In The Eye of the Beholder
A Novel of the Phantom of the Opera
Sharon E. Cathcart
Copyright Sharon E. Cathcart, 2009
Published at Smashwords
Available in print from Turner Maxwell Books (UK) and TreasureLine Books (US).
Jacket design by James Courtney
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
To discover more eBooks by Sharon E. Cathcart, visit her Smashwords profile at https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/fiona64
Author’s Note
This is a work of fiction. While historical persons do appear within the text, all events are of my own imagination.
During the 19th century, and for nearly the first half of the 20th century, French women were not allowed to vote, nor to have a bank account or passport/traveling papers without express written permission of a father or husband. They had no property rights, not even to their own clothing and jewelry. They had no legal status whatsoever outside of being a daughter or a wife. These facts inform much of Claire Delacroix’s background, and her intellectual rebellion against her place in “proper society.”
Everyone I have spoken to has his or her own vision of Erik, the Phantom of the Opera. My vision is an amalgam of persons known to and/or admired by me. To that end, I thank my husband Jeffrey Cathcart, my dear friend Tom Westlake, and actors Gerard Butler and Earl Carpenter for inspiration. I am also grateful to Paddy Doyle Cathcart, who became Pierre in these pages.
Chapter 1
Paris, France
March, 1889
“Who did this to her?”
My eyes scanned the silent faces of the stable hands as I laid my hand on Josephine’s steaming neck, listening to the black mare suck hard to get a breath of air. Her knees were bloody. All eyes were downcast under my ire.
I had heard the commotion as the horse was brought back to the stables at the Opera Garnier, where I was an equestrienne trainer and performer. Horses were frequently used in the operas and Josephine was my gentlest mare, a beautiful Dutch Friesian. She was poetry in motion, and I could guide her with nothing more than a wide ribbon around her neck. She and I had a scene in Meyerbeer’s “Prophete” in which we did just that, the mare’s steps performing a powerful ballet guided solely by my legs and the ribbon.
Again I glared at the men, stalking the circle around my winded, sweating horse. I tapped my riding crop against my green-topped boots, which just showed under my sturdy, tan twill divided riding skirt. My blue eyes blazed angrily at each of them and my chestnut braid flapped against my black blouse as I paced.
“Who did this to her,” I demanded again.
I caught a muttering toward the back, and turned toward the sound. One of the performers twisted his hat in his hands.
“Mademoiselle Claire, it was me,” said Giraud, the chief hand. “I was bragging on Josephine to some friends at the tavern, that you could ride her with nothing but a ribbon around her neck. I took her to show them, and they challenged me to a race. I tried her over a jump, and she couldn’t take it. She would have won.” His gaze on me grew defiant. “I lost twenty sous.”
“You fool,” I cried. “Josephine is not a hunter. She was trained for haute ecole. And now she will not be able to perform tonight.” I was close to tears listening to the poor mare’s labored breath, her head dropped to her ruined knees. “Messieurs Dupin and Richard will not be happy about this.”
“You could ride Pierrot,” suggested my cousin Francois, the troupe leader. “He’s almost ready.”
Ah yes, Pierrot: the far more fractious black Andalusian. Beautiful, fiery and, as Francois indicated, almost ready. I could do the scene with a bridle, I supposed.
“Francois, send to Dupin and Richard and let them know that Josephine is injured, and that the horse scene will be done differently as a result. I will look to Josephine. You must look to Pierrot.” My cousin nodded his assent and went to take care of the horse. “As for the rest of you, go on about your business.”
I looked at the watch pinned to my blouse and realized that there would, no doubt, be another black-edged note waiting for me this evening since I was now late in caring for Cesare. However, my Josephine came first.
As I laved Josephine’s knees with cool water prior to preparing a poultice, I remembered the first note.
“Mademoiselle Delacroix, I have seen your kindness and expertise with the horses. I have a horse, Cesare, for whom your services are required. You will groom him promptly at five o’clock each evening, while the hands from the stables are caring for your own animals. You will provide his evening feed of the same treacle and grain formulation you provide to your own horses. You will find him in a stall on the fifth basement of the opera. Come alone, and do not dare to tell others of this mission. O.G.”
Like so many involved in the Opera Garnier, I knew the legend of the so-called Opera Ghost and his linkage to the Vicomte and Comtesse de Chagny: how the Phantom had loved and trained Christine Daae, a soubrette. He saw to it that she came out of the chorus to become a prima donna. She then unmasked him onstage.
I had no idea that he still lived until I received that note. It had been almost a year since the incidents in question, after all. Nevertheless, I could not in good conscience fail to at least examine Cesare for myself, to see what his needs were -- if, in fact, this horse existed and it was not another stable hand joke.
I wrapped Josephine’s knees in a poultice and walked her around the yard to cool her. There had been many stable hand “pranks” and “jokes” since I came to the Opera Garnier eight months ago with Francois and his equestrian troupe. I resisted all advances despite my loneliness, which clearly annoyed the men around me. Especially Giraud, who had set his cap for me. Thus, any opportunity to vex me was taken. I cast my memory back, even as I spoke soothingly to the mare.
I had indeed found a horse in a stall in the fifth basement. Cesare was a beautiful pale gray Lipizzan, nearly white, with gentle ground manners. He stood still while being brushed and curried, and nuzzled me whenever he saw me. The horse was in the peak of health and ridden regularly. A pouch containing ten francs was always left in the horse’s stall; I was paid for my extra work. I was grateful for the extra money, for my pay envelope was not a large one.
After an hour of walking Josephine, I returned her to her stall with a warm mash. I covered her in a rug and then hurried to the fifth basement stall. As usual, Cesare was there; of course, there was also a note, a black-edged card whose envelope was sealed with a red death’s head in wax.
