Chapter 125
Both of us stared at one another. Marco appeared stunned by his own admission and gaped at me, his dark eyes wide and unblinking beneath his thick eyebrows.
"That isn't what I meant to say," he blurted out.
I raised a brow. "What did you mean to say?"
Marco swallowed and looked away. "I should be returning home. Good night, Monsieur Kire, it has been lovely seeing you again."
Marco turned and hurried off with his head down and easel, which he had balanced over his shoulder, noisily clanking with each step. One of the latches came undone and the apparatus began to unfold as he briskly trudged on.
"Mar–" I started to call out a warning, but before I had an opportunity to say his full name, the easel spread apart, the legs unfurling like wooden wings at his back.
He was nearly to the next corner when he finally stopped, propped the painting against his leg, and set the easel upright. The wind had picked up, the tepid night breeze carrying the smell of rain. A mighty gust blew his painting into the street and I sighed to myself as Marco appeared quite dumbfounded with the situation at hand.
Marco left the easel to retrieve his painting, and no sooner had he stepped off the curb when the easel toppled over, clattering to the ground.
He stood rigid, hands on his hips and head tilted toward the clouds hanging low in the night sky. His chest heaved, nostrils flared as he tapped his foot and growled out a breath of frustration.
His posture reminded me of my brother the night he had allowed me into the Rodan after Bessie had wandered off. Inconvenienced, I thought, a man annoyed by the situation at hand. Perhaps Marco was truly a Kimmer after all.
I approached in silence and bent, gathering the easel while Marco brushed off the painting and cursed under his breath. He glanced over his shoulder at me, his jaw working in silence, and made no attempt to rush to my side.
One of the brass latches that held the folded apparatus in place no longer seemed secure. I made two attempts to latch the legs on the right side before giving up and moving to the next one, which held.
"Are you going to tell him what I said?" Marco asked without looking me in the eye. He sounded as irritated as I would have expected given the situation.
"Is that what you wish?" I asked, keeping my tone even.
From the corner of my eye I saw him swiftly shake his head. His posture relaxed, head bent like a scolded child. "I wish the opposite. I understand that your alliance is with–"
"Not a word then," I replied. "I trust I have your confidence as well in this conversation remaining private?"
Marco readily nodded. "Yes, Monsieur, you have my word."
"Here," I said, leaning the easel toward him with my hand wrapped around the side with the faulty latch. "I believe this one is broken."
"Thank you," he replied. "I hate this damned contraption. I think I've toppled it over one too many times and now it's beyond repair."
"Why don't you replace it?"
"Because I don't think about it until situations like this one," he grumbled. At last he took a breath and looked at me. "I apologize for my temper. It was not my intention to treat you poorly."
I nodded in acknowledgement and took a step back from him, thinking of the many times my own temper had flared in the presence of my uncle. Uncle Alak very well could have quite easily struck me for my insolence, but he had provided kindness when I was belligerent and reasoning when I was unreasonable.
"Have you spoken to Phelan regarding your speculation?"
"No, I have not."
"Why not?"
Marco rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek. "I've wanted to say something but…" Waves of dark hair obscured his eyes, and he blew a breath while shaking his head like a horse until he tossed his hair back from his face. "How does one tactfully inquire about being someone's bastard son?"
I grunted. "Or nephew, for that matter."
Marco winced. "I have been exceptionally gauche this evening. If I could re-start the conversation…"
I shifted my weight, thinking of how my own uncle had approached me one late summer night as I sat listening to music in the dark. He had been nothing but a shadow whose edges were barely discernible from the darkness, an entity seemingly made up of night itself.
In my memories he was a well-spoken gentleman, but in reality he was little more than a fisherman who had drowned in sorrows in a bottle. He was thin, I recalled, with yellowed eyes and flesh, but I had easily looked past his physical short-comings just as he had done for me. Lonely and desperate, I had let my guard down enough to allow him in.
Despite my somewhat selective recollection of my uncle, I was certain he would have known what to say in this very situation. He was masterful at making me feel at ease when he spoke no matter if I willingly listened, crossed my arms and sulked, or stubbornly accepted his wisdom. No matter what, he had made me feel like no one else ever had and I wished to emulate him in that same fashion.
"Are you well?" I asked.
Marco eyed me, confusion in his gaze. "I beg your pardon?"
"The first time I met my Uncle Alak, that is what he asked me," I explained. Three words had changed the trajectory of my life. Three words no one had ever asked me before. Three simple words that had made me feel more like a person and less like a monster.
Marco's expression brightened once he understood. "Well enough," he said. "And you, Monsieur? How are you?"
"Never better," I answered. Strangely I meant it.
Marco smiled back at me. "You do sound like him," he said fondly. "Like your brother."
"Shall I take that as a compliment?"
