her Maestro's heart was always entwined with Christine's. He made that abundantly clear that awful night, weeks ago, when she risked everything and offered herself to him, only to suffer yet another rejection. Only to learn the bitter truth – that Christine was his lost love…and he was her Erik.
When he grimly unmasked himself, the revelation of his deformity had been horrid and shocking, and for a moment Jolene was frightened and confused – until left alone in her room to think.
Her Maestro, despite his bizarre eccentricities, had extended more kindness toward her than any of the most handsome customers who visited her uncle's establishment. After having their desires met, they had barely offered a second glance or thought, eager to have her leave their hotel bedchamber and create distance – not wishing to associate any more than deemed necessary for one of her ilk. And she had visited the beds of men who were repulsive to look at, some with pockmarks or sores on their sallow faces and unwashed bodies, who treated her with the same disregard, as if they were better than she.
With her Maestro, once their night of passion concluded, he had seen to her needs, provided her with many beautiful things, and given her a home – never demanding further intimacy as a condition to his generosity. With the mask he was quite striking, and without it, even if that side of his face was ugly and strange – she did not find him repulsive.
She owed him her life, though any wish for a life spent with him was futile. Christine refused to share, and he did not want her…
Would never want her.
The fear that she might find herself suddenly without a place in the world, as had almost happened once before, now pushed her to attain what was needed.
Survival, and the means to secure it, she learned at an early age…
What she did not know how to manage was the empty ache that filled her heart.
Her partner tensed, her cue to let out another moan and clutch his back more fiercely. After a moment, he moved away from her and stood, pushing himself back into his trousers and fastening them. Likewise, she sat up and pulled her skirts down to her ankles. She did not rise from the mossy forest floor but coyly smiled up at him, desperation not satisfaction at the core of her every action.
"You have many hidden talents, Peter…" Jolene softly batted her lashes and tried to make herself look as appealing as possible. "So, tell me, when can we leave?" She pulled a twig from her long, tangled curls.
"It will take some time," her potential champion stated, glancing at her then away.
"Time?" Panic set her heart to beating a little faster as did his clear and sudden hesitance. "How much time?"
"I'll need money, I don't have much saved, but some of the fellows owe me from losing at cards. I need to figure out where we'll go and how we'll get there."
"Peter," she said more firmly and clutched his wrist. "You promised."
"I didn't say I wouldn't take you out of Paris, Jolene, just that it might take some time before we can go." He looked fully at her then, his eyes somber. "It would help if you agree to leave your brother with your guardian. With him tagging along, it will be more difficult for us. Who did you say is taking care of you?"
"Someone from the opera house," she said vaguely, "but Jacques stays with me. I promised my mother I would look after him. He's the only true family I have."
Peter grumbled something indistinct and Jolene scrambled to her feet, again grabbing his arm when he turned away.
"Peter…"
"I have to get back to the hotel," he said gruffly.
"You'll get word to me soon, of when we can leave?"
"How am I supposed to do that when I don't know how or even where to reach you?"
She broke contact from his fixed stare. "Meet me here in three days, same time, and we can make plans."
"Twice in one week, I might be missed. It seems everyone requires a bellboy in the hour after daybreak."
"Fine – an hour before dawn then. Can you manage that?"
He gave an abrupt nod. "Alright."
Her smile a little uncertain, she moved toward him and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
"I'll be a good companion to you, Peter. I'll keep house and cook for you and be everything you could want..."
She brushed against him to emphasize her point. At the swift interest that again lit his eyes, she took a quick step back and forced a smile.
He had taken her fast and hard, like a wild stallion, eager when she wasn't yet ready, and she was too sore for a repeat performance this soon. He was younger than what she was accustomed to, only two years older than her sixteen years, but she could teach him to please her. Once, she had settled for nothing; after her experience with the Maestro she would settle for no less. This had been her first encounter with Peter, the hotel workers never allowed even to hold hands with her uncle's girls, who were exclusive to high paying guests. And Peter seemed as if he might like being taught. He had certainly watched her reactions closely enough.
She and Peter had always gotten along well. He was quite nice to look at with his trim build and deep blue eyes. Perhaps they might even come to love one another some day.
"You'll see, Peter, we'll have a good life. It shouldn't be difficult to find work, perhaps at a roadside inn. I have learned to cook and can find work doing that."
She wondered who she was trying so hard to convince – herself or Peter.
Unwanted, an old conversation with her Maestro came to mind.
"Did I not explicitly forbid you to go back there?"
"I was worried for my friend."
"The cavalier young fool who works as a bellboy?" he growled.
"I have no interest in Peter. He is only a boy. I prefer older men."
"You invite danger and the risk of discovery to all of us every time you step through that door. I'll not warn you again. If you refuse, I'll not be an easy disciplinarian. Stay away from that place, and especially from Peter. He's no good for you."
The Maestro was rarely ever wrong, but then, his fears spanned wider than most.
"Tell me, Peter, tell me again I can trust you."
At the sudden hitch of concern in her voice, he gently grasped her head, the expression in his eyes calm and reassuring. "I won't let harm come to you, Jolene, and will do all I can to protect you. Have I failed you before?"
