Chapter 47
Antonio Le Blanc made certain every detail was impeccable. George Greaux, who had changed into a formal black suit fitting for a household butler, arrived at Box Three well before we ascended the wide staircase leading to the third level of seats.
"First course is served," George said. He moved with short, quick movement and ushered us into our private box with a round table, crisp white table cloth, and candelabrum in the middle with three white tapers.
He helped Julia into her seat, presented our first course of leek soup, and asked if we needed anything further before he quietly closed the door.
Julia looked around the box, which was much bigger than I expected, and grinned to herself. "I don't know about you, but I have every intention of returning here, quite possibly every day of the week if they continue this type of service."
"You surely had servants growing up," I said.
Julia never said much about her family-and I had not asked much-but from what she had told me I knew her father provided well for his family and that his sons were part of a business in manufacturing passed down through three generations.
"We had a maid, or rather Mother had her own maid, but my sisters and I were responsible for daily tasks," Julia answered. "My mother used to say she had enough children to provide a household staff and did not need to pay for one."
Julia paused, stirred her soup, and unfolded her napkin. "If you were old enough to stand on a stool and hold a duster, you dusted. If you were tall and strong enough to pump water, you helped clean dishes."
She left her spoon in the bowl and showed me the palm of her hand. "I earned my first calluses before I was eight years of age," she said proudly. "No one would mistake these hands for a queen's."
"Then tonight..." I said as I caught her hand in mine and brought her palm to my lips. I felt her shiver as I breathed against the base of her fingers. "...you shall be treated like royalty."
"Tonight I would rather be recognized as the famous composer's wife."
"Famous," I said under my breath.
Julia paused. "You don't enjoy that part of it, do you?"
"I would hardly say it's a fitting description," I answered as I reached for the salt.
Julia's eyes narrowed. "Of course it's a fitting description," she said incredulously.
I grunted.
"Did I ever tell you it was a good six months after we first met that I realized who you were?"
I froze with my spoon inches from my lips. "Julia," I warned quietly, unsure of what she would say and whether or not George Greaux stood within earshot.
"A composer," Julia clarified. "An actual composer, not just someone who sat around writing music."
"Someone who sits around and writes music is the definition of a composer," I answered.
"Your occupation," she said somewhat impatiently. "I didn't realize who you were until I saw my uncle's review in the paper. You don't remember this, do you?"
"A specific instance that took place five years ago? Of course not."
Julia snorted at my unabashed honesty. "What I meant is when we first met, I had to pry a simple conversation from you. When I asked what you did for a living, you vaguely answered you wrote music."
"That is not vague at all," I protested.
"You are being quite surly." Julia finished her soup and eyed me.
I sighed. "My apologizes."
"I did not realize you had music sold the world over. Not until we had known one another for at least five or six months. I thought you would have been more forthcoming about being so well-known."
A soft knock at the door signaled our second course had been delivered. Once the next portion of our meal had been placed on the table and George exited, Julia continued speaking.
"You were soaked to the bone," she said quietly. "Dripping wet in my kitchen. I hadn't seen you in weeks, but there you were, shivering after a walk in the October rain. I asked how you were and after saying you were highly irritated, you finally told me what was wrong."
"Your uncle," I answered. "The ignorant fool."
Julia smiled and nodded. "'Luc Testan is an ignorant fool.' Those were your exact words."
I remembered that evening. Madeline had been out of the house for most of the day, Charles wasn't feeling well and had been in bed since noon while Meg tended to her husband and avoided me as usual.
Out of the three of them, Madeline was the only one who listened to me rant over my hatred of Testan, but since she was not home, I took to walking off my frustration.
In my haste to leave the house, I had forgotten my umbrella, thus I ended up soaking wet and in a considerably worse mood than when I had first left for my walk.
"I walked past your house three times before I opened the side gate and knocked on the back door."
"Side gate? Why didn't you come to the front door."
"I honestly don't remember, but most likely because there were no lights in the front of the house, so I assumed you were in the kitchen."
Julia leaned forward and touched the back of my hand. "You handed me the review from my uncle and sat in my parlor stewing in your anger."
"He called my opera a waste of paper and ink and a disservice to the good people of Paris being subjected to an assault on their ears and good senses," I said tightly.
I may as well have had Testan's words tattooed on the insides of my eyelids. They were certainly burned into my thoughts.
"Is this the opera he had reviewed that had you in such a mood?"
"No," I glowered. "That was Margarite. I wrote On Summer Nights after that review came out."
I wrote the entire opera in under six weeks, then wrote and rewrote over the next few months. I remembered sitting at my desk agonizing over the overture while autumn leaves stuck to the windows in the rain. Through the rivulets I watched Julia in her kitchen as she prepared meals for herself and her daughter. Sometimes she would glance up at my window, and even though I knew she could not see me in my darkened room, I still offered a smile.