Marco chuckled. "Of course. I have the utmost respect for Monsieur Kimmer." He grinned back at me. "Don't tell him I said that, either."
"No?"
"He's arrogant enough as it is without me complimenting him. His head will grow so big the university will have to widen the doorways in order for him to enter the building."
I gave an appreciative nod. "You seem to hold him in much higher regard than your mother."
Marco's expression faltered. The same brooding frown of a Kimmer, I thought, recalling Florine's words in the park. "Mum is mum," he said. "She has been the only parent I've ever known, for better or for worse. Prideful, demanding, brutally honest at times and impatient…" He flashed a devious smile. "And those are her best qualities."
"I believe you have listed my brother's best qualities as well."
Marco shifted his weight and briefly looked away. "Mum does not dislike Monsieur Kimmer and I should mention she had nothing but flattering things to say about you on the way home."
I turned my head to the side. "My apologies, but I find that difficult to believe."
"Mum can come across as abrasive," Marco said. "I know that better than anyone, but on the inside, she's different. She was truly delighted to not only make the acquaintance of a composer whose operas we have seen at The Golden Palace, but Monsieur Kimmer's long lost brother. She is happy for the two of you."
Thunder rumbled again, accompanied by misting rain visible in the lamp lights. The winds shifted, the comfortable temperature dropping as the storm approached and the rain fell harder.
Marco made a face. "I won't keep you a moment longer as I fear we're both in danger of drowning out here," he said. "But I appreciate our conversation and hope that you would do me the honor of future conversations."
I had a dozen inquiries for him, but further conversation would have to wait. "Likewise, Monsieur Fabienne."
Marco appeared displeased by the way in which I addressed him, but made no comment on the matter. "Fourteen eighteen Rue de Lourmel," he said. "If you are able to send word of when Claude is ready to accept visitors, I would like to see him again soon."
"Of course."
"And Monsieur Kire," Marco said before he turned away from me. "Thank you for everything you've done for Claude. He is a dear friend of mine."
"He has become a dear friend to me as well."
OoO
I was sufficiently drenched by the time I returned home. The wind slammed the front door shut much harder than I had anticipated, causing Bessie to bay as she charged from Lisette's room, nearly tripping over her ears in the process.
Once she realized I wasn't an intruder, she whined for my affection and happily trotted beside me to the back door where I let her out into the garden while removing my damp overcoat. I pulled my mask off and dug my knuckle into my right eye, which itched terribly. Perspiration made the covering uncomfortable, and I welcomed the sensation of cool air against my cheek at last.
While I watched Bessie sniff around the damp grass and stepping stones, I heard one of the bedroom doors down the hall creak open, followed by the sound of the floorboards squeaking beneath footsteps.
"Alex?" I said over my shoulder. I held my breath and waited, listening for a moment. My son would not have crept quietly through any part of the house while Lisette would have gasped once she was discovered. My assumption was that it was Apolline who had ventured out into the hall after hearing the commotion. A moment later the footsteps padded back down the hall, and with my hand shielding my face, I turned to make certain I was alone.
Bessie galloped into the house with Aria at her heels and ran down the hall ahead of me where she returned to Lisette's bedroom. Apolline, who had been sharing a room with Lisette, was completely under her coverlet when I peeked inside the room, but Lisette roused and patted the mattress.
"She's been out in the rain," I warned.
"I know," Lisette sleepily responded. "I can smell her."
Bessie leapt onto the bed beside her companion, circling once before she placed her chin on Lisette's shoulder, guarding her young master.
"Goodnight, Papa," Lisette whispered.
"Goodnight, Lisette."
I closed the bedroom door and continued down the hall with Aria prancing ahead of me up the stairs, purring loudly. She scampered into the bedroom, across the bed, and made a flying leap to the open window where she sat, ears twitching as she watched the flashes of lightning as the storm exited the city.
"You've returned earlier than I expected," Julia said as she sat up in bed, most likely roused by the cat springing over her.
"The meeting was nearly over when I arrived," I said, facing my dresser as I unbuttoned my shirt and stepped out of my trousers.
Julia turned up the lamp. "And wetter. Your back is soaked. What happened?"
"I fell into the Seine and swam home," I said, my tone considerably drier than my uncomfortably wet clothing.
Julia chuckled to herself. "Amusing, my dear husband. Where is your coat?"
"Hanging on the back hook. I assumed it was better not to leave a trail of water through the house." I turned, shrugging out of my shirt, and Julia gasped in horror when I met her eye. Her reaction was so unexpected that I briefly stared at her, then covered my face with my hand and turned away.
Heaviness consumed me. Julia had been one of the few who had never looked at my unmasked face and appeared horrified or repulsed.
"Julia," I hoarsely whispered. "I…"
The bed sheets rustled, the sound muffled by my own heavy breathing.
