Hello friends,

I am SO sorry that it's been so long since I've updated this story. Having two little kids during a pandemic has been no joke. I think I am back in business now though, and am planning on regular updates! There's a good deal of the story already done, after all, that's only needing a bit of editing to be postable. Here is a good long chapter, to partially make up for my long absence. The historical details about the "disease" that was once known as hysteria are accurate.

As always, many thanks should go to my editress MarySkater, who has been not just a wonderful penpal and highly skilled beta reader, but a dear friend, for close to ten years now. The charming details about how Erik might have constructed his "unique device" for his piano are all her work, not mine. Mary, I couldn't have done this without you.

`The Countess

Chapter 43. July 1887.

There was nowhere, Christine thought, where she would rather be just now other than where she was; tucked up in bed at night with her husband, her whole body relaxed with the pleasure of the massage he had just given her. He had been sweet to her that morning, perhaps regretting the multiple days of unpleasantness that had gone on between them prior to yesterday's outing. He'd risen before her, and brought her breakfast in bed again, this time having waited to wake her till he could go out for fresh croissants. Roses, too, her favourite pink ones. By the time she ate, bathed, and dressed, he'd sketched out a song for her, a jaunty thing of the type she was entertained by, and played it for her.

"That's so pretty, Erik," she enthused. "Have you written it down? I want to learn it."

"It is hardly worth the trouble, such a trivial piece."

Christine winced at her own stupidity. She knew that Erik found writing a hard task, and avoided it whenever possible. She sought a way to change the subject. "I was thinking… you know the way a photograph can preserve a likeness, or a painting can preserve a landscape. It's a pity there's no way to preserve a piece of music like that, so that it could be heard again whenever it was wanted. Like an echo that could contain a whole tune, and never die away."

"Ah, what you want is recorded music. There are those who experiment with it, but you would find the results very disappointing. Let us have some coffee, and I shall tell you more."

O-O-O

Recorded music interested Erik little. Its sound was so dreadfully poor compared to the real sounds of live instruments! Initially he had been greatly attracted to this new technology, and for a while he had tinkered about with the devices of Edison, de Martinville and the others. But he was unconvinced by the results. If faithful recordings of music could be made, that would be one thing, and a splendid discovery. However, the crackling, popping, and general tinniness of recorded sound offended his artist's ears, and no matter what he tried, he had not been able to eradicate these defects sufficiently to be satisfied. And if he could not improve this invention enough to make its product acceptable…then no one could. And so he had abandoned the idea. In fact, he'd largely ignored the news in the scientific journals, earlier this year, of American Emile Berliner's experiments with using flat discs to record sounds instead of cylinders, other than to give a twisted grin at the fact that this supposed new idea was something which Erik had been working with for some time. First he had used discs in his experiments with recordings; they were, he considered, preferable to cylinders. Eventually, however, he had employed them to create his own version of a player piano. But he did not tell Christine about that. She had no idea that his grand piano could play by itself, and there was no need for her to know…

He had designed his labyrinth for the utmost safety. The defences of the lake and his traps were strong ones, but one never knew what might happen, and there was always that slim chance that someone might invade the actual house. Against that possibility, Erik had built safeguards into the house as well as the surrounding area. Alarm bells to tell him if his tunnels or the lake had been entered, locks that no one but himself could hope to open unassisted, the torture chamber, and even speaking tubes that would warn him in advance if he ever came home to discover that the worst had happened and the house itself had been breached.

It had been the need to test these last that had occasioned the invention of the device that made a grand piano play all on its own. There were upright pianos that could do that, called 'player pianos,' which had at one time intrigued Erik enough for him to spend some time experimenting with them. But the sound of an upright was inherently inferior to a grand, and so it was of course the latter that he had wanted in his house, and one of the first things he had constructed, before the house was even finished. When he was working on the speaking tubes and needed to ascertain how well they functioned, he realised that in order to test them, he would have to have a sound coming from within the house. And there was, of course, no one to make any sounds there except himself.

