I Do – Chapter 14

"I did not realize how chill it was outside," Christine says, as she and Erik return to the bright…and warm kitchen. "I think I shall get my cape, afterward we can make some plans with Pere Charles."

"No need, dear," Mme. Marchand says, taking off her shawl. "Take this. I am quite warm. I should have offered this before you went outside."

"Oh, thank you," she says, rubbing her cheek against the soft blue and white wool. "The cold does not often bother me…I do not really recall the winters in Sweden, but living on the road often meant nights sleeping outside."

"Like Paris, we are on the Siene," Pere Charles says. "The dampness in the air drills down, settling into the bone."

"I suspect the open countryside and sunshine deceived me," she laughs, snuggling her shoulders deeper into the heavy shawl. Taking a seat at the table, she looks gratefully at the housekeeper as she sets a cup of hot cocoa down in front of her. "Paris tends to be a bit gloomy, even on bright days, so I was taken by surprise."

Eyeing the chocolate, Erik raises an eyebrow.

Catching his look, Christine puts the mug down.

Shaking his head slightly, he says, "Enjoy your drink, you will not be singing for a while. I doubt one cup of milk will do any irreparable harm."

"Did I do something wrong," Mme. Marchand asks, her round face coloring.

"Milk leaves a residue on the throat and can cause phlegm, affecting my voice," Christine explains.

"I am sorry, I did not realize…"

"It is nothing, Madame," Erik says. "There is no reason you would know this. In any event, Christine will not be performing for at least two more weeks at best."

"Is there anything else I need to know?"

"Tea with lemon and honey are always welcome," Christine says with a smile, eyeing Erik. "Even so, this is so good, I plan to have another cup while it is permitted…if there is any left."

Receiving a nod from him, the housekeeper brings the pot from the stove and refills Christine's cup.

"When I was a little girl in Sweden, I remember one time I was very hot, then becoming so cold inside I was shivering. My Mama gave me a cup of hot chocolate. She said that was because I was too warm, my body was actually trying to cool down from too much heat. She encouraged me to sip the chocolate slowly to even it all out." Bowing her head, she says, "I am rattling on and on. You cannot possibly care about my childhood experiences."

"Nonsense, it is a pleasure to have a young person in the house – we are quite bored with the sound of our voices. It sounds like you had a fever," Mme. Marchand says. "Your Mama was very wise."

"I know you traveled with your Pappa and he passed away not long ago, what of your mother, if you do not mind my asking," Pere Charles says.

Christine shakes her head. "I do not mind. She died of consumption when I was six. We lived on a farm, but when she died Pappa decided he no longer wanted to farm."

"Life is too short. Your Mama taught me this. God granted me the gift of music and that gift is being wasted here."

"Where will we go?" His words both encouraged the grieving young girl, but also terrified her. "Where will we live? I am afraid. I do not want to leave here."

"I will always protect you, have no doubt of that, älskling."

"And did he? Protect you?"

"Mostly," was all she would say. Talking about the years on the road brought out mixed emotions and she never liked to think ill of her Pappa. "You must have some of the chocolate as well, Erik. It is quite lovely and you were out in the cold longer than I."

Removing the top hat, Erik sets it on the kitchen table and removes his gloves placing them neatly next to the hat. "I should remove these first," he says, looking down on the black leather knee-high boots loaned to him along with the riding suit. "It appears I have already dirtied the floor."

"My fault," Pere Charles says walking into the anteroom, returning with a broom, a dustpan and a pair of velvet slippers. "You can wear these. I will clean up the mess. I often get so wrapped up in my thoughts after a ride, I, too, track mud into the house."

"I will do it," Erik says. "I am quite used to cleaning up after myself."

"Your grandfather would be proud," Mme. Marchand says, her chubby hands folded in front of her beaming at him. "The rules in this house were set years ago – you make the mess…you clean it up. I do believe that saved my back over the years. Your father was very fastidious."

Wincing slightly, Erik gives her a weak smile before sitting down at the table across from Christine. After removing his boots, he puts on the slippers, then stands to take up the cleaning tools and makes short work of the mess.

"I can dump the dirt…I need the broom for other chores," the older woman says, setting a cup in front of him. "You folks sit and chat, enjoy your drinks."

"Thank you, Estelle," Pere Charles says, speaking to her back as she leaves the kitchen. Turning to Erik, he holds out a sheet of paper. "This came for you."

Erik eyes him with skepticism, not accepting the offering. "Another letter from the past? To be honest, I am feeling a bit overwhelmed to receive anything more."

The priest smiles and shakes his head. "This is from the present…a messenger came just now. Fairly straightforward. Good news, I should think."

Erik quirks an eyebrow, reluctantly taking the note from Pere Charles. "Nothing during this visit is turning out to be straightforward, Uncle, if I may call you that."

"I should like you to call me Uncle very much. Honored, in fact." Walking to the stove, he refills his mug.

Looking over the rim of her own cup, Christine smiles. Erik's earlier distress outside seems to have settled. Not that the issue has been resolved. The discovery about his father's love, however wonderful in her eyes, she knows Erik has not quite accepted the words or emotion he feels. Her own Pappa's love was a given. The knowledge was as normal to her as breathing. The one constant she could count on. His death left her bereft.

