A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) Glad to know you guys are enjoying this!
And now...
Chapter XI
.
"My lady?"
Helena broke from her bittersweet reverie of a time best forgotten and turned from the window overlooking the garden to address her maid.
"Yes, Marian, what is it?"
"That woman who came last week is here again. She wants to speak with Madame Giry."
Dominique looked up with a surprised start from where she sat playing a card game of Patience at the round table that seated four.
"That woman, as you call her, is the Countess de la Vega," Helena admonished in authoritative disgust. "Please treat her with the courtesy due and show her inside."
Marian narrowed her eyes and curtly nodded in a mockery of respect. Soon Christine swept into the room, her face aglow and dark eyes bright. Beneath her beribboned straw hat, her long curls bobbed around her shoulders and down her back, free of pins, like a girl's. And though it wasn't considered seemly or the social custom for a married woman to wear her hair unbound, it suited her daughter-in-law well.
"Forgive the intrusion," she began. "But I really must speak with Madame Giry - if you can spare the time, of course." The last she directed to Dominique.
"My dear, there is no need for apology," Helena assured. "You are welcome at Whiterose any time. My, how lovely you look today…" And while it was true, the striped emerald silk complimenting Christine's willowy form and sweet features, Helena sensed the girl was troubled due to the trace of anxiety that lingered in her eyes. "And your precious daughter? You did not bring her this visit?"
"She is quite fussy today with cutting a new tooth. More so than last we visited. I felt it best to leave her at the hotel."
"A little brandy rubbed on the gums works wonders."
Christine studied the Dowager Comtesse in slight confusion, knowing that she was childless. How would she know such advice to give?
"At least, that is what I have heard," the woman quickly added, her attention going to the cup of tea that she briskly began to stir.
"I used that method on Meg as well," Madame Giry inserted. "Only whiskey, not brandy. And a little chamomile in your own tea will help you manage those difficult nights."
The Dowager Comtesse gave a start and fanned a little wave of her hand toward the silver teapot. "Do forgive me for being a terrible hostess. Would you like me to ring for Marian to bring another cup, my dear?"
"No, thank you. Black tea doesn't agree with me at this time."
"I am sorry to hear that. Leaves of mint help to settle the stomach; unfortunately we have none at present." The Dowager Comtesse squeezed a little lemon in her cup. "And your husband? He is well?"
"Yes, my lady. He has been keeping himself busy with affairs at the Théâtre des Arts. He's there today. We recently formed a partnership with the management."
"Oh?" Her voice came soft. "The theatre you say? How...remarkable."
A hint of something uncertain lurked behind her eyes, and Christine wondered how much she knew about Erik and his dark reign at the Paris Opera House.
"Behind the scenes actually. A secret alliance. He's covered their massive debts and become advisor there, granted final say in all things musical. We plan to settle here in Rouen - I think I told you? Erik is searching for a home to purchase near the theatre, large enough to house seven. Soon to be eight." She gave a light, tinkling laugh, laying a gentle hand below her midriff.
"I see." Helena set down her cup, staring at it, something clearly on her mind. She then offered Christine a faint smile. "How lovely for you."
"Shall we go out to the garden, Christine?" Madame Giry suggested in the resulting silence, laying down the cards she held and rising from her chair. She pressed her palms against her lower back in a gentle stretch. "I could do with a stroll."
"Yes, the gardens are in full bloom and such a glorious sight to behold. If you will excuse me, I have correspondence I really must see to." The Dowager Comtesse set her tea aside and also stood to her feet. "It was lovely to meet with you again, my dear."
A bit dazed by her abrupt exit, Christine sensed a strange tension in the air that she could not help but feel Madame tried to smooth over with her sudden desire for a stroll. Perhaps Christine should not have come without being invited and was truly an imposition, but upon her last visit the Dowager Comtesse told her she was welcome at any time, indeed had restated the invitation moments ago, and she did not wish to delay any longer those matters she had come to discuss.
This time she had left a note for Erik, not treating her second visit to Whiterose as covert but being open with every aspect of her intentions. Not that he would see the missive or even know she was missing from the hotel, being holed up as he was in their secret hideaway at the theatre, elbow-deep in renovations. As had been the case for the past three days…
That first evening, she had been of little to no help after approximately half an hour of working side by side with him in the makings of their new Eden, her body desperately requiring rest. Having fallen asleep on the sofa, she had stirred to Erik's gentle persuasions to awaken and had been shocked to learn two full hours had elapsed since she first laid down. He then escorted her to the waiting carriage and gently delivered her inside with a kiss and a promise that he would finish his task as swiftly as possible so as to return to her. To Christine's shock, a second time she was softly prodded awake, this time by the Capitán once they arrived to the hotel.
