A/N: Thank you for the lovely reviews! :) (Please, forgive any flaws - I've been sick with a head cold as I wrote the last of this chapter, though I went over it several times hoping to catch anything off) - and now...
IX
.
The wind picked up as Christine stood and stared high at the tower, the chill finding its way between nape and collar and whisking down her spine.
So tall his head could not be seen through the window, only his torso from the shoulders down apparent, the hulking black figure who climbed the tower stairs could be none other than the Maestro. Lightning flashed behind the column of stone as the dark figure disappeared up the next stair. But why should he be in that part of the manor, the forbidden part…the part that Hazel Bleue had claimed as hers?
Thick drops of rain struck her head in intermittent splats and broke Christine from her wondering trance. She hurried as quickly as possible, burdened down as she was, across the wide stretch of lawn to a nearby entrance door she spotted, but found it barricaded from the outside. She managed to lift the plank, but found when she pushed the latch, the heavy door still would not budge. Quickly she changed direction to the front of the manor, hoping to outrun the worst of the storm as the rain began to come down harder.
After pounding on the locked door, the footman came to her rescue. She managed to enter the manor only slightly damp, the hood of her cloak keeping out most of the rain. The footman that she recalled hearing others call Gregory offered to take her things upstairs.
Had she not been trembling with the cold and exhausted from her run, she would have managed on her own. Gratefully she accepted his offer.
"'Tisn't a fit night for man nor beast." The footman, who looked equal to her in age, set her things down by the hearth. "A good thing, miss, that you returned when you did. Storms in these parts can come upon you unawares and be quite fierce."
As if taking their cue, lightning flashed beyond the curtained window, and a sharp rain pounded against the panes; a few minutes more, and she would have indeed been in the thick of it.
Christine hesitated, uncertain she should bring up the subject, and watched his freckled face carefully for any change of expression. "I found a way out of the forest near the south tower, though the entrance near there was locked..." She let her voice trail off in obvious question.
She did not imagine the tenseness that sharpened his slight, bony shoulders beneath his uniform frock coat, nor the way he evaded her eyes. "It always is, as all entrances are, due to the Maestro's orders. You'll have to use the front entrance in the evening. It's the only one not barred from the outside come nightfall, only locked with a key from inside. Because of my duties, I have one, and Madame Fairfax keeps another on her ring. Just find one of us should you need to go outdoors."
This surprised her. She had not presumed the formidable Maestro to be so ...apprehensive? - to employ such a strict safeguard. She was almost surprised he had not built a moat of castle lore. What - or who - did he fear getting inside? Though that did not explain the use of such barricades outdoors...
"Will there be anything else, miss?"
"Thank you, no."
Once the footman left, amid another violent show of the storm's flickering lights, Christine removed her cloak and shook the droplets from it, laying it over a chair near the hearth to dry. She forced herself to abandon thoughts of mysterious locked doors and concentrate on what more needed done. A vial of clear liquid found in the box of paints contained a pungent odor she associated with cleaning, and a few drops on the paint-splattered cloth proved useful for the care of the brushes. However, she doubted it was created for use on human flesh, and hers broke into a rash so easily.
She turned her attention to the canvas and how it fared the journey, wincing as she pulled away a slender, blade-like leaf that had adhered to the wet paint. The lines of her hard work were smudged in a few places that had still been wet, but perhaps it was no true loss and they could be painted over. At least the oils had not entirely smeared, in part thanks to her carrying the painting turned toward her, with the rain striking the back of the canvas.
Her mind again went to the forbidden tower. Certainly there was nothing unusual about the Maestro visiting a secluded part of his manor, and as the eccentric laundress was under his employ perhaps he had a matter to discuss with her. Yes, of course. A simple and logical explanation. She was conjuring mysteries where there were none to be found.
Christine straightened and moved closer to the hearth. A chambermaid had lit a fire to dispel the chill in the air, and she stretched grateful palms to the heat. As she drew warmth from the low flames, she took inventory of her dress, wrinkling her nose to see its sorry state. Splatters of mud and a streak of green paint marred the brown wool of her skirt. She hated the need to rely on Hazel Bleue for her laundering needs, but did not see that she had much choice. At Lindenwood, those who had the misfortune to live there also were expected to take absolute care of their meager wardrobe, taught at an early age the routine to go about it, but Christine had no access to the required implements here. She very much doubted that even if she were to approach the grouchy laundress for a washboard and soap she would loan them to her.
