The sight of the tall man relaxing against the rails of the fence adjacent to the stables reading a letter takes Christine by surprise. Could this really be Erik? The tan breeches and dull red tailcoat, not to mention a ruffled shirt and black top hat is so out of character for him. Had he been raised here, perhaps the clothing would seem more natural. Not that he did not like color or even a touch of flamboyance.
Certainly, when they were at home, he often wore his Mandarin jacket, a resplendent piece of clothing. A fine silk brocade of burgundy and gold interlaced with gold threads. Despite her skills at sewing, the workmanship of that piece…along with the matching hat is something she envies. When relaxing in the evening after dinner, he chooses to don a long robe of velvet in a brilliant red Carlotta would envy.
In general, though, wearing any sort of bright hue, especially in daytime, is something entirely new for him. The confusion comes less from the colors, than his wearing them outside in the world, calling attention to himself, even if they are at the countryside. For all his somewhat haughty behavior, especially in his interactions with M. Khan, Erik is, in fact, shy.
The change in his habit of wearing black all the time came when they were strolling along the Bois de Boulogne. On one of their late Sunday afternoon walks, she commented on the garments of the other men – how many were wearing frock coats of different shades of gray and brown.
"Look at that gentleman. Do you not find the green plaid fanciful?" she chided him.
Erik shuddered as he watched the man stroll past with his lady. "Black is preferable for someone who wishes to be as anonymous as possible."
"But you are the only man I have seen today in black. You are the one who actually stands out. I have seen at least three men in plaid and two in pinstripes"
After stopping short, causing her to stumble, he looked around at the diminishing number of pedestrians enjoying the spring air in the park. "Harrumph. Slaves of fashion," he muttered so softly she almost did not hear him.
The recollection brings on a small giggle.
The next day he went to the haberdasher and ordered two new suits…one of a charcoal gray…the one he wore on their journey here to Boscherville…the other a navy blue. Neither color bright nor cheerful…but not black. Each waistcoat was in a lighter shade than the jacket and pants, the blue having a pinstripe of silver shot through the deep blue. Added to the purchase were cravats in gray and blue, with a deep red chosen, she believed, to please her. Two fedora hats, with smaller brims than his preferred cavalier, completed the purchase.
Despite this concession to wearing lighter colors, the riding outfit is still beyond his usual limits. The garments themselves seem dated. She cannot recall seeing anyone in Paris wearing such breeches when riding. Pere Charles' own suit, while definitely chosen for riding is fashioned differently. Like her own dress, she suspects the clothing comes from another time…possibly belonging to Erik's father. Mrs. Marchand suggested as much.
How is this day affecting him she wonders. At the moment, watching him without him knowing she is there, he seems comfortable within these surroundings.
Pere Charles suggested she wait until Erik returned to the house, the time waiting became intolerable and with a smile she insisted on seeking him out.
"He seems to be taking a long time and I am concerned."
"It takes some time to cool down Maisy and Ella."
"Even so, I am anxious to know what you discovered at the Abbey, and I can happily watch as he tends to the horses."
Even as she watches the horses move about the paddock, the peaceful scene changes. In one brief moment, the casual Erik leaning against the wooden fence becomes someone broken. Hanging onto the railing he lets out a sorrowful cry. With his head now resting on his arm…the top hat falls to the ground…the piece of paper he was reading hangs from his hand.
"Erik? Are you alright?" she calls out, lifting her skirts to run toward him.
"Christine." Raising his head, his voice barely above a whisper, he gathers himself together. The letter is folded and returned to the inner pocket of his jacket. Noticing the hat on the ground, he quickly stoops to pick it up – after wiping the dirt from the brim he puts it back onto his head.
"I was just planning to return to the house," he says in a rush. "Where is your cloak? The air is still quite chilly." As he walks toward her, he rubs a finger against his eyes beneath the barbee mask.
"I wanted to see you…to find out what happened today," she replies, reaching him on the path. Looking up at his eyes, she frowns as she reaches up to stroke his cheek. "You have been crying. Your cheek is wet. I thought I heard you cry out. Was the news so bad? Pere Charles did not appear as if he was upset. Oh, my dearest, what is wrong?"
"Nothing. Nothing, just some dust in my eyes is all," he says, brushing aside her concern. "Come, it really is cold and your dress…your dress. Where did you get this dress?"
"It was one of three in my room…Mrs. Marchand said it belonged to Emilie…your aunt," she says, stepping back to do a twirl. "I quite like it. Where did you get your suit?"