At first he had thought to simply make a music box and set it up to play while he went out and around the outside of the house to listen to it. But then it had occurred to him that while it was one thing if his home were invaded while he was out, it would be quite another if that happened while he was in it. In that situation, a diversion would be in order, to allow him to make a successful escape. And it was that problem that had given him the idea of setting up the grand piano so that it could play itself. If he could do this, the resulting sounds would be proper music, and no one would mistake it for a recording. If his attackers thought that he was sitting at the piano all unawares and happily playing, they would focus their attention on attempting to corner him there, while in reality he would be already outside the house making a swift getaway.

He had determined that clockwork would be an unsatisfactory method of operating the piano. Therefore an alternative was needed. Erik was already in the midst of running wires from the large batteries in his workroom through the half-finished walls of his house, so that he could install electric lights. It was no great leap for his brain to conceive of putting contacts underneath the legs of the piano and drawing power for the player mechanism that way. The next problem was how to set up the mechanism so that it did not interfere with the normal playing of the piano, a potential drawback which he refused to allow. He was setting up his house to suit himself perfectly, after all, and a substandard grand piano hardly fit into that plan.

So he invented a system that made his electrical circuits move the piano's hammers, which then struck its strings of their own accord, which thus made music without a musician hitting the keys. All this was made to happen in just the right manner for a given tune by specially designed discs with tiny pins in them, to carry the current. Each song he wanted the piano to play had its own one. Without the bulk of paper rolls to contend with, his unique device was quite slender, and slid effortlessly under the piano strings, there to lie in wait for him to turn it on whenever he chose, dormant and out of the way for normal playing, but readied to spring into action when its switch was flipped.

Erik recalled how his piano had deceived Mihr and Christine into thinking that their conversation had not been overheard. No, he certainly must not let her know about that, must not let her suspect how little he had trusted her. Instead, he expounded further on the technical difficulties of recording music, and watched as her eyelids began to droop.

O-O-O

Christine woke from a short nap which she had not intended to take. Fortunately, Erik seemed in an indulgent mood, and was not offended that his scientific lecture had sent her to sleep. A little later on she asked him to sing, and after luxuriating in the magnificence of his glorious voice, joined in. Singing easily and raptly watching his hands on the keyboard, she was startled when he suddenly barked, "Christine, stop!" He whirled round on the piano stool and glared at her.

She realised what the problem must be; she hadn't been giving the music her full attention and Erik had noticed. Well, of course he would. Christine sighed and opened her mouth to apologize, but he was already standing up and shaking a finger at her.

"Christine, I do not want to hear you being so lazy! It takes next to nothing at all for a singer to get into bad habits that are difficult to get out of. I have not worked so hard on your voice only for you to think you can get away with not keeping your mind on your task!"

Nettled, she answered, "Do you mean that I can never simply sing for the enjoyment of it?"

"How could anyone enjoy something which is less than it could be?" he snapped back, and she flinched before reminding herself that this was Erik. Why would she be surprised that his first instinct would be to call her sharply to order? He never had had any patience for anything less than the utmost effort out of her. She was going to have to learn to stop expecting him to be someone other than himself. True, he'd been kind and thoughtful this morning, but he was still learning to be so and she must not presume too much on him. She choked back the self-defences that had initially risen to her lips, and instead said humbly, "I'm sorry."

"As well you should be, " he said bitingly, and she felt her eyes well up suddenly. A tear rolled down her cheek, and Erik, partway through another cutting remark, stopped short. His shoulders slumped, and the air of authority that he'd so abruptly assumed departed all at once, leaving him looking wretched. He sat back down, folded his long arms onto the keyboard with a jarring of discordant notes, and leaned forward to bury his face in his sleeve.

"I am sorry," he mumbled. "I did not wish to quarrel today."

"Erik…"

"I did not stop to think," he said, seemingly more to himself than to her, and then he stood and brushed past her, shutting the parlour door behind him. When the strains of his violin began to sound, Christine was simultaneously thankful that he hadn't headed for the organ, and frustrated that they were once again in this situation.

