A/N: At last! Another chapter. :)
And now...
Previously: Erik learned of Christine's secret, that she can sing, and realizes to his profound amazement - it was her voice that saved him from ending his life over a decade ago. He takes her to the cemetery and finds her father's grave, where his thoughts on the matter are confirmed and hers are soon realized. Afterward, at the cliff, he shares with her the revelation of that long-ago night, his heartfelt praise and persistent coaxing to again hear her sing at last finding root within her. And after her song...a kiss...
XX
.
With his shocking kiss, her first ever to know, Christine felt as if she were floating, soaring on a pinnacle she had never experienced…
And then he spoke.
"We must return before the storm unleashes its fury upon us." His countenance was somber, his eyes darting across the landscape as if he could no longer bear to look at her. "The clouds darken and gather over the water, portending foul weather ahead."
Christine blinked and also looked in the direction of the sea, noting the thick grayish clouds that rolled through the heavens, far in the distance. From what she could tell, they had not altered since he had signaled the driver to make this stop, nor had they come any closer inland, but she did not argue the point.
In the pall of silence that followed, the giddy sensation previously felt shattered and dissipated more with each step back toward the carriage. She could only surmise that he regretted the kiss. Did he think her brazen to accept his overture and now regard her with jaded eyes? Yet had he not been the one to initiate the gesture?
He gave her a hand up and took the seat opposite, his attention immediately latching to the window – where it remained for the entire ride of silence back to Thornfield. She, too, kept her attention on the flora and fauna that slowly swept past, though she could not relate what she saw if requested. Her mind seemed hopelessly tangled in the threads of recent minutes gone by.
At the manor, before parting ways, Christine bolstered her courage and looked up at him. "I thank you for your kindness in taking me to my papa's grave…" She hesitated, carefully framing her next words. "And if I have done anything to offend, I apologize. It was never my intent." She gave a deferential nod and turned back up the path.
"Christine."
The silken murmur of her name stopped her in her tracks. Warily, she again faced him.
"You have done nothing wrong." His eyes behind the mask had regained the gentleness he'd shown her on the cliff. "Do not believe otherwise."
Her smile was slight, as was the nod she gave.
"Go, then. The day wanes, and Adrienne will be missing you, as will your guests."
Her dismay alleviated, though not entirely, Christine did not argue that they were not her guests, for in a roundabout way, two of them were. She was the reason for his bringing Meg to Thornfield; and at the recollection, her heart again felt a twinge of awed warmth that he would extend to her such a kindness.
"Should we expect you for supper, Maestro?"
He stared at her momentarily then shook his head. "No. Not tonight."
Christine watched him walk away from the manor, along the shady path the carriage took toward the stables. He stood as erect as always, yet there seemed to be an invisible burden that he shouldered, which brought her a new kind of sadness, and she wished to know his torment in order to try and say or do something to show him a kindness.
Always the benefactor, was he ever the recipient?
She pressed fingertips lightly to lips that still seemed to hold the ghost trace of tingles he'd created, then turned aside, back to the manor.
At least the alteration of the play might work toward the goal of a kindness served; now, if he would only accept the offering.
xXx
A short time later, Christine found Adrienne in the playroom with her nose buried in a book. The moment the girl noticed Christine she carelessly tossed the leather-bound volume aside, in a manner that made the scholar in Christine wince, and scrambled up from the window seat.
"Mademoiselle – I was hoping you would come back soon! Wherever did you go? Mademoiselle Giry said you had gone, and Bambinaia Elita I could not find either. I spent hours reading a book I found in the library. You were not there to approve though I did look for you. It is a Greek tragedy called Oedipus Rex – which I find bizarre. Were his sons and daughters then his brothers and sisters since he married his mother? And why would he pluck out his eyes with pins from her dress after she hung herself? Do you think he wanted to be like the blind prophet he'd sent for? It is all so strange and delightfully tragic! But now that you are finally here, may we work on the changes to our play, as you said we would? I think we should write in a murder." Her eyes sparkled with the morbid idea. "Perhaps I could sing a lament. The Maestro might not approve though. He says I'm not prepared for grand performances involving solos and likely never will be since my voice is weak – but perhaps Madame Carlotta might allow me to sing a duet with her…"
"Adrienne," Christine interjected when the child paused for the gasp of a second. "Breathe."
