The Secret Door: A Phantom of the Opera Novel

by J. Smith

  “Ruined,” Moncharmin groaned once more, as Giry's eyebrow rose at the mention of the Phantom. “We just finished securing full patronage for the coming season, and now we are without a leading lady. What will the Vicomte think? He will probably withdraw his funds…”

  At mention of the Vicomte, the ballet mistress's young daughter made her voice heard for the first time, blurting out the name that popped into her mind. “Christine Da'ae could sing it.”

  All eyes turned to her, including her mother's exceedingly disapproving ones. “Marguerite Giry! You will keep silent.”

  “Christine Da'ae?” Moncharmin asked.

  “Who is that?” inquired Herriot.

  “Let her speak!” Robert' insisted, since obviously no one but Little Giry knew anything about who this Da'ae girl was. Turning to her, he asked. “Madamoiselle Giry, who is this Christine Da'ae of whom you speak?”

  Meg took in a deep breath, and let it out once again. “Christine is…currently…” She twirled an errant curl around her finger. “Working as a …seamstress.” Audible grumbles began to fill the room, as the three men, along with her mother, were now expressing their discontent that they had ever even hoped to believe that the impish girl could have had an idea that would save them. “But wait!” Meg insisted, raising her voice above the din. “She has been taking voice lessons, and she sings beautifully! I have heard her myself!”

  “Voice lessons?”

  “To a seamstress?”

  “Who would ever…?”

  “Please, Messieurs!” Meg cried above the noise of the room. “She has a secret instructor. But you must believe me when I say she has the voice of an angel.”

  “I would have to hear this…angel…to be the judge of that!” Herriot asserted, haughtily, sticking his nose, pretentiously, in the air.

  “Perhaps you should let her sing for you, Messieurs,” Madame Giry suggested, giving her daughter a suspicious look.

  “It is decided!” Robert' announced. “Bring her to the auditorium, Mademoiselle Giry,” he ordered, rising from his seat. “We shall meet you there.”

  27 A NEW PRIMA DONNA

  The otherworldly sounds emanating from the chapel told Meg she had finally found her friend. “Christine,” she called, immediately silencing the divine refrains that had been issuing from the room. She opened the door to see a somewhat bewildered looking Christine staring at her. “Christine! I've finally found you!”

  “I did not know that you were looking,” she stated, still somewhat confounded.

  “You must come with me at once!” Meg demanded, reaching for Christine's hand.

  “Come with you?” Christine questioned, not wanting to leave the chapel, where she had just been communing with her angel. They had been making such glorious music, and now he had gone silent. “Where?”

  “To the auditorium!” Meg answered in a huff. “The managers want to hear you sing.”

  “What!?” Christine asked in horror—as stunned lips silently mouthed the same question behind the wall.

  “They want to hear you sing!” she repeated, impatiently. “Christine, Carlotta is refusing to perform La Principessa Guerriera! The Phantom pillaged her dressing room after the events of this morning, and she quit!”

  “The Phantom?” Christine's eyes grew wide with trepidation. “But why would he—”

  “Who cares?” Meg stalled her question. “Maybe she gave him a headache!” she shrugged, as Erik chuckled silently to himself in the tunnel. He could see that Little Giry had much of the same pluck that her mother possessed. They would both deserve a special thank you. “At least there will be no more temper tantrums or split seams to deal with! But you must come now, Christine,” Meg pulled on her friend's hands. “I know she will come crawling back, and if they do not have someone to take over her role, they will have no choice but to reinstate her!”

  “I cannot do it!” Christine protested, shrinking back from her friend. “I am not ready!”

  “Of course you are!” The ballerina countered. “I've heard you sing, Christine!”

  “But, Meg, I…” her objection was cut short when a ghostly whisper, urged in her ear, “Go, Christine. I will be with you.” The young soprano suddenly stood up a little straighter and composed herself. Taking a deep breath, and tucking her rose behind her ear, she looked at her friend and said, “Let's go.”

  “Ahhh, Mademoiselle Giry,” Robert' exclaimed when he saw Meg enter the auditorium, dragging a shy, reluctant Christine behind her. He was waiting on the stage, next to a fretful Moncharmin, and a pacing Herriot. “I was beginning to wonder if you had gotten lost.”

