A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) I'm so glad you liked my little twist of Erik being Rochester's grandson! :D – I had to shuffle the years a bit to do it, (setting Jane Eyre backstory back a smidgen) but it really worked well for the plot I wanted to present. And now…
VI
What little supper she had consumed seemed to congeal in her stomach as Christine approached the main parlor. Would she find the roaring lion or a more approachable cub? He certainly could never fit the adage of a lamb, though to think of him as a gentle, playful cub seemed highly absurd as well.
Clutching more tightly to her satchel, she took a deep breath for composure and stepped across the threshold but went no further, uncertain if she was to await his permission to invade his solitude.
The master of Thornfield sat in his leisure before the glowing hearth in the same wingback chair of maroon leather his father had occupied in the portrait. With one long leg stretched out, his gleaming boot resting on a padded footstool, he had his other foot planted on the floor. A snifter of brandy he swished with one hand, his focus on the fire. The golden tabby that Christine first noticed in Madame Fairfax's parlor reclined near the hearth, lifting its head from its paws to stare at her with baleful eyes…much the color of its owner.
The Maestro turned his head and regarded her with a manner of nonchalant indolence. Dressed to the nines as always, he was the picture of careless elegance in a waistcoat of dark gold brocade and a black frock coat. He lifted his foot off the cushion, slightly shoving the stool away with the sole of his boot, his every move fluidly cavalier as he straightened. He could easily be the subject of one of Hugo's poems about a chevalier or even a prince.
"You sent for me, monsieur?"
"Why do you linger by the door like a meek little mouse? Come inside, or do you always have to be told? Take a seat." The princely lion motioned to a chair that sat near his. "No - there."
"Monsieur?" She looked nervously toward the chair little more than an arm's length from his, then longingly to the sofa she had targeted several feet away from him.
"Come then, don't dawdle." He repeated the order he'd given Adrienne the first day Christine met him in this chamber. "I wish to speak with you at length and have no desire to shout across the room."
The sofa was nowhere near yelling distance, his words extreme, but Christine walked toward the hardwood chair, moving her arm along its high scrolled back with the intention of scooting it further away.
"Leave it where it stands. No," he immediately changed his mind. "Pull it closer."
She stood immobile and stared at him in wary shock.
He gave another swirl of the brandy in his glass. "You said you do not fear me. Was that a lie?" His tone came sardonic, almost smug, as if he had uncovered what he believed to be true all along.
Determined to prove his allegation wrong, she clenched her teeth and did as ordered. Once seated, she never took her eyes from the fire.
"I see you brought the sketches that Adrienne mentioned. Good." He stretched out his arm toward her. "Give them to me…Come." He flicked his fingers with a wave of impatience when she made no move to obey.
At his curt directive, again she stared, holding her satchel a little closer against her, as she might a child in danger of being snatched away by brutal hands.
He released his breath in an elongated sigh.
"You must understand, mademoiselle, I am not a man accustomed to the social niceties of civility. I tell a servant to do this or that, and it is done, as it has been done for a decade past. I never make a request of those who run my household, and you cannot expect me to change for one little sparrow of a governess."
First he called her a mouse, now a sparrow, either term hardly flattering. She had thought him both lion and cub - at least the first impression was suitable to his demeanor.
"When the matter pertains to simple art – which has no bearing on the job I was hired for and I indulge in as a hobby in my spare time – I cannot understand your line of reasoning."
The words were out before she had a chance to think them through. His eyes narrowed in surprise that she would contradict his wishes.
"You don't believe I have the right to question the activities or character of a governess who spends the greater part of each day in the company of my young, impressionable ward?"
"No, I understand that." She kept her voice calm and well-modulated, though his mood had gone a shade darker, and realized that perhaps she was being too outspoken. "My references are beyond reproach, monsieur, as is my character and moral standing. I sent Madame Fairfax all of what was required to secure this post, and she seemed well pleased by what she read."
"To the devil with what was written – anyone can pen whatever they wish, whether it be truth or lies, fact or fiction. Nor am I certain I would deem in high regard the words of a charitable institution, when those sequestered there leave its doors looking as if they exist on a plane between life and death. Tell me, Miss Daaé, do you ever eat?" His eyes made a quick sweep of her form.
A flush of warmth flooded her cheeks. "I am uncertain how my eating habits relate to the question of my good moral character?"
"It is by your presence that I shall ascertain all I need to know about you – now come. We have evaded the issue, and I am weary of dilly-dallying about. Hand over the sketches…" At her continued hesitation, he added, "If you please."
His mocking tone was hardly gracious, but neither did it seem truly unkind, and before she was quite aware, she handed over her precious drawings. He placed the satchel on his lap, his eyes never leaving her face.
