How weightless she is. Delicate as a flower like the gardenias of her scent. Gazing down at her sleeping face, he feels almost giddy. How perfectly lovely are the dark lashes brushing the round cheeks. The slight movement of her lips as she breathes, almost as if the song continues being sung within her. The faint was quite unexpected, the music having a deeper effect than he anticipated. More care must be given with the hypnosis. What good will loving her be if she does not accept him for himself – love him for himself?
The bedroom is in readiness…as it has been since he first saw her. Others could have fantasies, why not indulge his own? A wife with whom he could take on Sunday walks in the Bois? A place to read from the volumes of books in his collection? The Louis-Phillippe furniture was already here. The drayage costs for clearing his mother's house were high, but if a home was to be made, it must have furnishings. It was pure chance he saw an advertisement about an auction in Rouen…a certain widow dying without kin.
"You seem to know the inventory pretty well," the auctioneer said. "You know the old lady who died?"
"I knew her years ago," Erik said, walking through the modest cottage, running his fingertips along the pieces of furniture he recalled from childhood. Nothing appeared to have changed despite the thirty or so years since he ran away. The headboard of his mother's bed, an armoire and a dressing table particularly struck his fancy. Finer quality than some of the other pieces in the sitting room. Of course, she would have selected the better items for her personal use. Still most of the chairs and tables were serviceable if worn. "I shall take the lot."
"Are you certain?"
"Why would I not be certain?"
As it turned out, everything fit perfectly into the house he created for himself under the opera house. The irony is not lost on him that he built a home identical to the one he was born in…with the exception of the music room.
Once they began working together on her voice and then engaging in brief conversations, he hoped one day he might become a human being to Christine – invite her into a modest abode where she would feel comfortable spending time with him.
The unused bedroom was soon a proper ladies' boudoir. Using varying shades of blue – the faux window created with the electricity he brought in from the street lamps outside is hung with pale blue brocade drapes matching the canopy on the bed. The duvet of deep cerulean covers the mattress. Two of the walls display woolen carpets with patterns of varying shades ranging from royal to robin's egg.
After borrowing one of her costumes from the wardrobe room, he commissioned several dresses and other ladies wear from a local seamstress, who cared only about the fee. Single men buying clothes for their kept women was not unusual, or so he understood from gossip overheard backstage from two patrons observing the young dancers rehearse.
"Madame Gershon is quite the best to deal with," the older of the two men said, tapping the ash of his cigar into a tall vase provided for such acts. "Costs a bit more – but knows to keep her own counsel."
For the seamstress, the only thing unusual about Erik's request was his request for plain undergarments. Most of the gentlemen courting the ladies in the theatre wanted more suggestive pantalets and chemises.
"You are certain you would not prefer more lace or ruffles – more exposed décolletage?"
"For what purpose? These are undergarments are they not?"
"But when the dress is removed…"
The heat rushing to his face found him nonplussed. "The clothing is for my niece," he growled.
"Of course, Monsieur, but even nieces like a bit a fluff on their nighties."
"Just make them pretty – something a refined young lady would enjoy."
When he brought the packages home, he took care not to look too closely at any of the lingerie as he folder each piece and placed them in the drawers of the tallboy. The feeling of soft silk against his sensitive fingertips was itself quite stimulating. He would not besmirch his love for Christine with indelicate thoughts. He was her Angel of Music. The clothing was for her comfort if there was any possibility she might come to visit or perhaps even live here.
The gowns were hung precisely in the armoire…two blue – one light chambray, one darker in a patterned poplin - a medium gray wool with white ribbing, one of burgundy in rich charmeuse and a pale pink cotton with a satin sash. Dresses for morning, walking and evening. Two pair of shoes. A royal blue cashmere hooded cape and a bonnet decorated with pink roses. If she was displeased, he would, of course, buy whatever she wished. This, he believed was a nice beginning to a more elaborate wardrobe based on her own tastes.