Concerned with her total lack of energy which she had never experienced while carrying Angelique, as well as other troubling matters, once she and Madame were sequestered deep within the private garden, she posed questions that had stewed inside her mind for weeks, including her ordeal with the milk sickness. Though she kept to herself the role she meekly asked her husband to play during their shared night of solitude at the hotel…
Some moments were meant to stay exclusive only to those to whom they belonged.
Already weary, she begged a respite to sit on an ornate bench they came across and took a moment to appreciate her surroundings. The gardens of Whiterose were their own Eden, a breathtaking display of roses the predominant flower mingled among other varieties of flora growing along the ground and among the bushes – even some bright pink flowers in the leaf-laden boughs of the trees – though strangely none of the roses that she had seen throughout their stroll were white, and she wondered how the chateau received its name.
"I hope I have been of some help to you, my dear," Madame said after listing several foods and herbs Christine should try that would bestow more energy. The thought of a dish of liver held no appeal, but Madame swore by it. "Was there anything else you wish to discuss?"
"Actually, there is… when the time comes for the babe to enter the world, I would like you to be there for me, Dominique." She tested the name aloud that Madame again had gently corrected her to use and found it didn't seem too terribly strange. Though it would certainly take some getting used to.
Madame smiled with a little nod at Christine's alteration from her familiar title to her Christian name, but drew her brows together in puzzlement. "Of course I will provide support, Christine, but I have no knowledge of midwifery. Those things I have shared were learned through my personal experience with Meg."
"Yes, exactly - you lived through childbearing. Erik attempted to locate a midwife when I suffered with the milk sickness but has had no success. He learned that the woman recently moved away. No one else has been referred to us."
She forced her voice to remain calm and not give rein to the apprehension swiftly building inside, her emotions often wretchedly spinning on the edge of restraint when she was with child.
"I could ask the Dowager Comtesse if she knows of anyone in the village."
"Please, if you would..."
Madame Giry laid a hand over Christine's, which was slowly and instinctively bunching her skirt in a fist.
"There is no need to fret, my dear. All will be well. After all, this is not your first time."
Christine vaguely nodded. It was foolish to be so anxious, perhaps...
However, in Spain she'd had the aid and experience of the Drabarni to reassure, a wise old woman who'd brought many a babe into the world. Here, Christine had no one. And never far from her thoughts was the memory of her little Fifika, lost before she could grow and thrive and draw her first breath in this world.
She could not lose another child!
"Mon Dieu… Meg?"
x
Madame Giry's gaze focused beyond Christine's shoulder and she turned to see. In pleased surprise she spied the youngest Giry coming toward them, the Vicomte trailing behind.
Delighted to see her friends after more than a year apart, Meg especially, Christine abruptly stood to her feet - too quickly. In that instant a heated rush whirled through her head and almost caused her to swoon. She groped behind for the white iron bench, barely catching the scrolled arm rail before losing all balance and awkwardly sitting back down with a rustling puff of skirts and a stunned little huff.
Meg was instantly by her side, Raoul as well, and Madame put a supportive hand to her shoulder.
"Christine, dear friend, what is it?" Meg asked fearfully, swooping low and taking hold of her hands. "Are you ill? Is that why you sent for me? Is it serious?"
Christine felt a brief stab of conscience for her little deception to entice her friend back to Whiterose, but smiled and shook her head.
"No, Meg, it's nothing like that I assure you." She squeezed her hands. "It is so good to see you again. We have much to discuss with all the time that has passed between us. But I wonder, would you mind bringing me a glass of refreshment first?"
Meg looked momentarily nonplussed but stood to her feet. "Of course. Would you like a glass of wine? Or some Calvados? The Dowager Comtesse keeps reserves of the apple brandy on hand."
"Just water, please Meg." The idea of any type of spirits did not settle well with her rebellious stomach that went queasy from the mere thought. Indeed, had she not considered her talk with Madame detrimental, she would have stayed at the hotel after the restless night she had endured. In part, due to Erik's absence; in part, due to their new child's presence...
"As you like." Meg's eyes flicked to the Vicomte before settling back on Christine. "I will return shortly."
