A/N: I'm excited to see such a great reception to this story and am thankful for the many wonderful reviews! :) Thanks also for the bday wishes - (it was great - got a new computer hutch desk! A BIG one lol) ... cotesgoat – I don't believe I've heard of that movie – I'll have to look it up and see…(Also, regarding Man in the Iron Mask – from what you and another reader asked in other story reviews – it's been so long since I've seen that movie, I'll have to watch it again and see if I get inspired)…right now, my plate is full with the E/C phanphics I'm writing – and a couple still waiting in the wings – but that doesn't stop my muse from conjuring up more. Just the other day I got yet another idea for a classic blend w/ PotO…haha (But don't worry, I'll wait on that one. ;-)) … And now ….
II
.
Christine stood on a low stool in the frightfully cold schoolroom and faced the class as she'd been sternly instructed to do.
They had taken away her waist-length curls, so recently shorn, her thick hair now hitting just below her ears and no longer providing a natural shawl of warmth. They had taken away her pretty gold locket that Papa gave her, his last gift to her a few days before he died, the headmistress citing the evil of worldly treasures and the sin of possessing them. And now they tried to take away her beautiful song, calling her voice a tool of evil to practice the devil's works.
She frowned in resentment. Her song had been about an Angel of Music, not a demon from hell! But it failed to matter. Music was forbidden in this hollow prison of Lindenwood Institution, a stark, horrid place for orphaned girls, like Christine.
Tears burned her eyes but she would not cry. She stared hard at the lacy pattern of frost flowers icing the far window, recalling the long, hard months, all the way back to the morning that led her to this dreary excuse for a school …
On the dawn following her cousins' cruelty of locking her in the attic as a sacrifice to the Harvest Monster, hands like claws cruelly pinched around her arms and tore Christine from exhausted slumber, where she had collapsed on the floor beneath the open window. The night wind had done its damage, tossing about items, mostly light clothing and papers, and scattering them with its blustery breath.
Christine blinked hard and stumbled to a stand, holding to the wall and staring anxiously up at her stern Aunt Hildegard.
Tall and thin, her black dress and dark bun making her even more severe, the woman had stared at Christine with barely concealed contempt.
"What are you doing in this room?" her aunt scolded. "Just look at this mess! And look at you – filthy to the skin, with hair as ratted as a horse's tail. Go and tidy yourself, put on your blue dress and coat, and come downstairs to the parlor at once."
"But - it wasn't my fault!"
"I did not ask for your impertinence!" Her aunt raised a hand as if to strike, but Christine quickly backed up.
"You never listen to me..." Tears filled her eyes. "You're mean and hateful and I wish I'd never come to this awful old house!"
"You horrid child -" Her aunt pointed to the door. "Go at once!"
Christine scampered out the attic and to the chamber she'd been given to sleep in. Small and spare, the gable room contained an arched window above a small bench – the only furnishings save for the iron bedstead, the cupboard, and a small table with a pitcher and basin to wash. A horse whinnied outside, the curious sound of visitors urging Christine to wipe away her tears and kneel on the bench's padded seat to look through the beveled diamond panes. A black covered carriage stood outside on the path.
If she did not appear soon, a servant would be sent to collect her, and that could go very bad for Christine; if her aunt was truly angry, she might tell cook to take her breakfast away.
Quickly, Christine opened the nearly empty cupboard and eyed her two dresses: one a dark brown wool she wore every day, ever since her travels with Papa; the other a drab blue muslin she was made to wear to attend church services since she'd come to her aunt's. She scrubbed her face and hands with water from the basin, also her teeth with her finger, and carefully combed out her thick curls, patting them with water to better smooth them. Cleanliness accomplished, she slipped the drab blue over her chemise, followed by her twice-patched coat, and hurried downstairs.
A strange man stood in the parlor near where her Aunt Hildegard was seated in a plush hardback chair. Tall and reed thin like her, he wore spectacles on his hawkish nose that turned up and looked down at Christine, as if she were a drooling puppy frolicking too close to his glossy shoes.
The thought made her giggle which earned a stern look of reprimand from her aunt and a frigid stare from the dour stick-like man. Christine bit her lips to quiet them but did not wilt under her elders' intense scrutiny.