Only Erik's entry her life, albeit as the Angel of Music, gave her any sense of hope for the future. Despite the odd nature of their initial relationship, including his bringing her to his underground home, her love for him only grows. This visit is proving, to her at least, exactly what Erik needs to heal the wounds life has dealt him. Family. Acceptance. What better gift is there?

Erik's amber eyes quickly scan the words on the page. The message read, he crumples the paper into a ball, his fingers digging into the palm of his hand. "Damn them. Who asked them to come?"

"What is it? Who is coming?" Christine asks, her calm of only moments ago shaken, she looks helplessly to Pere Charles for an answer.

Keeping his gaze fixed on Erik, a frown creasing his brow, the priest puts his cup down and replies, "The message is from someone named Nadir saying he and Adele would be arriving later today. The notice was sent ahead to prevent a surprise. I can see now why he felt the necessity."

Walking over to Erik, he gently removes the paper from his hand and pats him on the back. "Today has been difficult for you, I know" he says. "When I saw the message, I was pleased there were others coming who might support you."

Jerking away, Erik's eyes flare. "You know nothing. Thirty-seven years of life being abused and attacked because of this…this face…" he says, getting to his feet, tearing off the barbee mask, "cannot be fixed by this…this love I am supposedly being surrounded by now."

"Erik!" Christine exclaims. "I do not understand."

"Why should you? You have never been shunned. You had a father who loved you. Even your mother before she died, loved you. Raoul loved you. If I am any judge, Pere Charles here and M. Marchand love you. Damn it…I love you."

"And I love you. Is that a terrible thing?"

"I do not know why you love me. Why now am I so loved? I do not know how to be loved," he cries. "I am not certain I know how to love back." Getting up, he pushes past Pere Charles toward the door.

"No!" Pere Charles says firmly, taking his arm. "Sit down. You are not going to run away again. The first night you were here, I let you leave. You needed some time. Now you have been here and must know this is a safe place."

With a low growl Erik returns to his seat. Stooped over, clasping his hands between his knees, the only response offered is a shake of his head.

"Talk to us. What is going on in that head of yours?"

Shifting his eyes back and forth between Christine and his uncle, he says, "I am not worthy."

"How so?"

"I have killed."

"Are you sorry?"

Straightening up from his slouch, he says, "Not entirely."

Pere Charles covers his mouth, hiding the smile breaking on his face. "Interesting response. Can I take that to mean the person…"

"Persons. I have killed more than once, mostly in self-defense. For a number of years, when a captive, I participated in executions – mainly to save my own skin. There is one life, however, I do not regret ending."

"Erik?" Christine says softly, her blue eyes questioning him.

"There you see," he says, glaring at her. "So much for loving me."

"Why would you think I no longer love you? I only wonder at what you said," she replies. "Is that why you never sleep? Why your music is so…so angry?"

"Tell us," the priest encourages.

"You mean confess?" The tone ironic.

"If you wish it to be so. You are a member of the Church and are entitled to receive the sacrament and receive absolution."

"Simple as that, is it?"

"If you are sincere in repenting – that is between you and God," Pere Charles says. "However, your earlier statement about not being entirely sorry might prove to be a problem."

"I am not sorry for killing my captor…the man who found me on the road after I ran away."

There was something comforting about the woods…the freedom of being outside the confining walls of his mother's house. How much more pleasant his life might have been had he been allowed outside. Free to breathe the fresh air and smell the grass and hear the sounds of the birds and other creatures in the surrounding fields. Even the darkening of the sky did not frighten him. The moon was full and there was enough light for him to skirt the trees and follow the road to the Abbey. All the crosses hanging on the walls throughout the house and overhearing his mother's prayers had him believe a church might be a safe place for him.

Sunday mornings she would leave the house in her finest dresses and he soon associated her leaving with the church bells ringing in the distance. The one time he asked to accompany her was quickly dismissed and he never asked again. Still, he somehow believed the people at the church would be more welcoming than she seemed to believe.

The journey was interrupted abruptly.

A horse-drawn wagon pulled up alongside him. The driver, a man with darker skin than his, a red bandana tied around his head and a chain of what appeared to be gold hung from his neck spoke to him. One of his front teeth was missing and when he spoke, his words had a lilt to them. "Where are you going, boy?"

"The Abbey," Erik mumbled, keeping his eyes down as he pointed to the lights in the distance.

"Would you like a ride? I happen to be going that way."

Touching the fabric of the bag he wore over his head – cutouts made for his eyes, nose and mouth – he shook his head. "No, sir. Thank you. I am enjoying the walk." Turning away from the man so he could not see the mask, he began walking again, faster now, this time into the woods.

"Javert's movements were so quick, even now I am unable to remember exactly how I wound up in the cart and later in a cage. Killing him was easy, but that came much, much later."

"I see," Pere Charles says.

"Do you?" Looking at Christine, he repeats the question. "Do you?"

"Surprisingly, I do," she says. "I killed a man who was attacking Pappa. Pere Charles, you asked if my father protected me."

"You?" Erik frowns, shaking his head.

"A robber came upon our camp. I was fetching some berries. Pappa was building a fire. The man came from nowhere. Pappa turned around to find him taking our packs and tried to stop him. The man was young…not much older than me. Stronger. Faster. He had a knife. I grabbed a rock."

"Oh, my dear," Erik goes to her, kneeling in front of her.

Shaking off the trancelike state enveloping her, she smiles down at him. "I, too, have bad dreams."