We had spoken several times at that point, but I had committed myself to my work and had not seen her for weeks. I noticed when the windows were open and I played pieces of music on my violin, she would pause to listen. From afar I held her rapt attention, wove my way into the life she lived without a single word spoken between us for weeks.
"On Summer Nights,"Julia mused. "I like the sound of it."
Considering it was over three hours long and inspired by our initial meeting one night, it was a good thing my wife at least liked the title.
Another knock at the door and George burst in, gathered our empty bowls, and replaced them with appetizers. He apologized profusely under his breath for interrupting our meal before he disappeared once more.
"What is the story about?"
"It's about unattainable love," I answered.
Julia squeezed her napkin and looked away from me. She pursed her lips together and stared out into the empty theater. "I see."
I started to reach for my glass of water when I realized Julia most likely assumed the opera was about Christine.
"It is the story of Mauro, a man whose touch is made of fire. He lives alone in the woods to keep from hurting anyone after he burned someone in the past. One night he sees a beautiful woman named Jewel and he begs the gods to allow him to be normal for a summer so that he can love this woman without hurting her. The gods give him gloves that keep the fire contained, and for the summer he attempts to win her heart."
"Jewel?" Julia whispered.
"The most wondrous and kindest woman in the world, so perfect that Mauro knows he does not deserve her." I paused and reached for Julia's hand. "The first time we spoke was on a summer night. I could not tell you the exact date, the time, or what you were wearing, but I rounded the corner and there you stood. The moment our eyes met, I fully expected you to shriek and run off into the night, but you stayed."
Julia blushed. She took a quick sip of her wine and played with her necklace. "I had been waiting for you."
I nodded. I knew that now, but at the time I merely saw the woman whose desperate pleas I had heard for years go unanswered, the woman whose husband I had strangled weeks earlier to finally end her torment.
"I remember you said to me that I took my walks the same time each night."
Julia bit her bottom lip in an attempt to contain her laugh. "So I did."
"For the life of me I could not figure out why you would know."
"Because that was the only time you were not playing your violin."
What an intricate dance we had performed, I thought to myself, both of us at a careful distance. Had Julia not been bold enough to make the first move, I would not have had Alex in my life still. Most likely I would not have had my life at all, given what had transpired in the spring outside of the Wisteria Hotel.
"I started writing the overture the moment I returned home that first time we spoke," I confessed. "Every time I looked out my window and saw you in your kitchen, little pieces of the story came to me, and within weeks I had most of it written out and spread out over the desk in my room and in the parlor."
Julia's lips parted, her eyes sparkling in a way I had never seen before. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"
"Eloquently expressing how I felt for you is not my strong suit, so I hesitate to answer...but... at the risk of you impaling me with your fork, I will say I did not want to love you."
Julia stared blankly at me as though the words hadn't registered with her, which was well enough as I already knew I had bumbled through the start of an explanation.
"Every time I saw you in the garden with Meg or through the window in your home, I noticed far more than I should have. I walked late at night to clear you from my mind only to return home to see if the light was still on.
"That night when you stopped me, there were a dozen different things I wanted to say to you, but I feared whatever I said would be foolish." I paused and drank down the rest of my water in two nervous gulps.
"You invited me over for tea and I walked away knowing if I accepted your offer I would ruin the perfect idea of you in my mind. You would see me...you would hear me stumble over my words as I am now and you would wonder why you ever stopped in the middle of folding laundry or cleaning dishes to listen to me play."
Julia sat perfectly still, her eyes wide like a doll.
"I spent nearly five years convincing myself I could never love you. If I didn't care for you, then there was nothing to lose. And to be honest, even in this very moment I still cannot believe I am seeing the opera I wrote five years ago-inspired by you-with you, my wife, at my side."
Without a word, Julia pushed the plates between us aside, carefully moved the candelabra, and stood, leaning over the table. She kissed me hard on the lips with such unexpected force that the table shifted and fine china rattled as I rose to meet her.
"That," Julia said against my lips before her words were lost to another hard, passionate kiss. "That is the most honest and romantic thing you have ever said to me."
I could not help but notice how her breasts heaved. Had it not been for George Greaux clearing his throat, I doubt I would have stopped at merely noticing each rise and fall of her chest.
"The next course," George mumbled.
Julia dropped gracefully back into her seat, which left me standing awkwardly with my hands flat against the table. I returned to my seat in time for George to gather our mostly untouched appetizers and replace the small plates with beef and vegetables. He did not meet my eye and never once looked in Julia's direction, however, I suspect he was fully aware of how deeply my wife blushed and how harsh my breath was after a brief but arousing kiss.
"The theater is starting to fill," George commented. "I will bring dessert before curtain if you do not mind. That way I will not...interrupt the performance" He checked his pocket watch. "Roughly eighteen minutes, Monsieur and Madame. Does that suit you?"
"You could bring it now if you wish," I answered.
"Oh." George looked at his for a second time watch. "Yes, of course, I will have it delivered immediately."
He zipped out of the opera box and disappeared without once meeting my eye.