  “No, sir,” Meg answered, a bit breathlessly, “It took me a little bit to find Christine.”

  “Ahhhh,” Herriot exclaimed, appraising the mousy looking young girl. “This is the little songbird?”

  “Monsieur Herriot,” Meg said, by way of introduction, pulling Christine forward to stand in front of him, just as she had been trying to slink back into the shadows. “This is Mademoiselle Christine Da'ae.”

  Feeling a sudden wave of terror, Christine whispered to her friend, “Meg, I cannot do this,” while plastering a fake smile on her face for the managers.

  “Ruined,” Moncharmin muttered, wringing his hands, when he saw her trembling form, and heard her slightly too loud whisper.

  “Of course you can, Christine,” Meg whispered back in reply, smiling a bit too brightly herself. “Just think of your angel.”

  “Christine, Christine…” came the soft, gentle song in her ear, and suddenly, an air of confidence surrounded her. She reached up gently to stroke the rose behind her ear, and turned to Herriot. “What shall I sing for you, Monsieur?”

  “Are you familiar with the aria from Act III of La Principessa Guerriera?” he asked her haughtily.

  “I am, sir,” Christine nodded, respectfully.

  “Well then,” he looked at her, cynically. “Let's not waste anymore time, shall we? Maestro,” he called to his pianist, “the first two bars of the aria, please.” Leaning over to Robert’, he muttered, “This should tell us right off if she is capable or not.”

  As Christine heard the piano begin, fear seized her heart. The first few notes she sang were thready and frail, and Erik could see her trembling ever so slightly in the spotlight, as he watched from Box 5. He saw Robert' and Herriot regard her with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, and he knew that her nerves were getting the better of her. Erik sent soft, soothing words of support and encouragement to whisper in her ear, and when Christine again opened her mouth, her voice swelled in a sublime melody that no one could deny was perfection. The managers reacted in exactly the way he'd known they'd react when they heard those first golden strains of song—they gasped in sheer and utter amazement that a voice like hers could be found this side of heaven.

  “Amazing, Mademoiselle!” Robert' exclaimed as soon as Christine had completed her song. “Wouldn't you say so, Giles?”

  “Quite astonishing!” agreed the shocked conductor. “Mademoiselle Da'ae, you will do quite nicely!”

  “Oh!” Moncharmin clasped his hands together in glee. “Where have you been hiding, little lark?”

  Christine's eyes darted back and forth between the three men who immediately began insisting she perform the lead in La Principessa Guerriera, replacing Carlotta in the role. Meg hugged her stunned friend as the conductor explained to her the rehearsal schedule she would be expected to follow. “Brava!” Erik threw his voice to murmur gently in her ear, and he was gratified when he saw that familiar smile wash over her features, as her fingers absently brushed the rose behind her ear.

  Erik arrived at the dock beneath the opera and continued floating even after he'd tied the boat to its post. The events of this afternoon had lifted his spirits after the disastrous scene in the auditorium. Comforting Christine—singing with her and hearing her vocals so intricately entwined with his, had been an exquisite pleasure. Music had always been at the core of his soul, but her sin
ging lifted his music to heights he had never before imagined. She was the heart of his song. And he could hardly have believed his luck when the Giry girl had interrupted them to announce that Carlotta had quit the performance. He was a bit surprised that the cow had scared so easily. He had thought he would have had more time to groom Christine into her full potential as a singer. But it had not mattered, for when the conductor and the managers had heard her sing, there had been no further question.

  It was all coming together. His subterfuge as Angel of Music had worked. Carlotta was out—at least from the La Principessa Guerriera production—and Christine would rise to the status she deserved. She would become the star her talent dictated her to be, and soon she would be the darling of the Paris stage. Droves of roses would fall, nightly, at her feet! And he would be there to secretly encourage, to quietly promote—her Angel of Music always watching, always guiding.

  “Erik,” he heard his name on the lips of another sweet female voice. He looked up to see Jenna, hair pulled away from her face, cheeks a ruddy pink, smiling at him from the kitchen. “You're home just in time for dinner.”

