Disclaimer: Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber are the creators of The Phantom of the Opera. I am most grateful that they did. I hope I have not tarnished those characters in any way.
A/N: This chapter is a little longer than the others, but it is the final chapter of this story. There are others in the works; time will tell whether they will appear here or elsewhere. Thanks so much to all who have read my work and have been kind enough to take a few minutes to let me know how much they have enjoyed it. Working on this story was like therapy for me, getting me through some difficult days earlier this year. Your wonderful comments have been a balm to my soul. Please let me know what you think of "the rest of the story."
NO ONE BUT HER
Chapter Sixteen—Share With Me One Love, One Lifetime
The next morning Erik woke to the smell of croissants baking and ham frying. Leisurely he stretched and turned over on his back. A huge smile creased his face as he remembered last night. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought he would ever make love to Christine. When he had let her and Raoul go free four years ago, he had believed that she was lost to him forever. Now . . . Heaven just might be within his grasp.
Feeling happier than he could remember, he bounded from the bed and pulled on the trousers he had tossed to the floor last night. He followed the delicious smells to the kitchen, stopping in the doorway to drink in the sight of Christine, dressed only in one of his chambray shirts, bending over to check the croissants baking in the oven. "Funny—that shirt never fit me that well."
Hearing the sleep-raspy voice behind her, she stilled for a moment, then closed the oven door and straightened. "I'm not so sure of that, milord," she said softly, turning and walking across the room to slide her arms around his waist, her cheek resting on his gorgeous bare chest just above his heart.
He simply held her, his hands rubbing slowly up and down her back, caressing her through the soft, worn cotton of his shirt. She fairly purred in satisfaction and snuggled deeper into his embrace. Behind them the ham hissed and spat in the skillet as it cooked. Just an ordinary sound, he mused, but today it seems extraordinary!
Christine pulled back and smiled up at him. "If you would set the table, milord, I'll serve breakfast shortly." Turning back to the stove, she gasped when he gave her a playful swat on her backside. She glanced over her shoulder at him in surprise.
"That's twice in ten minutes you've called me that," he said. "I don't want the damned title! I want to be nothing more than I am, except . . ."
"Except what?"
"Except . . . perhaps someday . . . to be your husband," he told her softly.
Her eyes filled with tears then widened in dismay. "Oh, no! The croissants!" Quickly she grabbed a kitchen towel, jerked the oven door open and snatched out the baking sheet. "Just in time."
Erik pulled plates, mugs and cutlery from the hutch in the corner and set the table then helped Christine carry the food to it. He pulled out a chair for her and as she sat he leaned down and nuzzled her neck. "Good morning, love," he murmured.
"No," she replied, and he gave her a questioning look. "It's a wonderful morning. That bastard Robert is . . . where he belongs, and you and I are . . ." At that moment her stomach growled loudly and his answered, making them laugh.
They ate in companionable silence, broken only by the appearance of Maddie, to whom Erik sneaked pieces of ham under the table. When they'd finished, Christine got up and brought the coffeepot to refill their mugs.
"I know you don't want to talk about this, but I'd like to make a suggestion," she said. "Ask Madame Germont about your parents. Ever since Marie brought you those pictures, I've sensed the ambivalence in you, Erik. Part of you wants to know and part of you justifiably hates them for what they did to you. But talk to her and settle it in your own mind, once and for all."
He stared into his coffee for a long moment then sighed and looked at her. "I'll think about it—but that's all I can promise, love."
"You wished to speak to me, my lord?" Madame Germont stood in the doorway of the library.
"Yes, madame, but please, call me Erik. I am not, nor will I ever be, the comte de Charlesbourg." He gestured to a chair in front of the fireplace and the plump little cook perched on the edge. He sat in a chair opposite her.
"In what way may I help you, mon—Erik?"