She had little coinage to her name, using almost the entirety of her earnings to purchase the valise, a much needed new corset, and other bits and sundries necessary to come to Thornfield. The first of the month was not for another week and a half. She would simply have to make do until then.
Changing out of the damp dress she unlaced and unhooked her chief indulgence, a ruffled corset with little blue bows, leaving on her woolen stockings, chemise, and drawers. At some point she hoped to afford a bolt of soft brushed flanelle to make a thick nightdress for winter, but until then she must make do with what she had. She sat before the mirror to take down the twist of her hair, slipping the pins into a wide-mouthed jar as she removed them. She then took up her brush and ran it through mussed ringlets. The bristles hit a sore spot at her nape, and she winced. She looked on the dresser for her handheld mirror with the intent to angle it so as to see what stung the back of her neck.
Not seeing her hard-earned prized possession, she opened her valise, sorting through the few things there, but was unable to locate the missing mirror. A swift and thorough search of her room, peeking under furniture and into vanity drawers did not produce the small looking glass either.
She stared at the wall in dismay at the idea of one of the maids having absconded with it, and she dreaded having to report a theft. But what else was she to do? If there was a thief slinking through the empty chambers of Thornfield, certainly they must be stopped.
Her fingers instinctively sought her throat and found the chain, following its thin metal thread to the oval locket she gratefully clasped. She rarely took it off, and with this latest discovery, she never would.
Sleep evaded her. After an infinite amount of tossing and turning, pushing the blanket off then pulling it back under her neck, Christine threw the cover aside one last time. She was weary of attempting slumber that refused to come. She needed peace to soothe the turmoil in her mind, and she felt she knew where she might find it.
She slipped her wrapper over her shoulders, tying it securely around her waist. Taking the candelabrum, she lit all three candles and exited her bedchamber.
The manor was quiet, the servants having finished their duties and retired for the night. In each of the main corridors one gas lamp toward the center was left lit and turned down, the connecting chambers closed off by shut doors. She arrived at the right corridor, and after peeking behind two doors found her destination.
The room was small, perhaps half the size of her bedchamber, the décor one of soothing blues and deep greens among the dark wood and gold fixtures. A shimmering blue paper flocked with gold covered the walls. A small altar-like table with two silver candlesticks stood against the far wall, with an elaborate iron crucifix above, and a long, velvet cushion of deep blue lay spread beneath on which to kneel. To the right, against the wall, sat a chair with an upholstered seat. The room was spare and windowless, but there was a sort of...comfort in the air. A quiet stillness that bespoke peace.
She set down the candelabrum and sank to the chair, inhaling deeply and wishing to absorb the tranquility deep into her troubled soul. Perhaps she only imagined the sweet stillness, brought on by the housekeeper's earlier ruminations. Perhaps...
However, she did not imagine the music.
Christine sat up straighter, her astonished gaze going to the flocked wall nearest her, beyond which she heard distant notes thunder in a rolling wave. She did not think to hesitate, feeling almost compelled to learn where the music originated.
Weaving through dim corridors, she followed the rapid waterfall of notes that covered octaves, stunned when they never faltered, increasing in volume as she approached their source. The music sounded almost livid, violent in its expression, but that did not deter her from proceeding steadily forward, until she came to a door that stood slightly ajar, as if it had not clicked shut after recklessly being swung closed. She set the candelabrum on a narrow table against the corridor wall and slipped closer to the door. With a hand that trembled, she pushed gently on the panel, urging the gap wider. The notes intensified in strength.
She recognized the music room immediately from her previous glimpse of Adrienne's lesson, and sitting tall on the bench, his back to her, the Maestro ran his fingers with vehement precision along the keyboard of a grand piano. The dancing flames from a candelabrum stood atop the impressive instrument and spotlighted him in its pale glow.
A robe of black velvet stretched across his broad shoulders, the ivory frills of his shirtsleeves spilling from the cuffs near his wrists, his hands effortlessly reaching opposite sides of the keys in concise, staccato chords. He brought his hands together in gradual confrontation toward the middle then spread them wide again in rapid flourish, his lean torso swaying from side to side with each sweep of his arms in his emotional overture.
Christine watched him, entranced by his mastery. Never had she heard such an outpouring of passionate notes so skillfully woven, and she clutched the lintel as she unabashedly stared.
