A/N: Thank you for the wonderful reviews! :) Much, much appreciated... And now…
XV
Christine held her breath while waiting for the proverbial blade of the guillotine to drop upon her slender neck.
"Mademoiselle Giry," the Maestro said with a curt nod of perfunctory greeting toward Meg. "Mademoiselle Daaé." His fiery eyes seemed to blaze right through her. "A word, if you please."
Without another syllable of clipped address and ignoring all the other stunned people in the theatre room, he turned sharply on his heel and set a rapid pace down the corridor.
"Good luck," Meg silently mouthed as the two women shared a look of dread. Rolling her eyes a little, Christine nodded and followed the Master of the Manor out of the chamber, down the labyrinth of corridors, and into the library, noting as he firmly closed the double doors behind them for privacy she wasn't sure she wanted at the moment.
Christine lingered just inside, watching as the Maestro approached his carved desk and chair with its leonine armrests. Rather than take a seat, he stood tall and formidable, putting his back to her as if to regain control, his fingertips pressing to either side atop his desk, before turning to face Christine and noting she had not budged an inch.
"Come closer," he commanded, "or are you now afraid of me?" The amusement in his words was both bitter and challenging.
"No." Straightening her spine and her resolve, Christine did as ordered, doing her best to conceal her slight limp. Her effort was futile as his eyes immediately drew to the bottom of her skirt with hawk-like precision.
"Your foot has not yet healed?" he asked, temporarily distracted from launching into his certain diatribe.
"It's much better," Christine brushed his words of tight concern away. "I've been on my feet a great deal today. I think I must have overdone it." And then, before he could tear into her, she spoke. "I take full responsibility for opening the theatre. I wrongly assumed it was available for Adrienne's recreation, that the key hanging on the hook in the kitchens was available to take. The blame for our intrusion there is entirely my own."
"Forget the bloody theatre - were you also responsible for that travesty of a play? Or does the credit go to those imbeciles lumbering about the stage?"
The play? He was upset about the play and not her intrusion into the locked theatre? Christine took a moment to try to realign her mind with what he believed was the transgression.
"When I was bedridden, I told Adrienne to pick a book from the library for her lesson. You may recall, I asked your permission. She chose that tale of Shakespeare, and after reading it to me, became eager to see it performed."
He seemed to consider and gave an abrupt nod, then leaned his hips back against the desk and crossed his arms over his chest. His aura of nonchalant attentiveness was a sham; she could see the fire of rage still burn brightly in his eyes.
"And you allowed it. No doubt to mock me in my absence," he added in sardonic afterthought.
"Mock you?" She was genuinely surprised. "It was never my intention to mock you."
"No?" He unwound his arms and straightened to his full height. "So the subject matter of the bard's work did not entice you to allow the performance?"
Christine frantically thought through the play's suggestive theme. She had supposed he might be upset with her choice, thinking it unfit for the young Adrienne, though she had been sure to censor original lines said in the libretto they performed. But to mock him? She thought back to what he'd seen of the play…
"The jackass?" she asked, feeling she had at last arrived to the cause of his irritation. "You can be stubborn at times, and as the master of Thornfield, I suppose it is your right. But I don't think of you as a jackass."
His brow inched higher by the shift of his mask. "I am delighted to hear it."
His tone hardly boded delight, every word disdainful and lacking sincerity, and she shook her head in frustration. "I don't understand, Maestro. Please, enlighten me. If you're not upset about our use of the theatre or my granting permission to Adrienne to perform a play – what then?"
"Come now, Miss Daaé, you have shown far greater intelligence than that. Surely this has not escaped your notice." He impatiently waved a hand toward the black leather covering three-fourths of his features.
"The mask?" she asked in complete bewilderment.
"The face!" he snarled.
She blinked at his vicious rejoinder and shook her head in confusion. "But I don't - I didn't –"
"Spare me your profession of ignorance! Deceit does not become you. The similarities could not have escaped your notice."
Deceit…? Similarities?
"It is just a play!"
"Oh no – it is much more than that."