"You look troubled. Despite your earnest pledge of owning a demure nature and excellence in virtue, will I find a tableau of lifelike sketches that would put the Kama Sutra to shame?"
"The…what?" She wrinkled her brow in confusion.
He chuckled. "Never mind. Perhaps the sparrow does indeed have the guile of a dove and not the falcon. I see a question ready to burn your lips. Speak then!"
She clasped her hands more tightly in her lap at his abrasive attitude.
"It is only that..." She took a breath and barged full steam ahead. "I am at a loss as to why you believe civility some dark thing to be shunned. Those who rarely receive any form of kindness or consideration treasure them as a gift. It causes no one pain and the experience can be pleasant for all involved."
He lifted his brows in surprise, evident by the manner in which his mask shifted. "And will you now instruct me, Miss Daaé? Am I to be your pupil?"
"Forgive me." She lowered her eyes. "I spoke out of turn."
"Confound it – cease with the apologies, woman! I directed you to state your mind, and so you have." His burst of ire disappeared as quickly as it arose. "Unfortunately the tonic of cordiality isn't always the cure, and given of itself can be shunned."
She did not ask how he came by such knowledge or if it was a lesson of personal experience, the present discussion ceasing to capture interest as her gaze snapped to his long slender fingers which deftly began untying the knotted ribbon of her satchel. She swallowed hard, curbing the mad impulse to snatch back her folio of what he would surely deem inferior art and flee from his formidable presence.
No. She wasn't the scared little mouse he thought of her, and though his bite could be fierce, he had never once done her harm, as others with authority had done when she dared to speak her mind. As a student at Lindenwood, she'd had her cheeks slapped often, as well as her palms and nape hit with twigs that stung. Once she became teacher there, the corporal beatings stopped, though the oral scoldings never diminished.
Christine forced herself to remain still with rigid poise and waited for her present master to speak…
He pulled back the flap and picked up the first sketch, studying it an insufferable length of time, then laid it aside to pick up another. He did this with each of her seven sketches, his manner quiet and contemplative. She tried not to fidget, her heart racing with each unbearably mute second and pounding out each slow, silent minute that elapsed, with nothing but the quiet riffle of shifting paper to chafe her ears.
At long last he lifted his eyes from the final sketch which he had perused a greater amount of time than the others. His eyes held a gleam of surprised and confused…interest?
"When did you sketch these?"
She released the breath she'd been holding.
"At Lindenwood, sir."
"And did you create these yourself, with no coaching or aid with instructions given on what to illustrate?"
"They were all of them composed from my mind and by my hand." She tried not to let his doubts sting, but the offended tone came through regardless.
He studied her as if she were a specimen of fascination under a magnifying glass.
"I have injured your pride. That was not my intent."
His eyes held hers a moment longer, as if trying to puzzle her out, then dropped back to the paper he held. "One would not expect a young and vibrant woman to compose such dark works."
Young and vibrant? She mulled the words over in surprise. "You said I was naught but a sparrow and before that you called me a mouse." She bit the tip of the tongue that betrayed her, by allowing her slighted thoughts to slip from loose lips.
"Do I detect a trace of vanity as well?" He seemed dryly amused. "But then, is that not the way with all women, no matter their station in life?"
She winced at the irksome flaw of a word that seemed as if it would forever haunt her, as had the failing of pride.
"I do have feelings, monsieur," she said, trying to inject a demure tone and failing miserably.
"In your manner of drab brown dress and with your hair hidden away in a bun, a sparrow is how you present yourself, mademoiselle, but I am persuaded that is only a disguise to conceal...What manner of form is hidden, I am yet uncertain…"
She felt the burn of embarrassment singe her skin, and was certain he might soon compare her to a cardinal.
"These are the clothes expected of a governess, monsieur. The station to which you hired me."
"Ah, yes. I do pay you, don't I...what are your wages exactly?"
"You haven't yet paid me, monsieur, but it is a thousand francs per annum."
His brows rose, the mask shifting upward.
"Is that the standard for a governess?"
Whether he thought it too much or too little, she could not establish.
"I wouldn't know, monsieur. This is my first post in that capacity."
"Hmm…" He returned his attention to her meager attempt at art. "These drawings, while somewhat adequate in technique, lack in the tools chosen. Yet they do show vivid imagination…"
She released a soft breath at the backhanded compliment. Still, she preferred honesty to fabrications, and knew herself that she was no van Gogh.
"Your choice of theme reveals yet another revelation beyond the prim exterior you portray. A look into your soul…"
Another?
"This, for example…" He picked up one of her first, a pen and ink drawing.
She craned her head toward him, but unable to see well, she rose to stand.
"Yes, pull your chair closer."
That had not been her intent, only to step back a bit to get a wider scope, but she did as instructed and sank back down onto the hard wood. Scant inches now separated them; never had they been so close, save for the night he crouched in front of her to look into her eyes. And just as then, she felt a peculiar, lightheaded warmth.
