274A/N: Thank you so much for the support and reviews – I pray all of you are keeping safe and healthy in these troubled times. I apologize for the delay in producing a chapter - I hope to pick up the pace to maintain a normal rate again very soon . :) And now…
Chapter XX
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Christine shut the door, just short of slamming it. She pressed her back to the wood and slowly slid down its carved surface, unmindful of the shallow dips and curves that grazed her spine. The tears she had worked hard to suppress while in his presence now rained silently down her cheeks. She dropped to sit with bunched skirts on the floor, her hands lifting to cover her face. Beyond the closed chamber, a dissonant and wrathful string of chords attacked the air, proving the Count wasn't as unfazed by the situation as he had appeared.
A throbbing strain of silence followed the deluge of fitful notes, and she closed her eyes in bitter relief.
It eluded her if she was more angry about the past and his cold desertion of her as a small child or the here and now and his ongoing deceit toward her as the woman she'd become.
How could he treat her so abysmally? He had deceived her mind and betrayed her trust – twice. Once when he abandoned her and his promises to give her an angel's voice and once more when he kept the truth of his identity withheld in a cavern of silence that now roared inside her mind. Had she never confronted him, she might never have known the truth of his lies…
Was his act of proposing marriage when formerly he had been against their union due to some distorted sense of guilt? It must be! He did not seem to want her company or want her, as a husband desires a wife, his codicil to their arrangement proof of that. Perhaps his most pitiless act of all – to lure her to invite his closeness then snatch any hope of further intimacy away...
Was the sole reason he wished to instruct her now because of his abrupt cessation of their lessons together when she was a child? Did he wish to try to bolster her faltering confidence in her ability and thereby assuage his guilt?
The dervish of questions whirled inside her head and she wished to oust every last one of them, seeking only the blessing of quiet. Outwardly she was rewarded. Perhaps he had acted true to form and left the suite.
The stillness soon grew oppressive – the minutes passing into more minutes, hollow and heavy - abruptly shattered by an insistent knock on the distant door that blocked the sitting room from the hotel corridor. Startled out of her dismal deliberation, Christine turned her head, curiously pressing an ear to the wood and hearing the low murmur of voices.
There soon came the click of a door, before silence again filled the air.
In dissatisfaction, Christine tilted her head back against the carved panel, letting her eyes fall shut. Reason told her she was being foolish, even childish, but rationale had no place when pride was stung. Though perhaps it should. How many times had Papa, and later Mama Valerius warned her not to be prideful, that it could be her downfall if she let it. Still, she felt unable to conjure up the desire to leave her bedchamber and face him. Could she trust that he would be present when she did make that choice, as eventually she must? He had a history of making himself scarce. Perhaps when she left this room, she would find herself alone, in solitude once more…even forever abandoned…
Again.
Days ago he promised that he would never leave her. But could she trust him at his word?
A second knock rapped on the distant door, and she turned her head in surprise.
Two visitors in one evening? For a man who preferred his own company such popularity was astonishing. The maids and bellboys never came unless summoned by the bell pull. Perhaps it was Meg, though Christine rejected that idea as soon as she'd thought of it. Her dear friend would be all a-dither in preparation for the evening performance, and Christine almost envied her friend, wishing again for those carefree days, when hard work in learning and later perfecting a new dance was the crux of her burdens.
A second time she pressed an ear to the crack between wall and door, futilely hoping to hear whatever discussion was going on in the adjoining room, only able to note the distant door again shut once the brief visit came to an end.
Her heart thudded to a stop then raced fit to leave her body when the wood beneath her ear shook as a firm knock came upon the door against which she rested.
Startled, Christine jerked away and stared at the ivory wood, thankful she had turned the key in the lock, not that she believed he would enter without her permission when avoidance of her company was so often his preference. She willed calm to return to her nerves.
"Christine, dinner has arrived." His tone came placid and deep, scattering heartbeats into another frenzied rush. When again she refused to answer, he added, "I acknowledge your displeasure with me and do not deny you your satisfaction. If you no longer wish us to dine together, I will leave you to your peace."