"It is as I told you, Mr. Markham, she is incorrigible, a hoyden, as wild and unprincipled as the man my sister married. After dear Lizbet's death, he actually took their daughter from town to town, playing his violin in the streets and putting the child on public exhibition for the crowds. Can you imagine?"
Mr. Markham clucked his tongue in shared disapproval. Christine narrowed her eyes, uncertain what she said about her and her dear Papa with all her fancy words, but sure it wasn't nice.
"Naturally, I have done what I could for the girl by taking her into my home, exhausting my resources and my time to teach her what is proper, but I fear all my good intentions are useless. She needs a more structured environment, and that is when I thought of you and your wonderful institution. Certainly it would be kinder than sending her to the poorhouse. That I could never do to Lizbet's only child."
She took a sip of tea from her porcelain cup then set it back on the saucer she held in her hand.
Christine bit the tip of her tongue nearly in half not to call her aunt a liar. The woman had constantly scolded and called her names. She made it clear to Christine from her first day at Greenwich Hall that she was no more than a poor relation thrust upon her, often excluding her from family outings, not that Christine minded that. She preferred to hide herself away in the library alcove and look at the interesting pictures in the many books there.
"You were right to send for me, Madame Rutland. I will happily take the child to Lindenwood, and I also want to extend my profuse gratitude for your charitable donation."
She nodded regally and he looked at his new charge, his effusiveness melting into scorn.
"What is your name, girl?"
"Christine Daaé."
"Christine Daaé, sir."
She only looked at him, and he narrowed his eyes. "Well then, come along, Daaé. It is time you learned your proper place in this world."
Greenwich Hall had been heaven and her aunt one step closer to an angel, (though never that), compared to the dank Lindenwood Institution and the devils who ran the place.
In the three months since she'd come here, Christine had known starvation, humiliation, and deprivation - those fancy words she had learned very quickly. Madame Dartmeir had become her personal tormentor from the morning Christine walked into her classroom. Christine could never please the plain and severe teacher, and soon lost any desire to try. She hated it here, hated a place so harsh and drab and devoid of all the beauty and music she was raised to love.
When she arrived late to a lesson in sewing, all because she tried and failed to comb out her unruly curls into the more sedate plait required of all the girls (her fingers were nearly frozen, just as the water in the basin had been that morning), Madame had gone into a rant and attributed her excuse to sinful vanity. Taking a pair of shears, she had cut away Christine's long chestnut ringlets, while her orphaned peers had watched in sympathetic horror.
Her Papa once told her they were the one trait Christine had to remind him of her mama.
"She's just pea green with envy because her hair's so thin and looks like dirty dishwater," Christine's dearest friend said to her that night as they hugged one another close for warmth. Each small bed in Lindenwood held two girls, and away from stern eyes, she and her bed mate, Meggie, often whispered to one another – empathizing over their troubled days. But that night, they shared dreams of what they hoped their futures might hold.
"It will grow back, Christine."
Christine nodded miserably. The cold was even more pronounced against her neck and arms without her hair as a covering. "I hate it here, Meggie. One day when I'm all grown, I will leave this place, I swear it."
"What will you do?"
"I will sing… in the theater. I should like that. To sing for an audience who likes my voice." She giggled at such a happy thought.
"You don't wish to marry when you're of age?"
Christine thought hard about that. "Only if I can find a kind man like my Papa. And he must love music. And be a grand musician, like Papa was. And sing…"
"I should like to dance," her friend said thoughtfully after a moment's reflective silence. "My papa once told me I had an aunt that danced ballet. Perhaps, when we're older, we can both take the stage!"
"Wouldn't that be fun?" Christine enthused. "To sing and dance together!"
"Oh, I should dearly love it so…" Meggie said wistfully.
"You will float across the stage with grace, like a swan, and my voice will soar splendidly because of my Angel. It will reach every corner of the vast theater, and the audience will give us standing ovations."
"Your Angel?"
"Mm-hm."
There was a short silence.
"What's an ovation?"
"Papa said it's when the audience shows their greatest appreciation for your performance. They stand and clap their hands – and give flowers to the leads."
"Do you wish to be a lead, Christine?"
"Oh, yes – I would hope so! I do love flowers…roses are best. They smell so sweet!"