At the reminder, she shook her head. Two times he prevented her from experiencing her uncle's wrath – once when she broke the rules and slipped away from the hotel, to find solace near a peaceful stream. She'd almost been caught, but Peter covered for her, stating she'd been in the kitchen with him. The second time, a customer accused her of theft. Peter came to the room, an errand boy then, delivering the guest his newspaper. Seeing the situation, with Jolene's customer angrily gripping her arm, his hand raised to slap a third time, Peter had gallantly offered to search and found the gold money clip in a corner of the wardrobe.
Her Maestro had never known of Peter's kindnesses; surely he must be wrong.
"I should return before I'm missed," she said, "I've been gone far too long. Until three days' time then."
"Three days," he agreed with a faint nod and smile.
Picking up her basket of fresh produce, Jolene hurried deep into the forest and the direction of the hidden cave, too focused on the need for haste to be aware of any lurking danger…
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xXx
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Raoul stood in a state of horrified disbelief and stared at the lively quartet of ballerinas, who giggled and chirruped like a gathering of bright baby chicks. Upon catching sight of him nearby, they quieted, moving as one down the backstage corridor to commence with their shocked giggles and gossip of what simply could not be true…
To confront them would be useless, his prior experience of inquiries with regard to Christine's disappearance in this theatre proof of that. They would only falter, stammer, or claim ignorance of all knowledge to anything at all, making up ridiculous excuses of places they needed to be in order to escape further probing questions.
He wished Arabella was here; she knew how to get the ladies of the chorus to confide in her. Yet he was not without all means…
Grimly he walked to the last place he had seen the woman who seemed to hold the key to all the secrets of the theatre. Relieved that she had not moved from her spot near a stack of wooden crates, as she now intently studied a note in her hand, he walked toward her.
"Madame Giry, a word…"
She jumped, startled, and swiftly brought her hand down that held the note, holding it in her black skirts.
"Oui, monsieur?"
By the casual lift of her brow she tried to achieve calm nonchalance. By the nervousness in her eyes she knew guilt and unease.
"Another note from the Opera Ghost?" he asked somberly and held out his hand for the missive. "May I see?"
The words were not a curiosity, but a command.
She lifted her chin. "If you wish to see the order I am approving for ladies' corsets and stockings for the chorus, then by all means, I'll not stop you."
Uncomfortable warmth washed over his face to the tips of his ears. "No- no." He dropped his hand back to his side. "That's quite alright. I'll leave the acquisitions and approval of such, er, fripperies to you."
With the faintest of smiles, she inclined her head in a slight nod. "Very good, monsieur. If you'll excuse me…"
Before she could fully turn to go, he remembered his reason for seeking her out.
"I need a moment of your time." He lowered his voice, his attention going to three of the crew sawing planks nearby. He failed to understand why he bothered to speak in confidence; likely the entire opera house had heard the news, with how swiftly gossip spread here, and if any were unaware of the latest foul rumor, they would know by nightfall.
She looked at him in clear exasperation. "Can it wait, monsieur? I must make the order before the shop closes."
"No, this cannot wait." Lightly he grasped her elbow and stepped closer to keep their exchange at the lowest volume possible.
She cocked her head, her manner now guarded. "Monsieur?"
"Is it true, the gossip I heard? Has Christine married her teacher and have they left for Calais?"
Her shock was apparent, her eyes going wide. She blinked twice before asking a question of her own. "Where did you hear this?"
"Then you are unaware?"
"I…" She cleared her throat, as if stalling for something to say. "Rumors are prevalent in an opera house; airing them does not necessarily make them so."
He grimaced. "I think you know more than you're saying, and I think you always have. Surely if you arranged to have this mysterious teacher of hers give lessons, you know the man?"
She hesitated then gave a curt nod. "Oui, of course."
"And Christine? How well can she possibly know him in only a few months' time?"
Madame Giry pulled away from his grasp, assuming her usual confident poise. "Christine and her teacher share much in common. They possess a mutual love for music and the opera. She has developed a strong fondness for him."
"Then the gossip is true?" he asked gruffly.
Once, years ago, he nurtured hope for more to develop between them, but Christine had gently laid that fledgling dream to rest. Over time, those burgeoning feelings of adoration had mellowed and branched into genial consideration for a dear friend. With the history they shared, he could not help be concerned.
"I don't know, monsieur, this is the first I'm hearing such news. But if it is indeed true, she's in good hands."
He scowled at the notion. If she was in such good hands and all actions taken were devoid of evil intent, then why all the secrecy? He refrained from asking, sure he would get only another evasive response.
Why Christine would engage in such a monumental venture without first telling him or Arabella made no sense. True, she had been upset with his close guardianship, and at the hotel he had noticed some friction between his cousin and Christine. But in such a weighty matter, surely minor quarrels would be cast aside? He had a sinking suspicion that Christine was in danger, but blast if he knew what to do about it. He could travel to Calais, but if they married in Paris there wasn't much Raoul could do once he found his impulsive and reckless friend, except perhaps try to talk sense into her, to leave the cunning wolf or get the hasty marriage annulled, what excuse for a marriage it could be. He should talk to Arabella; perhaps she could shed light on this bizarre turn of events.
"Thank you for your time, Madame. I have matters I must see too." With a curt nod, Raoul turned to go.
"Will you be going to Calais then?"