Satisfaction?! Where in this misery was satisfaction?
Christine inhaled sharply at the caustic little barb and the reminder that he'd at last agreed to share a meal with her, their first together. She supposed she could ignore him and stubbornly refrain from his company, presently undesired - she had every right to be cross with him, though she wouldn't say she was satisfied! But at the same time she realized that a second opportunity may never present itself. If she refused him tonight, there was no guarantee he would again agree to share a meal with her, and if that should happen, she knew she would be sorely disappointed...
No matter that she could barely stand the sight of him right now.
There was no sound outside the door attesting to his continued presence, but neither had she heard his approach. She never heard his approach. He always walked on cat's feet, so wretchedly silent.
Christine pushed herself to stand, as yet unwilling to face him. But stronger than her reluctance were the many questions that demanded resolution. He might obstinately refuse to fulfill her deep need to learn the truth, but she would lose nothing in the attempt. However, if she did not try, she would never know and come to regret that she had never made the first move toward reconciliation…
Why must life be so horribly difficult!
She sluiced the drying tears from her cheeks at the washstand and blotted her face dry, then tucked errant strands of limp, damp curls that framed her face back into their pins. Smoothing her dress, she inhaled a deep breath for fortitude and exited the bedchamber.
x
He no longer stood at the door, having taken a seat on the bench before the piano, though he simply stared at its keys. Near him, before the window and at opposite sides of a small cloth-covered table sat two covered dishes. She remained standing in the doorway until he halfway turned on the bench to look at her.
"I am pleased that you decided to join me," he said, minus the previous sarcasm.
"It seemed a shame to let the meal go to waste," she replied as politely as she could manage.
He stood to his feet and approached the table. Pulling out a chair, he looked her way in invitation, his manner equally stiff and formal, though even in his aloof regard, his bearing was sublimely elegant.
Woodenly she covered the distance and took the chair he held and pushed in for her. She waited, frozen, when he did not immediately move away. She could feel his knuckles at her shoulder blades where they held to the top of the chair for an unnerving moment and deplored the expectant flutter of her pulse.
Once the Count moved to the other side of the table, Christine fixed her attention to the silver domes, watching as he lifted hers then his to reveal carefully arranged plates of the hotel's cuisine. He poured an open bottle of red wine into two glasses and took the chair opposite. The main course was braised beef tips in a wine sauce with a medley of vegetables whipped in cream and topped with toasted crumbs to the side. She did not grace him with a look, instead focusing her attention on cutting her meat into tidbits without bringing one of them to her mouth.
Once she thoroughly decimated her meal, she irritably laid fork and knife against her plate and took a sip of wine. Still, she did not speak, neither did he, and after a few minutes of unbearable silence, she at last lifted her eyes – more than a little daunted to see that he stared directly at her, not having taken a bite either.
Nervously she set down her glass.
"The meal," he said, "it is not to your liking?"
"No, it's lovely." She picked up her utensil and shoved another forkful of the nearly mashed meat in a small circle. "Perhaps though, you don't care for it?" she returned the query looking down at his untouched plate.
He huffed a half amused snort. "I took sustenance earlier."
She sighed. Of course he did. Why then did he agree to this, or better yet, why would he partake of a meal with the knowledge that they would soon be dining together? As much as she wanted to know, more important questions begged to be considered. Yet she couldn't find the right words to retrieve from the multitude of them she had struggled with earlier. As though he recognized her dilemma, he prompted their entry.
"You frown so strongly. May I know why?"
Surely he must be joking; certainly he wasn't stupid. She let out a vexed little breath.
"I find I am relieved that there is at last an explanation to the Angel of Music, spotty though it is, and that insanity hasn't visited me as I'd begun to fear it must. As it has toward other members of my family."
"Indeed." His response came quietly as he fingered the stem of his wine glass. "And yet that does not seem cause to provoke a frown."