In a room so cold they could see their breaths, and wearing thin nightshifts while huddling in threadbare blankets, such dreams seemed an unreachable fantasy. But as the wind howled mournfully outside the walls, they smiled and they giggled, planning their imagined futures at the theatre together.
Less than a week later, a stranger arrived at the decrepit school for charity orphans and took Meggie away. When Christine learned of it, she ran from the schoolroom and to the window in alarm, seeing the departing carriage in the distance, then raced outdoors into the blowing snow – the tears frozen on her face as she screamed for her dear Meggie to come back…
An act for which she was severely reprimanded for her insolence of being disruptive. The nape of her neck stung all day from the dozen harsh blows delivered to it with a tied bundle of twigs, just as her ears rang with the incessant words of what a wicked girl she was and how she must repent of her rebellious ways and change her heart to do better.
She did strive to be a good girl and please God, but Papa's version of Him had been much kinder...
And the elusive Angel of Music, one of His servants, surely was a most kind and glorious angel, to grant his gifts to those who proved worthy…
Papa had promised, after all.
xXx
"Christine, will I die?"
Uncertain with how to respond, Christine brushed Nellie's pale gold hair out of her eyes, trying to quench her tears. In Christine's six years at the Institution, Nellie was the sweetest child there and the youngest of the remaining forty-three orphans at Lindenwood, barely five years old.
Why little Nellie?
She did not deserve this horrible fate!
That winter leading into spring, Typhus had swept through the school and claimed eight of the weakest victims, the pungent and bitter odors of camphor and burnt vinegar prevalent in the darkened corridors. Shy little Nellie had also succumbed to the vicious fever. Not all who'd been struck ill died, and not all were struck ill, Christine in that number. The sickness, once it claimed its victim, laid waste over a period of weeks, a new wooden coffin a common sight, its small corpse laid to rest with a spray of wildflowers placed against little white hands.
Already a frail child, Nellie did not look as if she would last the night, and Christine was reminded of sitting by her father's deathbed. His fever did not produce the angry red rash that Nellie had, but he had the same listless look in his eyes, the same hot and clammy pale skin.
Like then, Christine felt helpless with what to do.
"Shall I sing to you, Nellie? Would you like that?"
Nellie's dimmed blue eyes grew round at the idea of the forbidden treat and she nodded. Small wonder that the child was surprised; Christine had never divulged her secret to anyone. She had learned long ago that her unique musical voice was forbidden, presumed to lead into vanity, the circumstances harsh when she disobeyed. Still, she was her father's child, and it seemed disrespectful to Papa's memory to so completely denounce her voice that he loved so well. Only when she knew she was alone with no one nearby to listen did she allow herself to quietly sing all the songs Papa once taught her and others she had heard in her short life.
She still half-hoped for the Angel to come that her father promised her as he lay dying, but each year that passed at Lindenwood stole a little more of that dream away. Now that she was nearly fourteen, she sadly had begun to see his parting words as no more than a sweet myth to calm a tearful child.
"Close your eyes," Christine quietly instructed. Once Nellie did, Christine lifted her voice, but softly, singing a song she remembered from days past, when she was a small child like Nellie, in what seemed another lifetime:
"My feet they are sore, and my limbs they are weary;
Long is the way, and the mountains are wild;
Soon will the twilight close moonless and dreary
Over the path of the poor orphan child.
Why did they send me so far and so lonely,
Up where the moors spread and grey rocks are piled?
Men are hard-hearted, and kind angels only
Watch o'er the steps of a poor orphan child.
Yet distant and soft the night breeze is blowing,
Clouds there are none, and clear stars beam mild,
God, in His mercy, protection is showing,
Comfort and hope to the poor orphan child –"
A step at the door of the sick room brought Christine's head around with a snap, cutting off her song. She let out a great sigh of relief to see Mademoiselle Talbot approach, walking past the cots of slumbering children.
"Christine," she warned softly, putting a hand to her shoulder. "You know the rules. You shouldn't even be here..."