But Erik recovered himself much faster than usual, and reappeared after slightly more than an hour. Now he was calm again, if a little quiet, and Christine was careful not to thoughtlessly provoke him. She was beginning to realise that he was unlikely to ever completely stop being changeable in this way. Avoiding the topic of music, she asked him to read to her instead, and complimented his abilities thereof. When she made a comment about the baby before being able to stop herself, she was abjectly grateful that his jaw was no longer tight when he answered. Their long conversation in the wood seemed to have done him a world of good. Then she began to feel a little ill again, and so he prepared a light dinner himself and let her rest on the couch. When they retired to bed, he did not claim his husbandly rights, but instead spent an hour stroking and soothing her, his firm hands rubbing all tension away. Now he lay beside her, his arm around her, and her cheek against his chest as it slowly rose and fell with his breathing.

"I love you," she murmured. She felt his fingers wind their way into her hair.

"And I love you, my Christine."

She rolled to one side, and sighed. "I never want things to change. I wish we could stay just like this forever."

"I am sure a great many things will change when the – our child arrives."

She did not miss his correction of himself, and smiled joyfully. Everything would be all right, now that he had finally accepted the coming of the baby.

"Oh, that will only make it better," she assured him. "Just think how lovely it would be if our baby were here right now, sleeping in between us for a little while until I got up to put it in its bassinet."

"You should not always have to do that. You need your sleep."

"But I am its mother," she said, pretending to be affronted.

"And I am its father, and I shall certainly take steps to teach it to respect its mother's peace and quiet."

"I hate to shatter your illusions, O magician," she retorted playfully, and he grinned at her, "but babies and peace and quiet are generally mutually exclusive things."

"Oh, for a time," he answered, "but not too long, I hope."

"Will it bother you?" she asked, turning serious.

He considered for a moment, and Christine thought he was carefully choosing his words. "I expect it will be very different from anything I have ever known thus far," he finally said. "But I am happy that…that it is me you are having a child with. And that you are happy about it."

"Oh," she replied, thinking that she could live with that, as it was much better than his previous opinion of the situation. "That's good."

She relaxed back against the pillow, expecting both of them to go to sleep, but then she realised that he was now preoccupied.

"What are you thinking about?" She began stroking his arm.

"Oh…nothing important."

"It is important if it is worrying you, and I see that it is. Tell me. We are having a nice evening and I don't want anything to ruin it. Come on, now; out with it. If it is not important, it won't matter if you tell me, and if it is, we'll talk it over and it'll be all right."

"Do you ever wish you had married someone else?"

He spoke in a casual tone, but Christine knew him well enough by now to tell that he was anything but.

"Do you mean Raoul?" She had mentioned the name deliberately. Once that would have sent him into a blind rage. Now, it only made him tense, and he replied blandly, "I suppose I do."

"No," she said immediately. "Never."

"Truly?"

"Yes."

"But you could have had a title, and riches, and a handsome face to wake up to every morning."

"And a lot of in-laws who would hate me for my humble beginnings, and a station in life that would prevent me from ever appearing on the stage again. With you, I can look forward to performing again, once my voice returns. If it does."

"It will. I shall make sure of it. Trust your husband."

"I will, then."

"What else would you miss?" he asked hopefully.

"Oh, many things. Having you read foreign books to me…teasing you…watching you create things. And if I had not stayed with you, I would never be able to hear your voice again, and I could not bear that. No, I am glad of the life I have now. Glad to be your wife, and bearing your child, not Raoul's. It will be delightful to watch it grow and manifest the talents it will inherit from you. No doubt our son or daughter will be very distinguished indeed."

"But I am a difficult man to live with."

"It is worth it. Especially if you stay always as you were today." She smiled impishly.

"I should like to be able to promise you that I would, but you would know me for a liar," he said his tone rueful, and she laughed. "Will it be enough if I promise to do my best?"

"Of course," she said, and kissed him. "Besides, life is certainly never dull with you. And Raoul could, on occasion, be very tedious indeed."

"I promise to keep you entertained always. I am good at that."

"Yes, you are, even if you are difficult."

"For which of my bad traits did you first fall in love with me?"

"For them all together," she said archly, and smiled again.

"Love me, and I shall be as gentle as a lamb." He had said that once before, but it was all the sweeter now.

"Always."

O-O-O

"This is absurd!" Erik exclaimed, in ringing tones.

His wife turned from where she had been standing at the other end of the parlour, dusting the bookshelves. "What is?"

"Nothing," said Erik hastily, flipping shut the pages of the scientific journal which he had been reading. Not fast enough, though.