"I suppose I had hoped another year would make me wiser, and I don't feel very wise at the moment."
She mulled the last bit, almost to herself, but his eyes caught and held hers across the table.
"Another year?"
A flush of warmth rose to her face; she had not intended to speak of it at all. "It is nothing. I was only being foolish…" His eyes were intent, unwilling to let her off so easily. "It's my birthday," she half whispered to their demand.
"The anniversary of your birth," he repeated softly, studying her face and form as if to seek change. "I did not realize."
"No, you wouldn't. You left two weeks before that day arrived."
She realized she sounded petulant, and by his narrowed eyes and thinned lips she wouldn't have a dinner companion for long if she didn't cease her attack and relax all appearance of an accusation...
No matter that it was.
She took a deep breath and averted her attention to her plate of food, as yet unable to raise a forkful to her lips while he watched her and took another drink of wine
Another rotation of her fork through the vegetables, going through the motions of dinner without taking part…Her gaze went to her left and what she could see of lamp-lit buildings etched against a night sky. From this viewpoint, she could just see the edge of the opera house…what seemed a lifetime away.
Christine laid her fork against her plate a second time. Taking up her glass she took a longer drink then set it down, unsurprised and unsettled when she looked up to see him still staring.
"If the food is not to your liking and you would prefer another course, you have only to tell me and I will arrange it."
"No, it's fine. It's only that I feel uneasy when you simply sit there and watch me. If you didn't intend to eat with me, why did you agree to this dinner?"
From the manner in which his mask shifted, he lifted his brow in surprise at her frank words then inclined his head in a decisive nod, as if answering a challenge. Taking his fork and knife in hand, he stabbed his meat, sawing a tidbit from the edge as he kept his focus on her and slipped the bite beneath his mask into his mouth. He chewed the morsel, still watching her.
"Does that satisfy?" he demanded quietly.
It was rather absurd that such a small act on his part, somehow boyish, would cause the unseen weight to lift from her shoulders, but it did, even tempted a smile. She likewise lifted a forkful of meat and gracefully inclined her head, as if meeting his challenge, then slipped it between her lips.
She couldn't be certain but thought she detected the flicker of a smile beneath the mask.
"May I ask a question about recent events?" she asked after a moment.
He narrowed his eyes, as if undecided, then gave a curt nod.
"How long have you known?" When he did not immediately answer, she gave her query more detail. "Did you know who I was the night we met at the festival?"
"No," he said, cutting another bite and slipping it to his mouth.
"Then your discovery of the truth was more recent?" Another long pause, and she added, "Did you know who I was when you asked me to marry you?"
"What does it matter, Christine?" he said somewhat irritably, taking a hasty drink of his wine.
"I don't know why, but it does."
"Yes," he clipped. "Through your words, I learned the truth on the night you came to seek my help for the priest."
That night, in the music room, when she had heard him play and called him her Angel…the night before the earl arrived to the castle with his evil wishes.
"So, you married me out of pity," she decided.
"Pity?"
"And perhaps to assuage your guilt."
"Guilt!"
She ignored his rising impatience and forged onward. "I know you didn't marry me for love, I have always known that, and thought your offer was only to save me from my great uncle's evil plans for me, but it was more than that, wasn't it. Tell me, Erik – would the offer have been extended had you not known my identity?"
He threw his napkin down on his plate of food and shot to his feet, startling her. "I think, perhaps, this was a mistake."
"Why will you not simply give me an answer?"
"It is unimportant."
"It's important to me!"
"No, Christine, I would not have offered," he growled. "I would have again forged distance between us and done my damnedest to maintain it!"
His words stung, in that his sole interest lay within the girl she'd been, a fresh, new voice to shape, and not in the young woman she'd become. He did not want her as she was now, but rather sought to make recompense for his transgression against her in her girlhood. She was no more than an obligation, a penance for his sin, and she despised the knowledge.
"You would have let my uncle take me?" she whispered, cursing her need to know.
He hesitated a little too long for her liking. "I would have found another way to save you from his trap."