His cutting response brought to mind Madam Fairfax's brief recounting of his tragic life history and a 'damaged' face, though as she helped to make the costumes, Christine had only compared the puppet-like mask she'd been working on to his leather mask, not what he hid behind it. The warmth that rose to her skin brought a betraying flush to recall those thoughts, and she realized then, it was he who compared himself to a beast.
He dryly nodded. "Ah, the light of revelation dawns."
She shook her head in her defense. "Any connection between the two escaped my notice, until now, and you are the only one of us who thinks that way." She lifted her gloved hands in a shrug. "They are simply words from a play written by Shakespeare designed to entertain and give Adrienne some small amount of activity to cut through the boredom as the season changes and the days grow too cold for outdoor play. Her first thought was of you – to surprise you with a performance. On hindsight, I should have insisted on another tale to perform, I see that now, but I didn't realize you would seek to draw untrue comparisons. I assure you, no one else has."
"Seek to draw...," he huffed a laugh that was far from humorous. "I have no need to hunt out scorn and ridicule; it follows me about like a shadow I cannot be rid of."
"No one here scorns or ridicules you."
"And how would you know that?" he asked more quietly. "How would you know what my guests say or think about me behind closed doors?"
"How could they know anything at all?" she insisted. "From what I've gathered, the Vicomte has never met you, nor has Signora Guidicelli, though both are naturally curious about the Master of Thornfield. In all her years at the theatre Meg has seen you once, while her mother has made your acquaintance on the rare occasion. Both women speak of you with the fear and respect attributed to a man of authority who rules over them and prefers to be regarded of as a ghost - like the supposed one that haunts the Paris opera house."
Christine inhaled a swift breath upon realizing the entirety of what she'd said, the nerve of it, and winced a little with the expectation of his barbed reply.
Slowly he clapped, once, twice, a third time. "Well said, mademoiselle," he uttered dryly. "I see you have kept yourself informed during my absence. Please, do not stop now – pray, continue. What else have you heard about me?"
She shook her head a bit meekly at her cheek. "I shouldn't have spoken so."
He snorted. "When have I ever instructed you to hold your tongue? I have always preferred that you not censor your words when conversing with me and have made no mystery of my predilection."
"If that is truly your wish…"
"I have said it."
Though his mouth had twisted bitterly at her impulsive mention of the two uninvited guests, he did seem to calm somewhat and she felt it wise not to expound on her assessment of his peculiar trait of secrecy. Nor did she mention his impatience that Meg alluded to, having experienced that characteristic of his firsthand.
His eyes studied her, as if only just now seeing her, and rested a little long on her unbound ringlets before he motioned to a nearby chair.
"Sit. It cannot be easy for you to remain standing."
After her wild romp through the woodland forest, it wasn't, but once she did as directed, deciding to overlook his curt arrogance to again address her as a pet, she felt at a distinct disadvantage with him now towering so imposing above her. Surely, any physical discomfort would be far easier to endure than this emotional upheaval.
"I wonder…" Once more he leaned his hips against the front of his desk, seemingly at ease though she sensed the tension pulling each muscle taut beneath his frock coat. "You speak of respect and acceptance, but if confronted with the visage of a beast, would you truly be so accommodating? Or do you believe, as the queen in the play stated, that to kiss such a face would be repulsive and scorn the very idea?"
She drew a sharp intake of breath. What in heaven's name was he asking? A kiss?
"'Things base and vile, holding no quantity…,'" he cited, moving away from the desk to look out the window, as if suddenly unable to remain still, "'…love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind. Nor hath Love's mind of any judgment taste – Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste. And therefore is Love said to be a child, because in choice he is so oft beguiled…'"
Erik turned then, watching the shock that flared so intensely in her dark eyes, noting how the curled fingers of her clasped hands had tightened in her sparrow-gray skirts. Disgust, yes, it was apparent in her every stilted breath. Perhaps dread, too, that he might pounce upon her like the beast life proclaimed him.
Before she could flood his ears with her revulsion, he expelled a disdainful breath.