Not wishing to be detained now that he had set his course, his brow lifted in mild impatience.
"Perhaps. I've not yet decided."
Madame nodded in acknowledgement. "This information you overheard…who said it?"
"Funny you should ask…" His smile held no humor. "It was your daughter."
"Meg?" she breathed in surprise.
His eyes lifted and focused on a point behind her. "Why don't you ask her yourself?"
He left and Madame turned to look.
Meg approached, an oblivious smile on her face, which faltered as Madame hurriedly moved toward her and grabbed her upper arm. She turned and walked with her down the corridor.
"Maman…?"
"We have matters to discuss. In my office."
x
Meg didn't have long to wonder. Immediately upon entering the room and closing the door, her mother released her arm and rounded on her.
"What is the meaning of this latest gossip, Meg? We both know Christine is married – a piece of information that was to remain hidden. To make matters worse, why must you compound truth with the lie that she left Paris?"
"But I didn't lie, Maman! He told me to say it."
"He … the Phantom?!"
Realizing what she just admitted to, Meg bit the inside corner of her lower lip, dropping her gaze from her mother's all-seeing one.
"And when did you last see him to receive such orders?"
"I…"
"Meg." She snapped her name out. "Tell me you did not do as others so foolishly have done and visit the old wing and its abandoned corridors…"
She gave no reply, though the betraying flush of warmth that infused her skin was answer enough.
Her mother regarded her in angry shock. "My own daughter, after the many warnings, and all I have said, all I have forbidden …?"
Her voice grew harder and more precise with each curt phrase. Sensing a harsh lecture was imminent, Meg quickly interrupted.
"I went there – yes – but not for that reason!"
Speaking of forbidden scandals to her peers in the chorus was both thrilling and embarrassing. Speaking of them to her mother brought only shame and made her wish one of his trapdoors was in this room, so she could step back and disappear.
"I like Christine, I consider her a friend," Meg continued. "I certainly would never hurt her by seeking out the Phantom for…well for…"
"Yes, I understand," her mother hastened to say, the sharp edge of her manner softening marginally. "Then why did you go?"
"I did hope he would be there, since he often roams the opera house at night – I knew that because of the notes you two exchange in Box Five –" she quickly added before her mother could ask how she discovered his habits.
"And I assume it was you who told Christine of this secret as well?"
Meg squirmed. "How did you know?"
She lifted one of two missives in her hand and pulled an envelope from behind a letter. Meg looked at the white rectangle with the name "Erik" across the front. Perplexed, she lifted her eyes to her mother's stern ones.
"But – why do you have it? She was quite upset when he didn't meet her in the chapel. Was it because of you? Did you prevent it, Maman?"
Her mother's lips tightened into a thin line. "I did no such thing. As we two were the only communicants of the box, or so I thought, I assumed the note was for me."
"But it's been days – over a week. Why did you not simply return her note to the box when you realized your mistake?"
Meg wondered if she harped on the issue in the hope that her mother would forget the initial reason for this confrontation, then realized her mistake when Maman drew herself up taller, her pale blue eyes icy hot.
"I will give no account of my actions to you – my own daughter! – but I will demand that you tell me why you sought out the Phantom in the dead of night!"
Meg stood her ground. "I did it for Christine. I wanted to know she was well. You seemed not even to know he would fall through the floor with her, as surprised as anyone at the ball that he did – and I wanted to make sure she was alright and wasn't hurt. The entire time she was above, Christine was determined to find him and make contact, though she was rather naïve in the ways of our theatre and clumsy in her attempts to search…"
Christine was strong in heart if not in body and often reminded Meg of a wounded dove, especially in those first weeks after the Phantom returned her to the opera house. Recalling her friend's distress and need of assistance, Meg continued, "…And I'm not one bit sorry I helped. In fact, I'm happy for it. I think of it as my responsibility."
"Your responsibility?" her mother said in curious confusion.
"Yes. As a witness to their marriage – a witness you made me into – I stood by in sacred agreement that nothing should ever separate them: not on this earth and certainly that no man would interfere …"
Her mother shook her head, perplexed. "You have too many idealistic notions, Meg. It is most certainly not your responsibility."
"I cannot help the way I feel, Maman." Her voice was calm and steady. "And I cannot stand by idle and watch if Christine needs my help. Since what affects him affects her, I'll also give aid if he asks."
Her mother released a heavy sigh and threw up her hands, turning away and facing her desk. "It is too dangerous, Meg. There is much you don't know – much I don't even know. He is a man of many secrets, some of them dark. It is best you not have any association with the Phantom."
"I don't understand – you brought me into his secret, Maman! How is my attendance to their secret wedding and assisting Christine any different than you becoming his personal assistant? You must not think he's too dangerous to have helped him these three years…"
A twinge of guilt made Madame Giry hesitate. Meg was still unaware that the wine the Phantom left in the dressing room all those months ago, intended for Madame to give Christine, had been drugged. Meg found it before Madame could retrieve it and "assisted" Christine, becoming his unwitting accomplice then.
She shook her head. "You don't understand, Meg. There is much you don't understand."
"Then tell me!" A plea rang in Meg's voice. "You cannot always keep things hidden from me, then get upset when I do something that upsets your plans. I am seventeen…"
And not a little girl any longer – Madame acerbically and silently added – weary of hearing that phrase from her daughter's lips. And yet, as she turned to look at her only child, her petite form confident as she stood in her white tulle practice costume, she beheld in her blue eyes a strength and conviction formerly absent.