Madame also turned her sharp gaze briefly on Raoul before addressing Christine.
"I must speak with Meg. Will you be alright here?"
The Vicomte uttered a soft, derisive snort, clearly receiving the message that Madame indirectly referred to him as a potential threat to Christine's barely retained tranquility. After all that had gone on among them and his betrayal that led to her escape from Paris with Erik, Christine could hardly fault Madame's assessment.
"I will be fine," Christine assured with a firm conviction, which during that harrowing time of their lives she did not possess. Indeed, it had been her hope to speak with Raoul alone, though she had not orchestrated this moment.
Madame nodded with a faint smile of approval for Christine, darted another barbed look of warning toward the Vicomte, then swiftly took off in the direction Meg had gone.
"That woman can still bring a man shaking in his boots," Raoul commented dryly when Madame was out of earshot. "Small wonder the managers possessed a rather fearful awe of her. And clearly she has cast me as the villain plotting to do you harm."
"She has only the past to go on," Christine reminded gently.
"The past. A time when I was the hero, ready and eager to save the beautiful damsel in distress."
"I never needed a hero..."
"No, you didn't, did you?" he said before she could finish. He sighed and took the seat next to her that Madame had vacated. "And I was too stubborn to acknowledge it. You are much stronger than I gave you credit for."
In Spain he had said something similar. Once again surprised that he would admit to any form of weakness or extol her strength, she continued -
"I never needed a hero, only a friend."
The expression in his blue eyes softened. "And are we that, Christine?"
"Of course," she said without hesitation. "After all the help you gave both me and my husband in fighting the true demons, how could you be anything less?"
His eyes briefly closed as if in resignation. "Ah yes, your husband. And where might he be this fine day? Lurking somewhere within the walls of this manor?" He lifted a hand to include the area. "Perhaps concealed within these very gardens, spying and waiting to pounce upon me for grievances imagined?"
"No, Raoul," she chided softly. "Hardly imagined. But all that is in the past, and I prefer not to dwell on those days. Erik is presently at the theatre, where we have formed a partnership. You will find his days of skulking in the shadows are at an end, though he still prefers ours to remain a secret alliance."
He raised a brow at her mention of the theatre then became serious. "One last mention of 'those days' if I may…"
At his low, quiet words, she warily nodded.
"I never did appropriately express my sympathy for your loss and my remorse for any part I might have played in it. I truly am sorry, Christine."
A twinge of the old sadness crept inside her heart at the bittersweet memory of her little Fifika, lost on the night they escaped the wicked don and Raoul and Erik then engaged in their own foolish duel with swords – a child she never even knew existed until the babe was gone, which had created its own pall of guilt.
She shook the melancholy away before it could settle in her heart and smiled.
"It was difficult to lose a child, but God has since blessed us with a daughter."
His eyes lit up with surprise. "A daughter? Well then, I am happy for you, Christine."
Christine nodded in acknowledgement. "And once the winter storms blow through and pass, she will have a little sister or brother to play with. I am enceinte," she clarified with lowered voice.
"Oh…" A slight flush crept to his skin as his eyes inadvertently dropped to her slender waistline then raced back to her face again as if remorseful he'd taken the liberty. "Then you have my best wishes twice-fold."
She bit back a smile at his flustered reaction – every bit the noble gentleman who did not deem it proper to discuss delicate, womanly matters in public and certainly not with members of the male populace. But she had long traveled past the foolish modesties of the social classes. Among the band of wild gypsies with whom they had lived for nearly two years – especially with the brash Drabarni – she had not been awarded the luxury of maidenly decorum and soon forgot to miss it.
The reason she had wanted this moment to speak with him alone prodded at her mind, and as gently as possible while still being firm, she broached the matter.
"You are a friend, Raoul, and friends do not give gifts of great expense to other friends. Well, not in our situation, after all that has gone among the three of us. With that said, I must return Saturn to you."
"Christine, the mare was always intended to be yours."
"And she is a beautiful and gentle creature. I have enjoyed riding her, while we lived in Spain. But it is not seemly that I keep her."
"What you mean is that your husband will not let you. Is that not so?"
She frowned at that. "He has not demanded I return the horse, but it has been a source of contention between us, and I do not wish to cause him further distress. I will have Captain Miguel return her to the stables here at Whiterose."
"Captain Miguel…" Raoul's brows lifted at that. "He came with you to France?"