"Mere words from a play – is that not what you called them? Why exhibit such distress, mademoiselle? Surely you recognize the quote…" He lifted his index finger in mock enlightenment. "But the bard was wrong! Love is no child of innocence. It is madness - sheer insanity - the words Helena spoke coming out of spite and jealousy! None could tolerate or accept the beast; we all know this! Like everything else from the pen of Shakespeare, those words, too, are no more than fiction."
"How can you ask me for what I cannot give with sincere truthfulness - having never seen your face?"
Her quiet answer to his earlier question clearly stunned them both. Though she had said something similar during their first meeting in the parlor, then she spoke in straightforward response, but now there throbbed the existence of curiosity.
"You did say you want me to speak what's on my mind," she quickly excused her rash words.
Her indirect probing into what gave him untold anguish hardly came as a shock. He had never encountered a soul that had not in some way made inquiry as to why he covered his face, whether curiosity came silent, through questing eyes, or verbally, with insolent remarks.
"To look beyond the mask. I wondered when you would question."
"I had no right to." She bowed her head in meek servitude. "Forgive me."
Strangely enough, it wasn't a look he desired to see her wear, though he expected it of his staff, and he waved her apology away. "You are so certain you would not withdraw in fear, as have so many before you?" He forced his voice to remain calm. "Even you are not that brave, Christine."
She lifted her head, a new sparkle of determination in her eye. "I am no wilting lily, monsieur."
"True, I have seen that you're not. Yet if my own mother could not bear the sight of me, preferring to keep walls of thick stone between us, what makes you believe yourself to be so different?"
The question was rhetorical, and he surged ahead before she could respond, not wishing to belabor the point or give her incentive to attempt to persuade him in what he would never do –
Never would he remove the mask in her presence.
"Your hands." He cast his attention down to the white gloves that covered them. "They still give you discomfort?"
Christine blinked in confusion, her mind a jumble at the unexpectedness of his rapid-fire change in topic. "I... no, they're much better."
"Yet you wear gloves."
"As protection until they fully heal."
"Let me see them." As he spoke, he moved toward her.
There was no reason to refuse, he had treated her burns when they were fresh, yet she couldn't help but feel nervous as she removed her gloves and watched his approach. He dropped to one knee before her and took one of her outstretched palms in his hand, much as he had done that night.
Her heart turned over at his unexpected tenderness, the ghosted touch of his fingertips, and a tiny spark generated at the contact of his cool flesh against hers. Christine gave a little jump, though he remained motionless, and she concentrated on keeping her breathing steady…
Erik looked up into her eyes, noting her uncertainty, before lowering his gaze and brushing the pad of his thumb softly over pink patches of healing skin that would whiten over time. Scarred…she would be scarred in places, the healing balm unable to thwart the damage as wholly as he would have wished, and in a moment of sincere remorse, he bent to press gentle lips to the sensitive formations.
At her faint gasp, he again lifted his head to look into wide eyes, dark and stunned.
"You should never have been made to suffer for my sake. Would that I could turn back the hands of time to prevent your affliction."
"I can still hold a paintbrush," she said, sounding a little breathless.
"Indeed." His mask inched upward, the telltale sign of a raised brow.
"But I wouldn't change what happened if it meant that I hadn't been there to wake you," she added, finding the words she had meant to say. "You could have died that night."
He exhaled the barest huff of amusement. "And will you now possess my soul?"
"Possess it?" she whispered in bewilderment.
"An old Chinese belief; once you save a life, it is yours to own."
Tingles coursed through her blood to hear him speak of their bond, which seemed to strengthen with each encounter shared. And though he spoke with casual dignity, as if only to impart a nugget of foreign history, she tentatively took his words to heart.
"Your sole, has it likewise healed?"
"My soul?"
"Of your foot."
"Oh." The thought of removing stocking and shoe and having his hands again so intimately touch the bare flesh of her leg prompted her to hurriedly assure, "It's fine! Really. As good as my hands. I was only on my feet overly much today."
His lips flickered at the corners at her hasty and awkward reply. Her face felt as if it bloomed the color of a cardinal's feathers and soon he might make that parallel.
"And if it wasn't healing well, would you deceive me or tell me truthfully?"
"I would tell you, of course. I don't condone deceit."