“Mademoiselle Delacroix, I know what happened to Josephine. Your gentleness with her was noted. Please care for Cesare as usual. O.G.”
I put the note in my skirt pocket and went about my usual routine with Cesare. I leaned against his warm flank as I brushed him, wondering what I would do about Giraud. I hadn’t the authority to dismiss him, but I surely wished I could. I sighed, and finished grooming the horse. Since I had begun to care for the handsome animal, I braided his mane and tail as the last bit of my routine; when the braids were let down, the hair rippled and shimmered. I had no doubt that whoever rode the fine animal made quite a picture.
I completed my tasks and returned to my chambers to prepare for the night’s performance. Overhead, I heard a beautiful male voice singing. This was not the first time: probably one of the chorus boys practicing in the echoing halls. It made no difference to me who was singing; it was a soothing sound, and enticing at the same time.
The water boys had already brought a hot tub to my room. I undressed and settled into the bath, using rose-scented soap that I purchased in a small shop nearby. After bathing, I stepped out of the tub, dried myself, and dressed in my diaphanous green costume for the performance. I also wore black velvet boots with soft soles; the boots blended in with Josephine’s coat. I was tempted to wear my regular riding boots with Pierrot and use the saddle with the stirrups attached for a change. The stallion was young and far more distractible. However, a certain element of professional pride made me decide against it. I would use the ribbons and the flat haute ecole saddle, just as I did with Josephine. If I lacked confidence in myself or the horse, he would sense it and this would not help matters.
I stood before the pier glass and tightened my riding corset of pale green silk. My figure was more lush than the current fashion dictated; I had full breasts and hips, albeit with a small waist. In an age that preferred the willowy silhouette, I was an anachronism. I was also diminutive in height, topping five feet tall by just an inch. The most dramatic moment of my performance was when I dismounted, demonstrating how much smaller I was than the horse and, with a simple gesture, had her tower beside me on her hind legs before returning to a stand and then bending one leg to bow.
I sighed as I brushed out my hair from its practical braid. My hair was not long, just to my shoulder blades, but the braid kept it out of my face when I was working with the horses. For performances, I wore it down; I was supposed to be some sort of a sylph with magical powers over the beasts. I finished my toilette by making up my face for the stage. The footlights required extra enhancements so that the performer’s face could be seen, but I wanted the audience to focus on the horse.
As I turned away from the glass, I noticed the rose. Its long stem was wrapped in black silk ribbon. I had never received flowers in my room; that was always for the chorus girls or singers. I was merely the horse woman and not sought after by admirers, whom I would only have discouraged anyway. Perhaps Francois had left it for me; he knew I loved the scent. My cousin and I were not close, but he made such kind gestures from time to time.
I glanced at the clock: it was nearly time for me to be in the stable to warm up the horse prior to our appearance. I hurried down the short flight of stairs, wanting to take the extra time with Pierrot.
This was not the life I had envisioned for myself.
Chapter 2
Baincthun, France
1857-1888
My father, Michel Delacroix, left the Camargue, in the South of France, under the cloud of scandal. Like many of the Camargois, he had a gift for horsemanship: a gift he had passed on to me. He worked on one of the Camargois cattle ranches, and his handsome face, dancing blue eyes and dark hair caught the attention of the landholder’s daughter.
My mother, Marie-Louise Lunel, possessed an independent streak. The blonde beauty spent more and more time around the horse barns, and soon she and the charming Michel decided to wed. Her father would hear none of it and, when the two ultimately eloped, cut her off. She and my father left the Camargue and traveled all the way to Baincthun to make their home.
My father trained horses for others and made wine from grapes that grew in a little arbor behind the modest house. My mother, who had been born to a life of leisure, worked for a milliner. According to my father, they were very happy. I never knew my mother; she died giving birth to me.
My father, in many ways, reared me as though I were a son. He taught me how to gentle a horse rather than breaking its spirit. He taught me how to ride, as well as how to read and write. When I was old enough, I attended the village school house. Eventually, as happened with the daughters of wealthier families, he sent me to Switzerland for boarding school.
I loved Zurich, with its cosmopolitan air. I made friends with young ladies from many different countries and could converse passably in German, Italian and English by the time I returned to Baincthun.
By the same token, I loved the house in Baincthun, with its stone walls and tiled floors. There were fireplaces for warmth in winter, and large windows to allow the breezes in during the summer. In the back area of the property were pastures, a large wooden barn, and the grape arbor.
There was no cotillion or coming-out for me. My father spent a great deal of money on my education, and there was not much left for such fripperies. As other young ladies around me married, I was still single well into my twenties. I had no doubt that I would be the much-joked about old maid of Baincthun, tending my horses. I was resigned to remaining on the proverbial shelf.
I was twenty-nine years old when Philippe Andreux came to Baincthun. It was June of 1887.
Philippe sought my father’s advice on winemaking. He had inherited a significant sum of money and decided to become a gentleman vintner. So, he left Paris for Baincthun, which had a reputation as a town where fine wines were made. He could have chosen the Alsace, Bordeaux or any other area, but he came to our village.
The first time I met Philippe, I was riding Josephine back to the house. I was wearing breeches and shirt, with my hair pulled back in a braid. I alighted at the front of the house near a carriage that I did not recognize.
“Mademoiselle?”
A voice that I likewise did not recognize, and then a golden Apollo emerged from the carriage.
“I seek Michel Delacroix. Where might I find him? I have rapped at the door and no one has answered.”