"He did. He has become a good friend and a wonderful aide to Erik. After his wife died, he accepted Erik's offer to work for us."
Raoul nodded, deep in thought. "He is a good man. At first, I was uncertain of his motives, since he had worked under the Don's orders. And when he was there, waiting for us with his soldiers once we left the cave, I believed him to be an enemy …" He broke off that thought and looked squarely at Christine. "You cannot imagine my surprise when Aunt Helena told us upon our arrival today that the Countess de la Vega was in the garden with Madame."
"He took so much from us," Christine quietly defended her husband's decision of this latest masquerade. "With his death, the Don no longer needed his name. Or his wealth. We divided that and the hidden treasure Erik uncovered among the many gypsies the Don tortured, and were surprised when each gave us a portion of their share of their own freewill - because they knew, they heard, who we truly were," she added hesitantly, aware of Raoul's stance on the matter of Erik's sovereignty in the unseen realm of music.
As expected, he visibly tensed and frowned.
"You were due every bit of his gold after what he put you through, with his vile plans of making you the sacrifice," he bit out in disgust.
Christine shuddered, recalling that terrible day in the tower, when she almost died, tied to a hideous altar at the Phantom spirit's command...
And late that same night, after their treacherous escape from the Don's villa, she lost her first child.
Once more she struggled to push the reminder away. "Please, let us not speak of that time, Raoul. Tell me of your life instead. Before you left Spain, I asked you to look after the Girys and I thank you for that. I understand the end of the revolution was quite horrible to endure. I can hardly believe all of what Madame told me has happened in Paris."
This time, he was the one to appear ill at ease, and his eyes flicked to the path leading to the manor, the third time they had done that.
"I returned on the night hell literally engulfed the city. It was a miracle I made it out with Meg alive, though for a time, we took refuge inside the opera house, even deep within its bowels, in your husband's lair."
Her eyes widened at that. "Mon Dieu! That Madame did not tell me."
He regarded Erik's former home as its own Hades; he must have been desperate to take such extreme measures.
Raoul gave a wry chuckle at her stunned expression. "Shocking, isn't it? But we had no choice – not if we wanted to escape certain death. We made a home there for weeks, while in the city mass executions took place every day. Chaos reigned above, while we found ways to occupy our time in hiding." He shook his head in remembrance, his eyes focusing on something in the distance as if recalling those days. "Madame Giry took to that lair like a maidservant. The boy she took under her wing found that monkey box you spoke of, and they all figured out the riddle to open it and hunted for the key. The boy was quite taken with that box, as was Meg, though of course we left it behind."
That explained the neat condition of the formerly ransacked lair when she and Erik had visited his old home. And the mystery of the music box…
"The colors returned to him," she said softly, more to herself than to him, now in full understanding of what she could not previously explain. "Erik suddenly reclaimed all of what he had been, all he locked away, and none too soon. It happened when both our lives were in peril due to an errant gypsy who wanted to be queen of her band and have a child through Erik to gain that power. The Phantom used her as his vessel as well. She poisoned me," she added in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone. "Had Erik's full power not returned when it did, I would be dead. He would be dead."
"My God – Christine!"
At Raoul's horrified expression, she gave a small, reassuring smile.
"It's in the past. The Phantom is gone, never to return to our lives. We defeated him once and for all!"
At her lilting words of triumph, he barely nodded, the corners of his lips turning down in a frown.
"I know you don't believe in Erik's appointed sovereignty and that you dismiss such rulership as nonsense, but it is in part why the Phantom wanted Erik under his control so badly. Music has the power to reach deep into the hearts and souls of the people who will be still and listen. The Phantom wanted that supreme power, to manipulate those he chose at will."
"Are you certain you're not describing your husband with that last remark?"
Christine sighed at his dry comment. In all likelihood Raoul would never understand. Evidently he still could not hear or accept the unseen, choosing instead to rationalize everything with what he deemed as proof. The preternatural was hardly rational, certainly nothing upon which she wished to dwell, but it was every bit as real as anything she had seen or touched. She had lived it…
But so had he.
"You saw the Phantom. You fought the Phantom. You know that spirit was real."
At her quiet words, he seemed to deflate. "Yes, I saw. We have had this conversation before..."
His weary admission cheered her slightly. "Then you know the truth. It was not Erik who was responsible for the tragedy at the Opera House. He is not truly to blame."