Julia pulled out her fan and cooled herself as she smiled back at me with her swollen lips and heavily-lidded eyes.
"I do believe we will enjoy the rest of the evening uninterrupted," I said.
"We will conduct ourselves like proper adults," Julia firmly replied. She arched an accusatory brow in my direction.
"If you are insinuating that I was the one to…"
Julia pressed her finger to my lips and took a sip of her wine. "You bewitched me with your story of Mauro and Jewel," she said as she dragged her index finger along my lower lip. "Now imagine how transfixed I will be following the performance?"
"Indeed," I said hoarsely.
With a chuckle, Julia turned her attention to the orchestra seats below us and we ate in silence. Together we watched patrons filter in through the entrances at the rear of the theater and take their seats. Within minutes, nearly every seat was occupied.
"Is that…?" Julia leaned toward the balcony and narrowed her eyes. "I think it is."
"Who?" I asked.
"There's Dr. Kahn." Julia pointed to the far side of the theater where Kamil stood facing a man who had his back to us.
My breath caught in my throat as I was certain it was his brother Arden. I studied them for a long moment as they took their seats and thumbed through the programs for the performance. Neither one looked around the theater, and at last I sat back, relieved they had not searched for me.
"Oh," Julia said under her breath.
I looked across the table at her. "Is something wrong?"
"No," she said, drawing out the single word. "It's…"
I followed her gaze, and before she could answer, I knew who she had spotted almost directly beneath our opera box. Of all the people in the world...
"Raoul."
I nearly choked on green beans at her response. Once I cleared my throat, my jaw twitched.
The Comte sat in a row with several white-haired men and their lavishly dressed wives. Given how many times I had watched him from afar in a theater, I could tell by the way de Chagny sat that he was uncomfortable in his surroundings. Out of all the places in the world he could have been, he was back in the theater. I wondered if he knew I was in attendance-or if the thought of me nearby grated on his nerves.
"Wonderful," I said under my breath.
"I suppose it's nice to see so many people attending your opera," Julia offered.
I took a bite of my supper and chewed in silence. It was nice to think I would accept royalties from the performance and that a portion came from the pockets of Raoul de Chagny and the Kahn brothers.
"Did we receive a program?" Julia asked suddenly. "I would like to look through it if we did."
George Greaux knocked unreasonably hard on the door before he walked in with dessert. He appeared as flustered as he had the last time he'd entered the opera box.
"Pardon me, but I wanted a program," Julia said to him.
"Yes, Madame, of course Madame, one moment and I will retrieve one for you," George replied. "I do apologize. It seems we have standing room only tonight. Lots of people coming to the performance."
"Standing room only?" Julia questioned.
"Yes, Madame. It has been this way all week since everyone has heard your husband would attend a performance soon. Everyone in France has come to see one of the shows."
Again George disappeared. I looked from Julia to the crowd down below and noticed several men enter from stage left in a single file line, all in gendarme uniforms. Leading them inside was Antonio Le Blanc, whose gaze darted around the theater as he appeared to be offering an explanation or apology with sweeping gestures.
The six gendarmes spread out along the first few rows of seats and I gripped the arm of my chair with both hands.
"Erik?" Julia questioned.
"We need to leave," I blurted out.
"I beg your pardon?"
I stood abruptly, nearly knocking over George as he burst back into the opera box.
"Madame, I have found you a program," he announced. "Monsieur, if you are in need of anything at all…"
"Where is the exit?" I asked.
Both Julia and George stared back at me. "The door is at the bottom of the stairs," George answered warily. "The performance is about to start, Monsieur, but if you wish for some fresh air I could lead you to the door."
I glanced from him to the men below and noticed Le Blanc throw his hands in the air before he pointed toward the center of the theater. Behind him, Phelan Kimmer strolled in, cane in one hand as he casually glanced at his ticket and shook his head at Le Blanc.
"You will do something immediately or I will," I heard him grumble. His voice carried over the murmur of the crowd and several people seated gawked at him.
I swore Phelan looked up at our opera box briefly, a smile of satisfaction on his bearded lips, but Le Blanc garnered his attention and the two of them started to argue.
"Monsieur?" George questioned.
Disaster flitted through my mind. I imagined the beatings from long ago, the chains on my wrists and ankles as a child and again in Persia that could very well return with imprisonment. I thought of attempting to explain myself to both Alexandre and Lisette, of the fear on their faces as they stared back at me from behind bars. I thought of Madeline watching me approach the gallows, of how much she had sacrificed on my behalf. And lastly I thought of Julia, of the woman at my side and wondered if she would regret her marriage to me when I was hanged.
I would ruin all of them in the deepest, most treacherous way possible if I was found. My own death meant little to me, but I could not bear to harm my wife, my children, and the only mother I had ever known.
I ignored George Greaux as he continued to ask what I needed and instead pushed my chair back. "Julia," I said as I reached for her hand. "Come with me. Now."