"I see." Though she did not.
He exhaled a breath through clenched teeth. "If you wish to remain in Paris and resume your life at the theatre, I will return alone to Berwickshire and see to having the marriage annulled."
His somber words were like sharp stones hurled her way, and Christine gasped at the unexpected impact of them as they pierced through to her soul.
"Is that what you want?" she asked, feeling hot tears prick her eyes and willing them not to fall. "To break our alliance and separate?"
"I should think, from our conversation this evening, it is what you seek."
Not a true answer to his personal feelings, never that. But in that moment, to realize with one word she could cut him free from her presence this night, never to see him again, to go on with her life at the theatre as if the past two months never existed - she realized quite fiercely what she did not want.
"I have no wish to end our marriage." His golden eyes burned into her, and she sought for a valid explanation to her decision. "I fear that my great uncle might attempt once more to exert his guardianship over me and force me into a situation I have no wish to revisit, if he finds I am again unwed."
He nodded his agreement.
"But I am curious about the past and have questions to which I should like answers," she went on quietly. "Do you honestly believe such a desire is amiss, given that I have only just learned the truth of our former association?"
He stared at her a long moment. "As long as you realize that I will answer only that which I feel comfortable with, and the remainder of what I cannot give you mustn't seek to ferret out but will agree to let remain buried."
She had promised to respect his secrets, and while she dearly wished to know what elusive mysteries he concealed, she resolved to honor that vow.
"Agreed."
With wary grace, he sat back down. The tension alleviated somewhat, and Christine managed to eat a few bites before posing her next question.
"Why me?"
He eyed her over his wine glass from which he had just taken the final sip and set it down.
"Pardon?"
"Why did you choose me that day, in the chapel? Why not one of my peers? There were other girls I remember who could carry a tune well, better than I, and would have welcomed the prospect to be professionally taught. So why me?"
He leaned back in his chair, with no further intent to dine, and considered his words carefully.
"The night before I made myself known to you, I heard you inside the chapel, sobbing a fount of inconsolable tears for your father and begging him to return instead of sending the angel he promised you. You then stated that if it was truly impossible for your father to come down from heaven to rejoin you, that he should send the Angel of Music soon, because you felt terribly alone and afraid…" His words came pensive with the memory. "I understood that extreme level of loneliness, fear and loss; it kept me standing there, eavesdropping, when I should have walked away and left you to your solitude and misery. Once daybreak arrived, I decided to become the angel for which you sought."
She listened, a little stunned and relieved to hear his motive had been kind, that he was never the dangerous stalker Meg had half convinced her he must have been.
"Why did you always hide and never show yourself to me?"
"I feared the mask would frighten you away into warning others of my presence there. You would have seen I had no wings and was no angel."
She frowned at that. "You secured my promise from the start not to speak of our chapel meetings." And she had told no one, not then - not until after he disappeared. Then, she'd spoken of her Angel to the one person close to her, the only one she trusted, never realizing she'd been overheard and within that same day the entire chorus would know of her visitations.
"I could never be certain that in your shock and likely terror to see me in the flesh, as I am, that you wouldn't betray our secret in a panic. I couldn't take that risk."
He made a valid point. As a frightened and timid child in mourning, there was no telling what she might have done had she seen him approach, wingless, and wearing a black mask.
She stared at the concealment of leather in curiosity. "How long have you worn it?"
Erik tensed, studying Christine from across the table. Her shoulders were no longer rigid, her jaw no longer clenched. She appeared to have calmed. At least he no longer must deal with further histrionics, though he supposed she had every right to be upset by his necessary deception. Had the tables been turned, Erik the one betrayed, he would have been livid.
The subject of his mask and the atrocity beneath it was not a subject he wished to engage in for casual dinner conversation, for any time at all. Long he had learned to curb his violent impulses when mortals grew too curious, but never had he openly spoken of his facial imprisonment and the reason for it to anyone.
"You don't have to tell me if you don't wish to," she said when he remained silent, "but I would like to know."