  “Jenna!” He said, speeding his step to reach her, and throwing his arms around her in excited greeting when he met her. Surprised, Jenna's arms slowly wrapped around Erik's back, returning his hug, enjoying the closeness despite her earlier resolve that she had to go. If he asked—if he'd only ask—she'd be his. She could gladly forget the time from which she'd come and stay here with him, if it meant spending the rest of her life folded in his arms. “You're not going to believe what just happened!”

  You've decided you love me? she allowed herself a second to dream. “What, Erik?” she asked out loud, with a chuckle.

  “Christine has replaced the bovine in the starring role of La Principessa Guerriera!” His eyes glistened with the proclamation.

  “What?” Jenna asked in confusion. “I thought she was working as a seamstress.”

  “She was, but there has been a change of plans…” He released her from his embrace, as he took her hands and pulled her to the settee, beginning the tale of his busy day. Any recollection of the last moments they'd spent together on the settee was lost to Erik in his haste to inform Jenna about his adventures. But Jenna remembered.

  She watched the glittering in his eyes as he explained Carlotta's cruelty, his own revenge, and the resulting exaltation of his seamstress-turned-soprano. His voice was tremulous with elation as he extolled Christine's rise to success, knowing that he would be a part of it, even if from afar. Jenna listened patiently, smiling at his joy, never interrupting his narrative. When he was finally finished, Jenna smiled and squeezed the hands that were still holding hers, saying “I'm happy for her, Erik!”

  “Thank you, Jenna,” Erik smiled, warmly. “I am pleased for her as well. And you had a part in this too, you know.”

  She looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean?”

  “The rose you left behind precipitated so much of what transpired today. If it had not been for that, Christine might still be just a lowly seamstress instead of a rising star!”

  Jenna's smile was tight as she answered, “I imagine you're going to be very busy getting Christine ready for the show.”

  “Well, yes, there will be additional rehearsals, and she will likely need some extra encouragement. She is very nervous, as you can imagine.”

  Jenna took a deep breath and smiled at Erik once again. “Well then maybe it's time for me to go.”

  Erik looked at her with a start. “Go, Jenna?” he asked her incredulously. “Whatever are you talking about?”

  “Well, I've been thinking about it,” she looked down and began. “You have a busy life—so much important work—so much to do now to get Christine ready for her debut on the stage. We knew from the beginning that I did not belong here. Perhaps,” she took in another deep breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, they were focused on his. “I should find another place to stay until I find a way to get home. Or…maybe I should even think about what to do if I can't get back home.”

  Erik stared at her with crestfallen eyes, and his voice was hollow when he asked, “You wish to leave, Jenna?”

  NO! Her traitorous mind screamed at her. But she knew it was no use to stay. She had no desire to watch him go on and on and on about Christine, when secretly she wished he was dreaming about her. “Erik, I just…” she took a deep breath to compose herself. “I should go. And now that Christine needs you, I don't want to be a burden, or…”

  “You've never been a burden, Jenna,” he answered, his deep voice serious and plain.

  “Well, thank you, but—”

  “Where could you stay?” Erik asked, a little irritation mixing in with the sadness that had pervaded his voice. “This isn't your world, Jenna. You don't know anyone or—”

  “I know Omid!” she interjected quickly.

  “Never!” Erik hissed, glaring at her sharply, effectively putting an end to that possibility.

  Jenna huffed in exasperation. “Why are you making this so hard?” she threw up her hands, questioningly. “Don't you want to be rid of me? Don't you want to go back to the way life was before I just… appeared… on your lakeshore?”

  “What have I done to give you that impression, Jenna?” he asked her, shaking his head incredulously. How could she think he'd want that lonely, dismal existence back?

  “Christine could be your sole focus if I were gone. If you just help me find a place to stay, you won't have to worry about me anymore. You'll never even have to think of me again.”

  “Not even think of you?” he repeated, a sudden chill replacing the warmth that had surrounded his heart since he'd woken that morning in her arms. “Do you honestly think that I wouldn't? That I could forget? Jenna…last night…” his voice trailed off with a hush, as he once again reached out and traced his knuckles down her cheek.