"Erik," Julia said softly. Her hands gently gripped my shoulders as she stood behind me. I felt the warmth of her breath between my shoulder blades, between the raised flesh of old scars. "Your cheek is bleeding."
I risked a glance in the mirror and saw that the wound beneath my eye was indeed open. A combination of rain, sweat, and blood painted my cheek crimson and I looked at the inside of my mask, which was covered in the same alarming mixture. I stood with my head bent and swallowed, embarrassed by how swiftly I had turned from my own wife, fearing the worst. "I must have scratched my face downstairs harder than I realized."
"Sit," Julia said.
I sat on the edge of the bed while Julia grabbed the container of salve and set it beside me. She disappeared from the bedroom and returned a moment later with a bowl of water and a washcloth, which she placed on the nightstand before retrieving her sewing stool.
"Your cheek is very red," Julia commented as she ran the cool rag along my flesh. "Irritated, it seems, from the mask."
I stared at my hands resting on my knees. "I know."
Julia frowned. "You should keep it off when you're at home. Allow your skin time to breathe."
"I can't," I whispered. "Not now."
"While Apolline is here?"
"I will survive a few weeks more."
"Yes, but–"
"I'll spend an hour or two up here with the door locked. I suppose it would be beneficial to have a few hours dedicated to composing," I reasoned.
Julia applied the salve in silence, her head tilted to the side as she covered the wound.
"I can always have Apolline assist Meg after morning studies. I'm sure she would welcome the help with the twins and Apolline certainly seems to enjoy the work around the house. That way you wouldn't be forced to stay up here."
"Claude will be here starting tomorrow," I reminded Julia. "And then we will have three adults and three children sharing the house."
Julia didn't argue. She finished treating the wound and sat back. "Erik," she said suddenly. "When you turned to look at me after you returned home, my first thought was that you'd been injured," Julia said. "I thought about that night when you'd gone to see…."
"I know." I stared straight ahead, my gaze focused on the dresser. I didn't dare allow her to finish, to say Christine or Raoul's name, to remind me of something neither of us would ever forget.
"E.M. Kire," Julia said under her breath.
I glanced at Julia, who smiled back at me and cleaned the inside of my mask.
"The prolific yet unknown composer who, until recently, never attended one of his own operas," she said. "A man who spends hours toiling over his music day and night, usually in this very room."
I looked at my wife again, my brow furrowed. It had been months since I'd spent time at the desk in my bedroom composing. Ever since our wedding, I'd preferred the study or the dining room table with the cool breeze at my back and soft light filtering through the curtains. Alex interrupted me more frequently when I sat in the dining room, but I enjoyed his company as well as Lisette smuggling treats to my side when Julia wasn't looking.
The dynamics of the household, however, were changing with Claude and Apolline staying in our home for the next month and a half. I would return to my old habits of writing hunched over a desk overlooking the back garden in a corner of the room that remained lightless until the afternoon. How I accomplished any writing with an uninspiring workspace was beyond me as I much preferred the dining room, distractions and all.
"I don't believe I married this mysterious composer after all," Julia said.
"I beg your pardon?"
Julia screwed the lid back onto the container of salve and wiped her hands on the edge of the dry washcloth to remove the greasy ointment from her hands.
"If someone had told me three months ago that my dear husband would be meeting with musicians at the opera house for performances of his music that he would conduct, I would not have believed it," Julia said as she stood and moved the stool back to its rightful place. "And if someone would have told me that you'd find not only your cousin, but your brother and maternal grandparents all within a matter of months, I would have thought they were downright mad."
"I met someone else as well," I said.
Julia returned to her side of the bed and turned down the lamp. "A sister, perhaps?" she asked, her tone light.
"A nephew."
Julia stared at me for a long moment, her lips parted as she remained sitting upright. "A nephew? Does that mean Phelan has a–"
"Allegedly."
"How old is his alleged son?"
"Twenty-five."
Julia's eyebrows shot up as she settled in beside me. "That's far older than I would have imagined. What is his name?"
"His name is Marco. His mother is Florine Fabienne. Florine and Phelan were never wed," I added before Julia inquired.
"I've heard her name. How did you meet the two of them?"
"Marco is one of the painters that meets with Claude at the salon. He was walking with his mother in the park when Madeline and I were returning from the theater."
"Before the end of the year your family is going to be bigger than mine. That summer home may prove quite useful when our families come to visit," Julia said with a laugh.
I took Julia's hand in mine. "Florine said something to me this afternoon."
"Regarding?"
"The Opera Populaire," I replied. "She was there that final night with her son."
Even in the dark I noted Julia's trepidation. "Did she recognize you?"
"She called me Phelan's ghost."
"What did you say in return?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" Julia asked incredulously.