He inhaled and exhaled sharply. "I would like to know a little . . . about . . . my parents." Madame looked slightly uncomfortable when he continued, "And hold nothing back, madame. I want the honest truth—or at the very least, your honest opinion."
"Well." She twisted her fingers together. "I do know that theirs was an arranged marriage, and as was the custom, your mother bowed to your father's wishes in all things. I don't believe that she ever really loved him, my boy; she was merely doing her duty. He . . . was not a kind man, certainly not an easy one to work for, nor, I suspect, an easy one to live with. Oh, he was a handsome devil, to be sure. You are his exact image, except . . ." She cleared her throat.
"Go on, madame."
"Your mother was barely 18 when they wed, and she was a dear, sweet, innocent girl, gentle and caring. She knew the names of all of us who worked there, and asked us often about our families. She played the piano and sang beautifully. Very much like the Vicomtesse, she was.
"Your mother was overjoyed when she realized she was carrying you, lad. But . . . something happened when she was about six months along—she became deathly ill and we all feared we would lose the both of you. Took to her bed and stayed there until you were born.
"There were . . . complications . . . and we all thought she was going to die, after you were born. The comte took one look at you, at . . . your face, and ordered us to take you away. He refused to hold you or even look at you—and he refused to let your mother see you, either. She begged and begged, until finally he had a doctor come and give her laudanum and . . . well, I'm almost positive he kept her drugged for weeks. Another girl and I took turns caring for you."
Erik surged to his feet and stalked to the far end of the room. "Bastard!" he whispered viciously.
"Exactly so. Someone—I don't know who—convinced him that the . . . scars on your face might fade in time and he waited—most impatiently, I might add—for several months. When they didn't improve, he sent for Lianna, the Gypsy woman, and gave you to her."
Pausing, she dabbed her eyes. "I happened upon your mother in the garden one day not long after that. Sobbing her heart out, she was, and when I asked her what was wrong, the look on her face fair broke my heart. " 'Why did I let him take my baby?' she said, tears running down her sweet face. 'Oh, Erik, oh, my baby, please forgive me!' she sobbed over and over.
"Well, I knew I couldn't let the comte find her like that, so I helped her back inside to her room. I found a position elsewhere not long after that and left. But I pray for your dear mother's soul, that she finally found peace and forgiveness, to this very day."
He swallowed hard and managed to smile at her. "Thank you, madame, for everything." He took her hand and helped her to her feet, gallantly kissing her knuckles before releasing her hand. Just as she reached the door, his voice stopped her. "Madame? Do you remember the date on which I was born?"
"Yes; it was November 13th, 1839." She started to open the door then turned back to him. "Erik, could you possibly think of me as . . . No. Never mind."
Crossing to stand in front of her, he took her hands and squeezed them gently. "I would be honored to consider you as my aunt, madame. But I don't believe that I know your Christian name?"
"It's Violet," she told him softly, and he leaned down and kissed her cheek.
"Thank you, again, Tante Violet, for everything."
Christine found him in the library some time later, sitting in the near dark, his head in his hands. "Erik, are you all right?" She touched his shoulder and he raised his head, a look of desolation and heartbreak in his eyes that she had seen only once before—the night years ago when she and Raoul—and Erik—had escaped from the burning opera house.
"My—my mother loved me," he whispered incredulously. "She was heartbroken when that bastard who fathered me gave me to Lianna."
Christine said nothing, simply gathered him in her arms and let him sob out his grief for the mother he never knew, and the loss of her love. I will take care of him for you, Lorraine, she promised silently, her own eyes filling with tears. I will love him enough for the both of us.
"Erik, my love?"
"Mmmmmm?" Still half-asleep, he turned over and slid his arm around her waist, resting his chin on top of her head. It had been six weeks since the rescue, and they had spent many nights together, talking, playing with the children, and enjoying their new-found love.
"I'm—I'm going to have your child." She said it so softly that he almost didn't hear her.
Immediately he sat up, looking down at her with a small frown. "Say that again."