“My father will no doubt be in the back,” I responded, trying to keep from gaping at this most handsome creature. “I will take you.” I pulled Josephine’s reins over her head and walked her toward the barn and grape arbors. “Please come with me.:”
“I am Philippe Andreux,” he said. “And you are?”
“Claire Delacroix. I am honored to make your acquaintance.”
“Mademoiselle Delacroix, do you not fear to scandalize the countryside in your breeches?” There was a touch of humor in the question.
“Monsieur, if this is all that it takes to scandalize the countryside, then I suggest that those in the countryside see more of the world.” I looked at him sidelong, with just a hint of a smile.
Philippe burst into laughter then. “Are all of the women in Baincthun like you?”
“I suggest, monsieur, that you meet all of the women in Baincthun and find out.” Philippe’s laughter at my sally was infectious, and I found myself laughing as well.
Philippe began courting me not long after that first meeting. He told me that he preferred my “originality” to the simpering behavior of the Parisian women. At the same time, he preferred my education to that of the Baincthunoise ladies. I read constantly, and was always prepared to discuss the latest books. I loved to hear Philippe’s tales of life in Paris and hoped to go there one day.
Still, I was astonished when Philippe sought my father’s permission to ask for my hand. I was now thirty years old, and he was thirty-six. My father gladly gave his blessing and we began to plan for a life together. I would eventually move into Philippe’s much larger home and learn how to manage a household with servants. There would be children; that was viewed as a given, for a man in his position needed heirs. He promised me that I would still be able to “scandalize the countryside” by riding whenever I wanted to; horsemanship was in my blood and he understood that riding was just as spiritual to me as holy communion.
Before we could have the banns read, my father died. His heart gave out one day in the grape arbor. We could not marry while I was in mourning, a ridiculous custom that required women to sequester themselves from public view except when necessity dictated otherwise. For an entire year, women in mourning swathed themselves in black clothes and veiling and were “left alone with their grief.”
Philippe accompanied me to the bank so that my father’s will could be read. He left the house to me, along with an income that would be distributed to me by the bank until such time as my cousin Francois Delacroix could be found and brought to Baincthun from the Camargue to make arrangements. If I married, my husband would control the property and my income. Under the law, I was not permitted to determine how much money would be doled out from that income; for now, the bank would allow 200 francs a month. I could not even hold the bank account in my name as long as a male relative was available to manage the funds for me. It was a generous allowance, and I was grateful to have it. I thanked the bank president and we returned to my home in Philippe’s carriage.
“Claire, if there is anything I can do to help find your cousin, I will. When your year of mourning is over, we shall marry at once. In the mean time, I need to make sure that you are well-cared for.”
I pushed the veiling of my ridiculous mourning bonnet away from my face.
“I have never even met this Francois, Philippe. I think it silly that I cannot be trusted to manage my own money and that some stranger has a right to make those decisions for me under the law. How can this be right?”
“Claire, my dear, women just are not thought smart enough to manage their own affairs without a man to help them.” His smile was rueful. “Of course, I think that those who made the laws would change their minds if they were to meet you. In the mean while, we haven’t any choice.”
He was right, of course, whether I liked it or not.
It took a couple of months to find Francois and bring him to Baincthun. When he arrived, he came with several other Camargois horsemen with whom he had established a riding troupe. I enjoyed meeting his companions, but found my cousin to be somewhat cold and given to putting on airs. He even had a valet, which was peculiar for a man of his station. Francois moved into the Baincthun house with me and his companions took lodging in town. Their horses joined Josephine in the barn.
I scandalized Francois and many others by putting off mourning a mere six months after my father’s death. I wanted to ride, and so I did. I also wanted to marry Philippe and cease the pointless waiting.
No amount of black clothing would bring my father back. He had lived a happy life and I did not want to remember him in misery. I rejoiced in his memories of the Camargue, with its wild horses and colorful houses. I dreamed of having a home in the south of France, with terra cotta plastered walls and blue shutters.
To the shock of Baincthun society, Philippe agreed with my point of view. The banns were read, and Philippe and I would be married within the month. Francois and his friends would be able to go back to their lives, as Philippe would be managing the disposal of my house.
And then came the fire.
Chapter 3
Paris, France
March 1889
Pierrot was tacked up in a heavy bridle, his eyes rolling with anger. I reached up to rub between his ears, causing him to relax and drop his head. I removed the bridle and knew at once that Francois had not seen to his tacking; he would never have put a gag bit on Pierrot. I was furious but gave no indication, instead making more soothing noises to calm the stallion. Once I judged that he was ready, I led him to a mounting block from which I vaulted onto the saddle.
At once, Pierrot reared and screamed in anger. I had no reins now and no stirrups, only the strength of my legs to stay on and the quickness of my wits to throw my arms around his neck, trying to weigh his forequarters down by sheer force. The stallion continued his wild dance, and yet no one came in response to my cries. Where in the name of Hades were the stable hands?
To my amazement, a tall figure appeared beside the angry horse. He wore evening dress, black leather gloves -- and a white porcelain mask over one side of his face. His hair was black as a raven’s wing and he exuded confidence and mastery. He raised one gloved hand to the angry horse’s neck, fearless of the waving hooves not far from his head
I, on the other hand, clung to Pierrot’s mane for grim death, willing the horse to cease his frightened antics. I looked into the stranger’s green-gold eyes and, in that motion, shifted my weight just enough on the seat bones to unsettle Pierrot’s balance. He returned his forelegs to the ground, stamping and snorting impatiently.
My rescuer wrapped his gloved hands around my waist and lifted me tidily from the horse; I noted that he smelled of sandalwood. He lifted the saddle flaps, undid the girth, and started in anger.
