The Heart is Slow to Learn

Chapter Two

          Erik�s dreams were unrelenting.  Sometimes he was back at the Paris Opera House, trapped in the shouts and fury of an angry mob.  He could smell the sour smell of sweat and the acrid scent of their torches.  At other times, he was a child again at his mother�s knee, questioning her about the hated mask he was forced to wear.

          Then he seemed to be carried the fire in his head and a mist over his brain.  He thought he smelt the sweet sickly smell of chloroform � and heard screams echoing inside of his head.  Just when he thought, he would scream himself from the sound of it � it stopped.

          For three days, he drifted between consciousness and unconsciousness, often delirious.  He knew nothing of the careful travel . . . moved under the cover of darkness out of the city of Paris, across the Channel, and then the tedious trip to the Sussex countryside.  He heard voices, but had not the strength to understand or answer.  Once, when he floated to the surface, he thought he felt gentle hands bathing his marred face.  Another time, he thought he felt himself being gently turned as soft hands bathed him in cool water.  At the end of three days, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.  A sleep as peaceful as death.

          Waking was something like being born again, confusing, painful and helpless.  The light burned his eyes, thought it was dim through the windows of the room.  Weakly, he shut them and tired to orient himself with sounds and smells.  There was candle wax, and perfume, and oddly the smell of food.  There was also the sickly smell of poppies that spoke of sickness.  He heard murmurs.  With the patience of the sick, he lay still until he began to make them out.  A soft woman�s voice seemed to come from next to him � and everywhere.  �I see that you�ve decided to rejoin the living.  Lay still sir, please don�t struggle.�

          Erik felt a hand on his chest, and he realized how for the first time in many years, that he lay in an actual bed.  Linens rustled as he shifted position to look at his companion.  Soft golden hair framed a face to thin to be actually beautiful.  That is until one noticed her eyes.  Neither blue nor green, they reminded Erik of a Russian sea with depths of emotion churning just beneath the surface.  Her voice, melodious, was pleasant on Erik�s trained ear.  �You are safe sir; in England . . . you were injured as you were rescued.�

          �Why am I here?�

 

          A cup of wine was held to his lips, and it was only then that Erik realized that his face was unmasked.  A cry was wrenched from his lips that echoed the very depths of his despair.

          �Please, I beg of you . . . my mask!�

          Erik saw a flutter of confusion and then understanding cross her face.

          �No, I�m sorry.  If your wounds are to heal, the air and light must be let in.  That very mask stopped you from ever healing.  It must have caused you a great deal of pain.�

          �Pain?�  Erik tried to sit up, but fell weakly back.  �What do you know of my pain?  What could you know?�

          �I know,� she answered in a low voice.  �I know of a man who possesses a genus that few have ever known.  I know of a man whose voice likened to that of an angel.�

          Gazing at her, Erik discovered that his rage was suddenly vanishing as his nurse helped him sip the wine.  Leaning back on his pillow, Erik looked out a window and realized how many years it had been since he had seen the sunlight or enjoyed the fragrance of . . . lavender?  �Could you at least tell me where I am and who you are?�

          A smile softened his companion�s face.  �That I can do.  I am India de Chagney, and we are at my brother Raoul�s estate in England.�

          Turning his face from the sunlight, Erik could only wonder what brutal act of fate had landed him at his rival�s door.  �But why?  How?� he asked, his beautiful voice harsh with bitterness.

          A tall figure stood leaning against the doorframe.  Light from the window slanted down on a blue coat looped back with gold braid.  Erik could see a pair of broad shoulders and eyes of blue-gray.

          Raoul!

          �My sister sir, cannot answer those questions.  But if you will be still, perhaps I shall.�

          �Christine ��Erik could not stop the name from passing his lips.  �I left her with you . . . where is she?�

          India de Chagney quietly left the room as her brother deftly pulled a chair next to the bed.

          �Christine is safe � as a matter of fact, she�s here also.�

          �Then boy, why am I here?  Why didn�t you let the mob take me?�

          Without a word, Raoul pushed back a linen sleeve and white cuff.  The skin underneath was stretched taut over rippling muscle.  Two clean scars ran diagonal the whole width of his arm.  Between them crouched a rampant figure, part lion and part eagle, worked in precious dye.

          �Tell me what you see.�

          Memories flooded Erik�s mind.  Memories of Persia, �Only members of the Dey�s personal guard may wear such a mark.  And you have to kill to earn that honor.�  He spat the word out between gritted teeth. 

The heir to one of France�s oldest titles and a legacy that included three castles, five lesser estates, half a million acres in England and Scotland, and one of the finest art collections on the face of the earth, looked at Erik.

