No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale (20 page)

“Oui, c’est moi, je t’aime!

Malgré l’effort même
 

Du démon moquer

Je t’ai retrouvée!”
               

I knew the words, of course, Faust’s renewed avowal of love for Marguerite as she lay condemned in prison. But I had never expected his voice, a tenor more exquisite than any I had ever heard, almost frightening in its purity. The ache in my heart was familiar; it was the same sensation I felt when confronted by beauty in its purest form, whether it was listening to Mozart’s
Requiem
or watching the moon rise over the desert. My mother had once said I had an artist’s soul, and at the time I hadn’t really been sure what she meant. All I knew for sure was this man had touched my heart in some way, and that frightened me. I was supposed to hate him, wasn’t I? How was I supposed to feel about someone who seemed to have the soul of a devil and the voice of an angel?

Somehow without my noticing, he had stood and come to me. He reached out to my cheek, then pulled his hand away and looked at the glistening drop on his forefinger in wonder. “You’re crying,” he said finally.

I reached up with my own hand and wiped the tears away with a brusque gesture. “It’s nothing. I’m tired, that’s all.”

“Christine.” How was it that he always made my name into a caress? Even his speaking voice was beautiful.

“I just don’t understand,” I said at length, knowing that he was waiting for me to say something.

“Understand what?”

Letting out a shaky little laugh, I replied, “You, most of all. How you hide the kind of talent you have. You have everything, and yet you hide here. Why?”

For a long moment he was silent. I saw for the first time that his eyes were an elusive gray-green, but dark, like a semiprecious stone I’d seen once as a child. Moss agate, that was what my father had called it.
 

“One can have everything and nothing, Christine.”

Again I found myself fighting to understand. There were so many shadows in his soul, that much I knew even from our brief acquaintance. How long would it take before he felt comfortable telling me anything truly important? And then I wondered why it should matter so much to me. This man had stolen me from my home, taken me away from everything that was important. Why should I care whether he confided in me or not? All I should care about was getting out of here.

But somehow I knew that he had broken down a barrier between us the moment he opened his mouth and sang those words to me. Something in my soul responded to his—I had sensed that connection on the night we first met, even though I had known nothing about him at the time. It had frightened me then; it frightened me even more now.
 

I don’t know what he saw in my face. But he lifted his hand, reaching out to touch my cheek, and suddenly the terror surged up through me, drowning me like a riptide.
Not yet
, a voice in my mind screamed.
Not yet
.

And then I was pushing myself away from him, upsetting the music stand as I fled the room, tearing down the hallway, not knowing where I was going or what I was going to do once I got there.
 

All I knew was that I couldn’t bear one more moment in his presence. If I had stayed, I feared that I would have lost a part of my soul forever.
           

Chapter 15

“She won’t come down, sir.”

Erik tried to think of the last time he’d seen Jerome look nervous and failed. After Christine had fled from the music room, he’d let her go—followed discreetly by Jerome, to make sure she didn’t wander into chambers Erik didn’t want her to see...yet.

However, Jerome reported that she’d gone straight to her rooms, and that’s where he had found her only a few moments later, sitting on the ground outside the locked door to her suite, knees drawn up to her chest, face pale. All she’d said, though, was, “I wondered how long it would take you to get here,” before getting to her feet as Jerome had unlocked the door. She had disappeared into the suite and was now apparently refusing to come back out again.

Considering, Erik settled back in his chair. Although it was certainly in his power to have her forcibly removed from her chamber and brought down to dinner, somehow he doubted that was the correct approach. Better to let her stay alone with her anger and hope that it would burn itself out eventually. He knew he hadn’t been dreaming when he saw the growing attraction in her eyes, saw the way she had responded to his music and his voice. She might fight it now—for days to come, if he knew her at all—but it was a fight he knew she would lose in the end. It wasn’t all just dreams and madness; the very first time he had held her in his arms he’d felt her rouse to him, felt the rightness between them.
 