There was a short nail driven through the saddle flap, one that would not have affected Pierrot until I used my legs to grip but that would then have put him in agony. Horses’ skin was so sensitive that they could feel a fly land; this was unconscionable. Whoever had done this had also, I was sure, put the gag bit on the horse, knowing I would remove it.
“I will see that this mischief is punished,” my rescuer said, his eyes flashing. With a swirl of his cloak, he was gone.
I removed Pierrot’s saddle, inspecting his hide. There were numerous punctures, oozing blood. I could not ride him in this condition; it would be inhumane. I fumed as I put a head collar on the suffering horse and returned him to his stall. Whilst filling a pail with water to bathe the poor creature’s wounds, I found Francois.
“Find a runner; I cannot ride tonight. Look what has happened.” I showed him Pierrot’s hide and related my tale. “The saddle can be fixed. The horse’s trust may even be regained eventually. However, someone wanted me hurt. Badly.”
Francois grimaced. “Giraud said that you had given orders to be left alone with Pierrot, so we all went about other business. You do that at times; none of us thought the better of it.”
It was true that I sometimes wished to be alone with my mount -- and my memories. Tonight, though, I had given no such order, and told Francois as much. Francois said he would look for a runner and I returned the way I came, prepared to return to my room and a book.
To my astonishment, Cesare stood in the paddock, a single rose braided into his tail with black ribbon. A note, on the familiar stationery, was tucked into his saddle flap; I opened the envelope and read the familiar hand: “Mademoiselle, it would honor me if you were to use my mount. I assure you he has been well taught. I will watch from Box Five. O.G.”
As Francois approached, I decided nothing would be lost by trying. As I had with Pierrot, I mounted from the block and found Cesare responsive to my aids. The gentlest leg movement produced beautiful tempis. He collected himself at the slightest resistance on the bit and performed a piaffe that made my heart pound with excitement. I could ride tonight after all.
“Francois,” I called, “Lead me to the wings. We are ready.”
His shock at seeing me mounted on an unknown horse was surpassed only by his surprise at seeing the horse’s excellent haute ecole schooling, and so he did as I asked.
It was not until I was in the wings, awaiting my cue amidst whispers of “Isn’t that Cesare, the horse that disappeared last year when he stole it,” that something else occurred to me. The horse’s tail decoration was identical to the rose I had found in my room.
There was no opportunity to consider further, though, as it was now my time to take the stage.
As promised in the note, Cesare performed beautifully. I did not ask him to rear on command, nor to bow; those were tricks that I had taught Josephine over time. However, the remainder of the balletic freestyle dressage went well enough.
I returned to the paddock to cool the horse after his performance, wondering whether I should take him to the stall in the fifth cellar where I ordinarily found him. I decided to do so, but first I needed to change into more practical attire. I cross-tied the big horse and ran up the brief flight of stairs to my room.
Inside, I stripped hurriedly from the green gown and donned the breeches and loose shirt that I kept at hand. My green-topped boots completed the ensemble. I turned to the pier glass to brush and braid my hair before returning to the stable. For a brief moment, I could have sworn I saw my rescuer looking back at me, the strange half-mask balancing a face of such incredible masculine beauty that Lucifer himself might have swooned with envy. When I blinked, the illusion had disappeared.
“I must have been more frightened by the incident with Pierrot than I thought, if I’m hallucinating,” I said to my reflection. I turned on my heel and went down to care for the horse.
I led Cesare down to the fifth cellar stall, talking to him the entire way.
“Nights like tonight,” I said as I removed the horse’s saddle and began to brush his coat, “I wish that Philippe were still alive. He would have loved to see you.”
So it was that I spoke of something I seldom talked about: my fiancé, and the reason that my heart was so hardened to any advances.
“You see, Cesare,” I finished as I braided his mane, “Philippe risked his life to go into the burning barn after Josephine, my mare. He himself was badly injured; the burns were horrible. I didn’t care, and would have tended to him for the rest of my days. I still saw the man I had loved. I believe that all things are beautiful, if one only has eyes to see. Philippe died, not from the burns, but from an overdose of laudanum. There’ll never be another for me. ”
I turned to work on Cesare’s tail and was surprised to see my masked rescuer standing there.
“A tragic tale, Mademoiselle,” he said, his tone cynical. “Is it true?”
“Why on earth would I lie to a horse, Monsieur?” My voice was a bit more sarcastic than I intended. “I loved Philippe.” An unexpected tear coursed down my cheek and I wiped it away with the back of my hand. “No amount of ravaging to his face and form would have changed that.”
I unfastened the ribbon that held the rose in Cesare’s tail.
“I thank you for your assistance earlier, Monsieur. I do not know how you found your way here, or why. However, I am paid handsomely to care for this horse and I must do so now.”
“I know, Claire,” he said, stepping closer and looking down at me, causing me to realize again the disparity in our heights. “Cesare is mine.”
My eyes widened in surprise. The stranger’s beautiful mouth twisted into a cruel sneer.
“Do I frighten you?” He seemed to revel in the idea, and the thought irritated me.
“No, Monsieur, you do not.” I spoke the simple truth.
I thought about what little I knew of this man as I finished braiding Cesare’s “mud tail.” Christine Daae, now the Comtesse de Chagny, had unmasked him on stage, revealing a face reputed to be so scarred and hideous that women fainted in fear. If he hoped to provoke that response in me, he would be sorely disappointed. Nothing could frighten me after Philippe’s burns.
I turned again to face him.
“I am finished, Monsieur. May I return to my quarters?”
“Of course, Claire.” His smile was a vicious slash in the beauty of his left side. “And please, call me Erik. It seems only right that we should use our given names with one another.”