Perhaps she was old enough to know.
"I did it for the money." The admission left Madame's lips before she had time to reconsider. "There was a time, under the old management, when we would have lost everything. The theatre approached financial ruin. The Phantom heard, as the Phantom always hears and knows all that goes on within these walls. He came to my office one night and offered me a monthly stipend from the 20,000 francs he demanded of the managers, if I would become his assistant. Afraid that you and I might end up in poverty, I accepted his offer. I learned to turn a blind eye to those methods he used of which I did not approve and still do not condone."
Meg looked at the ground a moment, as if collecting her thoughts, before looking up again. "And now? That can hardly be the case any longer, the theatre is thriving. Why do you help the Phantom, if you think he's so dangerous and you don't like his methods? Why not just quit?"
It was a question Madame Giry asked herself for months. Yet beneath his cavalier disregard for humankind and his dark tempers that could ignite with a swiftness to seize all breath, she sensed a wounded soul…
Again, she recalled the brief emotion he'd been unable to suppress before he blinked tears away, when Christine vocally bound her life to his at their wedding. Madame had no longer seen a monster of theatre lore, but a man who wished only to be loved.
But to the theatre – indeed, to all of Paris – he was a murderer and a conspirator with a bounty on his head.
"You must think there is something worthy about him to continue," Meg said softly, as if reading her thoughts. "They need our help, Maman, Christine and the Phantom both. As long as they remain in hiding, who is there to help if we don't?"
"I want you to stay out of this, Meg," Madame said more firmly. "You have done as he asked and spread your tale of gossip. Let that be the end of it. And to all further tittle-tattle. Or do I need to reiterate that the sum of their lives is to remain a secret?"
Meg's skin took on a rosy hue. "He said the same and extracted a promise. I won't say another word about the Opera Ghost or Christine to anyone – unless ordered, of course, like he did this last time."
Madame blew out a breath of incensed frustration. Clearly her own warnings were without substance and Meg would do exactly as she pleased. There was sometimes no reasoning with her daughter. She had always possessed too keen an interest in all things Phantom. And then there was Christine, a murderer by accident, whom her daughter had befriended…
"Go to practice, Meg," she said wearily, "I'll be there shortly."
She heard the door open and softly close behind her. Her gaze went to her crystal wine decanter. She considered pouring herself a long draught before returning to the stage and the hours of demanding lessons to follow...
"Is it your wish to conclude our arrangement, Madame?"
Had she a glass, she would have dropped it upon hearing the low timbre come so suddenly from behind. How could it be that something so simple as a voice could be both pleasant and unnerving to hear? And yet, nothing about this man was simple.
She steeled her courage and turned to look at her employer.
Garbed in the usual formal attire, with his ankle-length cloak swirling about his impressive form, tonight he wore the full black mask. It gave him the appearance of a rakish brigand, which, she reminded herself, is precisely what he was…
When she gave no response, his steady gaze dropped to her hand at her side. He covered the short distance and with one black glove, slid the envelope from her hand.
"I believe this is mine."
Nothing in the soft satin of his voice suggested his irritation; it sparked in the fiery gold of his eyes.
"I took it by accident –" she began quickly.
"So I heard."
"I would have returned it today. It's why I had it."
He looked down at the envelope with no more than a nod.
She watched as he glanced at the flowery scrawl of his name. His features, what she could see of them, visibly relaxed, his mouth lifting in a quiet smile.
"Then, you're not upset?"
His head snapped up, any softening of his disposition brief as he lanced her with his stare.
"It was foolish of you not to return the letter to the box immediately upon realizing your mistake. I expect better from my personal assistant."
She deserved his censure and took it without a contrary word in her defense. She had been lax – terribly overworked – but that was no excuse for negligence. His displeasure resonated with every word quietly aired and she wondered if perhaps she might not need to answer his initial question; he would be the one to terminate their arrangement.
"Is your carelessness due to dissatisfaction? Again I ask, do you wish to cease in working for me, Madame?"
She could not mask her surprise. "I thought perhaps it is you who would wish to cut ties with me."
"Have I said it?" He narrowed his eyes in thought. "However, if I retain your services, I expect better from you than this."
"You have my word, monsieur, I will not again fail you. But … there is something I must say before I agree."
His brow visibly lifted in question.
"When I first signed on to this arrangement, I did so for the money, as you well know. While it is helpful, I no longer need what you give me to exist." She hesitated, seeking the right words, with no choice but to push forward now that she had decided. "I knew from the start of your rather…eccentric ways to command obedience from all who work here. I said nothing, because you obtained results with your trickery and pranks, the theatre has thrived, and no one was truly hurt…"
"Go on." His manner remained calm, but his eyes were wary and watchful.
She drew herself up. "I do not approve of murder, monsieur. I cannot be a party to it or work for someone who is."
"Do you approve of rape?"
"What?" Shocked at his soft but irate question, she could only stare, uncertain she had heard him correctly.
"I assume this is about Buquet."
She hesitated then gave a brief nod.