"Very well." He released her and straightened to stand. "You may continue to wear gloves if you wish, but it is not imperative to do so. The fresh air would likely help at this stage. I also recommend that you continue with the cooling balm each night before you retire and the herbal remedies by day."
"You speak as if you have suffered the experience," she said before she could consider it wise.
He offered a sharp glance, and she saw a warning in the golden depths, not to inquire again about his face.
"I have had experience in dealing with burns, as I told you when you were injured. "
"And what of the play?" She brought the conversation back to where it started. "What should I tell Adrienne?"
He blew out a heavy breath. "Do as you will. If you wish to proceed, I won't stop you. Neither will I be there to witness its presentation."
Christine drew her brows together. "Adrienne's fondest hope was to present the play to you."
"I have better things to do with my time than to spend it among amateurs stumbling through a crude interpretation of Shakespeare. As for Carlotta Guidicelli, I have seen and heard enough of her contrived repertoire of clownish theatrics in Paris."
From what Christine had witnessed these past few days, she couldn't help but silently agree. "Will you throw her and the Vicomte out of Thornfield, since they weren't invited?" she asked hesitantly.
A pleased look relaxed what she could see of his features. "The idea crossed my mind. Do you approve?"
"Well…no." Christine inwardly squirmed at the sudden dark frown he gave. "Strangely enough, the woman and Adrienne have formed a companionship, and the Vicomte said he came only to escort the diva. I should hate to see Adrienne's hope for the play dashed, and it will be if they're forced to leave."
His mouth tightened into a thin line. "I will consider the matter."
"It is also my hope that you'll also reconsider attending once the play is presented, since we both agree – it is only a play."
His eyes narrowed at her gentle manipulation. "I have no plans to mingle among the guests. As you might have deduced from our nocturnal meeting in the countryside, I do not do well at socializing with others."
She regarded him with wary surprise. "But if you intend to keep yourself absent from your guests, why then did you invite them to Thornfield?"
"I did not issue the invitation to the Girys for my benefit; I did it for you."
Confusion brought her eyes wide. "For me?"
He nodded. "I knew Madame Giry's daughter had been at Lindenwood. During my last trip to Paris, I spoke with Madame and learned Meg had a close friend there and that friend was you. I had hoped this would be a pleasant experience, in part, as a token of gratitude for your service in helping me extinguish the fire before it could raze Thornfield. Was I mistaken?"
"No," she whispered, struck by his thoughtfulness. He had done this for her? "Meg was my bosom friend, as dear as a sister. More family than the family I have. Maestro, you cannot know what this means to me – when she was taken away, I was devastated. Nothing at the institution was ever the same and only grew more dreary with each passing day…"
Her words of gratitude did not reassure; rather, from what she could see of his expression his features sobered, growing troubled. And she thought that perhaps her candid talk stirred up his own unpleasant trove of memories.
Blinking away the moisture from her lashes, Christine reached for and held his hand, bringing her other hand over the top to cup his. On instinct, she bowed her head to lightly press her lips to his knuckles, as he had done to her palm. He flinched but did not wrench his hold from her grasp, and the coolness of his flesh soothed the sensitivity of hers. Her lips also tingled.
"Thank you," she said softly, peering up at him. "I am beyond grateful."
Their eyes held a moment before she swiftly released him, feeling suddenly awkward by her excessive show of gratitude, which certainly must be out of line for a governess. "May I again speak plainly?"
Behind the mask, his glistening eyes had narrowed, but he gave a curt nod.
"I -I hope you'll change your mind and shun this distance you have chosen to create. I should think everyone would welcome the presence of their host. They are still your guests, as you were the one to issue the invitation, and except for Meg, I'm frankly at a loss with how to keep them entertained - though certainly I don't presume that it's my place to do so."
"Guests," he growled quietly. "The Girys I invited. The other two are nothing more than pesky gatecrashers, but please, if you would be so inclined, feel free to play hostess. Entertain them however you like, but do not look for me to make an entrance into their midst any time soon."
"You socialize well enough with me," she pointed out.