I made to sketch a curtsey and realized how foolish it looked in the breeches I wore. He seemed amused by the aborted gesture, but he took Cesare’s lead and walked away from me.
“Erik,” I called after him. “Thank you. For your help with Pierrot, and for the loan of your horse.”
He turned back to me over his shoulder. “The pleasure, Claire, was mine. It’s been nearly a year since I so enjoyed watching a performance from my box.”
With that, he was gone.
I made my way back to my small room, grateful that the building was so quiet. It wasn’t until I had changed into a night rail and settled into bed that I shook with the contained nerves of the evening. I could have been killed if Pierrot had thrown me.
I tossed and turned, sleeping fitfully and waking often from bad dreams. I heard a quiet voice, singing songs of love in such a beautiful, pure tenor that it wrung a tear from me. I was sure that whichever chorus boy was practicing at that hour was doing so to impress a soubrette in his chamber. Nonetheless, I fell asleep at last with the beautiful voice teasing my dreams.
Chapter 4
I woke the next morning to find another ribbon-wrapped rose on the night stand next to my bed. I inhaled its fragrance and wondered whether the Opera Ghost might have stood in my chamber and sung to me. The idea gave me an unexpected frisson of pleasure, particularly as I remembered the enchanting green-gold eyes that gazed upon me in the fifth cellar. Surely not. I was not given to such flights of fancy; I shook my head to clear the night’s cobwebs away.
I laid out a gown to wear for the day; I would be shopping and could hardly walk around Paris in a divided riding skirt or breeches. The green wool was simple, yet elegantly cut, and I felt beautiful in it. I had a few pieces of jewelry to go with the dress, including a silver ring in the shape of a gargoyle with a faceted peridot in its mouth. I was fond of the piece, admiring the artistry and eccentricity of the jeweler who had designed it. But first, a bath.
I rang for the water boys, who soon appeared with a sloshing, steaming tub. I poured a bit of my rose-scented oil into the water and undressed. I luxuriated in the tub before finding my soap and scrubbing my skin. I then washed my hair and rinsed it in the cooling water. I stood in the tub and reached for a towel ... and watched as my mirror slid away into a siding.
Erik stepped into my room, attired in snug-fitting fawn breeches that showed off his muscular legs to perfection, a tailored shirt, and riding boots. Instead of the white porcelain mask I had twice seen, he wore a black leather domino. He carried a black shadbelly coat and a hat; a cravat was draped over his arm. These latter items he deposited on the bed next to my own garments.
“I wonder, Claire, whether you would accompany me for a ride today.”
I wrapped the towel around myself and drew myself up to my entire diminutive height.
“How dare you! You enter my room at a whim! You demand my time! Agh!” I sputtered.
I did want company, if the truth were to be told; solitude and loneliness were friends whose fellowship grew tiresome. I sighed with more resignation than I felt.
“I have errands in Paris to do today. I will need to accomplish them before anything else.”
Erik laughed insolently as the mirror slid back into place. I wondered what stratagem he employed to make it so. He picked up my regular corset, a pale blue China silk, and examined it somewhat disdainfully. My stays had no lace or fripperies; the only ornamentation was the fabric itself.
“Well, then, Mademoiselle, I suggest you don your chemise and allow me to lace you in. We can use my carriage.” On seeing my expression he laughed, a trifle cruelly. “Oh, yes, my dear. I have a carriage. Money can buy a great many things. My face cannot be seen, lest I be recognized, but I do go abroad in the daylight. Now, don’t dawdle, Claire.”
I was too surprised to argue, so I slipped into my chemise and allowed him to lace me in. He dropped the petticoat over my head and tied its laces at my waist, and then just as expertly assisted me with the skirt and bodice. I drew the line at assistance with my stockings and boots, but he watched me don both with the same insolent expression on his face.
I brushed and braided my hair, twisting it up tightly and pinning it in place. I opened my armoire to reveal my small selection of hats and debated among two, a fancy one and a more serviceable poke bonnet.
Erik came up behind me and again I noticed the slight scent of sandalwood that surrounded him like an aura.
“The small green one with the black feathers, of course,” he said, taking it down from the shelf which he could more easily reach.
I donned the hat, ring, and matching ear bobs with peridot drops. No precious gems for me anymore; semiprecious stones were all I could afford and I had but few of those. I opened a drawer and took out a pair of gloves. I slipped them on, buttoning the wrists.
Something inspired me to be slightly sarcastic when I was finished.
“Do I meet with your approval, Monsieur?”
He turned from the mirror where he had been arranging his cravat in perfect folds. He looked me up and down as he slipped his broad shoulders into the shadbelly coat that accented his flat abdomen and narrow waist.
“Oh yes, Claire. You’ll do.”
From the tail pocket of his coat, he took a list. “I need these items. You will pick them up as we conduct your other errands, of course, since I cannot be seen. I will provide the funds.”
He opened the door to my room and looked out to make sure no one was in the area. We hurried down the stairs to the courtyard, where waited a closed coach with a driver. Erik stepped inside, and I gave the driver my instructions for the route to make my purchases.
As the carriage rolled out of the courtyard, Erik spoke again.
“So, your lover was badly burned, was he? Tell me how it happened. You see, I missed the majority of the tender tale you told my horse.”
“We were to marry, Philippe and me. He was a very handsome man, and understood my love for animals. I’ve always had a gift for healing them.” I looked just beyond Erik as though seeing into the past. “We were very happy, and I looked forward to being his wife. Philippe had a larger house, where we would move after our marriage. ”
A tear coursed down my cheek as I remembered. To my surprise, Erik’s gloved finger wiped it gently away, his reach across the carriage sudden and tender.