Adrienne giggled. "Bambinaia Elita says I do not always think and let my tongue run away with me and will forever be chasing it. But that is silly," she scoffed. "A tongue cannot jump from one's mouth to be chased."
Christine surmised that if such an absurd feat could be accomplished, Adrienne would manage it, and could not curb a smile at the girl's charming whimsy that helped brighten her mood. Though certainly she was not at all happy to hear of her choice in reading material, most assuredly not a fit topic for a young impressionable mind...
"Come along then," she said, though Adrienne needed no coaxing. Let us work on fine-tuning this comedy of a play, with no murder or misfortune involved beyond what deceptions and trickery Shakespeare has written."
Adrienne sighed. "Oui, mademoiselle, if you so wish it. Though for the next production, I should like to do a tragedy. Perhaps Oedipus Rex…"
The next production? Christine had her hours full managing the one, but decided not to engage in further discussion on the matter for fear that Adrienne would wheedle her into agreeing to embark on a subsequent performance.
And it certainly would not be Oedipus Rex!
For the next two hours they worked on fine-tuning the libretto, until Elita suddenly entered breathless through the door. With a nervous but polite smile and her cheeks rosy with heightened color, she offered Christine a reserved nod and joined Adrienne on the window seat. The two rapidly conversed in Italian, Adrienne again full of questions judging by the raised lilt that traced the end of her sentences.
In parting, Christine advised the girl to get plenty of sleep so as to be well-rested for morning lessons, which would be followed by an afternoon rehearsal, then went downstairs to her own supper. Meg soon joined her in the parlor and took a seat beside her on the sofa. Noting they were the sole occupants of the room for the moment, Christine quietly filled her friend in on her eventful day.
"He took you to your father's grave," Meg softly repeated in wonder. "And then drove you to your aunt's home?"
"Yes," Christine confirmed. "I never dreamed that the manor where I spent part of my early childhood was so close. That Thornfield was even in the same district as Greenwich Hall! I just don't know what to do. I want to go there, just once - something within pulls me in that direction - but I cannot make the attempt, even knowing that Aunt Hildegard has passed from this life."
"You fear seeing your cousins again."
"I suppose. I know I should no longer dread the prospect, we were children then, but I cannot seem to help how I feel."
Meg reached over to lay her hand on Christine's. "Would you like me to go with you?"
Christine did not realize she'd been waiting for those words until they were spoken.
"Would you, Meg?" she asked hopefully.
"Of course. Sisters of Lindenwood – not linked through blood, but bound by heart…" Christine felt warmed with the reminder of encouragement they'd often whispered to one another in those bygone days of abuse and neglect.
"Sisters forevermore," she added the last, squeezing Meg's hand. They shared a nostalgic smile.
"When do you wish to go?"
Christine thought a moment. "Let us put the play behind us first. I will think it over and let you know after that."
"Put the play behind us?" Meg's voice came both exasperated and sad. "What happened to you, Christine? It was always your fondest desire to perform on stage. Especially to sing – to receive accolades and roses from your admiring fans. Do you not remember how we talked of such things long into the night? Now you avoid the idea at every turn and seem to fear the slightest mention of your talent around others."
Christine sighed. "You know what happened, Meg. It only grew worse after you left."
"But you're free of that awful place now," Meg insisted with mild enthusiasm. "We both are. No one controls your every thought and move any longer. Your life is your own, to do with as you will." Meg hesitated, framing her words carefully. "If a life in service as a governess truly gives you happiness then I wish you all the best. But Christine – you can achieve your fondest dreams, at long last. They are well within reach. Do not forget that I live and work inside an opera house and my mother pulls weight in selecting those hopeful to join the chorus. Oh, it would be splendid to have you there!"
Her words both excited and alarmed. "Don't be foolish, Meg. I cannot dance. I have no training."
"You can sing – far better than the puffed-up Carlotta if I recall."
"If only it were so simple."
"Why is it not so?"
Christine could think of several valid and obvious reasons her friend ignored while wrapped so securely within her absurd fantasy, the greatest being that she was not professionally taught. But even should the way be paved for her in gold, she only shook her head in reply, doubtful the tormenting ghosts of her childhood would ever fully let her go, to travel down that gilded path.
xXx
"Mademoiselle," Adrienne whispered, clutching a fold of the heavy velvet to make a sliver of a gap and peek through the curtains. "I do not see the Maestro. Do you think he will not come?"