"For what purpose?"
She started in surprise, drawing her brows together in careful consideration. "Well, we are married, and though we're not lovers... perhaps we could be friends?"
"You wish to be my friend?" he repeated, uncertain he'd heard correctly. Had she not only an hour ago refused his company, despising the very sight of him? Now she sat there, a blush to her cheeks with her forward yet shy question.
"Some marriages, I've been told, are based solely on companionship," she went on. "As you are to be my teacher – have always been my teacher – perhaps we can build on that. I have no wish to endure a year in mutual distance and silence and should like to know more about you. You have aided me time and again, which is what a friend does. It seems strange to consider you otherwise."
"You are certainly a woman to speak your mind," he said, not without a trace of admiration. He was accustomed to either being silently scorned for fear of his presence or anxiously revered due to fear of his title and found her gentle candidness refreshing.
"In the world of the theatre, there are no social guidelines to discourage frank talk when it comes to my gender. Madame Giry raised me, once I became an orphan. She's an instructor with the corps de ballet but has almost as much authority as the managers, often open with her views. Many look to her for the last word, including the managers. But then, I suppose you already knew that." She hesitated as if suddenly uncertain. "You have known Madame a long time, since those days you first came to me…"
It wasn't a question, but he answered.
"Yes."
"She never spoke of you." She glanced out the dark window, seeming lost in a memory before her eyes returned to his. "I never told her about our meetings, not until a member of the chorus overheard me with Meg and then everyone knew. Even then, Madame never told me you were a man and not an angel."
"I told her not to speak of it," he said, somewhat impatiently.
"So she knew about our meetings from the start?"
"She did."
It made sense, now that Christine remembered the multitude of nights she slipped away from her cot and was never once caught, either in her swift departure to the chapel nor in her stealthy arrival to the dormitory room. She had always counted herself fortunate to escape the stern ballet headmistress's keen notice, especially when tiptoeing past her closed door. But there had been no need. Christine had slipped furtively away to her lessons with Madame Giry's full knowledge. She wished she'd known the truth then. She would have been more relaxed in her nighttime journeys and never suffered the many anxious, heart-stopping moments of terror when she'd heard a nearby sound and feared she'd been caught.
Madame had said nothing and known all along and allowed it. Madame must trust the Count. How well did she know him? Did she know his story, his history…?
"Did you have an accident?"
Taken aback by her abrupt change of topic, Erik clenched his fist in his lap. Once again, she'd brought their discussion to his face. Clearly the wretched mystique of the mask intrigued. Yet perhaps this was a blessing as much as a curse...
To tell her the truth of his aberration would fill her with disgust and work to his end. To create the distance that must exist between them, though it would surely carve a hollow deep inside his dead heart to witness her imminent revulsion. And any offer of companionship would certainly be revoked.
Was that not for the best?
Over a century he had worked to overcome men's vicious insults and cruel reactions, to cease to care and remain composed when faced with those fools encountered …
But with this woman, dread made an unanticipated comeback and he felt a sweat break across his brow beneath the leather casing. His mouth went dry and he poured another tall glass, taking a long drink of the rich red claret and forcing himself to answer the question with all honestly, so as to gain her certain hatred.
He looked at her across the table. Her eyes shone wide and curious, fixed upon his.
"I was born with a gross aberration – a freak of nature. Not a soul to be pitied, with a face once normal and scarred through fire or in battle or by other accidental means. That can be forgiven, even admired if the scars came through heroics... No. I was born onto this earth with the abominable face of a beast. Twisted. Inhuman." He took another drink; the words he'd repeatedly heard as a child, later a young man, falling from his lips. "From the moment I came into the world, my father snatched me from the midwife's hands and turned me over to one of the ladies in waiting, also his mistress, with the order to drown me in a nearby lake. She betrayed him and turned me over to a madwoman who lived in a cave, providing coin and keeping me hidden until the day she would gain revenge upon my father. My poor mother died through the sin of giving birth to me. Not through the childbed, but locked away and starved for her sin of bringing a monster into the world. "
Christine stared, aghast and speechless. A wet sheen had risen to glaze her dark eyes. The expressions he expected to see- fear, disgust, even panic- were all absent, and he waited for his self-condemning words to take hold.