“Go on,” he urged; there was nothing of his previous arrogance in his tone.
“One day, there was a fire in the barn. I still don’t know how it started. Philippe was visiting and we were having tea. I heard the alarm bell sound and started up quickly. I saw the smoke, and ran outside toward the barn, but Philippe was taller and faster. ‘Stay back, Claire,’ he said. ‘Stay back.’ I didn’t listen, of course, but kept running even though he passed me by.”
I choked back a sob.
“While I was seeing to the grooms and making sure that everyone was out safely, I heard a frantic neigh and realized that no one had seen to Josephine. Philippe ran into the burning barn, tearing off his coat. I tried to follow him, but the groom held me back. A few minutes later, Philippe came back out, his coat tied around Josephine’s head, covering her eyes so that she couldn’t see the flames. And oh, my god, the flames. Philippe’s shirt and hair were on fire ... and ...”
I could no longer stop the tears, and so I cried quietly for a few moments. Finally I gulped a bit and went on.
“I looked after him in my home. The pain of his burns was incredible, and the physician left laudanum to help him. One day, I found him standing in front of a mirror, confronting his appearance. He turned and screamed at me to get out of the room -- that there was no possible way I was with him from anything but pity. That I could not possibly love such a monster as himself. That surely I would never want to make love with him again.”
Erik sighed, his mouth twisting into a cynical grimace. “How well I know that feeling.”
“But, you see,” I rejoined, “that wasn’t true. I loved Philippe with all of my heart and being. I still planned to marry him as soon as the doctor said he was well enough. I didn’t care about his face. I cared about his soul.”
“And did you ever tell him that, Claire?” Erik shifted to sit next to me on the leather seat of the carriage.
I nodded. “But he didn’t believe me. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have sent me off to care for Josephine, as I did every day while he napped. While I was out for those precious stolen hours, Philippe drank the rest of the laudanum. When I came back, he was dead.”
I looked down at my gloved hands, twisting in my lap. “I kissed him before they took him away, Erik. That was the last touch of a man’s lips that I felt, still warm because he hadn’t been gone for long. After that, my cousin Francois sold the house in Baincthun. He sold my jewels and my books. He sold everything but Josephine and my clothes. He made me come with him and his riding troupe, because my father had appointed him as my guardian unless and until I married. He still controls the income from the allowance my father left me; I see none of it.”
I looked up at him. “That is all.”
“Claire, I have known only one woman’s kiss, and that one was quite ... reluctant. If what I ask of you now is refused, I will understand. Please, Claire. I want you to feel a man’s kiss again.”
With that, he lowered his mouth to mine. His lips were warm and gentle, but I could not imagine why I was surprised. Had I expected such beautiful lips to feel hard and cruel? I could not say. I slipped one gloved hand behind his neck, caressing the occiput of his skull, and returned the kiss with an ardor that surprised me. At last I broke away.
“How long, Claire? How long has it been since he died?” His voice was raspy with desire.
“A little over a year,” I replied.
“Then perhaps,” Erik whispered, his breath warm against my ear, “It is time to shed your veil of mourning and kiss me again.”
As I turned my face up toward him, his gloved hand caressing my jaw, the carriage rumbled to a halt and the driver called out. “Mademoiselle, we’ve arrived at the modiste’s.”
Chapter 5
Cursing his timing, I called out my thanks and alighted from the carriage to make my first purchase -- but not without first drawing my own hand along Erik’s freshly shaven jaw. I was no timorous virgin, and his kiss had enflamed me. I felt none of my usual caution or reluctance, only maddening desire.
Inside the modiste’s, I could barely keep my mind on my task. Fortunately, I had a list inside my reticule. New stockings, that’s right. Some beautiful lacy ones, instead of the practical worsted I had planned? I imagined Erik’s gloved hands rolling them down after removing my round garters and shuddered a bit. His kiss had affected me more than I’d imagined possible. I gathered my wits about me and selected one pair of each.
I looked longingly at a window display: a beautiful evening gown in sapphire moiré bengaline with a deep bertha neckline. I lifted its hem and examined the stitching, wishing I had use for such a piece. Not only was the price out of my reach, but I had no opportunity for dining out or attending the theatre. I sighed wistfully and returned to the carriage with my small package of ribbon, stockings, and so on.
“I saw you admire the gown in the window,” Erik’s voice came from the darkened carriage; he had drawn the curtains lest he be seen. When I closed the door after entering, there was no light at all.
“It is beautiful,” I admitted. “But I’ve no need for a dress of that nature; I haven’t the opportunities to wear such a gown.”
“You like beautiful things,” he whispered.
“Of course,” I responded in surprise. “Most people do.”
“Then how can you bear to look on me,” he responded, still whispering. As the carriage moved away, he opened the drape to let the light in and reveal his unmasked face to me.
The left side of his face, his entire mouth, and jaw ... all were so handsome that they would take the breath away from an angel. The right side, though, was discolored and twisted. A port wine birthmark discolored skin so thin and fragile that lumps of misshapen bone and delicate blue veins could be seen through it. His left eye was fringed with thick black lashes; the right was barely lidded and sunken in the socket, but was the same soul-filled green-gold as its twin. The right side of his nose was also damaged, the soft nare non-existent.
“Look on this monster, and tell me again how you care more for the soul than the face,” he said in a ragged voice.
“One moment,” I said. I rapped on the roof of the carriage to get the driver’s attention. “Instead of going on the green-grocer’s just now, could we take a drive around the Tower site? I have so few opportunities to go for a drive. I should like to take my time.”