Christine stood behind the girl and peeked through to the gilded rows of seating and the chair at the front reserved for the master and conspicuously absent of his presence. The staff, the housekeeper, even the cat, made up the audience awaiting the performance, the golden tabby having claimed a chair apart from the servants to roost for a nap.
"Perhaps he is only detained," Christine suggested, hoping but doubting it was true.
Rarely, since their outing of two days ago, had she seen the master for longer than the briefest moment. If she entered a room he inhabited, he would soon leave; if he entered a room where she resided, he would promptly turn on his heel and exit. Never having made eye contact so he would know she was aware of his departure - but from the corner of her eye she had seen. Only once did she manage to waylay him long enough to inform him that changes had been made to the play of which she hoped he would approve. He had said nothing then, only nodded brusquely to her information and just as swiftly left the parlor. Indeed, he had created blatant distance with her since the conclusion of their outing - since the moment of their kiss. Soft and abrupt, even somewhat awkward with his mask in the way, his overture had nonetheless warmed her heart while creating a cloud of sweet confusion in her mind. Though to him, it was obviously no more than a mistake...
And a matter on which she should not dwell, as she had told herself often.
"Go, Adrienne, finish getting into costume. The curtain will open in a matter of minutes."
"Yes, Mademoiselle."
The play, despite their lack of performers, most of whom needed to play dual roles and manage sets, curtain, and music, compliments of the Maestro's device of musical cylinders, went without complication save for one occurrence. Carlotta's servant, Andiamo, evidently had trouble seeing through the small holes of the full head mask of the jackass. Not only did he walk directly into a wall, but once the curtain was brought together after a scene, he found himself on the other side, using his hands to feel his way along the velvet folds to locate the gap, creating a few titters from the audience at his bumbling behavior both times, their quiet mirth echoed backstage.
Several times throughout the performance, Christine cast a glance toward the master's chair, finding it always empty. She sensed Adrienne's disappointment, though the girl proved to be a true artiste, smiling in mischief as she delivered Puck's witty lines. Even without the rejected scene, the amateur production came together well, though upon hearing the diva's replacement solo, Christine was surprised she was a lead in the opera. Christine was no professional of course, her childhood performances with her father no more than a faded memory. But Carlotta's voice held too much vibrato in her humble opinion, making her voice seem frail, especially when she attempted to reach the high notes, a few of which made Christine cringe. Perhaps, in her prime, the diva brought the house to its feet with her arias, but Christine did not see how that was still possible. Still, who was she to offer criticism?
"With each passing day it becomes easier to understand why the Phantom wants to be rid of her," Meg whispered after one horrific warbling attempt at a high note Christine thought might wish to be a C.
Catching a shadow move at the back of the theatre, she intently concentrated on it, distinguishing form, and realized with a little shock of surprise that the Maestro had actually attended, even if not claiming his designated chair. Christine was happy for Adrienne, knowing it would mean the world to the child to know he had come.
For herself, though the gathering was minuscule and the performance amateur, Christine found that she enjoyed her brief hour upon the stage and undertook the role to the best of her ability. In costume, while assuming a different character, she could step out of her life for one coveted evening and become another person. After the many hardships she had endured in her scant years, the experience was more rewarding than she'd thought possible when Adrienne first proposed the play.
Once the final act concluded, the applause from the staff who made up the audience seemed heartfelt. Adrienne prettily curtsied again and again, with proud smiles and throwing emphatic kisses. Soaking up the adulation, she was a little diva in the making. In the background, behind the rows of chairs, Christine noticed the shadowed form of the Maestro had disappeared, though she had been secretly aware of him watching the entire time she was on stage.
The housekeeper announced there were sweets and cider for everyone in the parlor, but Christine decided to delay taking part in the festivities to first change out of costume. She was not accustomed to frills and bows, in Meg's dress lent for her to wear for the performance. Meg carried more in her upper region and was shorter. The pretty green dress bagged a bit in the bodice, and was too short, but she had made it work with the use of several ribbons to conceal flaws and with Meg's help had let down the hem. To please Adrienne, Christine had agreed to the costume instead of wearing her everyday dress. Still, she preferred her own clothes, which though drab did at least fit her well.