"That is horrible," she said a tremor to her voice. "What was done to her, to you. No child should be made to suffer like that."
Did she cry for him?
Her tender comment weakened his uncommon vulnerability, and he hardened his resolve to push her away.
"I do not seek your pity!"
"Then you shall not have it. But I can and do empathize with what you have suffered."
"You?" he scoffed a laugh. "With your ethereal beauty and those haunting brown eyes - you truly believe you know what it is to be an outcast in society?"
Her face flushed a most becoming shade of rose but her jaw became fixed, her eyes somber. "Lest you have forgotten, my lord, I too was lonely for much of my childhood and an object of ridicule. Not cast aside by family as you were, but orphaned just the same. Not scorned for my physical traits to the degree you suffered, though there were derogatory comments made about my appearance. But mainly I was ostracized for what resided in my mind – I was thought to be mad for my belief in a tutoring angel."
"And for that I am to blame, I know," he said through clenched teeth.
"Yes, you are. But I forgive you."
"What…?"
Her reply bewildered him and deflated his rising ire, one of two instinctive weapons used in his defense, the second being sarcasm.
"After what you've told me and what I overheard between you and Madame Giry, I am convinced that you never meant me harm. In these past two months, I have learned you are not a man accustomed to social niceties, such as polite greetings of "hello" and "goodbye". Given time to reflect on that knowledge, I have come to believe your failure to speak to me of your departure all those years ago wasn't meant to be cruel."
"Upon my word, Christine, it wasn't," he affirmed.
She nodded with a smile. "I believe you."
He looked at her, nonplussed. His bitter admission of his affliction had been presented to forge distance. Instead he felt the mystical and unnatural bond that tethered around them tighten even more.
"As we are striking out in this new companionship," she ventured tentatively, "I want you to know – that is...if it is difficult for you to eat with your mask, you need not wear it for my sake."
His eyes widened at her bold and naïve presumption stated with such quiet calm – that she would be different from others who once ridiculed him, spat upon him, fled from him – and he shook his head. "You are generous to offer, my dear. However, as I do not wish you to lose your supper, of which I worked so diligently to persuade you to ingest, I shall choose not to comply."
Once he'd been changed into a true monster he had only ever removed his mask before a mortal in the instant before a kill – to freeze his prey in terror before he fed – and then only if he willed it. And though to yield to her request would surely drive a wedge permanently between them, splitting apart any hope of companionship she fostered, he simply could not drive that final nail into his coffin. Could not bear to see her ridicule, worse yet, her horror should he surrender the mask…
It was weakness, but that he could not do.
Christine did not look at all pleased with his decision but said nothing and lifted her glass, holding it across the table. "A toast then. To a new understanding …"
Erik hesitated – this was hardly creating distance! – but found his hand lifting his own glass and bringing it to meet hers in a gentle clink of crystal.
"And to no further masquerades," she added solemnly.
His entire life was built on a masquerade, but of such dark things she could never know.
xXx
Christine woke with a much better outlook than the previous day.
In the course of their dinner conversation, her perspective had changed. Anger slowly diminished as curiosity, if not thoroughly quenched, had at least been satisfied. As he disclosed brief anecdotes of his past that were in retrospect huge, even disturbing, she could begin to understand. She was still upset over his deceit and abandonment in her childhood, but the more she pondered over the matter, the more she came to realize that she was thankful the man who had become to her a husband, the strange Count with whom she had always been intrigued, had also been her angel. Her Angel of Music.
She had forgiven him, not because he deserved it, but due to the undeniable conclusion of her heart – she wanted to know him more fully, and keen interest did not allow for silent dispute. She wanted to know every thought and deed and word – all of what he would allow. And, in time, she hoped to know him intimately, as a woman knows a man, and felt her body flush with such a blatant admission.