He seemed surprised that she would arrive at that conclusion. "You are…unique. We share a love of art. Nor do you persist in matters I have no wish to discuss by disguising impudent curiosity as empty flattery. And you do not endlessly intrude into my privacy with rude questions I shall never answer."
She nodded, thinking he had done exactly that, with her. But then, it was his right as her employer, especially in the interest of his young ward.
The Maestro held out his hand to aid her to rise. Christine had just reached out to grab that hand in gratitude, had kissed that hand. Now she held back in unease of her brazen manner, before clutching her gloves in one hand and accepting his help with the other.
Standing to her feet brought her near to him, so close, she felt the heat of his body warm her front. When he did not immediately let go of her fingers, her lashes flicked up to meet his weighty gaze. Her heart skipped a beat at the intensity of his glowing eyes that seemed possessive…oddly wistful…and she recalled their earlier discussion...
A kiss.
His bold stare dropped to her softy parted lips, while barely a breath stirred from her frozen lungs.
And in that impossible, paralyzing moment she imagined how his lips might feel pressed against her lips… imagined, too, that she might work up enough nerve to lift herself shamelessly to her toes, across that diminutive barrier of space, and uncover the answer. She did not believe that she imagined he might allow it; he made no move toward her, but his every action, his every fractured breath, stated that he also wished to discover what she now yearned to know.
A sudden knock scattered all unknown possibilities, and startled, she took a quick, staggered step back on her tender foot, bumping into the chair. She would have fallen over if not for his hand that shot out to grab her arm and steady her balance. He inclined his head in an inquisitive nod as if to assure she could stand. She nodded nervously in return, then looked away before he dropped his hold on her.
"Enter!" he bellowed, sounding angry.
Immediately the door to the library swung open. The downstairs maid, Elaine, paused a step to see Christine, before she hurried forward and stopped a short distance away.
"Maestro, the man who's come for the position of groundskeeper just arrived," she hastened to say then turned to address Christine. "Madame Fairfax is looking for you, mademoiselle, to discuss tonight's dinner menu."
"I should go…."
She darted a look at the Maestro for permission, and he nodded. Throughout her anxious retreat, Christine felt the heat from his eyes scorch her the entire way out the door.
A kiss!
She could scarcely believe that she had nearly behaved so scandalously as to initiate something so shocking! Had there been no knock, Christine was certain she would have given in to her heart's urging. She could not seem to think with any clarity when his eyes burned into hers with such intensity...when his strong, musician's hands ghosted touches along her flesh...when his lips brushed tender against her palm…
The flames of memory heated her skin and she grew breathless from the quick pace she set. Christine was also certain that 'repulsive' had no place in describing what the experience of a kiss with the Maestro might have entailed.
xXx
Near suppertime the following day, Christine entered Madame Fairfax's parlor with Meg, both women stopping short to see that only one place setting had been laid on the white linen tablecloth.
"Madame...?" Christine inquired of the housekeeper.
"The Maestro was explicit in his instructions that his guests should be served in the dining room," the older woman explained.
"I see." Christine had obviously erred to invite Meg and her mother to sup at the servants' table. She looked with some sheepishness at her friend. "I had wondered, but didn't know if such a thing was permitted or not. Never mind. We will meet later, in the parlor. I am eager to hear more about the theatre."
"I would prefer to eat here with you," Meg insisted, "as we've done all along."
"The truth is I've never played hostess, Meg, and didn't realize there were such rules to follow. He was a bit annoyed about the play…" An understatement, if ever she'd uttered one. "And I have no wish to rile him further."
Meg crossed her arms over her chest. "Then let it be on my head," she announced. "I should think he would want his guests happy."
"Neither of you are to dine here tonight," Madame Fairfax broke in, a decided twinkle in her eye. "The Maestro made it clear that you're to join them, Christine."
"Oh, but …truly?" she asked with doubt.
"Splendid!" Meg enthused. "Come, Christine, and I will tell you of the time La Carlotta's poodle got loose and chased a cat all over the stage during rehearsal and the havoc that resulted!" Meg grabbed her hand and practically hauled a dazed Christine from the small parlor.
Ever since her arrival at Thornfield, she had never once dined at the elegantly laid table and felt flummoxed and a little anxious by the sudden change, but she walked with her friend, giggling at Meg's tale of the humorous animal antics.