"And were you aware that the lecher drilled holes into the walls of the dressing rooms, including Christine's, so he could spy? But he had something much more sinister in mind for my wife, and I was not about to let his interrupted plans of her attack commence a second time."
"A-attack?" At her wide-eyed stare, he curtly nodded. "I had no idea, monsieur…"
He slipped the envelope into his cloak. "I do not kill for pleasure, Madame, but out of necessity. To protect what is mine."
She cringed at his dispassionate words with regard to taking human life. And yet, no honorable man would do less to safeguard his family, though such a trait as "honor" seemed bizarre when linked with the notorious Opera Ghost.
"On the subject of murder," he continued, "You and Christine share a distaste for it. I assure you, no one will die by my hand unless I deem it absolutely necessary."
He spoke as if it was an oddity to abhor the crime, and perhaps it was. To him.
What little did she know of her secret employer or the beliefs instilled in him as a child? She had only just learned his name after three years' acquaintance! Nor did she fail to note the mild change in his accent that now mirrored Christine's. There was a macabre amusement in that if she dug deeply enough, a story involved, of that she was certain. It would not surprise her if the two had known one another in the past. Despite her reservations concerning his frightful conduct as the Opera Ghost, she had witnessed a decided change in the man since he took Christine into his hidden world.
Christine…Madame still could not believe the young diva was attacked while under her watch. Meg was headstrong and foolish but correct in saying that the Phantom and his wife needed aid. She had failed them both. She would not do so again.
"I will continue to work for you, Monsieur, but I do not want my daughter involved in your plans."
He seemed to consider. "The girl is fiercely loyal to Christine, and Christine considers her a friend, as well."
Madame released a lengthy breath. "You heard our conversation then."
"In its entirety."
"Meg is impulsive, and can be quite reckless," she insisted, lifting her hands in agitation, not surprised by his cavalier admission to eavesdropping. "She has no idea of the dangers involved."
"I believe you give your daughter far less credit than she deserves, but that is not my concern. I will give the young mademoiselle no further tasks if that is your wish."
"Merci." She relaxed for the first time since he silently swept into the room on cat's feet. "I assume the gossip was for the Vicomte's benefit?"
A genuine smile curled his lips.
"Did it work?"
She had never seen him smile without evil intent or mockery, his manner almost boyish, her second true smile to witness in a matter of minutes, and for a moment was nonplussed.
"He was distressed and spoke of the possibility of leaving for Calais, to ensure that Christine is well."
"Excellent. Then I consider the venture a success."
"It would appear so..."
"Is there anything more you wish to discuss?" he prodded when her words trailed away to awkward silence.
She lifted her hand with his note still in it, the same that the Vicomte caught her reading.
"I foresee no problem in procuring what you need. You wish me to leave this in the usual place, monsieur?"
"Yes, I will return at seven o'clock tomorrow to collect it. Adieu, Madame."
Yes, a decided change, she thought, bewildered, and watched as he swept out the door. He was still imposing and domineering, wearing dark mystique about him like a familiar cloak, but never in the years that she worked for him – until now – had he once offered her a salutation of farewell.
.
xXx
.
Christine grimaced at her reflection in the looking glass, her expression shifting to wonder as she focused her attention on the three reflective discs. Erik had replaced each empty holder before she had arisen that morning, and she was still dazzled by his many talents. Was there no end to what her genius husband could accomplish?
Creating music, composing original scores – an entire opera …remarkable inventions that enhanced the quality of living or disposed of it. Carving, poetry, whittling, carpentry, art…the list went on and on.
Whereas she could not even seem to get one snarl out of her confounded head of curls.
"Oh blast!" She let out a very heated growl, ready to hack the whole mess off completely.
In the mirror's limited line of vision she noted his lean form approach, hips to chest all the view she was given in the oval glass. Still dressed in frock coat, waistcoat and ascot, she assumed he had just come from above. His hands went to the tops of her shoulders, large, warm, and soothing. He leaned over and caught her eyes with his golden ones in the mirror as his lips came near her ear.
"What vexes you so, my Little Angel?"
She was hardly behaving angelic, but the quiet endearment warmed her soul, just as it eased her frazzled nerves.
"Why could I not have been born with fine, straight hair?"
A flicker of a smile touched his lips as he eased the brush from her tight hold.
"It would be a discredit to who you are. Your very nature – spirited, vibrant, wild, vivacious. And so, you were given the hair to match."
She looked at him without smiling, unimpressed by his glib words.
"You are all those things and I don't see you with a nest for hair."
"Ah, but I am an anomaly. Everything in my nature attests to that."
He straightened to stand behind her and she sighed. His words were light, but she sensed the darkness in them, the impossibility to see himself as she did – and all because of the one flaw that he decided forever separated him from humanity.
At the feel of his warm palm at her nape, his other hand maneuvering the brush to make a slow gentle glide near the ends of her hair, she closed her eyes and relaxed, happily surrendering to the ministrations of his skilled hands. The recollection of the last time he brushed her hair came to mind and the childhood memory that accompanied it. Her heart had once again tried to tell her it was Erik with her, but his cutting words soon dispelled the notion. And though she did not wish to remember that part of the incident, the words themselves came unerringly to mind.