For whatever purpose, he ordained their union to be unfruitful and not to multiply. But she had noticed the glint in his fiery golden eyes when they sometimes studied her, as he had last night, and his was not a look of indifference. He seemed to covet more than her voice to shape and mold to his whim, and having sampled a taste of what he offered, she yearned for more. Yearned for him. There was nothing sinful or shameful in the thought, she assured herself; she was his wife and wanted only what was natural. His somber and vicious description of his distortion did not hamper her desire, only piqued her curiosity. From what she could see of his face, it wasn't monstrous at all, and the thought of birth scars did not deter her.
Her attention went to the lines of morning light that rimmed the curtains, proclaiming a new day. Dutiful to approach it, Christine rose from bed, washed and dressed.
She heard no music coming from the adjoining chamber and wondered if he was still abed, which was doubtful. She never caught him in slumber. Always when she opened her eyes, whether from a brief nap or a full night's rest, he was awake and about his business or entertaining himself somehow. At the castle, on the train, in their rooms...sometimes she wondered if he ever did sleep.
As she suspected, the sitting room was empty, a poached egg in a cup and sweet rolls with tea on the table ready and waiting for her, along with a folded piece of paper. She plucked it up and read its two paltry lines:
I have gone to take care of some urgent business. Remain at the hotel.
Well then. She comforted herself that at least he informed her this time, though she wasn't sure she appreciated his command to stay indoors. But after her narrow escape in the alley yesterday, she was none too eager to set off alone either.
Christine sat down to breakfast, her mind traveling to their dinner at this same table last night. After the toast she issued, he had answered more questions, but offered nothing more about himself, nothing personal at any rate, always vague in his response to such queries and bringing the discussion back to one of two areas: music and the past. They had spoken of her girlhood at the Opera House, and each recalled memorable anecdotes of their time together and apart, though again, he shared very little about his life there. However, when asked, he'd told her that he'd hidden behind the wall with the largest of painted angels, looking at her through a crack in the stone concealed within its robes. He had also shared with her the secret of how he'd made his voice come from different directions, even gently in her ear, explaining it as a trick called ventriloquism. He had not confided his reason for being at the chapel that day nor his reason for leaving, though once more he had stated in earnest that she was never the cause for his swift departure.
And she believed him. If she had been so terrible a student, surely he would never have issued the invitation to become her teacher again. He seemed to anticipate the challenge, and she would question his motives no further.
Adrift with ways to pass the time, Christine spent the first hour fingering the piano to try to piece together a song, then lifted her voice to sing a medley of them while she wandered about the spacious room. Often she stared out the large picture window at the bustling city. It was a shame she had no needlework to put her hands to, though she sorely lacked in such skills, her stitches rarely tiny and precise but usually awkward and never uniform. Her God-given talents lay within her voice and her dance, though the latter was arguable. Good enough for a chorus girl, no more than that.
She had read the entirety of her ancestor's chronicles and wished now she had not left her mother's journal behind at the castle, thinking, perhaps, she was ready to forage through its pages and confront the truth of her mother's madness. If indeed it was as Raoul said, and her mother also believed in creatures that never existed...
A knock on the door startled her. She hurried toward it, eager for something to do and happy for the disturbance into her forced solitude.
Two errand boys stood on the threshold, holding stacked boxes tied with ribbons that towered almost to their eyes. Dress boxes, unless she missed her guess.
"Please, put them on the sofa," she directed.
Again, she had nothing to give but an apology for the oversight, and with polite nods at her assurance that her husband would give them coin when he returned, they left her to unveil the mystery.
Upon opening one of the largest rectangular containers, she saw within the interior the white fur wrap she had selected at the boutique. Of course! A portion of her new winter wardrobe had arrived!