The driver called his assent, and I looked back at Erik. I did not drop my eyes, nor did I cower in fright.
“Well?” His mouth was twisted in that cynical smile again.
“Erik, I don’t know where to start. I know about Madame de Chagny ...”
The moment I mentioned the Comtesse, I was sorry. Something in his face closed away from me, and yet I could not take the words back.
“She was beautiful ... is beautiful. And she was a child. I have seen so much more of life.” I reached out to touch the damaged side of his face. “This does not frighten me, Erik. Not in the slightest.”
He leaned his cheek into my gloved hand, and surprised me by pressing his lips to my wrist through the buttonhole of my glove. I emitted a small moan of pleasure at the gesture.
“You enjoyed that.” He drew away from my touch and slipped his mask back into place. “I have never known a woman, but I have read many texts from the Middle East. Some of them tell of ways to pleasure a woman.”
He moved to the other side of the carriage then, and the moment was gone. Unfortunately for me, the feeling of his mouth on my wrist was not.
“The Tower,” he mused as he looked out the window. “Eiffel’s monstrosity will be the ruination of this City. Mark my words, mademoiselle; when the twenty years for this permit is gone, the people of Paris will demand that this eyesore be razed to the ground.”
We finished our errands, his to the green-grocer and the baker, and to the music shop for staff paper, and I to the saddler for new reins and the cobbler to collect a pair of boots I’d had repaired. We spoke of small things, simple pleasantries, for the remainder of the outing.
When we returned to the Opera Garnier, I thanked Erik for his kindness in lending me his coach and his company. He bowed over my gloved hand with a grace that would have made nobility look crass, and pressed his lips to my knuckles.
He straightened then and said to me, more gently than I could have imagined possible, “Claire, the pleasure was mine. You have given me something I never dared to dream possible, and I mean to repay you for it.”
I could not imagine what he meant by that. I curtseyed to him and went up the stairs to my room.
I unlocked my door and had just put my purchases down when I realized I was not alone.
Chapter 6
“Giraud,” I snapped, “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
The stable hand sneered at me. “Think you’re so high and mighty. Won’t give me the time of day, and I see you getting out of some dandy’s carriage. You’re no better than you should be, that’s what.” He was drunk.
“Giraud,” I repeated, “How did you get in here?”
“Had a key made, didn’t I?” His laughter was cruel. “I’ve heard a man’s voice in here, Claire. I know you’re no ice maiden. Just needed some warming up, didn’t you? I’ll make you come around.”
He advanced toward me and I flung my reticule at him, hoping to buy some time or to make him realize the foolishness of what he was about to attempt. Unfortunately, being short has its disadvantages, and my room was not large. Giraud slammed his hands into my shoulders and pushed me into the wall. I cried out for help.
“No one will hear you, Claire. Just like no one heard you when Pierrot tried to kill you. I’ve sent them all away. Now there’s no one to distract you. Not your fancy horse, and not your fancy man with the carriage.”
He set his foul mouth to my neck and was hiking my skirt up when I heard the snick of the mirror sliding back. Giraud was intent on his actions and noticed nothing. My eyes widened as Erik entered the room, an odd-looking thin rope in his hands. He motioned me to be silent, pulled Giraud away from me quickly and slipped the garrote around the would-be rapist’s neck.
“You’ll leave her alone, or I’ll know the reason why,” he whispered, as he tightened the strand. Giraud’s eyes stood out as he desperately tried to breathe. Erik frog-marched him over to the door and pushed him out, releasing the garrote and locking the door behind him. Giraud fell down the stairs, cursing. I had no doubt he would think the entire scene a drunken dream.
At least, that was what I hoped.
I attempted to right myself. The bodice of my best dress was torn, my bonnet knocked askew, and my skirt was in a state of dishabille.
“I will change the lock myself,” he said, still examining the door. He then turned around to me. “Claire, did he hurt you?”
“No,” I whispered. “I’ll be fine. I think.”
I sat down on the bed and unpinned my hat.
“My dress is ruined, though. And what is that ... that ... thing?”
I indicated the gut string that he wound up and slipped into the pocket of his coat.
“It’s a Punjab lasso,” he responded. “I’ve become rather expert with it over time. One day, I will tell you about my time as the shah’s assassin in Persia, but not now. Our priority right now is your well-being.”
So, the rumors that the Opera Ghost was a murderer were true. I found myself grateful for his skill at that moment, but it gave me pause to realize the true complexity of the man who stood over me.
“You will not ride tonight. I will send a note to your cousin, and to the fools who manage my theatre. You need a night to rest.”
I could see there was no arguing with him, so I didn’t even try. I just sat there fiddling with the torn bodice of my dress, willing the fabric to return to its previous state of wholeness.
Erik opened my armoire and pulled out my breeches, boots and loose shirt. “Put these on,” he said in a tone that would brook no resistance. “I’ll return for you.”
With that, he stepped out of the room and the mirror slipped back into place.
Chapter 7
I changed my clothes as requested, shoving the ruined dress into the back of the armoire; I would ask my modiste to make it into a skirt.
After a while, Francois knocked at my door, calling to me.
“Claire, I have a note here that says you are indisposed. It’s signed O.G., of all things. Is this a joke?”
“Francois, there are some things that I am not at liberty to explain. I am not able to ride tonight. Perhaps you should ask Giraud why.”
I opened the door to my cousin, whose ire was apparent. “What do you mean?”
“This afternoon, when I returned from my errands, Giraud was in this room. He tried to force himself on me, Francois. I will not be riding tonight.”
“But what of this O.G business?” Francois demanded. He did not seem particularly concerned about my well-being, which annoyed me.