She should go, she knew she should go, but found she could not move. She felt held in place with speechless wonder by the fluid runs of notes that blended seamlessly from one orchestration into the next. They went on endlessly - the room resounding with their abrupt shifts and minor pauses, a tangible force that seemed to pummel the very air she breathed and reverberate inside her. His long, nimble fingers manipulated the keys in dark, sonorous command, as if to exorcise his demons or perhaps to summon them. Until finally, the fervent cry of music softened in gradual shifts to the gentle croon of a lullaby. She swayed a step forward and clutched the door frame hard, trying to find focus to break from this frightening power held over her and slip away before he could discover her presence there.
And then all ideas of escape fled, as with a sense of awed disbelief she heard the chords take on notes eerily familiar, yet markedly different – a composition remembered now formed into his unique creation. This version he played was a beautiful stream without pauses, but the same melody she never thought again to hear, except released secretly from her lips.
She let out a gasp. Almost as if he'd heard that wisp of sound, in the next fractured heartbeat the melancholy aria came to an abrupt conclusion. His broad shoulders stiffened though he did not turn to look.
"Why are you here?"
His voice was raw silk, in and of itself its own music, even with the telltale tremor that told of his present vulnerability. A word she never would have before associated with the Master of Thornfield.
She refrained from a reply, hoping there was still time to step back from the door before he could turn and spot her shrinking against its frame.
"Mademoiselle."
Christine blinked. How could he possibly know that it was she who stood there?
Her frozen lips attempted to form the proper words. "I-I was in the chapel. I heard music." She rolled her tongue against the roof of a dry mouth, seeking moisture. "That song you played just now. How is it that you know it?"
He released a weary sigh, a slight droop bowing his shoulders. She frowned to see that her words seemed to spark a bad memory. For a moment she didn't think he would respond.
"In my travels, I have come across numerous styles of music, both the intricate and the unassuming, some of which provide more inspiration than others. That piece is one of them."
A frisson of warmth blossomed inside her heart to find a kindred spirit with this man, a bond she once never would have believed possible. For a moment she was tempted to tell him of her dear Papa, and how he played the song to her, how as an orphaned child, she sang the hopeful words to the stars when she was alone and frightened, and the wealth of comfort it had given.
But the moment passed, stolen away by years of harsh ridicule for the voice she possessed.
She shifted from one foot to the other in unease, her nightclothes rustling with the movement.
"No!" he snapped, mistaking the sound for her approach. "Stay where you are."
He grabbed something from the piano and brought the item around his face, what she now understood was his mask. His long fingers swept to the back of his head and tied the strings in place, smoothing over his hair there one time. Then slowly, he turned to face her.
His eyes were golden pinpoints of light in the gloom of near darkness, and she sucked in a breath, clutching the top edges of her bed wrapper at her throat. Those burning eyes did a slow sweep of her form, from top to bottom then up again, and though she was clothed in material from neck to toe, that fact did nothing to reassure.
Letting out a soft, irritable huff through his nostrils, he half-turned to pick up a glass of cut crystal that sat at the edge of the piano. He took a careful sip of whatever it contained, the mask a clear hindrance, then studied the liquid in his glass.
She waited for his harsh reprimand for spying, her body tensed in preparation of his cutting words.
"Do you like music, Miss Daaé?"
She blinked in surprise at his mild question, tempted to say no in automatic response. But how could she deny what many times had given her the will to endure?
"Yes." Her answer came out almost in a whisper. "You play with the skill of the masters."
"And what do you know of the masters?"
The query wasn't meant as an insult, spoken softly and out of curiosity.
Papa had told her of the master musicians: Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, and others. He had played their compositions on his violin when in a melancholy mood - in her adoring eyes, a master in his own right. But she only shook her head.
"Nothing really. I only meant to say that you play so beautifully."
He gave a distant, offhand nod. "I have found music to be the ideal catharsis when nothing else can appease the soul."
She nodded to herself. How well she understood.
The Maestro lost the battle of indifference and looked at her then, noting her hand still clenched her wrapper, one arm held protectively across her waist. Her hair was all a tumble about her shoulders, a glorious profusion of dark ringlets he never imagined her to possess. What a blunder on behalf of society and their endless rules to dictate such tresses must be stowed away within combs and pins. A shine was apparent in her wide dark eyes, but he did not think the glassiness due to fear.
Had he not been so far immersed in his musical rage of helplessness to become alert of her presence earlier, he regrettably might have turned his damnable temper on her - standing there and looking so innocent and lost. So utterly unaware. A little gray bird fluttering in the corner of the half-open door, ready to take flight at the least provocation. Once his enraged senses had cleared enough to gain a measure of control and recognize his surroundings, he became aware of the acrid odor of the solvent used on his brushes, and knew at once the identity of his captive audience.