Eager to see what before had been a chore to decide upon, she unfastened the satin ribbons of each and pulled away lids to reveal lacy underthings; a black corset and stockings; elbow length gloves; red velvet, low-heeled slippers with black glass beading; and within the final box - an evening dress of velvet in a lustrous crimson red, bearing wide strips that acted as sleeves and would rest beneath shoulders completely bared. The tucks and graceful drapes of the gown were likewise artistically rendered with small ebony and gold glass beading gracefully scattered here and there in long, thin swirls, the overall effect stunning to behold. She had chosen it with a rebellious nod of her head, the sight of its bold lines stirring something hidden and wild that lay dormant inside her, though the matron of the boutique assured that for a married woman the daring dress was perfectly acceptable for Paris society.
Christine gaped at its beauty as an errant ray of the sun caressed soft folds, causing the jewel-like nap to shimmer a lighter ruby red between its rich folds. Never had she owned so exquisite a gown, and she noticed that all of what arrived comprised an evening's wardrobe. Curious as to the boutique's choice not to send at least one of the day dresses first, she took her booty to the bedchamber, making three trips, and laid each item carefully next to the other on the bed.
Once she was able to tear herself away from admiring her new ensemble, she decided to revel in a leisurely bath and washed her long mane of hair. The fragrant rose and lavender oil soothed her senses. Once again she found herself awakening in the midst of a heavenly soak, slightly disappointed when no music had arrived to tease her ears, only the empty quiet she had endured all day.
His errands must be extensive to be absent for hours. They had parted on good terms last night; surely he could not be avoiding her…
Christine exited the tub, dried off and dressed. Luncheon soon came, wheeled in by one of the bellboys, who proceeded to transfer all dishes from his cart to the table. Again remorseful for leaving a member of the staff empty-handed, she resolved to ask Erik for coin if he again intended to leave her on her own in the future.
With little to do, she tried to lengthen the time, eating her meal nibble by slow nibble, while observing what she could see outside the window. The building across from the hotel also had a window with drapes that hung open. Christine idly watched a woman feed her children gathered around a table and felt a sudden pang in her heart. Would she one day have a child to love and care for?
When a third time a knock came to the door, she pushed away her plate and hastened from her chair to answer, finding a small boy of perhaps seven standing in the corridor.
"Are you the Countess cel Tradat?" he asked.
Shivers tingled along her spine to hear her new form of address. "I am."
"I was told to give this to you." He held up a note to her.
She took it with thanks, noting his disheveled appearance and patched trousers and told him to wait. Hurrying back to the table, she plucked up the last apple pastry, wrapped it in the cloth napkin and returned to the door.
"I have no coin, but I found these to be quite delicious."
"Merci, Madame."
He gave a wide, gap-toothed grin, tugged on his cap in farewell, and scampered away while gulping down his treat.
Christine closed the door and regarded the blank front of the note rimmed in thin lines of black. She turned it over. A mold of red wax sealed its folds, resembling a rose.
Curious she broke the seal and unfolded the letter:
My dear Countess,
Please do me the honor of attending the opera with me this evening at seven o'clock.
I remain, cordially yours –
Erik cel Tradat
Christine blinked in shock as she read the artistic scrawl. Her reclusive husband wished to take her for a night at the opera?!
A smile bloomed across her face at his unexpected invitation of a social outing. The opera house and its productions were as routine to her as the daily act of washing and dressing, but never had she attended the performance as a guest!
And the idea greatly appealed…
With much to do, Christine had little time to prepare, and the day was half gone! She willed her pounding heart to steady its erratic beats and hurried to her room to prepare herself for an evening with the mystifying Count.
xXx
A/N: Ah, a night at the opera…are you looking forward to reading it as much as I am to writing it? ;-) …Thank you for the reviews! I do want to say (warn?), that per tradition, I intend to post the first chapter of a new story on my birthday (end of this month) – I'm just not sure if it will be the PotO/Beauty and the Beast one I've started (19th century France), or if it will be the PotO/Man in the Iron Mask one (17th century France) – maybe both? ;-) Both will be romance dramas and both will be rated a strong M. Any preference...?
