"Soft." Christine smiles as she leans against the door after bidding Erik goodnight. "He is becoming soft." Or softer than she has ever sensed him to be. Gentle might suit as well, but the change is in more than his manner. The rigid way he always carries himself like a trap ready to spring has relaxed.
His words to her, when speaking just now were without an edge. However much he tried, she has always feel an inflexibility, an inability to bend even as much as he might wish to. When tested too much, the mask would always take over.
With M. Khan, the tone comes across as humor…the same with Mme. Giry. A mild sarcasm hiding his affection for both of them. Protection in the event they reject him.
With her, the sarcasm is minimal. However, his tendency to speak to her as a child some of the time…or his idea of how one speaks to a child has her wishing for smugness instead of condescension. If he feels he has come across too harshly – as determined by the look on her face or a tightening of her own expression. He becomes apologetic to the point of tears.
Those times are the most difficult because she knows of his prior hurts, but the tears frustrate her. Perhaps the feeling he is being at least somewhat dishonest comes from her own use of tears to have her way. After all, in many instances it was she who suffered the wound.
"I thought I might try baking some cookies."
"I understand that, my dear, but one must clean the kitchen as you go, otherwise…" Opening his arms to display a number of dirty bowls and spoons sitting on the larder, not to mention a dusting of flour on the floor and a small pile of walnut shells yet to be thrown in the garbage, the nutcracker not returned to its place in the drawer of utensils.
"I only wanted to surprise you," she said, tears welling in her eyes. "They taste quite nice. I will clean up the mess. I never intended you to see the mess."
"Oh, Christine, I am so sorry for my harsh words," he said, his own tears already falling down his cheek. "Please forgive me. I am such a dolt. I shall clean this up. You worked so hard."
"I told you I would take care of the mess," she insisted. "Here take the cookies into the sitting room. I shall make some tea and you can tell me about your day."
"But what of the kitchen?"
"I shall take care of it after our tea."
"But…"
"I shall take care of it after our tea."
"You are so good to me," he said, sniffling. "I do not deserve you."
"Oh, posh," she laughed. "Take the plate and I will join you with the tea."
When she returned to the kitchen, however, even though she did make tea; she cleaned up the mess before returning to the sitting room with the pot.
Then there is his wariness of any kindness. Try as he might, he is always ready to counter whatever attack he suspects might be coming.
"What took you so long?" he asked. "I am anxious to try this treat you baked for me."
"I cleaned the kitchen first…I knew it was bothering you."
"That was not necessary."
"Erik, I know you well enough by now to realize you would be thinking about the kitchen rather than enjoying our tea."
"You are angry…"
"I am not angry.
"Are you certain? I guess I am somewhat of a fussbudget."
"Yes, you are," she laughs lightly. "But I am actually quite happy the work has been done and I need not worry about cleaning later."
Oh, how she wishes she could see his face, even now, just thinking about the event, she is certain there was a smirk beneath the barbee mask. How she wishes he could simply be himself.
Tonight, however, the edge is missing…although she wonders if he might find it still to be the case when he is giving her lessons.
Laughing at the thought of his possibly saying, "Please, Christine, you are not giving enough air to the C6. It is a bit sharp. Might you try again. Thank you, I would so appreciate it."
"Damn it, girl, one cannot hit lest maintain a C6 without breathing. Whatever were you thinking? No amount of vibrato can cover up for an unsupported screech."
This trip is proving to be more successful than she could have imagined. Pere Charles has so much of Erik in him…or rather Erik has much of Pere Charles, since the priest is the elder of the two. Bossy, certainly. His tongue just as sharp as Erik's can be, yet intelligent and charming overall, missing the defensiveness.
There is a warmth she hopes Erik will come to understand better and embrace. Loving…yes, that is the word. Despite the years…or perhaps because of his vocation he loves Erik. He loves her as well…that has been evident from the beginning – the soft brown eyes embracing her with welcome, concern and appreciation all in a single look.
For Erik, this is the first time he feels the love of a parent – whether he recognizes this or not. Pere Charles showing him the love he might have felt from the father he never knew. For the priest, Erik is the son he never had. For her, it is as though Pappa has returned in some small part for both of them.
With those thoughts in mind, she thinks back on her comments to Erik about their wedding and, more significantly, their wedding night. A warm flush reddens her cheeks. Such thoughts cannot be proper, but her desires are what they are. Even so, she is glad no one can read her thoughts. Erik seems particularly clueless…and yet he must be imagining their becoming one. Being around the patrons at the opera house tells her this is so.
As their time together has progressed, she finds she can little resist touching him at every opportunity. For his part, he does not shy away from her touch and has even made small gestures in return. This she truly believes is because he honors her, but also might be a tad concerned about going too far. Well, very soon, he will not longer have to hold himself back. The thought delights her, how she longs for him.
Will she become his true wife in this room?
This room. Several small lamps cast a golden glow in contrast with the cool light of the moon shining through the tall window on either side of the bed. When the housekeeper brought her here earlier to wash up and remove her outer travel garments, it was only for a moment until she went back downstairs for tea.
That the room bears a startling resemblance to the Louis Phillippe room at the opera house is less a surprise than it might be…thanks to getting to know something of Erik's family better. The furnishings at home came from his mother's and father's house. Although Erik used shades of blue for her, this room has a variety of pinks for the walls, upholstered pieces and bedding.
The long drapes on the windows are a deep raspberry velvet matching the canopy on the four-poster bed. The bedding is of a paler pink…the pillows decorated with embroidered roses and a monogram: ESR. Emilie Saint-Rien. Pere Charles' sister…Erik's aunt…the nun. What a change for the young woman who once inhabited this space.
Despite having the air of being freshly cleaned, she notices a small cobweb draped from the ceiling to the top of the bed's canopy and another in the corner behind the armoire.
When she cannot readily see her bag, she examines said armoire and finds her things put away. Her lingerie has been folded neatly in a drawer of the vanity. A glance into the attached bathroom, finds her toiletries now set out in an orderly fashion on the counter of the sink. The valise turns out to be tucked into the bottom of the wardrobe.
The two dresses she chose to pack are now hung next to a few garments seemingly left behind by the former inhabitant. Two simple dresses, one a brown and pink plaid pinafore over a white cotton blouse, another in a plain blue chambray with trim of white lace around the neck and cuffs. The last was the liveliest of the three. Totally fitting with the room, but out of place with the somber nature of the other two a pale pink taffeta with a raspberry-colored satin bow. Christine wonders what event the dress was made for, feeling a rush of warmth, glad the young Emilie was able to feel pretty…perhaps even beautiful in the party dress.
Fatigue is winning against her thoughts about wedding and what will follow. Time to sleep. As she undresses and readies herself for bed, she has one more thought of Erik, hoping he will also get some rest. The possibility is, alas, unlikely. After a moment of wondering what he might be up to, since playing his organ is impossible. Noticing the crucifix above the bed, she is reminded of her evening prayers. Kneeling down, she says a single Hail, Mary. The prayer completed; she slips into the bad made up with fresh, clean sheets.
"Thank you, Mrs. Marchand," she whispers to the woman who welcomed her so kindly and readied the room for her tired self as she drifts off to sleep.