Anticipating privacy needs, he installed a bathroom for her personal use with soaps, shampoos and creams purchased at a nearby apothecary with the guidance of the owner's wife, following her suggestions for what a young lady would use in her daily ablutions. Linens chosen for their softness as much as durability. Nothing was too good for her. Everything must be perfect.
In the end, however, the reality of Christine coming to his home under any circumstances is something he never truly thought would happen. Their very odd friendship was the most he believed possible. And with this in mind, once the room was complete, he never set foot inside again.
Until tonight.
After turning on a small bedside lamp, he lays her gently down on the bed, then pulls the knitted Afghan folded at the foot of the bed over her sleeping form. After attending to a few more niceties, another lamp lit, he steps away.
"Sleep well, my angel," he says, leaving the door slightly ajar. It would not due for her to wake up to the darkness of this place and see no means of exit.
The tickling of her nose causes her to sneeze rousing her from a sleep fraught with unusual dreams.
The Angel of Music became a man in those dreams, leading them down what seemed to be an endless staircase to a lake of sorts, except it was not outside, but inside a building…the opera house? The man brought her into a large room which at first was very dark and bleak, but then became a beautiful room full of color when a remarkable number of candles were lit. A lamp came to life magically without a flame of any sort.
Much like the one on the vanity in this room…which is not the one she shares with Meg. This is the prettiest room she has ever seen. Although the light is not bright, there is no doubt of the quality of the furniture and the effort put into having everything just so.
Perhaps her dreams are reality.
The ginger cat responsible for tickling her nose rests comfortably on the pillow next to her head, offers a rough meow in greeting before grooming herself.
"Well, good morning to you as well…if it is morning." Propping herself up on an elbow, she reaches out to pet the cat. After a moment of consideration, Isis presses her head into Christine's hand and offers purrs of welcome.
"You are most certainly real," Christine laughs, "I suppose I should follow your example and wash my own face."
Perhaps tired of the chat or smelling her breakfast, her visitor jumps off the bed and scoots out the hall door.
Throwing off the Afghan blanket, Christine sits on the edge of bed, finding her shoes set perfectly next to the bed, ready for her to slip on. Before she attempts to follow the cat, another sliver of light catches her eye. Adjusting the bodice of her costume, she re-ties the sash of her dressing gown, deciding to find out what lies behind that door.
"I am certain Pappa would have mentioned angels having physical needs," she mutters to herself as she exits the most welcome water closet. "I am quite pleased, if he is an angel, to consider human necessities."
Going to the sink to wash her hands, she gasps, a fragment of her dream flashes by in the oblong glass,
Look at your face in the mirror.
I am there inside!
Then disappears.
"Silly girl," she chides herself, laughing off the shock at her reflection. The pillow was likely so soft, and the slumber so deep her cheek wrinkled in such a way her mouth is pulled into a strange smirk, the lower lip, still bright with lip rouge, appears slightly swollen. Add to that, the kohl lining her eyes smeared during her sleep created dark circles. "Joseph Buquet might be talking about me with his tales of phantoms and ghosts haunting this place the way I look now."
Examining the different jars and bottles on the edge of the sink she finds cleansing creams and a stack of tissue paper to remove the greasepaint. A quick wash with the bar of Ivory soap and she is free of the make-up. The face now looking back at her from the oblong mirror hanging over the sink is the one she is used to seeing – a small oval of clear skin with a natural blush to rounded cheeks. Blue eyes lined with long lashes are in contrast to her blonde curls. "No more dark circles. No red lips. But your hair is still mussed." Looking around, she finds nothing to help her manage the curls and returns to the bedroom.
As she pads to the vanity in search of a brush, she passes an armoire with the door ajar and an open drawer in the tall boy. Hair forgotten for the moment, she examines the contents inside the cabinet. "Oh, my." In her entire life she never had more than two dresses at one time – and none of those were new.