The evening transpired with barely a rumple in its newly ironed routine, Meg seated with Christine at the far end of the table, away from La Carlotta who sat near the head. The redhead babbled non-stop to the Vicomte, who sent occasional stares down the long table toward Christine, as if wishing to join their company. Meg's bright talk of the theatre and its quirks made the evening delightful. The dishes served were sumptuous in their presentation and flavor, and Christine felt a hint of pride to have had a hand in their planning, when she knew next to nothing of such delicacies.
"I don't know what the help is theenking, to take such airs and dine where they do not belong."
La Carlotta's voice lifted just loud enough so Christine was sure to hear. The Vicomte frowned, and Meg offered Christine a sympathetic look.
"Pay her no mind," Meg said, keeping her voice low but strong enough for the diva to hear. "She is one to speak of belonging, having received no invitation!"
A narrow-eyed Carlotta sent a waspish look Meg's way. "I was told by the managers you Girys were to come here, by invitation of a patron, and I should make my introductions known."
Madame and Meg shared a solemn look of surprise.
"The managers told you to come to Thornfield?" Madame Giry interrupted, sitting between Meg and the Vicomte.
"Si, si…" Carlotta said in haughty tones. "Why would they not? I am, after all, their star!"
Meg's mother shook her braided head. "He will not be pleased," Christine thought she heard her say, but couldn't be sure; Madame spoke low, as if to herself, then cleared her throat. "I have received word from the Opera House. The renovations have only just begun, and they will not be ready to resume the production for at least another three weeks…"
The conversation continued in that vein, La Carlotta chiming in once or twice to blame the outbreak of the fires on the 'dastardly Phantom,' and thus the evening commenced and ended.
The next evening, when Christine again was instructed by Madame Fairfax that she was to eat in the main dining room, explaining it was for the duration while the Maestro's guests were in residence, she felt calmer and more assured as she again walked beside Meg. They arrived at the parlor, to await the servant's announcement that dinner was served. Other than the pretentious diva, Christine had been graciously accepted by the remaining guests, who did not make her feel like she was committing a mortal sin to sup with them.
Any hard-won veneer of confidence cracked when, five minutes after she and Meg arrived to join the three diners, a sixth figure entered the room -
The Maestro...
Tonight, he wore a different mask, one of dark silver that covered only half his face. Thin loops and scrolls painted in ebony ornamented the edge near his temple and jaw. Tall and elegant in a black tail coat and trousers, his waistcoat was of deep forest green with golden accents that brought out both the green and gold in his eyes, the ascot he wore above of black silk. Never having seen this much of his face, Christine found that she could not look away as she took note of its every line and detail.
The mask that dully shimmered fully encompassed his right cheek and arced to end above his upper lip, covering half his nose and trailing upward to the middle of his brows, arching to the right high to his forehead and ending within the locks of his raven hair. Thin, wispy strands hung past his jawline, the majority pulled tightly back in the usual short tail fastened with black ribbon. His cheekbone was set high in a lean face, his jaw firm and set like steel, a testament to his mood. The golden-green eye fully seen was rimmed by dark lashes below a straight dark eyebrow.
Like some debonair pirate, he stood in the doorway with cavalier grace, though Christine sensed the bunched muscles beneath his dapper attire and wondered if only she witnessed the mockery in his eyes as he looked around the room at his guests - the wanted and the unwanted.
"Good evening, monsieur..." He gave a clipped nod to a curious Raoul. "Mesdames..." A curt bow was directed to a gawking Carlotta and a sedate Madame Giry… "Mesdemoiselles…" Another slight bow was given toward the sofa where Christine and Meg sat in utter shock. "I bid you welcome to my home! Welcome to Thornfield!"
xXx
A/N: As much as I would love to keep writing this chapter – I think this is a good stop off point to post – besides, I don't want you to have to wait any longer for the reading. So, what did you think of his entrance? Did you suspect it? Before another giant wave of drama crashes, (and it will) I have some fun things planned I hope you will enjoy… ;-) All feedback welcome!