"Tell me about it. I'm tired of the silence around here. You've been at those medical books all morning and this is the first comment you've made."

"Only an idle one, I assure you."

"It was not. I saw you; you were staring down at that page with your eyes about to pop out of your head."

"That would be a frightening sight indeed, given my aspect."

"Don't talk like that," said Christine, setting her dust-cloth down and putting her hands on her hips. "Now, what is so shocking? If it's about pregnancy, then I ought to know about it."

"It is not about pregnancy," said Erik, in tones which were intended to indicate he was finished with the conversation. But to no avail.

"Oh? I thought you were reading up about childbearing, so as to know what to expect?"

"This is a collection of articles about women's health in general."

"Oh, now I am curious," she said teasingly, coming closer. "What has shocked you so much?"

"I don't like curious women," he retorted, wondering whether he could hide behind the stacks of books on the parlour table. Not likely; they were not tall enough. He hadn't purchased that many. There were limits to even the Phantom's skills at concealment.

"That is too bad for you, as you've married one. Let me see."

After a short marital skirmish, Erik surrendered the article, and waited resignedly for the beginning of what was bound to be a most improper conversation. Christine turned the pages, frowning.

"I don't see what was so surprising. This is just an article about hysteria."

"Exactly."

"So…what? Surely you knew about that disease."

"Of course not. I never paid any attention to women's disorders before now. I never needed to."

"It's very common. Several of the ballet girls suffered from it, and saw a doctor for treatment regularly. Monsieur Merante used to be cross whenever they were gone from practice, because it broke up the line of dancers."

Erik leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs at the knee and steepling his fingers. He stared sardonically at her over them. "And did they tell you what the 'treatment' was?"

"Well…no. I never thought to ask. They just said it worked wonderfully."

"I have no doubt it did," said Erik cynically. "A more ridiculous example of an invented disease I never saw. The Europeans are sometimes quite astonishingly obtuse. Any Oriental physician would fall over laughing if he read this text."

"I don't understand."

"All right, give me that back," he said, reaching for the journal, "and Erik will explain it to you, and then you will be sorry you asked."

He spread the pages open on the table top again, and said, paraphrasing the text, "The patient comes to the doctor complaining of nervousness, anxiety, tension, irritability, insomnia, or a whole host of other problems; look, the list goes on for pages, and it says right here that up to a quarter of all women may be sufferers. Most of the supposed 'symptoms' seem to boil down to being a woman, essentially."

Christine scowled at him. He ignored it, and went on, "Once the physician has examined the woman and made the diagnosis – Christ, anything could be construed to fit – it is time for the treatment. The disease is thought to result from a faulty reproductive system. In order to bring it to its peak, or 'crisis' – God, they don't even have any shame about using that word for this, and yet do not see the connection – the doctor must massage the relevant parts of the woman's body until she achieves a 'hysterical paroxysm,' during which she experiences flushing of the skin, 'voluptuous sensations,' and then embarrassment and confusion after an occasional, but usually brief, loss of consciousness. After all this she feels splendid and is temporarily cured. Close your mouth, my dear, you look like a half-wit. Now you see why I did not care to discuss this."

"Do…do you mean that…that the doctor actually…" stammered Christine. "Like you do? When we're…in bed?"

"That is exactly what it means. Look here, at the diagram of suggested methods of performing the, ah, massage. See what the doctor's hands are drawn as doing?"

"But that's for a woman's husband to do!" she exclaimed. "How can it be right for your doctor to do it to you?"

"The medical profession, it seems, sees no connection whatever between this farce of a medical treatment, and the activities of the marriage bed."

"But…don't all married couples…do that?"

"Not the way your husband does, apparently," said Erik, thoroughly incapable of keeping the smugness out of his voice. "Travels in the East can be very enlightening indeed."

"You mean…your books?"

"Yes, among other things. The Orientals have no shame about the pleasures of physical union, and references to it are everywhere. Spend enough time there and do a bit of research, and you will be left in no doubt that a woman can experience sexual release just as well or better than a man. But it certainly appears that some people do not recognize the sight of such – or the sound."

"But…but…" spluttered Christine. "I thought doctors were gentlemen! How could they be so wicked with women?"