The Phantom felt her tense beneath his touch but did not think it was because of the tangle the brush hit. Gently he worked the snag free, allowing the ends of her long ringlets flowing from the brush to wrap gently around his fingers and cling, as if they had been imbued with life of their own.
Foolish woman. Her hair was one of her most alluring traits…
Though she did have many.
"Erik?"
"Hmm?"
"About what we discussed two nights ago…"
The brush stilled, his entire body going rigid at her hesitant words that bore a thread of determination.
"Christine, we agreed –"
"I don't want details," she hurried to say, "I just…" She turned in her chair to look at him. "For the longest time, I believed Jacques was your son."
In wary regard, he nodded. "A deception I helped to provoke." Slowly he replaced the brush on the vanity.
"Yes, I know that – but, Erik… what if you do have a son out there, somewhere?"
He stared at her somber upturned face, the horror of such a fallacy too severe to contemplate.
"It is not possible," he said, loath to speak of such things yet wanting to put her mind at ease. "I made certain. Before I ordered Winnie's dismissal, I told Madame Giry to be certain no spawn had issued from my loins that could cloud the issue. Only then was she released."
"You – you gave her a potion to be rid of it?" she whispered.
"No, Christine," he said somewhat harshly. "I awaited the natural order of events."
Her shoulders relaxed slightly. "And Juliet?"
"There was no reason to wait."
"No reason?" she asked incredulously.
"Juliet and I never concluded our evening's activities," he said bluntly, weary of her persistence in a subject he would rather blot from existence.
"Oh." A tinge of rose flooded her cheeks. Briefly she lowered her gaze to the table. When she again looked up, he was both stunned and a bit unbalanced to see her soft smile. "It's what I hoped you would say. I so wanted to be the one to give you your first child."
His blood turned to ice, the breath frozen in his lungs. He could not move or speak as his mind went numb with dread. At last he forced a painful inhalation.
"Christine, what are you saying?" he whispered. "You're not…" His fixed gaze dropped to her flat stomach, covered with the velvet wrapper.
As he spoke, she studied him curiously then gave a little gasp to realize how he had misconstrued her expressed hope.
"No... At least, I don't think so."
"You don't think so?"
She thought of her captivity in the hotel and the return of her own natural order of events, the proof of such emptiness sharpening her loneliness. Since her passionate reunion with her husband, she could be with child. And yet, she had not experienced even one of the signs she had daily seen Elizabeth display.
"No, I don't. But one day I hope to be."
At her whisper-soft admission, he inhaled sharply and retreated a step.
"You cannot possibly mean that."
She sat a little taller, her wistful smile fading. "I mean precisely that, Erik. You are intelligent, a genius. You know the probable outcome of the nights and days we have spent together."
He did, but had chosen to ignore the possibility, hoping that by not giving voice or thought to such a wretched idea, it could somehow prevent the occurrence. A foolish escape, he knew that, purposely naive and ignorant – though some women never conceived. He knew that as well. All that mattered at the time was becoming one with Christine and possessing her completely - all that still mattered...Methods existed to prevent the outcome from being probable - French letters he had heard them called. But even should he somehow find and procure such safeguards, they apparently did not always work, as he had also overheard one disgruntled stagehand confide in another.
"I would like nothing more than to bear you a son," she continued softly, interrupting his desperate train of thought. "And perhaps after that, a daughter." She shook her head in somber disbelief. "Have you forgotten when I spoke to you on the moors of my hope to one day have a family? You were the only man I wanted to live that dream with, the only man I ever wanted. I've watched you with Jacques – the tenderness and consideration you show him. You would make such a good father."
He buried her words deep in the dark recesses of his mind, having no wish to award them the light of serious thought.
"Christine, be reasonable. Now that you have seen –" he brusquely motioned to his mask.
"Your face?"
She cut off his words in impatience and hurriedly left her chair, closing all distance.
"You think that even matters to me? Have I not proven to you just how far to the ends of the earth I will go to keep you in my life – that you are my life?" She lifted her hands to cradle his jaw. "Any child I would want can only have you for his father. There is no one else worthy to take that place."
"And if this unfortunate spawn should bear my hideous affliction?" he insisted grimly, touched by her words but resolute to face facts.
Her eyes widened in stunned anger and she wrenched her hands away as though his skin burned her.
"Don't you ever again DARE call our child by that horrid name!" she seethed, as if such offspring truly did exist. "Whatever the child's appearance, it would be YOUR child. And it would be MINE - and that is ALL that matters!"
She whirled back around and dropped to her chair, once more facing the mirror.
The Phantom stared at his wife, impressed by her exquisite display of passion and fire. She was magnificent in her fury, her eyes snapping and sparkling in dark splendor, her color flushed, her very being radiating with the life and light he remembered from The Heights – before that insipid milksop of a boy interrupted their lives, his presence a drain to such dazzling vitality.
He could almost believe her, almost believe in this fairy tale she spun...
But he knew better, and humankind was not merciful. There was no way to know, if such a product of their union should ever exist, that the child would be spared his hideous curse. And he wished the fate he daily endured on no innocent being.
The subject matter troubled Erik, even infuriated him, but to see these glimpses of her old spirit returned, not simply returned but magnified, was worth any annoyance briefly endured.
Ever drawn to her, he stepped close, again placing his hands atop her shoulders.
"Let us speak no more of this." His low voice soothed. "As you have said, there is no present need."