Adrienne, in boy's trousers and a long green fairy-like top with jagged edges, also said she wished to change into a frilly dress, remove the pins that bound her hair, and wash from her skin the sparkling face paint, courtesy of La Carlotta. The diva traveled with a full ensemble of colored powders and creams and whatnots she had shared with the delighted girl. Adrienne, in the afterglow of excitement practically bounced up the stairs with her nurse in attendance, while Christine and Meg followed at a more sedate pace, discussing the performance.
"That was quite a lark!" Meg exclaimed.
"I am just thankful I remembered all my lines," Christine said in relief.
"You are a natural. Unlike the diva, who had to be prodded twice. How she has kept the lead in the opera I cannot understand. Perhaps she has an understanding with the managers."
At the wiggle of Meg's brows, Christine's eyes widened, the shock she felt not one of amused pretense.
"Meg! You don't mean..."
"That sort of unscrupulous entertainment is quite common in the theatre. Some of the girls have private patrons, usually wealthy noblemen, to help pad their careers in various ways."
"A far cry from Lindenwood," was all Christine could think to say.
"Anywhere is a far cry from Lindenwood," Meg agreed dryly.
Meg's room was situated two doors down from Christine's bedchamber, and as they approached, each went to their respective rooms. Christine took a few steps inside her private domicile and halted in wondering shock.
On the coverlet of her bed lay a gorgeous bouquet of white roses mixed with other flowers Christine did not recognize, all of them bundled together and tied with white satin ribbon. Awed, she lifted the fragrant bouquet into her arms. A stir at the door had her turn, to see Meg enter the room, a similar bouquet of roses, these pink, in her possession. Before she could say a word, they heard Adrienne squeal, the adjoining door crash open, and the girl run into the room – also holding a bouquet of blossoms different from the others.
"Oh, how delightful!" Meg enthused, "It must be the language of flowers. I had always hoped to be the recipient of such a custom."
"The language of what?" Christine mused in confusion.
"Did you never hear of it? In Paris, the practice is employed quite often, and after noticing some of the chorus girls receive bouquets from their admirers and private patrons, I invested in a book that describes the flower language," Meg explained then scoffed. "Perhaps the sole noteworthy trait Lindenwood gave me that I can appreciate - the ability to read. I am one of few women at the theatre who can; Maman is another. Anyway, this flower language of sending and even wearing certain flowers has gone on for years – decades in fact. It is a silent method by which the expression of feelings can be shared between two people, without interference and public knowledge – except, of course, by any onlookers who know the language as well."
Christine narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "You are jesting with me, Meg."
"I swear to you, I'm not. Each flower reveals a specific sentiment, even the colors and the amount given. There are so many intricacies involved. I have read in great detail about the custom, as well as seeing it in practice at the theatre."
She looked down at her bouquet then smiled. "For instance, these dark pink roses express recognition and gratitude – perhaps that my ballet performance was appreciated? While the pale pink represents happiness and grace, and these green leafy stems are laurels, I do believe, which stand for achievement and success." She lifted her brows. "I think the message is that he was pleased with my ballet of the forest sprite and wishes me happiness."
"No small wonder. You are an accomplished dancer and as graceful as a swan. But there is no card that shows the sender, which begs the question: Who sent the bouquets? The Vicomte or the Maestro, for surely it was one or the other?"
And where on earth had they found so many different flowers, since winter would soon be upon them and autumn yielded so few? At least to her scant knowledge of what she'd seen while living at Lindenwood.
"Perhaps a clue lies within the flora." Meg intently studied her bouquet. "The number of roses is fourteen. Which can mean gratitude and… an expression of thanks? But why would either man be grateful to me?"
If it was the Maestro, Christine thought she understood – Meg had accepted his rare invitation to Thornfield, to reunite Christine with her friend and keep her company.
"What does mine say?" Adrienne eagerly insisted, pushing her flowers toward Meg and bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. "Tell me, please, oh tell me!"
Meg grinned at her exuberance and laid her bouquet aside to take the girl's posy in hand. She studied the flowers a moment then chuckled. "Well, this flower with the wide petals is called an amaryllis, and it's white because that symbolizes the innocence that comes with childhood if I recall correctly; but it can also mean pride. These small fluffy ones are carnations and again, they are white, which means lovely and sweet. This stalk of little pink flowers is primrose, and I believe I remember reading it also means childhood – and this green frond –" Again she chuckled. "Is a stalk of saffron. It means to 'beware of excess', which with the way these are bundled together I think refers to the flower that speaks of pride. It is next to the amaryllis, which I believe does stand for pride in this arrangement, since there is already a flower denoting childhood."