Apparently unnerved by Erik’s continuing silence, Jerome added, “She said—and I quote, ‘He’s going to have to drag me down there by my hair before I’ll sit down to dinner with him again.’ Sir.”

Did she really think he was such a barbarian as that? Well, he’d enjoy proving her wrong. Instead, he gave a brittle laugh and said, “Such an abuse of a glorious head of hair. I’d never allow that, of course...have a tray prepared and sent up to her rooms. And send Ennis in to clear her place setting away.”

Jerome inclined his head. “Very good, sir. I’ll see to that directly.”
 

As Jerome went off to carry out his orders, Erik tried to resign himself to another lonely evening. It would, after all, only be another in a very long series of lonely evenings. More frustrating than most of the others, since now he at last had the woman he had dreamed of for so long living under his own roof, but now was not the time to endanger the delicate balance that existed between the two of them by giving rein to his temper. He pushed away a sudden image of himself throwing open the door to her room and finding her in the rose-canopied bed he’d had prepared for her. What would it be like, to take her by the shoulders, bring her lips to his, force the soft sweetness of her body down into the sheets, feel her move under him?

That way did lie madness. He made himself stand and go to the sideboard, where a fine unoaked chardonnay was cooling in a vintage silver bucket. Only after pouring himself a glass and taking several sips did he feel the pulse in his chest and groin begin to subside.
 

At that point Ennis entered the room and began to clear away Christine’s unwanted place setting. He looked over to Erik where he stood by the sideboard, then asked, “I hope the young lady is feeling well?”

Erik watched the old man carefully, but he could see nothing except genuine concern in Ennis’s eyes. The butler had always been the element that worried Erik the most in his whole scheme of kidnapping Christine—the man was getting on, but he certainly wasn’t stupid. And strangely, what worried Erik the most was what Ennis might think of him, should he discover the truth. Jerome he trusted implicitly, and frankly, Erik didn’t much care what Jerome thought. The man had seen the darker side of humanity for a good many years; Erik somehow doubted that he could do anything that would shock Jerome. But Ennis—

Ennis was the father his own should have been, Erik had to admit. It was Ennis who had taught him how to drive, Ennis who had held his head after a particularly bad experiment with a bottle of brandy, Ennis who had recommended the fencing lessons and the first computer when he could see the adolescent Erik going crazy from his enforced solitude. And it was Ennis who had watched over the rest of the household staff and made sure that no prying eyes or gossiping tongues shattered the fragile isolation Erik even then had wrapped around himself like a protective cocoon. No, he would not like to see the old man’s expression if he ever discovered the true reason for Christine’s tenure in the house.

“I’m afraid Christine’s caught a bit of a cold,” he replied at length. “She thought it would be better if she stayed in her room for a while.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ennis said, straightening as he finished gathering up the rest of the unused silver. “Do you know if she’d like anything special? Some hot tea, perhaps?”

Hot tea seemed innocuous enough. “Certainly.”

“I’ll see to that and her tray right away, then. Jerome said he would take it up?”

“Yes. She—feels more comfortable with him.”

Ennis seemed to accept the lie readily enough. “Poor girl. Such a pretty thing, too.”

Erik hoped his tone was noncommittal when he replied, “Yes, I suppose so. She seems to do well enough on her medication, luckily.”

“They do seem to work miracles these days.” There was no mistaking the fondness in his eyes as he added, “It was very good of you to take her in, Erik.”

There were times when wearing a mask had its distinct advantages. Erik replied, hoping his color hadn’t risen too much, “Well, it was easy enough. We certainly have room to spare here.”

Ennis nodded, then said, “And here I am talking when the girl’s in bed with a cold. I’ll see to her tray, and then bring your own dinner out.”

“Thank you, Ennis.” And he watched the butler leave the room, wondering when it was that Ennis had become an old man. Somewhere during his obsession of the last two decades the man’s middle years had slipped away, and Erik had not even noticed. How old was Ennis now, anyway? Seventy? Seventy-five? How typical that he had never noticed until now.

