THE SEDUCTION OF GABRIEL STEWART Read online

  In The Eye

  of

  The Beholder

  A Novel of the Phantom of the Opera

  Sharon E. Cathcart

  In The Eye of The Beholder

  A Novel of the Phantom of the Opera

  By Sharon E. Cathcart

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  ©2009 by Sharon E. Cathcart

  All rights reserved.

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the authors, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

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  This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

  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, wonderin
g 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

  Baincthuin, 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 Baincthuin 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 Baincthuin.

  By the same token, I loved the house in Baincthuin, 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 Baincthuin, tending my horses. I was resigned to remaining on the proverbial shelf.

  I was twenty-nine years old when Philippe Andreux came to Baincthuin. 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 Baincthuin, 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 Baincthuin like you?”

  “I suggest, monsieur, that you meet all of the women in Baincthuin 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 Baincthuinoise 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 b
lood 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 Baincthuin 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.”