Adrienne harrumphed and crossed her arms over her small chest. "Even in my flowers he scolds me."
Meg shared an amused look with Christine. "I believe the sender of the flowers has been revealed."
Christine bit back a smile, her heart having suddenly quickened also to realize the sender of the gifts must be the Maestro. The Vicomte would doubtless have never thought to arrange for Adrienne to receive a congratulatory bouquet. He was never cruel to the child, but generally paid scant attention to her, only if addressed, and Christine sometimes wondered if he did not like children but tolerated Adrienne's presence because he was a guest at Thornfield. Uninvited by the Maestro, yes, but a guest all the same. She felt both nervous and anticipatory of what her own spray of flowers would reveal but retained enough presence of mind to encourage the girl.
"Perhaps, Adrienne, you should consider it instead as a wise admonition to follow." How often had she been told the same by those at Lindenwood - to beware of pride, even if their stern warning held no true foundation? "But he also expressed that you are sweet and lovely and that he is proud of your performance."
"He did, didn't he?!" Her eyes sparkled as brightly as the glittering flecks of stage powder applied to her face. "I must go tell Bambinaia Elita of my flowers and that they speak silent words of praise to me!"
The girl skipped from the room with her bouquet, her outlook greatly improved. Meg turned to Christine.
"Shall we see what message he has for you?"
Christine held back, strangely nervous of what her floral arrangement might reveal. "Even if I did believe the authenticity of this bizarre tradition as a furtive way to express one's innermost feelings, it is designed to display nothing but positive regards – yes?"
"Oh, heaven's no!" Meg laughed and took hold of Christine's arm, bringing her around to sit with her on the bed, as if preparing to divulge a wicked and delightful secret. "You recall us speaking of the Phantom that has been haunting the Opera House for three years?"
Christine thought back to that strange dinner conversation. "An unseen heckler that many think is a ghost and a few suspect of causing a fire, as well as other nefarious accidents that have occurred there?"
Meg grinned at Christine's dry rejoinder. "More than a few, but yes, you do remember. He has been manipulating the managers since he first made his presence known. Though the greater part of his actions could be construed as pranks, mostly aimed at the one person who tries his patience the most. The diva."
"You don't really believe him to be a ghost though..." Christine looked at her strangely. "That spirits of the departed could exist within our world?"
Meg shrugged. "I am not sure how I feel about that – such bizarre things have occurred - though many at the theatre do believe, and they believe his spirit is there to exact revenge. A deceased, mad composer, some say. It is rather odd so few have seen him, among those being one stagehand who's been known to take to the drink rather heavily. So his testimony cannot be considered valid. He supposedly saw him from a distance, very briefly, up in the flies. A cloaked figure with a face of bone-white, before the spectre darted away making no sound. This also helped to promote the idea of a silent spirit being involved in the affairs of the theatre – thus, the name given him – the Phantom of the Opera. I have actually wondered if he might be an albino, like that peddler who came to Lindenwood one summer. It would explain accounts of his face being stark white, though not I suppose of his eyes that glow ..."
Meg shook her head as if to jostle her thoughts back into order. "Anyhow, among the complimentary bouquets Carlotta has received from her admirers after a performance, she received others not so charming: an orange lily, which denotes extreme hatred; a yellow carnation, which is a sign of disdain; a musk rose with meadowsweet – symbolic of capricious beauty and a useless person; and a yellow rose for infidelity. On the last occasion, she received a gnat snapper – a bee shaped flower – which denotes shame. Each time you could hear her enraged and affronted howls backstage, like a banshee might sound I would think," she snickered. "All those undesirable posies were tied with black silk ribbon and all signed O.G."
"O.G…" Christine reflected.
"Opera Ghost," Meg supplied, "as in the Phantom of the Opera. It's how he signs his notes to the managers on the rare occasions he does send them."
Meg noticed her down-turned gaze to the bouquet and gave a lilting laugh, lightly patting Christine's leg. "No, don't look like that – I'm sure the Maestro is nothing like the Phantom and has only nice things to reveal to you. Shall we see?"