Her hand reached up to grasp his and he studied her solemn reflection in the oval looking glass.
"And if the day comes when there is a need?" she quietly persisted. "Would you come to hate me for carrying our child? And for wanting that child so desperately?"
Her words shook him to the core of his black soul, words he never thought to hear, to join together with the multitude of expressions of her love he never once thought to receive...
"I could never hate you, Christine."
She shook her head. "But you did. By your own admission. You said your hatred is what kept you alive."
He noted the wounded shine in her eyes and inhaled a remorseful breath at the suffering he had so mercilessly inflicted on his Angel in his selfish thirst for revenge. A vengeance not wholly deserved…and what little of it had been justified had given him no pleasure to mete out.
Once more he lowered himself beside his bride, capturing her dark, haunted eyes in the mirror, so she could easily read the truth written in his.
"I told you once where passion runs extreme there exists a fine line between love and hatred. Throughout the torturous episodes of my life, even in my darkest days, when nightmares were my sole reality, I never stopped wanting you, Christine…"
Silent truths once spoken in a dark night of revelation. But old wounds ran deep, and he sensed such reassurances must oft be repeated so that shattered hearts could mend at last. Hers… his…
"I would not let myself admit it, even think it, but beneath the hatred I cloaked around myself as a shield, the foundation of love I felt for you never cracked or altered, and was only hidden away and ignored. I have always loved you. To cease in that would be to deny my existence, since you are to me the very air I breathe and the music that composes my soul."
With a little sob, she swung toward him and grabbed his head, crushing her lips to his. His hands spanned her back as readily he returned her kiss. Before he understood her intent, she gently lifted away his mask. He stiffened in irritation, and she pulled away to look into his eyes, her hands cradling his divergent cheeks.
"This face…this beautiful, shocking, glorious face was all I wished to see in the empty years away from you. No sunrise, no sunset, no scenic landscape – nothing gave me this much satisfaction and joy as to see you now. I hated that with the passage of months into years I began to forget your appearance – hated it…" She shook her head a little in emphasis, tears making her eyes glisten like black star sapphires. "I would have done anything to retain the image of you in my mind! I shall never grow weary of looking at this face, and into your beautiful golden eyes that burn like twin flames and sometimes are all that can warm me inside. I will never love you any less for these scars you bear. Each scar belongs to me, grafted into my soul, because they are a part of who you are, and therefore they are mine! I loved you once as only the Phantom, but I love you so much more for being who you truly are…my Erik."
Strong emotion prohibited a vocal reply as the Phantom took hold of her arms and swiftly stood to his feet, bringing her up with him. Drawing her flush against his body he held her, as fiercely as she held him. His hands moved to grasp her head, his lips finding hers, as tender kisses, intense and profound, burned into passion – and he almost forgot his original purpose for entering their bedchamber.
With a soft groan, he pulled away from her clinging lips and opened his eyes to see the disappointment and confusion that instantly clouded hers.
"We have the entire night, and every night thereafter," he said in silken persuasion, though with the bed so near in invitation and her so warm and willing in his arms, he wondered if he might not truly be mad to delay such matchless pleasures.
Before he could succumb to the lure, he took her hand, entwining his fingers with hers, and moved toward the entrance.
"Come," he said simply, his eyes never leaving hers.
With a curious smile she allowed him to guide her.
x
Christine wasn't sure what to expect, a bit startled that he had ended such warm, unspoken delights between them and not carried them through to their coveted completion – when that certainly had never once been the case during this entire week since the Bal Masque. Yet by his manner, quite boyish and endearing, and the eager light that enhanced the brilliance of his eyes, her initial concern evaporated and she quenched any lingering disappointment in anticipation of what he would show her.
The main lake chamber was darker than usual, Jacques and Jolene having long retired for the night. As he led her down the short flight of stairs and over the next, she focused on the sole source of light coming from a six-branched candelabrum in the center of the dining table and the tall pair of candlesticks on the ground at one end, all of it giving an ambiance of intimacy. Silver covered dishes gleamed from almost every available space, and a vase of red roses stood near the gentle glow of candlelight.
"Oh, Erik…" she breathed in approval.
He smiled and held out her chair for her.
"I thought you might like a taste of home…"
She slid into the seat, curious as he then lifted the covers, one by one. She gasped at the wide array of courses set before her, the aromas tantalizing – and noticed all her favorites from their days at The Heights. Roast pork in an apple sauce and roast pigeon, carrot soup, spinach and kale, apple tart, cheeses, sweetbreads, a fig pudding, jam tartlets – more than her mind could conceive was placed before her on tempting display.
She shook her head, giving a little laugh of both amazement and disbelief. "Heavens, Erik. There's enough here to feed a small army! One would think you're trying to fatten me up like a Christmas goose."
"I have no intention of plucking you, my dear."
"Only stuffing me?"
He chuckled rather mischievously and her face went fiery hot when she realized the naughty connotation of her innocent words. The rogue! Thankfully, he gave her reply no further consideration, only gave a careless wave of his hand and took the seat at the head of the table, beside her.
"The management recently hired a British chef. After the success of our Yuletide feast I instructed Madame to make arrangements for a meal with dishes that I knew would please you."