"Maybe not – but he invited that creature to work through him and wreak havoc in his life and ours. Can you dispute that?"
She looked away. It was true. Erik had allowed the Phantom free reign, to torment and destroy, even bring down the opera house upon the heads of the innocent… but what she knew and Raoul did not was the remorse Erik still suffered, for all of it.
In desperation, a small, frightened boy had relied on a dark entity to help him escape from the nightmare that was his life at the traveling fair, where daily, for years, he lived through every horrendous abuse imagined. And, in finding that coveted freedom, the Phantom manipulated Erik's absolute trust, entrapping him once again, this time in a dense web of lies disguised as protection and engendering revenge. Lies that had carried him through childhood into his adult years. Had it been Raoul in Erik's place, had it been anyone else, she doubted matters would have turned out differently.
Before she could argue further in Erik's favor, Meg returned with Christine's glass of water.
"I didn't realize you would still be here."
The words bore a slight sting and were addressed to Raoul, who quickly rose to his feet.
"I should go. It is getting late in the day and I have important matters to discuss with my aunt. It was wonderful to see you again, Christine, and to find you well." He looked to her right and gave a slight acknowledging nod. "Meg."
Alert to the quietness in his tone as he uttered Meg's name in farewell, and the brief look of distress that flitted across her friend's face when he then turned and walked away, almost as if she wished to call him back, Christine sensed something had kindled between the two. She recalled his soft-spoken words when mention of Meg came up during their conversation earlier, a fact she had not really noticed then, and recalled also how her friend had seemed to try hard not to look in his direction when first they arrived, seemingly ignoring him…
She accepted the glass of water from Meg, who took the seat Raoul had just vacated, and looked at her friend more closely.
Over a year had passed since Raoul chased after Christine, more than enough time for old passions to die and new ones to be reborn.
Was she correct to believe that some depth of feeling had been discovered and was now shared between her two dearest friends? If that was indeed the case, she could not be more pleased and hoped for Meg and Raoul to find the same happiness she had found with Erik. But on a more personal level, this could be the answer to break through the animosity still existent between the Vicomte and her husband.
Erik would no longer feel threatened by the absurd prospect of Raoul swooping in to steal her away, and as such, would no longer be concerned by her visits to Whiterose – not if he knew the Vicomte had given his heart elsewhere.
As she spoke with Meg about her recent visit to Manoir de Clair de Lune, by those things Meg did say and especially by what she omitted, not to mention the light wash of pink that flushed her cheeks and forehead at the mere mention of the Vicomte's name - Christine became even more convinced that her friend had found love. What she considered strange was that Meg clearly did not seem to want to admit it. Surely Raoul had redeemed himself to her by his honorable actions during the terrible end of the revolution, especially by saving her life. Christine had never known Meg to harbor a grudge, usually quick to shrug off slights, either real or imagined…
Then too, there was the odd, mysterious resentment she held against her mother, also so unlike Meg.
This bore further consideration, certainly a bit of gentle probing - and though she would enjoy spending the next few hours catching up with her friend, recent talk of the child she'd lost stirred up the desire to hold her little Angelique close, and she expressed the need to depart.
"You must come to the hotel soon, Meg. Tomorrow perhaps? We can spend the afternoon together and talk more then. I shall take you to the theatre, where Erik and I have become patrons. It is much like the Paris Opera House in ways, and yet, also different. I am eager to show it to you." If she timed her visit right, perhaps her cloistered husband would pop out of his self-imposed den of toil to join them and Christine would benefit from his company as well.
"Oh…" Meg's eyes shone with a quiet yearning. "I would like that very much. Although I've borrowed the Dowager Comtesse's carriage all week, so I don't think I should request it for yet another day."
"No matter. I shall send my driver for you," Christine said with a decisive nod and a little laugh. "There; it is settled."
"Yes, I suppose it is," Meg laughed with her.
Arrangements were made, farewells and hugs given. Christine left on a more buoyant note than when she first arrived, reassured by Madame's sage advice and gladdened by Meg's anticipated arrival - certain fate was again smiling their way, at long last.
xxXxXxx
With the door now absent of the wood that had been nailed across it and appearing as part of the outside corridor wall – the entrance to their new Eden beneath the tapestry also concealed but for the press of fingertips against a hidden panel that released a spring to allow the door to click open – Erik considered his labors thus far a worthy three nights' endeavor.