Christine gave a minute shrug, but Meg was already eagerly perusing the bouquet around which Christine kept a tight, nervous hold. She was ready to tell Meg that she would rather not know, when her friend spoke -
"White roses can mean purity and innocence, but also silence and secrecy and that a change is coming…" She took in a deep breath as she surveyed the spray. "Ten roses – that means 'you are perfection.'" Meg's astonished eyes lifted briefly to Christine's stunned ones, before inspecting the bouquet further. "This spray of little lavender flowers are wallflowers and mean 'faithfulness in adversity,' and this…" Again Meg paused in amazement. "This violet bunch of flowers is known as alyssum." Meg lifted her eyes to Christine's again. "It means 'worth beyond beauty', and this leafy frond of coriander next to it denotes 'hidden worth.'" Meg slowly smiled while Christine felt her face warm with a blush. "It would seem the Maestro has a very high opinion of you, mon ami… perhaps more than mere esteem."
"I am quite sure you're mistaken and any praise directed is toward my role as a governess to his ward." It certainly couldn't be for her performance, which though delightful to partake in had been terribly amateur.
"Did I say otherwise?" Meg teased with a mischievous glint to her eye that told Christine they both suspected the possible hidden message conveyed more than simple flattery. However, Christine sensed their ideas of what the bouquet could mean were entirely dissimilar.
When recounting her afternoon excursion to her friend, she had omitted mention of singing for the Maestro, as well as his kiss, uncomfortable to speak of either event when she still felt flustered and uncertain that they were not both foolish mistakes. He certainly seemed to believe the latter was, if his avoidance of her these past two days could be construed as a testament to that.
Should Meg's flower language truly be taken in the literal sense, Christine felt she understood the full message of the flowers when pieced together: certainly, he referred to her misbegotten talent now that she had disclosed her secret and sung for him. He lauded her voice, praising its worth, and promised to keep her secret, but part of the message she failed to understand – what change was coming? Unless not every definition to a flower applied…
Or perhaps Meg was only having a bit of impish fun with her.
Christine carefully set the bouquet aside. "We should tend to our toilette and join the others before they come looking for us."
"I suppose you're right. Wait for me?"
"Of course."
A short time later, they descended the stairs with faces scrubbed free of rouge and powder and again outfitted in their everyday dresses. At the bottom of the stairwell, a tall figure separated from the shadows, causing Christine to draw in a surprised stutter of breath.
"Maestro."
Had he been standing there, waiting for her to appear?
"Mesdemoiselles." He nodded to each. "Mademoiselle Daaé, if I may have a word with you?"
"Yes, of course." Christine cast a flustered glance to Meg before looking back to the Maestro, the memory of the cryptic message her bouquet had given still emblazoned across her mind.
"I will save you a profiterole," Meg assured before hurrying away to the parlor to partake of the delicious cream puffs both girls observed the cook prepare that morning.
"Do not look so glum. I won't keep you from your celebration for an extended time," the Maestro clipped and turned on his heel, leading the way to the chamber he used as an office.
Glum? No. Anxious would be a better description for what she felt. And dread. Despite her meticulous changes, had he abhorred the play and she would now hear of his displeasure?
With some reluctance, Christine followed him to the library, which lay steeped in shadow, the fire low in the hearth and the dual brass lamps dimmed on the adjacent wall in the distance. Enough of a glow emanated from the flames to see his intent expression once he turned at last to face her. The Maestro ignored his throne-like chair behind the cluttered desk and leaned against its front, loosely crossing his arms over his chest, his stance both careless and elegant. He came straight to the point.
"I wish for you to become my pupil and instruct you in voice."
She stared at him for several seconds of bewildered horror, before she realized he awaited an answer. Adamantly she shook her head.
"That is impossible."
"Hardly impossible. I have heard you sing."
"It was a mistake," she nearly whispered but he heard in the approximate ten feet of space that separated them.
"You deem it a mistake to give people pleasure?"
"No, of course not, but there are other ways to give pleasure."
Hardly aware of what she was saying, she noted the quirk of his brow by the lift of his mask. Quickly she looked away, stumbling over her next words.
"The flowers were a pleasure. Adrienne loved her flowers – and what they meant. Meg as well. I did too. Indeed, the bouquets were all quite beautiful."
"A sentiment given with all sincerity."