With one slender finger, he pointed to her sketch. His hands were well-shaped, his nails clean and manicured, though a small ink stain where he'd obviously held a pen smeared the top knuckles of two fingers. She stared at them, noting their length, rather than her sketch.
"A field of headstones before a ramshackle building with a child in the foreground who stares at a leaden sky…" he articulated what the paper held. "All in darkness, save for this faint ray of sunlight against a fragile flower struggling through the snow." He turned his head to look at her as if seeking a reason for the existence of such a drawing.
"At Lindenwood one winter, the Typhus struck down many girls there. A great number of them died. With no one to care, no families, no loved ones, their bodies were quickly and quietly disposed of on the grounds each morning."
He tilted his head in curiosity. "But you cared?"
She was surprised he would ask such a question. "They weren't blood kin, but they were family. Besides my Papa, the only family I truly had." She had received word of her aunt's death years ago, and never thought of her cousins as kin. "I drew that picture as a testament to those girls, as a hope for better things to come. In heaven," she added.
He snorted softly and she frowned.
"'The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch which hurts and is desired…'" He moved onto the next sketch.
Apparently not only Adrienne was fond of quoting Shakespeare. Yet contrary to the Maestro's dismissive words, she highly doubted any of those girls desired to die so young.
"All of these depict a heart heavy and bleak with despair," he went on, "but in that wretched sea of desolation, you have shown a glimmer of hope."
He pulled forward a charcoal sketch of two paths that branched from one road and led into the darkness of a forest. The faintest outline of a face could be seen in the trees to the right, a lit lantern sitting on the ground at the fork of the road. On the left, amid the branches, the faint outline suggested a skull.
The artistry could not be compared; hers was shoddy and unexceptional, but the similarity of theme was uncanny.
She glanced from the drawing to his masked face, drumming up the nerve to speak.
"In the bedchamber I've been given, there hangs a framed painting of parallel design. A ghostly face in torment, barely seen within the waves of a storm-tossed ocean, the surroundings likewise dismal. Is it yours?"
His lips twitched without humor. It was a moment before he shortly nodded.
"It seems we are two mates of the soul, you and I, divining the world in all its cruel glory. Whereas you find a flicker of hope as a recurring subject in your works, I see only the darkness."
His reference to any familiarity between them, even if given only as an offhand remark, produced the oddest of tingles inside, making her feel somewhat breathless. Though his dour viewpoint brought sorrow. She knew a portion of his story now, his childhood brimming with pain, so could understand his reasoning. In that too, they shared a bond.
Perhaps it was strange, after the lifetime of suffering and deprivation she'd known that she could even cling to a morsel of hope – but there had been a few, like Madame Talbot and Papa, of course, who had given Christine the inspiration to do so.
"Have you never used color?" he suddenly asked. "Oils? Paints thinned with water?"
"They weren't available at the Institution."
Not that she wouldn't have liked to make the attempt. Such supplies were too costly for a penniless orphan to acquire, even one paid the meager wages of a teacher, and never would the staff at Lindenwood have allowed the use of an egg, so rare to come by, to make her own paints. She once overheard two men talk in a shop that sold such luxuries, of how making a paste of color was accomplished, but never was able to follow through to investigate on her own. Perhaps the cook here at Thornfield might be more agreeable, though she had no idea where to come by the colored powders that were needed, now that she would soon have the funds. That is, whenever he deemed it suitable to begin paying her. Strange, she had never asked Madame Fairfax...
"A pity. Such illustrations would have been better depicted through the shading of color and not the monotony of charcoal or pen."
His offhand words brought her again to stare at his hands. Clearly the use of ink and quill was not his chosen medium in art, and she assumed his fingers must have been stained through written correspondence. As meticulous as he kept his appearance, she was somewhat surprised that he overlooked cleaning the ink from his hands. However, the oversight did not make him appear slovenly. Instead it made him more...human. Approachable.
The Maestro collected the drawings into a pile and carefully tucked them back into the satchel, tying the ribbons before handing her works back to her.
"Then you approve?" she asked quietly. "My private entertainment meets the moral compass required to continue as a governess to Adrienne?"
"It is, as you say, your personal interest…"
She nodded, though he did not question.
"I see no reason to put an end to it. On the contrary, I encourage you to continue your pursuits."
Her heart skipped a beat when he actually smiled. It was only a light tilt of his lips, but there was no mockery, and it made her heart jolt with something akin to pain.
The smile faded as his gem-like eyes grew more intent, dropping to her mouth. She inhaled softly, and he abruptly straightened, shifting away from her.
"You may go, mademoiselle." His words were quiet, and he turned to stare into the fire. "I have no further need of you this evening."