He had not slept and rarely ate, resolved to finish this task as soon as could possibly be managed. Christine was wrong to believe he did not care or wish to be with her. He missed his wife intensely and shunned sleeping alone on the sofa in the hidden room he had claimed for theirs. Once in his life such bleak emptiness was all he knew and he learned to cope, given no other choice. But these past two years with Christine had changed him, and he could not abide another night absent of her warm body nestled against his.
He toyed with dispensing the remainder of his work and returning to the hotel, but to do so would be to accept defeat and he was so close to the finish. While carpenters and day laborers were busy with renovations presented the best time to go undetected, though he also worked late in the night when the theatre was empty. No one would think twice to hear the echoes of his hammer, attributing it to their work, not knowing of his. Earlier, he positioned the mirrors in place, gathered from various rooms of the theatre, the one he carelessly dropped engendering an idea that would make a ruin into a masterpiece, and he anticipated its completion.
Yet for all that, he was no longer a young man, his body succumbing to weariness more rapidly, when before a succession of nights without slumber or sustenance barely fazed him. Added to that, the past year and a half of little to no outside conflicts had made him soft, less aware than when he had constantly needed to look over his shoulder. It was not unusual that he now slept the full night and did not stir at the slightest sound…
Days of tranquility had its drawbacks, he supposed, though the life he shared with Christine was worth whatever sacrifices had been made.
On occasion he took respite in Box 5 to watch the proceedings onstage, wishing to keep abreast of all that occurred in the theatre, and decided to visit now. Auditions for the next opera to be produced in a month's time were in progress, and curiosity niggled at him to learn what talent, if any, could be found among those who dwelled in Rouen.
Approaching the corridor that led to the tier of box seats, the sound of one voice sailed or more accurately warbled through the air, freezing him in his tracks and chilling his blood.
"Bloody hell, no…"
Impossible. It could not be.
Furious determination chased away disbelief as he stormed into Box 5 and wrenched the drape aside enough to observe without being seen.
The woman who stood center stage and auditioned for the title role in the new production of Carmen had lost weight, no longer on the generous side of plump. Yet the carrot-bronze hair was the same, as well as her nauseating preference for wearing unflattering shades of pink.
Once, to express his displeasure, he would have dropped some innocuous item onstage as a demand for change – preferably atop her brassy red head. Yet he had told Christine he would be the one to change and wished to abide by that vow. That did not mean, however, that he would allow a subpar artiste or mediocre performance within this theatre he now partially controlled…
At one time, perhaps, Carlotta Giudicelli could sing and well enough to rate a principal role. But those days were long past.
Frowning, he gripped the heavy brocade curtain that fronted the box in one fist, striving for control. The moment the last warble left her throat to die a slow and painful death, he acted.
"Tell her the position is filled," he directed his low, authoritative tone into the manager's ear.
The squat man jumped back a little and looked to his left then at the air above in stunned fright.
Erik stifled a growl of impatience. "Tell her!"
"I-I-I…" the man blew out a fractured breath and retrieved a folded handkerchief from his pocket, blotting his brow with the square of linen. "I am sorry, Madame Giudicelli, but the position for Carmen has been filled."
"Why you have rehearsals for the part if this is true?" she demanded, setting balled fists on her ample hips in a confrontational manner.
"Tell her the remaining auditions are for a role in the chorus and you have already contracted the lead," he reiterated, losing patience, doubtful La Carlotta would lower herself to obtain such a meager position. She had been less than cooperative when demoted to the corps as an underling for the Don Juan.
"But I haven't," Monsieur Pettigrew argued aloud in response to Erik's directive.
"What you say?" Carlotta followed the idiot's gaze up toward the flies. "Who you talk to?"
"I am sorry for the misunderstanding," the manager said to her. "Perhaps a part in the chorus –"
"No! I don't want her here!"
"Or perhaps not," the fool quickly amended and dabbed his forehead with the folded kerchief a second time.
"She is in good part responsible for the demise of the Paris Opera House," Erik embellished the half-truth, though if that woman had not been there to seize the role of countess from Christine, matters would not have sped so rapidly on a downward spiral.
"She did that?"
Carlotta stamped her foot to regain the manager's attention. "Allora, allora!" She briefly closed her eyes as if seeking calm and lowered her head while lifting her hands away from her, index fingers pointing above. "Why you speak to the air like to a ghost? Why your face turn so white?"
Even from this distance, the former Opera Ghost noticed how wide her dark eyes grew the instant the words left her mouth.