Raoul had to focus on the golden reality of the day � to forget the day he had been knocked unconscious, gagged and tied, and then delivered to the stinking hellhole of a French prison hulk where he was left to die.  But fate had intervened.  He had finally escaped from the prison ship and been picked up by a cruising English frigate.

There he had been fed, healed and given his freedom of the ship.  In return, he had given his service willingly.  In a matter of months, the young aristocrat had become a hardened seaman with a savage hunger for revenge.  Revenge against the man who had seen him delivered to a slow, agonizing death in that stinking prison ship.  Against the men who had seen to it that, he stayed there even after he was sane and lucid enough to protest his innocence and proclaim who he was.

No one had even listened to him.

And sanity, Raoul had soon discovered, was a relative thing.

Innocence, too, was soon lost amid the unspeakable cruelty of a prison hulk, crammed with two hundred to a deck in stormy seas.

�And then one day, in the middle of my duties, I heard a voice so incredibly beautiful that I could never forget it.  A voice I was told belonged to the Vizier�s new man.  A man who I was told was the Angel of death, but also a man of great power.  A man who helped me leave that hell.  After I left, I thought I would never hear that voice again . . . until that night in Christine�s dressing room.�

Standing, Raoul looked out a window upon fields of white and purple lavender.  �In that instant I knew that Christine�s Angel of Music, and the Dey�s Angel of Death were one and the same.�

Turning, Raoul faced Erik, �And now, I will do anything to make sure that you are well and whole.�

Raoul stared at the figure that lay before him.  The man could use some filling, and some exercise.  Erik may have been able to scramble across the beams of the Opera House with ease, and even carry the burden of a dead body with him.  However, the weeks of illness had weakened him. 

Raoul decided that fencing would be the very thing to bring him back.  He would take Erik down as soon as he was well, and show him a few paces.  Abruptly, he cut himself short.  What in heavens name was he thinking.  The man was his enemy � a killer of rare talents, as he well knew.  Yet . . . somehow Raoul knew that deep inside was a rare soul waiting for a chance to escape.

Turning to leave, Raoul gazed once more at Erik, amazed to see a tear glistening in his eyes.  �My sister . . . will be returning shortly.  I ask that you remember that she is a gentle soul with a rare gift.  A gift that has caused her at times considerable pain.  I�m trusting that you as a gentleman will not cause her any further discomfort.�

�A gentleman?� Erik asked in a rough voice.  �I�ve been called a lot of things in my lifetime � but never that.�

�Well, now you have,� Raoul replied curtly.  �And I expect you to comport yourself as one.�

His face was hard as he left the room.  He met India on the stairway.

�Christine has been asking to see you.  Aren�t you going to go see her?�

�Not yet.  That is, I have correspondence to finish first.  And then I have some books to go over . . .�

�Fine with me, of course, even if she is twisting and turning.  Of course, I tried to help her brush her hair, but she refused.  Said she�d get the tangles out herself.�

�The little fool!�  Raoul pounded up the stairs, a thunderous look on his face.

India watched him go, a smile spreading across her plain features.  Yes, her little scheme was moving nicely toward fruition.

He pounded up the stairs and threw her door open.  Christine was propped against the pillows, her face pale with the strain, as she dug a brush through her tangled hair.

�What in the name of heaven do you think that you�re doing?�

Christine glared at him mutinously, her eyes bright with unshed tears.  �I�m trying to brush my hair, what does it look like?�

�Like you�re trying to split that wound open, that�s what!�

�How would you know?  Two days after I was hurt, you bundled me up, tossed me into a carriage and brought me here.  Since then, I�ve seen very little of you.�

Christine�s brush caught a particularly large tangle.  She struggled to push it forward and gasped when the movement sent jarring pain through her side.

�Stop, you fool!�  Raoul rushed forward and grabbed the brush from Christine�s fingers.

She glared up at him, her shoulders stiff.  �Go away, I don�t need you.  India can help me.�

�India is busy.  I�m here now, and I�m the one who is going to help you.�

�Why?�

Her eyes were filled with anger and confusion.  �I�m nothing but a bother to you.  I should have known that I was nothing but a novelty that you would get tired of.�

She twisted away, her eyes locked shut.

A single tear escaped.  Raoul watched it slip down her cheek and something cold and hard twisted in his chest at the sight.

Don�t cry, my love, he thought.  I don�t ever want to make you cry.  But he said nothing.  His jaw locked as he eased down beside her and pulled her gently against his chest.  Then he began to work the brush through the thick, gleaming length of her hair.  She didn�t move, not a muscle.  He could feel her angry tension where her stiff shoulders pressed against him.

�Why didn�t you come?�

His jaw tensed.

Because I was afraid to come.

Because I knew that if I came, I wouldn�t be able to leave.