"Of course." Flustered, she also leaned back then stood. "Goodnight, Maestro."
He nodded shortly without looking at her.
xXx
Christine sat before the hearth and studied the drawings that earlier the Master of Thornfield critiqued, surprised how much his opinion mattered. Perhaps because he was also an artist, superb in his craft where she was still learning. Perhaps because he had been the first person to whom she revealed this part of herself, having kept her work securely hidden beneath her mattress at Lindenwood and only penning the sketches during her free time, when she was sure of her solitude. She had been too apprehensive that should she speak of their existence to anyone, the higher staff would have learned and absconded with her art, citing her work as evil, just as they had done with her song.
That part of herself she kept hidden in privacy as well.
But the Maestro had approved. He had been honest in his assessment of her illustrations and even encouraged her to continue.
A small, thankful smile tilted her lips as she tucked her drawings safely into her satchel.
The sudden sound of light running footfalls came from outside her door. The steps on the stone were soft, as if padded - slippered feet or soles that were bare.
The hour was late, much too late for Adrienne to be skulking about. Christine tied the sash of her wrapper around her nightdress and hurried to the door. At a sudden short burst of laughter, shivers shook her spine, and a rush of apprehension made her pause.
Reminded of the mysterious noises she'd heard shortly after she came to Thornfield – wood creaking behind her, but turning to find no one there – she told herself, as she did then, that this was nothing to cause alarm. Timbers of old buildings creaked; it was natural. As for the odd laughter, Adrienne was a curious little imp who likely played some mischievous prank on her new governess.
Christine turned the handle and hurried into the dimly lit corridor and to Adrienne's bedchamber, opening the door a crack to peep inside. Her heart seemed to stop to see the child sleeping soundly within her bed.
Not Adrienne then…
Again she heard the sound of light running footsteps, distant this time.
Christine quietly shut Adrienne's door, uncertain what to do next. She returned to her room for a candle. Perhaps it was folly to investigate, but she wouldn't get a wink of sleep unless she made the attempt. Slipping her finger through the brass ring and holding the candlestick out before her, she walked to the next corridor and peered around the corner.
This corridor was unlit, the candles having been extinguished, and she felt grateful for the flame of hers, even if it was too small to illuminate more than the subsequent step. Her heart pounded fast as slowly she moved forward, the shadows looming on either wall before her.
"No, no, no…someone help me!"
Distant cries shattered the silence and caused Christine to halt in her tracks a frightful moment, then hurry forward, to answer the cry for help.
A face suddenly came into her line of vision and she nearly dropped the candle.
"Mademoiselle," the housekeeper said, her voice contained, "Is everything alright?"
"I heard a noise – someone screamed for help. Did you not hear?"
The woman nodded. "No need to be alarmed. One of the servants had a bit of an accident. Nothing life-threatening. She's being tended to..."
As she spoke, Madame Fairfax slipped an arm about Christine's shoulders and redirected her path, the pace she set hurried, back toward Christine's bedchamber.
"I hope everything is alright," Christine worried aloud. " I heard someone running – did she fall?"
"A bit tipsy is all – she'll be dealt with. Nothing for you to concern yourself with, my dear."
The mention of the tipsy servant reminded Christine of the woman with the flask.
"I wish to speak with you about a matter I'd earlier forgotten…" Christine hurried to say as Madame Fairfax clearly meant to escort her to the door of her room, now within sight. "I thought I'd met all the servants during the week I've been here, but today as I was walking through the manor, I ran across a rather disagreeable woman I've never seen."
"Oh?" Madame Fairfax's affable countenance grew a mite stern. "And who was that?"
"I don't know actually. I met her when I opened the door at the far end of the portrait gallery."
"The antechamber leading to the third floor?"
Christine felt a rush of guilt. "Yes, well, I didn't know that at the time."
"Hazel Bleue prefers to work there, at her tasks. She is both laundress and seamstress but doesn't get along well with the other servants, so spends her time in solitude. To keep the peace, I allow it. She sews a fine stitch and is remarkable at her work."
"But if the third floor is in such disrepair…?" Christine said in confusion.
"She's familiar with the layout and knows what areas to avoid. It's best to steer clear of her; she's an odd one that Hazel Bleue. As you've no doubt witnessed, she's not one bit sociable. The master is satisfied with her work, and that's what matters. Well now, here we are. I'll leave you to get a good night's sleep, my dear. You must be exhausted after your day."
Before Christine had a chance to respond – and wonder why Madame Fairfax thought this day different than any other – the woman hastened back the way she'd come.
Christine shook her head and let herself back into her room, feeling certain that the housekeeper was hiding something about the eccentric Hazel Bleue. What that entailed, Christine could not imagine...though she was determined to find out.
xXx
A/N: Thank you again for the reviews! :) We're beginning to get into the thick of things…(heh heh heh)