Christine believed that Mademoiselle Talbot was God's gift and sole act of mercy bestowed to the poor miserable orphans of Lindenwood Institution. Where the other teachers were heartless or indifferent, Mademoiselle Talbot reserved a softly-spoken word or tender touch for those in need of one. She was the gentle opposite of her peers, the one good seed among the bad. Her delightful stories told to her pupils encouraged Christine to delve into the literary world of books. And she never once disciplined any child with the extreme measure the other teachers doled out. Yet Mademoiselle Talbot's moral code of conduct did not allow her to stand up to her superiors or break any one of their infinite number of rules, even if by her expression she felt them unfounded. Meekly she did all that was expected, but in secret, it was not unusual for one of the girls to find a sweet biscuit upon her pillow after suffering a prolonged punishment unjustly deserved and delegated by one of the other instructors. With brown bread and coffee the staple of the orphans' diet, buttered bread on Sundays, such a treat was much appreciated. Christine admired Mademoiselle Talbot immensely and hoped to be just like her when she grew into a woman.
"I'm sorry," she said, not wishing for her favored teacher to think ill of her. "I was visiting the necessary and heard Nellie cry. The candle had blown out. I only thought to calm her."
Mademoiselle Talbot distantly nodded, looking toward the small cot. Christine took her hand, gaining her attention, and drew the instructor a short distance away.
"Is she going to be alright?" she whispered, her tone pleading for affirmation.
Deep sorrow touched her teacher's gray eyes. "Only the Lord in His wisdom knows the answer to that, my dear. Now, you must return to your room and to bed."
Christine nodded obediently and walked to the doorway, glancing one last time toward Nellie, who finally lay sleeping. Her heart wrenched a little in relief and gratitude to see Mademoiselle Talbot sink to a nearby chair, so as to keep watch over the sick child.
In the morning, once Christine awakened, she discovered that the ruthless Typhus had claimed its ninth victim.
Two days later, she learned that dear Mademoiselle Talbot had been discharged from Lindenwood.
Christine never learned why.
xXx
"Mademoiselle Daaé, must you go?"
Christine ceased in packing her valise with her few worldly possessions and looked upon the sweet round face of her most promising student, Emilie. This dear child and others like her were the only sharp pull on her heartstrings to remain…
But she had long been resolved to bid a cheery farewell to this cheerless institution at the earliest opportunity. While outward improvements were made once the angry populace investigated and discovered the meager living conditions at Lindenwood after the Typhus horror of four years ago – Christine had never felt welcome in this soulless place.
For more than a year, not long after she turned seventeen, she had stayed on as a teacher, gaining the experience needed to secure a position of her own.
That day had finally arrived.
Sweeping back the dark strands of hair from Emilie's soulful brown eyes, Christine smiled through her own tears.
"You must promise me that you'll be a good girl and mind your manners. Do your lessons when told, say your prayers - and do be kind to Anne."
Christine fondly recalled those first days when she was new to this frightening place, like the mousy little Anne, and how Meggie with her bright smile and cheerful attitude had reached out to Christine and made her feel as if she wasn't so alone. Even after so many years, she still missed her first true friend. Nightly she prayed that all was well with dear Meggie and that she had found the happiness so richly deserved.
"Oui, mademoiselle," Emilie answered sadly. "I will be good. And to Anne, as well."
Christine's departure from Lindenwood went much as expected. The senior staff barely registered her leaving, still miffed that she had secretly put out an advertisement in the regional newspaper, offering her services. The two newest teachers, on the same level as Christine as far as experience, offered kind regards; she had never allowed herself to get close enough to either of them to form strong ties. It was the children that made her want to cry and gather them up to her bosom, wishing she could take each and every one of them with her…
But she could no longer stay. She felt as if she was suffocating in this wretched place, and yearned to see more of the world and what it had to offer.
As the carriage bore her away to new lodgings, Christine fingered the locket around her neck. She recalled how she had brashly approached the headmistress in her office and respectfully (well, she had tried) requested it back, citing that vanity did not spur her to reclaim it, only sentiment - the locket all she had left of her parents, her mother its original owner. She'd been more than a little surprised when without a word, the elderly headmistress retrieved a small box from a high shelf and returned the cherished trinket.
"Be wary, mademoiselle," the woman bid in grave farewell, "that pride does not catch you in its snare."
Papa had sometimes cautioned her not to be prideful, but after her long, trying years at Lindenwood, Christine felt the parting insinuation was entirely unjustified.