  Jenna's heart pounded so wildly in her chest, that she was certain it would break free. She felt her own fingers reach up to graze the hand that caressed her face. “Last night…” she repeated, on a breath. They gazed at each other a moment longer, unspeaking. Erik slowly began to feel the cold melt away, and was beginning to wonder what that meant—that the thought of her leaving could turn his heart to ice, yet the look in her eyes radiated heat throughout his being. He did not understand these new emotions that Jenna made him feel—but he was not ready yet for her to go. If that was selfish of him, so be it. But he had only just begun to feel the warmth. He was not yet ready to be out again in the cold.

  Erik inhaled deeply, and Jenna was surprised to see a certain pleading lodged in his eyes. “I have not yet found a way, Mademoiselle, of sending you back in time—though I do have my theories. As you have stated, this is to be a very busy time for me, getting Christine ready for the opening of La Principessa Guerriera. That must be my priority. And…” Erik looked down bashfully, willing his traitorous body to stop shaking, “I had hoped you might accompany me in Box 5 on opening night. If this arrangement is agreeable to you, I shall do my best to find your way home after that. I would feel much more comfortable if you remained here in my abode until that time, so that I can ensure your safety. Can you stand to be here just a little longer? It is only two more weeks.”

  Jenna saw the sincere entreaty in his eyes, and her heart twisted. Two weeks. She could truly stand to be here a lifetime, if it meant sharing her days with this fascinating, frustrating, amazing man. Two weeks could never be enough time to be with him. And yet it would be far too long to watch him pine over Christine. But what choice did she have? “All right, Erik,” she nodded her agreement.

  She saw him smile—a half smile once again, since his mask hid the rest of what Jenna knew to be a beautiful expression. “Thank you, Jenna.” His voice was soft and sweet, and she felt her heart melt with its tone.

  “Come on, Erik,” She said, rising from the settee starting to make her way toward the kitchen. “It sounds like you caused a lot of troubl
e today. You must have worked up quite the appetite.”

  Erik followed her with a chuckle. “Now see, who's going to remember my meals when you go back to your own time?”

  “Omid,” she threw the name over her shoulder without missing a step. She giggled softly to herself when she heard him gag and insist that he was losing his appetite already.

  28 BLINDSIDED

  Erik sat at his piano, the flickering of the candle beside him providing just enough light for him to make note of the keys his fingers were touching. He was playing his latest composition again—the song that Jenna had hummed for him, the aria that he built up in hopes of gifting it to Christine to sing at her debut. Well, the debut was now in two weeks, and the lyric line on the score was still empty.

  Dinner had been pleasant. Jenna did not broach the topic of departing his home again, and for that Erik was grateful. He was not proud to admit how distressing he had found the idea of her leaving to be. Jenna baffled him. Jenna infuriated him. But most of all, Jenna had brought him more comfort, more companionship than he had ever known. She had shown him the blissful warmth of an embrace, the luxury of waking up in another's arms. She'd taught him how easy it could be to smile, or how genuinely good it felt to laugh. He recalled how she touched his face after he exposed his deformity, and he felt the shivers of tenderness and wonder brush his cheek anew. Jenna had changed his life so much—so much—in just the short time she'd been here with him, and while he knew that he had promised to find a way to send her back to her time, he had been beginning to feel as if she would always be there—and he would never really have to let her go.

  Until tonight. She had told him she wanted to leave, so that she wouldn't be a burden—and that once she had gone, he'd never have to think of her again.

  Never think of her. Those words stayed with him and cut him to the core. As if it were possible to push her from his mind. He would think of her always. With fondness and … something more. He didn't quite know what that more was, but he knew he'd never forget the way her eyes rolled at his sharp tongue, or the tear that had trailed down her cheek at the imperfect strains of the orchestra. He'd remember how hard she'd tried to hold in her laughter when he fell into the pond while frog hunting, and how lovely the sound was when she'd finally lost the battle. He could never forget the terror that gripped his heart when he thought she would be hurt by the carriage, or how he didn't even have to think twice about putting himself in mortal danger to protect her. “You'll never even have to think of me again,” were her words. But truly, Erik knew, there would never again come a day when he wouldn't.