Because I�m not the young man that you remember.

Because I�m not the man that you think that I am.

�I�ve been busy.�

�You always were a terrible liar, Raoul.  If you want me gone, just say so.�

�It�s not that.�

�No?  Then what is it?�

There was no answer that he could give her without telling her of Erik�s presence.  So, he simply shrugged and pulled her back against him, letting the brush slide through the last tangles of her hair.

�I hate you, you know that?�  Her voice was ragged, unsteady.

�Of course you do.�

�And I don�t like this either.  I�m only letting you do thins because � because I can�t do it myself.�

�The only practical thing to do under the circumstances.�

But she didn�t fool him for a second.  She was very close to breaking at that moment.  And her vulnerability, more than anything else, proved to Raoul that he had been right to stay away from her.

She held herself stiffly, her fingers locked on the coverlet, the whole time he worked on her hair.  Raoul thought that he might have seen another tear roll down her cheek, but could not be sure.  One thing that he did know.  He had hurt her once.  And he had the sickening feeling that he�d hurt her again, before she learned the entire truth.

* * * *

It had been three weeks since Erik had seen Raoul.  Three weeks in which he had rediscovered all the small beauties that he had locked away when he had gone to live underground.  At first, they were small things . . . . the sound of a meadowlark, the rich, sweet smell of roses in bloom.  He delighted in the first pale rays of dawn, and relished the golden amber of sunset.  There were other things that he had forgotten . . . the golden yellow of an egg, the delicious taste of a fine wine.  So many things that he had forced into the back of his mind.

And then, weeks into his convalescence, India brought him a violin.  At first, he had glowered at him like a petulant child, refusing to look at the gleaming wood.  And then as she continued his daily treatments, the combination of her hands on his face, and the scented water, lowered his resistance.

�Why?  Why do you insist on this?  It�s senseless to think that lavender and rose water is going to make a dam � a bit of difference?�

A small sigh escaped from India.  �How can you be so observant and yet not really see?  You tell me of a small bird that has fallen from the nest and yet you fail to see yourself.  Have you looked at your hands of late?�

Erik refused to answer as he gave his hands a sweeping glance.  Why look at them, he wondered.  To see the usual thin, boney fingers on hands that were more skeletal than not.  But wait . . . with a gasp, Erik held up first his right and then his left hand.  Where there had once been skin and bones, flesh, warm and pinking was fleshing out thin fingers.  Why . . . he could actually see fine dark hairs beginning to sprout across his knuckles.  With a sob, he covered his face.

�I cannot believe or begin to understand the miracle before my eyes.  I used to wonder � to dream of what it would be like to feel the smoothness of a glass in my hand.  To feel the texture of the keys that I played  . . . how is this possible?�

     Very gently, India took his hands in hers and sat by his side, her skirts softly rustling at her side.  "I don't know why - or even how this happens.  But I have a gift - of being able to heal.  When Raoul was a small boy, he was a very mischievous child, always going places he shouldn't be.  And getting into more trouble than most children his age.  One day, against our Papa's strictest orders, he stole away with one of Papa's pistols.  It accidentally discharged in his face -"

     Erik looked up, ready to snarl his disbelief when he saw the open honesty of her eyes.  She was not mocking him, he realized, and so silently, he squeezed her hands in encouragement.

     "Of course everything that could be done was - but the physicians told our parents that it was hopeless - that he would be horribly scarred and better off dead.  And I - being older - was filled with guilt that he had slipped out of my sight.  And so, day after day, I bathed his poor face as a way to comfort him - and myself I suspect."

     India shuddered and looked out the window into the afternoon sky.  Rising, she continued her story as she walked toward a vanity.  "And then one day the physician came to exam Raoul and change his dressings and when he did, he declared that he had seen a miracle.  For you see, the skin was mending, the torn tissue somehow one again.  I continued bathing Raoul's face -" she smiled wryly in memory.  "Often to the protests of a small boy, who like you could not understand how such ministrations could make a difference.  But it did as you can see when you look at him - or when you look at yourself in this glass."

     Erik looked at the glass mirror in India's hand in sheer horror.  Repairing his hands, was all enough - he hadn't dared think about his marred face.  "Take it - do you think me so cruel that I would do this if I wasn't sure of what you would find?  Take it Erik - or are you afraid?"

     In spite of his appalling fear, Erik snatched the glass from her hand, expecting to see what he had seen in the glass since he was a small child.  A deformed, misshapen face without a nose.  With glistening white skull showing through the sparse amount of hair that had somehow managed to grow.

     Instead he looked on the face of a man who had seen too much of life and too little happiness. His face was all hard planes and unforgiving angles, not handsome in any sense of the word.

      But it was an utterly compelling face just the same.