She frowned, looking out the grimy window at the windswept landscape and overcast skies and passed the next hours recalling her days at Lindenwood – bringing to mind mostly those rare snippets of the delightful and noteworthy, usually involving Meggie or Mademoiselle Talbot, that lay buried within endless years of despair. She thought of all she endured and wished she could have changed and all of what she regretted – and then she pushed the entirety of it from her mind, resolved never to dwell on that chapter of her life again.
By the time the carriage rolled to a stop, Christine felt prepared to meet the new challenges that awaited her at Manoir de Thornfield...
The driver, however, was less than accommodating in taking her there.
He stared down at her from his box seat perched above.
"Pardon, mademoiselle, but I can go no further. The road below is badly rutted. With no one to help me, I cannot risk one of the wheels getting stuck in the mud."
"Oh but - how then shall I get to the manor?"
Exasperated with his claims, Christine stood on the dry dirt path and looked around at the forest of tall trees that closed them in from all sides. His agitated manner led her to believe he had a hidden reason for his suspect refusal to drive her directly to the manor house.
"Follow that road. It will take you where you need to go. Adieu."
With a hasty lift of his cap in a pretense of politeness, the carriage took off, leaving her in a cloud of dust.
Christine blinked in faint disbelief and growing dismay, then turned to look at the long road before her. With a determined clench of her teeth and stubborn roll of her shoulders, she hefted her valise and set off down the path that twisted like a ribbon below.
The sun soon began to dim, sinking lower beyond the trees and lending a chill bite to the air. Sooner than she expected, twilight made its appearance, casting the land in deep purple shadow, the trees as black silhouettes. If she weren't so apprehensive, she might appreciate the mysterious artistry, a scene worthy to put to canvas with how the remaining sunlight dappled gold-tipped silver along the wild grass, but at this rate, she would never arrive to her destination before nightfall!
She shivered at the prospect and steadfastly continued alongside the road that contained not a hint of civilization. She wondered what wild, dangerous animals lurked in these woods, then swiftly ousted that grisly and frightening thought.
A path darkly taken leads to a destiny unforeseen. Whether it be of nightmares feared or dreams coveted depends on the brightness of the lantern you carry with you.
The old adage from dear Mademoiselle Talbot helped to bolster Christine's courage and resolve – though she wryly thought at the moment it would be much more favorable to have an actual lamp in hand.
Her stomach growled, reminding her that she'd not eaten since breakfast. She slipped her hand into the pocket of her cloak for the peach one of her pupils presented her with in farewell, took a bite from its sweet juicy flesh – then promptly lost her hold on the slick fruit.
"Oh no!" she cried with a little moan of disgust and darted into the middle of the road where the peach had rolled behind her, to collect her small repast.
The wild thundering of hooves – coming shockingly close – led Christine to spin around sharply as a dark figure seated on a ghostly white horse appeared atop the shallow rise, his cloak billowing madly about him.
She anxiously swallowed the masticated peach and took a few quick steps back as if Hades himself had emerged from his Underworld to seize her – then lost all sense of balance and fell to the ground in a panic.
He pulled back harshly on the reins causing the ghost stallion to rear up on its hind legs, its forelegs pawing the air as it gave a high-pitched whinny, its eyes rolled back and wild –
And a frightful match for the madman's eyes that burned down at her from behind the sockets of a black mask.
xXx
A/N: *claps hands together – muwahaha- I mean - Oh, dear…
Chrissy, Chrissy- what are you doing diving after that dirty peach?! Yuk. You should have left it be…of course then their first encounter wouldn't have been as much fun… ;-) (Those who know Jane Eyre- no, I just couldn't do that to Erik, have him be the one to clumsily fall. I mean, really, the man oozes feline grace and mastery - I just couldn't picture him being thrown from his horse…) Also, do not look for an exact copy of Jane Eyre in Christine, though there will be some similarities, of course. (Same with Erik with regard to Rochester).
**Song that Christine sang to Nellie – Poor Orphan Child – is a poem by Charlotte Bronte from the novel Jane Eyre –
I know I covered a lot of ground, (as in years) in this one chapter. I tried to make the transitions of time with each section as clear as possible- but like Christine, I didn't want to spend any more time than I deemed necessary at Lindenwood Institution. ;-)