"What should I have said?"
"I don't know." Julia took a deep breath and exhaled. "Quite honestly I'm a bit surprised you didn't return home at once, pack your belongings, and take the first train to Brussels to stay with your brother for a while."
"And leave my expectant wife and children?"
"Well, at least until…"
"Until I could come out of hiding?"
Julia frowned at me. "That isn't what I intended to say."
I stared at the ceiling. "Julia, there was not a single day spent in the theater that I did not look over my shoulder," I said. "I knew every corridor and hall meant for servants, actors, and ticket holders. I knew which doors would lead outside or into a hall with multiple exits. I knew the layout better than anyone because I needed to be able to disappear.
"I've lived in this city for thirty years and this summer was the first time I've ventured to the park in the middle of the afternoon. Does that strike you as unusual? A phantom seen in broad daylight? Playing the violin, no less."
Julia didn't answer, her expression unreadable.
"There is no ghost," I firmly said.
Julia lifted her head from the pillow and looked at me.
"That is what I should have said to Florine this afternoon."
"Are you worried she will say something?"
"Yes, of course," I answered. "But I also believe that I've built up enough of a reputation as a composer over the last decade that I could counter her claims if need be. Madeline, Adrian Agard and Antonio Le Blanc…"
"Your brother would vouch for you and I have no doubt Archie would speak on your behalf as well."
I grunted, imagining his words of praise would come with a snap of his fingers and multiple claps of emphasis.
"And Raoul de Chagny–"
I immediately bristled, annoyed by the truth in my wife's statement. "Indeed."
"You are every bit the respected composer," Julia said. "With a hint of the highly irritated man I agreed to marry."
I turned onto my side and ran my fingers from Julia's shoulder down to her elbow and up again. "After giving it quite a bit of consideration, I'm honestly more concerned about losing time spent with my wife and our children as opposed to what Florine Fabienne has to say." I laced my fingers with Julia's and drew her hand to my lips. "Speaking of which, would it please my wife if I took our family to the Exposition?"
Julia squeezed my hand tighter. "You wish to attend?"
"I suppose we should see what all the fuss is about," I grumbled.
Julia grinned at me. "Ah, there he is again," she said as she pecked a gentle kiss to my cheek. "I've missed your grumbling."
"Have you?"
She traced her index finger along my jaw. "It's been your most endearing quality for years," she teased. "When we were married, I should have said 'I do take this highly irritated man to be my lawfully wedded husband.'"
I chuckled at her words. "My wife is quite amusing." I nuzzled her neck, inhaling her warmth and the scent of lotion on her soft flesh.
"Why the fair on Tuesday?" she asked as she wrapped her arms around me.
"There will be tickets waiting for us at the gate, courtesy of one of the artists that meets with Claude and Marco. As long as you are feeling up to an afternoon out of the house…"
"Yes," she said without a second of hesitation. She kissed me again, harder than the first time. "I would love to see the Exposition with you. However…"
"However…?"
"You should have a talk with this one here," Julia said as she rubbed her belly.
I placed my hand over my wife's and cleared my throat. "Rosalie," I said firmly. "Or…Roosevelt?"
I consulted Julia, who wrinkled her nose and made a face.
"Fine, Unnamed child causing your mother unnecessary illness in the morning," I said. "That is quite enough."
Julia snorted with amusement. "Did you hear that, Unnamed Child? That is your father speaking."
"But only because your mother wished for me to speak with you."
"Erik!" Julia playfully scolded. "This child has months left before making an appearance and you're already spoiling him or her."
"Did you honestly expect anything less?"
Julia placed her head on my chest and yawned. "No, I truly did not."
Thunder rumbled off in the distance, the curtains swaying in the gentle night's breeze. The conversation ended and Julia's breathing slowed as she drifted peacefully into sleep, cradled in my embrace. I smiled to myself in the darkness, raking my fingers through her long, silky hair. Having her all to myself still seemed like a dream, one from which I never wished to wake. I turned my head to the side and studied the way her features softened, her eyelids fluttering as she dreamed.
Julia grinned in her sleep. She murmured something that sounded like a question, and I imagined what she would say.
Are you well?
As a child I had simply nodded when my uncle asked me those three words, unwilling to admit that I was angry and distraught by the heavy hand I had been dealt in life. Long after my uncle's passing, I wished I had told him the truth: I was lonely, anxious, and terrified of what awaited me when I returned to the cellar of my parents home. I thought of running away, but I feared what hardships awaited me if I strayed from the only home I knew.
Julia inhaled sharply and lifted her head. She looked at me, her hazel eyes heavily lidded. Her face in the darkness was the most beautiful sight I'd ever witnessed, something so perfect that I could scarcely believe she was mine.
"Close your eyes and sleep," she whispered.
"Yes, my love."