"Being a gentleman has nothing to do with the matter. They do not see it as anything licentious, remember? And it seems the physicians do not enjoy their task a bit. Look here, it mentions that it is most tedious for the medical practitioner, and that it can take up to an hour to produce the paroxysm. Well, no wonder, if the woman is expected to do so in a clinical environment, with a man whom she presumably has no particular affection for."

"An hour? It doesn't take anywhere near that long!" said Christine indignantly. "Why, you'd fall asleep!"

"Or get cramps in my hands, which, it seems, is a common problem. The article says that it is difficult to learn the correct techniques, and that mastering them takes a long time and, hmmm, great skill and dexterity."

"You needn't sound so self-satisfied. Just because you figured it outin, what was it, four or five days?"

"Three. No skill is too hard for Erik."

"I suppose previous expertise at sleight-of-hand would be helpful. Maybe your skill at playing instruments, too?"

"I am not sure. The movements are not the same. I do not know that a woman would be aroused by the ones which pertain to music. Come here, and let me see."

She squealed and struggled, but he dragged her down onto his lap and slid his left hand adroitly under the skirt of her cotton print house dress and her fluffy petticoats, searching for the helpful opening in her drawers, till he reached the intended destination. He cupped his hand over the small roundness of her, feeling the curls of hair against his palm.

"And what shall I play for, or rather, on, you?" he purred in her ear, kissing the back of her neck. She was enticingly warm and soft under his hand. "Beethoven's Fur Elise? Chopin? How about a bit of Mozart?" He drew his hand up a bit, and demonstrated the correct sequence of notes for each composer with tantalizingly light taps of his fingers.

"Wagner," she said, giggling.

"Hah. That would be all wrong. Not the right sort of movements at all. Stop squirming, my love, or I won't hit the right notes."

She leaned her head back on his shoulder, sighing and surrendering. "You always play the right notes," she said, her breathing getting faster.

With his unoccupied hand, Erik dug in his waistcoat pocket for his watch to check the time. Then he replaced it and slid that hand into the top of her corset, taking advantage of the fact that she was wearing a bodice with a v-shaped neckline, and was very pleasantly busy for a brief period.

"Well, well. I see that some of the finger movements do carry over after all. Perhaps music should be included in the courses required to graduate from medical school. Look at that," he said presently, keeping one arm around his quivering wife. "Four minutes. An hour, indeed; I do not know what is wrong with these doctors."

"Perhaps you could…give them lessons," said Christine, who was still gasping for breath. "Or even – " She was recovering now, and snickered into the side of his neck. "If you ever get tired of making automatons and writing music for a living, you could set up in practice and advertise yourself as a specialist in the treatment of hysteria."

"Yes, I am sure that my patients would be thrilled to see this face peering up at them from between the stirrups."

"They would be fascinated. Women find a man in a mask to be most…exciting."

"If they do, they never told Erik about it. Running and screaming was more often the response."

"You never gave them the chance," she said, mock-scoldingly. "But you know, I am not so sure that it would be a good idea for you to earn an income in this manner after all. If you spent all day doing…this…for other women, you would be too worn out to do it for me by the evening. Once word of your skillgot out, you'd have so many, uh, clients, that you'd get those hand cramps you mentioned."

"As a matter of fact, no I would not, because science has come to the rescue of the exhausted medical professional and produced a mechanical device which will do the same thing that his hands once did."

"Really?" said Christine in surprise.

"Yes. That was what this article was about. Look at this." He showed her the image in question. "It is a small metal cylinder, connected to a motor, which is alleged to produce the…desired result in mere minutes."

"Will wonders never cease," commented Christine. "Who would ever have thought that science would make a device that would do…that on a woman?"

"My dear, you've never seen some of the things I saw in the Orient – though admittedly none of those were mechanized. But the human brain is endlessly inventive. Now, do you require further 'treatment' or was that enough?"

"Oh, but I wouldn't want your hands to start to hurt."

"When they do, I will tell you."

"No you won't. It would injure your pride too much."

"Yes, well, there are other parts of a man that could take over and give his hands a rest. Come in the bedroom, darling, and let us see if you can hit that high C. And do me a favour; if you feel yourself suffering from 'hysteria,' don't go to Doctor Durand for relief."

O-O-O O-O-O