"Oddio! I have seen that look before. The ghost! He is here?!" She looked up toward the flies where Pettigrew had just stared.
"Ghost?"
"The Phantom of the Opera!"
Bloody hell. This he did not need!
"Stop responding to me and making yourself out to be an imbecile. Tell her that she is mistaken – that you are busy and must bring this meeting to a close."
"Yes, alright," he said, causing Erik to growl low in frustration. "I mean, non, there is no ghost. What an idea!" His chuckle came tight and forced. "My apologies, Madame, I must take your leave. I am rather busy with affairs of the theatre, you understand. Adieu."
Thankfully the bearded little man said no more and quickly exited stage right; Erik was certain he could bear no more of his incompetence and congratulated himself that he had not acted in a sinister manner reminiscent of old. The former diva looked on after the manager, her expression both puzzled and angry. She then directed one last sharp stare toward the flies before marching off the stage.
From where he stood behind the curtain, Erik smirked at his little victory and slowly inclined his head in a farewell bow toward her departing figure.
In the past, in Paris, he would not have remained silent. He would have issued warnings for all to hear, allowing the dark persuasions that once clouded his mind to control the proceedings and bring all those in the vicinity trembling with fright. He would have promised retribution if they dared ignore his commands or disobeyed them. He would have remained hidden in shadows, never allowing them to see his face, and continued to rule from beyond a shield of invisibility as the ghost they had called him…invisible to all, but those few whom he trusted. Christine. The Girys.
Yet he had vowed to his wife that their regime in this theatre would not be a repeat of former mistakes. With that in mind and with her as his companion, he considered it vital to cast aside whatever unease he had involuntarily created and meet with Monsieur Pettigrew to explain his earlier actions. No doubt, after witnessing the stunned horror on the man's face to hear a disembodied voice suddenly speak into his ear, Erik would also need to briefly address his skill at ventriloquism.
He had no desire to engender another legend of ghosts and cause the staff, cast, and crew to fear him, no matter that his preference to remain incognito and veiled within a masquerade had gone unchanged.
After the hardship suffered that always accompanied the truth of who and what he was, he doubted it ever would.
xxXxXxx
The former diva of the Paris Opera House hurried toward the waiting carriage, her conflicting thoughts in a whirl. With a contemplative frown, she gave the driver orders for her next destination. He looked down his hooked nose at her, making clear he did not approve of her alliance with his master and never would.
She lifted her chin and gave him an answering scowl before entering the carriage.
Many did not understand her; few respected her. She failed to care.
She been called cold and callous and every manner of insult for taking a lover not long after her dear Ubaldo's demise. But she needed to eat, and what many did not know and she would never admit was that she was near destitute, having spent all her funds during her glorious reign of three years at the Paris Opera House. Ubaldo had been an adequate lover, but what he lacked in the boudoir, he made up for with his pocketbook, awarding her little luxuries on top of those she had accrued. He had given her whatever she asked, and she missed how he could often make her laugh. Yet life did not remain at a standstill, and after a short few weeks of mourning him, she had needed to move on.
Once the carriage rolled to a stop and they arrived to the end of her short journey, not for the first time she wondered if perhaps, this time, she had made a mistake. Still, what choice did she have? To starve out on the streets would be horrific. But if someone should recognize her in such a changed state – that would be a complete disaster and utter humiliation to the image she worked so hard to re-establish with her struggling career, literally scooped up from the ashes of the Opera House fire.
To prevent discovery of her secret, she had done what she must, even if it meant to sup with the devil.
A frisson of fear made her pause, but quickly she collected herself and exited the carriage.
Damn the beast who had done this to her! Who had murdered her Ubaldo - snuffed him out like a candle to seize his place onstage, and forced her to form this unholy alliance…
The audition had sadly been a failure, yes, but how grateful she was that she could report her little trip to the Théâtre des Arts as an unqualified success.
She repressed a shiver once she entered the room where the glassy orbs of mounted trophy heads seemed always to follow her every movement. But it was the cold black eyes that regarded her beneath lifted shaggy brows that brought a true shudder through her soul.
"Well?"
"You were right. He is here. In Rouen."
The man behind the desk leaned back in his leather chair. Pressing his fingertips together in contemplation, he regarded her with a sinister smile.
"Well then. He likes dramatic works of art? Let the First Act begin."
xxXxXxx
A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed that little spin! ;-) *muwahaha...