His keen eyes spotted the flecks of green and yellow on her dainty wrist and slim fingers, and he allowed the glimmer of a satisfied smile to tilt his lips. Her slow intake of breath did not escape his notice, and he lifted his attention to her stunned face.
Their eyes held for several rapid heartbeats. Deep within he felt a new fire stir.
"The hour is late," he said gruffly, turning back to face the piano. "Go to bed."
"Yes. I-I should." She cleared her throat. "Goodnight, Maestro."
Once she darted away, he grabbed his glass in one tight hand, sorely tempted to throw it against the wall, and drained the contents.
xXx
The following morning, it was with grave reluctance that Christine reported the theft of her handheld mirror. Before taking that step, she first made another thorough sweep of the room, but without success.
At Lindenwood, one year a girl was caught stealing food from the kitchen. Her palms had been brutally slapped with a stick until they bled and she wasn't allowed to partake of meals for three days, given only water to drink.
For that reason Christine felt impelled to speak.
"What will happen to the thief when my mirror is found?" she asked Madame Fairfax.
"They will be dismissed."
"And that is all?"
"Unless you wish to press charges."
"No, that's alright," Christine declined in relief.
The housekeeper conducted a search of the servants' rooms, but nowhere could the mirror be found.
Over the next week, Christine felt a distinct chill from the staff at Thornfield. Maids, who previously greeted her with a polite smile, now turned a cold shoulder or eyed her in wariness. The footman no longer offered a gracious greeting, but spoke with clipped words and a new stiffness to his jaw. More than once she questioned her decision to report her missing possession, but if there was a thief skulking about the manor, she wanted that person found. And she should think the rest of the household would too.
During her free afternoon, Christine slipped away to paint again, grateful for the peaceful seclusion those few hours offered. She made it a point to return before twilight fell, not wishing to be locked out. But no matter where she went, whether giving lessons to Adrienne or sequestered deep in the forest, memories of her occasional encounters with the Maestro followed.
He remained absent in body, but his presence overtook her thoughts.
She had been stunned to realize his expertise as a musician, but more so to hear the song of the angel chime in gentle melody from his fingertips. The urge to bring forth the sweet notes from her lungs in accompaniment had been almost impossible to resist.
She made no more nighttime visits to the chapel, uncertain that she might again hear his music and be drawn to him, apprehensive of what might happen if she did. He had been uncharacteristically soft-spoken in his despair, and it had pulled something deep inside her. But that steady, sudden fire burning in his eyes when he had looked her way, and their eyes had held, both stirred her senses and troubled her soul.
x
A full week had elapsed when Christine again heard footsteps running outside her door at night, followed by a peal of distant laughter.
Startled, she closed her book of poetry, setting it aside. She slid from beneath the coverlet and threw her wrapper about her chemise, belting it once before grabbing the single candlestick and moving swiftly to the door.
A glance into Adrienne's room assured that the child slept soundly, and Christine closed the girl's door and hurried to where she had heard the steps retreat.
She turned the corner into the long stretch of corridor. On the far distant wall she saw the glow of flame shrink swiftly and disappear into darkness.
Clutching the skirts of her chemise and wrapper with her free hand, she walked fast, hoping to catch the culprit who she suspected might be the thief. Finally, she turned the corner into the adjoining corridor, noting the yellow light of a torch bobbing in the distance.
She hastened past closed doors of rooms never before entered, the flagstones hard and cold beneath her stocking-feet. Corridor along corridor, she went, until she was sure she must have reached the opposite wing of the manor. She turned another corner, to see a figure in voluminous black dash from an open room and escape in the opposite direction. From this distance and cloaked as they were, it was impossible to tell if the culprit was fat or thin, a man or a woman.
Christine quickened her pace, determined to catch the thieving scoundrel. The padded thuds of her jarring steps drew her closer, the flame of her paltry candle blowing out with the wind stirred from her mad run. She let the useless candlestick fall from her hand, the ring of heavy brass hitting stone strident to her ears.
The tall, shadowy figure turned and growled, hurling the torch hard in Christine's direction.
Christine jumped to one side, barely evading the missile of flame. The torch landed close, its threat now harmless where it lay burning in the center of the stone floor. Smoke filtered to her nostrils and she heard the hissing snaps and sudden roar of flame - aware it did not come from the torch near her feet.
Anxiously, she turned back to look behind, toward the sound.
xXx
A/N: Those who know Jane Eyre know what comes next - though I'll be putting my own spin on things of course, especially since this is more an offshoot of that. ;-)