"My, uh, it was my father's. Pere Charles felt it would be more appropriate for a morning ride than my travel clothes," he laughs lightly, looking down at the tailcoat. "He was correct."
"And did you enjoy your ride? The horses are beautiful," she says, looking toward the stable.
"I did. Do you ride?"
"No. We never had a horse."
"Perhaps, while we are here, you can have a lesson," he says. "Were any of Emilie's garments suitable for riding?"
"I do not believe so, but perhaps there are other garments in storage," she enthuses. "I should like to learn."
"And so you shall."
"I do believe seeing us in these outfits are making them both quite happy," Christine says.
"Yes. Happy," he replies, his tone flat unable to maintain the façade of cheer…even for her.
"What is wrong?"
"Not so much wrong."
Stopping him, she faces him once more. "You were crying. Tell me."
After taking her measure, he retrieves the letter from his pocket and holds it out to her.
After reading the words, she grasps Erik's arm. Taking a deep breath before speaking, she finally says, "Your papa loved you. How wonderful. You were born and you were loved."
"But he died. I never knew."
"But when you were born, you were loved – that is the important thing. You did know…somehow you did. However awful your mother was – your first days were filled with love…as your days are now."
"So I am supposed to forget what has happened between these times."
"M. Khan…Nadir loved…loves you. Adele loves you. Even Charles Garnier loved you," she says. "I think if you look back…"
"No," he snaps, grabbing the letter from her. "That is not the same thing."
"Erik, please." Taking both his arms in her hands. "Look at me. You cannot continue to hold on to the pain."
Unable to hold back the tears, he begins to cry again, leaning his head on her shoulder, allowing her to embrace him. "Why did he have to die?"
"I do not know," she says. "What I do know is you are loved. I love you. That is what matters now."
Breathing deeply, he stands up straight, nodding. "Thank you."
"Thank you."
"You are shivering," he says, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "Let us go inside. Since it appears I was baptized, I believe we have a wedding to plan."
"We might also want to give Pere Charles and Mrs. Marchand a chance to move away from the window."
"Should we wave?" he laughs.
"No, I should not wish to embarrass them."
"Are you certain the messenger will arrive before we do," Adele asks Nadir.
Nadir turns from looking out the window of the train to smile at her. "He left on horseback just as we got on the train. "Riding will have him there several hours before we arrive. Why?"
"I just feel awkward arriving at someone's home without proper notice," she says, wringing her hands. "This whole business has me uncomfortable. I feel as though we are intruding. Who knows what might be going on with Erik and this uncle he never met before."
"On the other hand, if things are not going well, we will be a pleasant distraction. If things are going well, we can help celebrate," the Persian laughs. "In truth, I suspect Erik will be annoyed either way. However well he feels having Christine in his life, he is testy by nature as you well know. In which case, it really does not matter. The important thing is telling him about Phillippe."
Sighing deeply, she says, "I suppose you are right. I am not as confident about Phillippe as you are, however."
"How can he argue with the truth?"
"With a fantasy," Adele replies, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. "I doubt if someone told me Meg was a murderess I would believe them."
"My talk with Phillippe had less to do with Raoul killing anyone, than the fact that I killed him…not Erik," he says, patting her hand. "I wrote it all up for the magistrate. My actions were completely justified based on Raoul's actions."
"All you did was give the Comte another person to blame for his brother's death."
"Now. Now. He is a reasonable man. He admitted Raoul was troubled."
"Nevertheless."
"Nevertheless, this is supposed to be a holiday," he says. "Now try to relax, let us enjoy the beautiful countryside with the beautiful flowers coming into bloom. We shall arrive in Rouen shortly."
"Jean D'Arc was burned at the stake in Rouen," Adele says dully.
"Oh, well, we need not focus on that," Nadir says, shaking his head. "I really wish you would try to enjoy the trip."
Forcing a smile, she says, "You are right. I am just a worrier."
"Trust me," Nadir says, his light-hearted tone turns serious. "I will not let anything happen to anyone I love. This visit is best for all of us. I know this in my heart."
The determined look in his green eyes calms her. "I trust you," she says. The words more certain than the fear still lingering around her heart.
The bell in the pantry rings loudly, announcing a visitor at the front door taking the priest and the housekeeper's attention away from watching Erik and Christine through the kitchen window.
"Do I have any parishioners scheduled today?" Pere Charles asks Mrs. Marchand. "I cannot recall anyone asking to see me."
The gray-haired woman shakes her head, tucking a stray hair into the chignon at the base of her neck. "No. Had you, I should be dressed differently," she says, taking off her apron to straighten her green striped dress. "I best see who is there before the bell falls off the hook."