“You are right, cousin. It’s a joke.” I smiled grimly. “Now, I would really like to be alone. Could you please see to the horses for me?”
“Of course, Claire. And I will see to Giraud as well. I’ll sack him for his insolence.”
“As you will, Francois. As you will.”
I closed the door behind my cousin and locked it. I then sat on the bed and allowed my fear to show. I cried great, racking sobs. The only man with whom I had ever made love was Philippe, and he was gone. With him, I had thought, had gone that side of me. Erik had awakened something inside me today and Giraud tried to take that something by force.
I curled up into a small ball on my bed and let the tears and sobs soak my pillow. It was thus that Erik found me when he returned.
At first he sat down next to me, his weight causing the bed frame to creak. He stroked my hair and sang quietly to me in that beautiful voice I knew so well, hearing the nightly serenade I had believed belonged to one of the Opera chorus. He then laid down next to me, wrapping his body protectively over mine. His hands were ungloved, with long, slender fingers ending in manicured nails. He caressed my face and continued to croon in much the same manner as I did when comforting a frightened horse.
“Come with me,” he whispered eventually. He stood up and offered me his hand. “I have seen your home; now you will see mine.”
I followed him through the open mirror, which slid back into place behind us. We were in a corridor that disappeared into darkness, moving inexorably downward. Erik carried a small lamp in one hand; he held my hand with the other. I marveled anew at the silent grace in his every motion. He wore loose trousers and an open shirt with his white porcelain mask in place, hiding his disfigurement.
We arrived at a small boat slip and Erik helped me into a tiny skiff. Using a gondolier’s pole, he pushed off from the little dock. I saw discarded props along the side of the underground lake, and marveled at the unusual trappings of Erik’s daily life.
A portcullis rose in the distance, and the boat glided through. It dropped behind us and I realized that there was some kind of a timing mechanism involved; there were only so many minutes to get through before one might be trapped under the heavy metal grate.
We landed at another boat slip, and Erik handed me out of the little craft.
“Welcome,” he said quietly, “to my palace of music.”
I looked around in amazement. There was a dining table, set for two; a music area with a violin, a piano, a pipe organ, and sheets of music spread all over the top of every surface there. A beautifully appointed bed was off to one side, with coverlets made of velvet and silk.
“I wonder, Mademoiselle Claire, whether you would join me for dinner? Perhaps you would like to change first?”
I must have goggled at him, for his laughter was rich.
“Just here, if you please,” he said, moving aside a curtain to reveal a dressing room. On my way past him, I noticed several sketches of a beautiful young woman whom I assumed was Madame de Chagny. He clearly still carried a torch for the girl, and for some reason that pained me. I pretended not to have marked the drawings at all.
Inside the dressing room were the beautiful sapphire gown from the modiste and a pair of matching slippers. An elegant corset, of black silk embroidered with roses, black lace stockings with red garters, and a sheer lawn chemise with only the tiniest straps were also laid out.
“For you, Claire,” he said quietly.
I turned to smile up at him. “Erik, I wonder if you would mind assisting me.”
His smile turned cynical for a brief moment. “Am I always to play lady’s maid for you, Claire?”
I slipped my boots off and undid the breeches I wore. I stood, in nothing but my shirt, and unpinned my hair so that it fell to my shoulder blades.
“Erik, I suspect there is nothing maidenly about you.”
I was surprised at my own hoydenish behavior -- but not enough to stop it.
His movement to kiss me was swift and his breathing harsh as he plundered my mouth. I wrapped my arms around his neck and he lifted me easily. I locked my legs around his waist, and then broke the kiss as he shifted his hands to hold me up.
“My dress, my dear; I’ll make us late for dinner,” I smiled.
“Curse the dress,” he groaned. “I could take you right now.”
“I know,” I replied. I unlocked my ankles and slipped down to stand before him. “But, I don’t want it to be like that with you,” I whispered as I caressed his cheek.
He turned his back to me then, his breath ragged.
“Put on the new chemise and hold up the corset for me to lace, Claire.”
I did as he asked and he laced me up expertly. I sat down on a stool to don the stockings and slippers, but Erik knelt before me.
“Please, allow me.”
He rolled a stocking and slipped it over my left foot and heel. Before continuing to unroll it, he bent forward to trace the edge of my anklebone with his tongue and I shivered, my eyes closed to greater savor the pleasure of his touch. He rolled the stocking the rest of the way up my leg, fastening the red garter around my thigh and draping the lacy stocking top over it in a perfect fold.
On my right foot, his thumb traced a gentle caress at the instep, followed by a soft kiss ... and then the stocking was rolled up and gartered in the same fashion. Gently he slid the beautiful blue slippers on to my feet.
“Your gown, Mademoiselle,” he said, slipping it over my head and lacing it up the back. The dress perfectly flattered my curves, framing my bosom in black lace, and showing a deep expanse of pale décolletage. I could hardly believe my eyes as I looked into the mirror.
Everything was beautiful, except for my tangled hair. I raised a hand to it self-consciously.
“Did you think, Mademoiselle, that I was finished?” Erik gently brushed my hair, easing the tangles loose, until the chestnut mass fell freely to my shoulder blades.
“Now,” he whispered from behind me, “lift your hair away from your neck.”
Around my neck he placed an exquisite necklace of deep blue stones, the center teardrop piece nestling perfectly between my breasts.
“I have one more thing for you,” he said, and opened another jeweler’s box. In it was a sapphire diadem that he settled expertly into my hair. I looked like a queen, and could hardly believe my reflection in the mirror. I looked at Erik’s reflection behind me, and saw a single tear course down his beautiful, perfect left cheek. I turned to face him.