She exhaled slowly and he could feel her trembling. "I'm carrying your child," she repeated quietly. "I—I know we talked about it only that one time, and I understand your concern about the scars . . ." Looking up at him she smiled tremulously.
Slowly one corner of his mouth lifted in a smile that soon covered his entire face. His eyes shining with love and excitement, he gathered her in his arms and they rocked back and forth for a moment, both of them fighting tears.
Erik moved away and gently pressed the palm of his hand to her abdomen. "Oh, my angel," he whispered. "Are you feeling well? When—when did we make this child?"
"The night of the rescue," she said, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
"A special night, indeed," he mused. Silent for a moment, he looked down at his hand, still pressed to her stomach, and a single tear ran down his cheek. "Will you marry me, Christine?"
Her tears spilled over and streamed down her face as she nodded and whispered, "Oh, yes!" She took his face in her hands and stared deeply into his eyes. "I love you so much!"
Closing the tiny distance between them, he kissed her, gently at first then with growing ardor. With a moan he broke away. "How soon, love?"
"How soon what?" she laughed softly. "The child is due in about eight months. How soon we can be married depends on you, in part. Do you want a private ceremony, with just Marie and Meg and the children, perhaps your cousin Henri and M. Gaspard? Or something more elaborate?"
"Small and simple," he said emphatically.
Three weeks later they stood in front of a priest in a chapel of the Church of Sainte Anne. "Erik Gerard, will you have this woman as your wife, to have and to hold, for better or worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?"
"I will." Drinking in the sight of her, dressed in a simple gown of ecru linen, he thought, She has never looked more like an angel!
"Christine Amalie, will you have this man as your husband, to have and to hold, for better or worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?"
"I will." Looking up at him, dressed in a black coat and trousers, with a sky blue cravat and waistcoat over a blazingly white shirt, she thought, What an incredibly handsome man he is!
They exchanged rings, Christine moving her two-carat diamond solitaire to her other hand to receive the plain gold band that matched his. The priest blessed them and concluded, "What God has joined together, let no man put asunder. You may kiss your bride, monsieur."
Mindful of where they were, Erik kept the kiss gentle, but when they broke apart, the gleam in his eyes promised her a busy night.
Watching them, seeing the love they shared glowing all around them, Marie pressed a hand to her heart and blinked away tears. Finally, all is as it should be.
Seven months later
"Errriiiikk!" Christine cried out in the throes of a powerful contraction. The midwife and Marie had put him out of the room earlier, but now she wanted—no, needed him with her.
Outside in the hall he heard her cry out for him. Narrowing his eyes, he stared at the door to her room. "That does it!" He flung the door open and strode into the room, ignoring the glares of the older women. "She wants me here—I'm going to stay here," he said in a tone that brooked no argument.
"Then hold her hand and help her breathe through the contractions—she doesn't need to push yet."
He did as he was told, eventually climbing into bed with her, pulling her back against his chest to support her as she labored to bring their child into the world. Finally, Christine gave a loud cry, and almost immediately the baby began to cry lustily.
"You have a daughter, mon chères," said Marie, her eyes misty with tears as she brought the baby to them after she had been washed.
Mother and father carefully examined her from head to toe. Dark curls covered her small head and she stared up at them from eyes dark like Christine's. Erik breathed a sigh of relief. The baby's tiny face was perfect, as smooth and soft as silk. He touched her right cheek with a fingertip and she turned her head in that direction, her bow-shaped mouth making sucking motions.
He looked at Christine, blinking back tears. "We never decided on a name, love." Turning her head she whispered to him and he smiled and nodded. "Mesdames," he said to Marie and the midwife, "we would like you to meet Marie-Lorraine Montenegro."
A/N: As good a stopping place as any, I thought. Please let me know what you think. Thanks to all who have read No One But Her, even if they didn't post a review. Seeing all those "hits" sure does make you feel good!