Her sewing kit is her prized possession and as she grew older the skills learned from her mother served them well. Knitting is enjoyable and helped pass the hours when they were not walking or working. But, sewing is what she loves the most – making old and unfashionable dresses into garments the rats actually envied.
When a dress wore out, she turned it and the garment would last until another growth spurt or simple daily use made it unwearable. The churches in most of the towns she and Pappa visited often had rummage bins where they would pick through finding items they needed…dishes, blankets, and clothing for both of them. Pappa always wanted them to present themselves well, even if their garments were used. Christine never ceased to be amazed at the quality garments she found…some dresses nearly new.
"Those with wealth often become bored with their purchases," Gustave said. "Truth be told, they tend to behave in the same way with people. Never be fooled by someone with money or title, dotter."
"But if the person is kind…like the boy we met at Perros."
"Even so. The boy is from a family of nobility."
"Why is that bad?"
"Most do not know anything of labor – except to direct others. The boy might be fine now…he is still young, but I assure you his family would not find us…you worthy."
"But he ran into the sea for my scarf."
"That he did. I agree he is a kind and friendly fellow. Only time will tell if he retains those qualities or takes on the airs of the world around him."
Seeing Raoul again last night was a surprise after so many years. The combination of her performance and the return of the young boy who inhabited her daydreams for so many years was exhilarating. That he was so happy at seeing her again, recalling the summer at Perros was reassuring. He did remember her, she was not such a silly girl after all pining after someone Pappa assured her she best forget.
In truth, she did feel a prick of annoyance with him. Despite her objections, he dismissed her concerns about leaving with him. What of her life now? What of her plans? How dare he? Appearing out of nowhere to command she change and be ready for a party in two minutes. Two minutes? Did he have no idea the effort needed to change from a costume to street wear. Not to mention, she has nothing appropriate to wear to a party.
Besides – she must speak to her Angel. Not to do so would be ungrateful and rude. While he can be very officious himself, he is her tutor and tutors must be strict. When they speak, after lessons, he is always most cordial listening to her prattle about the opera house gossip. Compassionate when she speaks of her sadness in losing her father. He is her friend. Raoul did not understand.
"It is unlikely you will meet again and if you do, I do not see it bringing you much joy."
Tucking the memory of the meeting in the back of her mind. There would be time enough to deal with him once she was home again. Home. The small flat with Madame and Meg is hardly home. This room feels like a home. A lovely home with pretty dresses and her own bathroom.
Was this the case? With all this bounty? None of her efforts compare with the gowns calling out to her.
Shifting her focus back to the armoire, she decides on the chambray. The simplest of the dresses, even considering the cotton lace and trim around the peplum and cuffs. A corset was unnecessary and a simple chemise and a single petticoat would suffice in addition to fresh drawers as undergarments. If it is morning as she believes it to be, this dress is most appropriate.
After sorting through the contents of the open drawer and the one below, finding the variety of lingerie, her cheeks flush with embarrassment at the thought of her Angel selecting these garments. But of course someone helped him, even at her youngest, Pappa always asked a churchwoman to help her with such personal items. Still the idea he knew about a woman's needs, well, it felt strange if not entirely unwelcome.
Satisfied with her selections, she dresses as quickly as possible and she checks herself in the cheval mirror, noting her hair still needs tending. As she has come to expect, her needs have been seen to. A set of silver-backed brushes and a comb are placed in the inset section of the cherry wood vanity. Ribbons in a variety of colors hang from a small pedestal. Choosing the white ribbon to match the lace on the dress, she quickly pulls back her hair into a ponytail leaving a frame of curls around her forehead and cheeks.
"Two minutes indeed."
After one more glance in the tall mirror, she takes a deep breath and follows the path the cat took from the room into the dimly lit hallway. The time spent dealing with her basic needs and the thrill of so much luxury was distracting – there was neither time nor desire to consider the implications of what all this means. For the moment, she is content to simply enjoy the experience. Now she must find her host.