A revelation of that day occurred, and she couldn't resist a wry smile. "And you got your mince pie…" What had been Erik's favorite. "Sneaky."
He chuckled at her mock indignation. "A trait I learned well as the Phantom. Stealth."
"A trait you have always possessed," she countered.
His lips twitched in an amused grin. "Eat, Christine. Enjoy the food while it's hot. After endless days of starving yourself, the rich fare will only be to your benefit."
At his gentle urging, she returned his smile and nodded, needing no further enticement when her stomach was so eager to be filled. She knew he referred to the initial days of being his reluctant captive. She did not add that during her confinement at the hotel she'd barely taken a meal either.
There was so much she had not told him, and should, especially about that lost year in England, when he had shared with her the worst of his travails. But the darker aspects of her life could only cast a pall on such a delightful occasion, and she wished for nothing more than to revel in this present happiness with her husband.
They dined in an ease of sweet companionship, keeping the words between them light … while the glances often shared as the meal came to a close went deep in unspoken exchange, relaying a different kind of hunger.
Christine sat back in her chair in surprise at something he said.
"I'm going back above to sing?"
"Of course. I trained your voice for the lead, and it was always your greatest aspiration to sing opera. At least, that is what you told me at every opportunity when we were children."
She ignored his gentle teasing. "I just had not thought, after the manner in which you stole me away from the ball – I did not think I would be returning so soon."
His lips twitched with secret mirth. "If my plan goes as anticipated, you will be on stage within the week."
He told her of the gossip he instructed Meg to spread and the reason for it.
She giggled, her heart light that her marriage to her beloved was no longer kept secret.
"Calais? You think the Vicomte will believe that?"
"Why not? With Madame Giry reluctant to disprove such a tale, it rings of authenticity."
"We could, you know…"
At her sudden soft and serious tone, his golden eyes met hers over his wine glass.
"Leave Paris," she said. "If not to Calais, then elsewhere."
He set down his glass slowly. "You wish to leave Paris, now, when we have at last achieved everything for which we dreamed? Each other, the opera, my music, your voice…"
"Not everything, Erik." She laid a gentle hand on his sleeve, where his forearm rested on the table. "Life is dangerous for you here. You cannot leave these caverns in daylight without fear of being seen."
"I never welcomed the idea of public recognition," he quietly argued.
"No, but this is different. The fear of your capture is always present, and it hurts me to know you must sacrifice those things we took for granted at The Heights: the warmth of the sun and the fresh air with the scent of wildflowers on the heath. The sudden rains and the wild wind that beat against us. Riding along the moors together, as free as that wind, without a care in the world to stop us. Lying side by side and looking up into a sky coated with stars. I know you must miss it, because at one time it was the substance of our lives and what made us happy."
His eyes fell shut, briefly, and he gave a small, somber nod.
"You want to go back to England then. You want to go home."
His still words reawakened the danger of why that was no longer possible – the reason for it another bitter truth she must one day share.
Carefully, she shaped her answer. "One day, perhaps, I would like us to return. But there is so much to do and see first, and we are still both young to accomplish all we have dreamed. Remember, Erik, we said we would take on the world with our music. We have only begun to touch the surface, my love. Perhaps we could travel to Italy? Milan is quite beautiful, the opera house there a delight."
"La Scala…"
"Yes, and there is Vienna, and Sweden – I have always wanted to visit my mother's homeland and meet my relations there. No matter where we decide to go, we will make a name for ourselves and live as we should live – above ground where you can walk in daylight without fear of being recognized."
His golden eyes glowed fierce and intent, taking her breath away as he caught on to her enthusiasm, ever so slowly, as if at first afraid to believe it possible.
"Leave Paris…" he said, as though turning the idea over in his mind. "You will need to finish out the season. It would not do for a rising young star to break contract."
She nodded eagerly, smiling to see the excitement that now etched beautiful curves onto his scarred face as his own smile grew wide.
"Yes, Christine…" He clasped her hand still on his arm, bending his head while bringing the tips of her fingers to his lips in a fervent kiss. Warmth quivered through her limbs at the contact. "We will leave Paris and take our music to the world."
She wanted to laugh for joy but only gasped as his warm lips traced a line over her palm to the inside of her wrist, his eyes flicking up to capture hers in a blaze of molten gold. He held that position for several intense seconds while she forgot to breathe, then suddenly he stood.
"Get dressed," he said quietly. "I will return for you shortly."
Get dressed?! Return for her…?
Christine stared at him in bewilderment, her mind at a loss to his directive, when all she wanted was to be pressed flesh to his flesh and held closely in his arms. When by his expression, it was all he seemed to want as well...
He smiled, that slow mischievous half tilt of his lips that made her heart pound in reckless tempo. Again he kissed her hand he still held, not unlike a gallant gentleman bidding farewell to a lady, before he strode away and disappeared into the main corridor.
Dazed, Christine stared at the space where she had last seen him then snapped out of her reverie. She hurried to stow away the remainder of their meal in the lake chest, not wishing any of it to go to waste and filling the trunk to capacity, before discarding her wrapper in favor of the simple day gown of blue-gray wool she wore earlier.
His parting words to her were a puzzlement. But the seductive glow in his eyes she recognized, and her heart quickened to discover what mysteries her wicked Phantom had in store.
xXx