Recalling the meaning of her bouquet – at least, that which Meg assured her was true – she felt a quiver of uncertainty. Not to her surprise, he brought the topic back to the reason he'd brought her there.
"I can give you an education in voice any singer would aspire to gain."
"I am not a singer."
"I beg to differ."
Beg was not a word she would use to describe his character. Command, even perhaps threaten after recalling her first meetings with the Master of Thornfield - but never something so humble as beg.
Surreptitiously her hands clutched her skirt in frustration. "Why is it so important to you?"
"Long I have desired to find the voice of that night - over ten long years I have waited, always believing it an unreachable quest, in finding the angel to whom it belonged. To instruct you would fulfill a lifelong dream."
Tiny shivers raised the hairs on her arms to hear him describe her not as a bird, but as an angel, even if only for her voice. She sighed, recalling his heartrending confession of how her childish song once saved him, as unbelievable as it sounded; that she had actually done something good with her accursed voice without knowing it. Something beyond good – to save a life would be deemed wonderful… And yet, almost an entire lifetime of torments and rejection – what lifetime she remembered – made her resist.
"I don't feel comfortable with the prospect."
"Perhaps it is time to look beyond your plateau of comfort and seek what awaits you on the next uphill journey."
"I don't think –"
"You might even find a source of pleasure from the experience."
"Fine. I will agree to be taught by you - if you go beyond your plateau of comfort and remove the mask for me."
His vexing persistence and her emotional exhaustion made Christine speak without clear consideration. In the resulting din of silence, her eyes went wide with sudden unease while his gold-flecked ones narrowed and burned into her from behind the mask. If her face was not already warm from her gauche comment, she would surely feel the searing heat of his glare.
"You have become bold with your words, mademoiselle."
She experienced a strong flicker of unease at his tone that held an unknown danger within its soft, silken chords. If she were wise, she would apologize, wiser still – make her regrets known and ask to be excused. However, meekness had never been her strong suit.
"You told me it is your preference that I speak my mind when we converse. I was only following your directive."
He unfolded his arms and slowly approached. It was all she could do to stand her ground as he came alongside her and without turning, dipped his head a fraction nearer to hers. "Nonetheless, some issues should never be disclosed," he said near her ear, his breath warm and making it tingle. "You could not cope with the truth."
Her eyes fell shut as she heard his footsteps depart. At the click of the door behind, she released the breath she'd been holding and slowly turned, to find she was indeed alone. Still shaken, she took a moment to collect herself, not wishing to join the celebration in the parlor until her nerves were again steady. Meg was sure to ask the reason for the meeting and likely discern Christine's agitation.
Did he think his scars so grotesque and her so infantile that she would behave in an unsuitable manner if she saw the entirety of his face? What on earth did he think she might do – scream?
She supposed after the glimpse into his childhood that she'd been given, he would have reservations. It was expected. Certainly she wasn't significant enough to him that he would share something so personal – not that she ever truly expected him to confide to her his secret. He would never do such a thing. She had known that. The ploy of challenging him to remove the mask had only been a desperate means to thwart his heavy inducements to train her voice. And her unrehearsed plan had worked splendidly.
Why then did she feel so wretched?
As she pondered such questions, her eyes scanned the numerous rows of leather-bound books, and an idea presented itself. Curiously she walked along their path, perusing the many titles, and at last located the area of the library that might hold what she sought. Grateful that he grouped the books by category, it took several more minutes of searching until her gaze caught and held a possibility, and she stood on tip-toe to pull the slender volume free.
Skimming through several pages, she was delighted with her find and closed the book, taking it with her. After a quick detour to her bedchamber to place her prize on the dressing table, she quashed the urge to immediately delve into its contents and assuage her curiosity. Knowing she would soon be missed, Christine hurried downstairs to the parlor to join the small cast and smaller audience gathered there.
She was greeted by many with warm smiles and hearty accolades for a fine production.
The Maestro, of course, was nowhere to be seen.
xXx
A/N: And so, another day doth commence at Thornfield. :) Whatever will the next bring? (muwahaha) ... Also, I found and used a guide that was written in the 19th century (1834) for the symbolic meaning of the flowers. Today's florists have changed their meanings (I am guessing they did it) so that many flowers now only mean positive things, unlike what is written in this chapter. Like the yellow rose, for example, which nowadays means friendship, but meant something much less admirable in the floriography of the 19th century. ;-)