Suddenly weary, he took his usual seat at the head of the table, forcing himself not to look at the newly empty place next to his, forcing himself not to think of her. Forcing himself to feel as hollow as all the empty years he had wasted, alone with his need and his despair.

Our détente lasted for three days.

The first evening I was glad to see that at least they weren’t going to starve me into submission—Jerome had arrived promptly at seven with a truly lovely piece of grilled salmon, steamed vegetables, and fresh bread. He’d left it without comment, and I had to say I almost enjoyed myself as I took my meal into the little sitting room and ate as I listened to the rain fall outside the many-paned windows.

The next day was Sunday, and I didn’t even bother to get out of my nightclothes—I took a long hot bath, read a good deal, listened to the radio, played with the cosmetics in my bathroom, painted my toenails, and pretty much forced myself not to think about anything. After so many years spent rushing from one place to another, I almost enjoyed my forced solitude; the little things women did to pamper themselves had never been a part of my life, and for once I didn’t have to justify the wasted time.

On Monday I awoke vaguely ashamed of myself, and filled with a sort of creeping anxiety. Surely by now someone had noticed my absence—Randall might have been able to rationalize my absence over the weekend, but I never missed school unless I was ill, and since I imagined he would have gone to the bungalow to find me, he must know I wasn’t at home, down with a cold or the flu. What would he do then? Would he go to the police? I had a feeling he probably would, although I wasn’t sure that would do any good. I didn’t see how anyone could possibly connect me with Erik—if that really was his name. I still wasn’t sure I believed him.
 

Truth be told, I didn’t know what to think about most of it. He’d had ample opportunity to force me, if that really were his intent. If this were only about sex, then why the carefully chosen wardrobe, the jewels, even the lovely room in which I was imprisoned? Why would he care whether I practiced my singing or not? And now this—this careful acquiescence to my wish not to see him again. He could have come to my room any time during the last few days and compelled me to go downstairs to be with him, but he hadn’t.
 

Instead, I suffered the benign neglect of a long-term invalid—food was brought up at regular intervals, but otherwise I had been left to my own amusements, which were already beginning to wear thin. I had tried practicing scales, and had gone so far as to stand in the antechamber to my suite and sing pieces carefully chosen to annoy Erik if he were anywhere within earshot—ditties such as “She’s Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage” and “Green Finch and Linnet Bird” from
Sweeney Todd
—but if he actually heard me, there was no reaction from him that I could see or hear.
 

By Monday evening I’d read so much that my eyes tired a little more quickly each time I picked up a book. I’d never been much of a television-watcher, more due to lack of time than anything else, but I soon found myself wishing for the mind-numbing distraction of hundreds of cable television channels. I amused myself for a few hours after dinner by trying on various items of clothing and then combining them with matching jewels from the little chest of drawers inside the wardrobe. It was all stunning, but I didn’t see the point in parading around in Armani and diamonds if I really were going to be stuck in these rooms for the rest of my natural life.
 

I’d gone to bed early, only to be haunted by disturbing dreams like something out of a Cocteau film—long candlelit hallways, hands reaching out for me, pursuit by a nameless figure that I somehow dreaded yet desired. More than once I’d awakened in the darkness, feeling my heart pounding in my breast, breath coming in harsh gasps, not sure of where I was or what I was doing there. Then I would hear the soft classical music coming from the radio and suddenly remember. I was in Erik’s house. I was his prisoner.
 

Once I even thought I heard his voice in the depths of the night, that yearning tenor, singing one line from
Faust
over and over again...

“
Oui, c’est moi, je t’aime...oui, c’est moi, je t’aime...
”

I’d sat up in bed, clutching the blankets to my chest, but all that met my ears was the deep quiet of a house in the early, early hours of the morning, that and the delicate sound of a harpsichord tinkling from the speakers of the little Bose stereo. Just another dream, another voice echoing in the darkness. And I kept telling myself that as I fell once again into uneasy sleep.