THE SEDUCTION OF GABRIEL STEWART Read online

  He was right, of course, whether I liked it or not.

  It took a couple of months to find Francois and bring him to Baincthuin. When he arrived, he came with several other Camargois horsemen with whom he had established a riding troupe. I enjoyed meeting his companions, but found my cousin to be somewhat cold and given to putting on airs. He even had a valet, which was peculiar for a man of his station. Francois moved into the Baincthuin house with me and his companions took lodging in town. Their horses joined Josephine in the barn.

  I scandalized Francois and many others by putting off mourning a mere six months after my father’s death. I wanted to ride, and so I did. I also wanted to marry Philippe and cease the pointless waiting.

  No amount of black clothing would bring my father back. He had lived a happy life and I did not want to remember him in misery. I rejoiced in his memories of the Camargue, with its wild horses and colorful houses. I dreamed of having a home in the south of France, with terra cotta plastered walls and blue shutters.

  To the shock of Baincthuin society, Philippe agreed with my point of view. The banns were read, and Philippe and I would be married within the month. Francois and his friends would be able to go back to their lives, as Philippe would be managing the disposal of my house.

  And then came the fire.

  CHAPTER 3

  Paris, France

  March 1889

  Pierrot was tacked up in a heavy bridle, his eyes rolling with anger. I reached up to rub between his ears, causing him to relax and drop his head. I removed the bridle and knew at once that Francois had not seen to his tacking; he would never have put a gag bit on Pierrot. I was furious but gave no indication, instead making more soothing noises to calm the stallion. Once I judged that he was ready, I led him to a mounting block from which I vaulted onto the saddle.

  At once, Pierrot reared and screamed in anger. I had no reins now and no stirrups, only the strength of my legs to stay on and the quickness of my wits to throw my arms around his neck, trying to weigh his forequarters down by sheer force. The stallion continued his wild dance, and yet no one came in response to my cries. Where in the name of Hades were the stable hands?

  To my amazement, a tall figure appeared beside the angry horse. He wore evening dress, black leather gloves -- and a white porcelain mask over one side of his face. His hair was black as a raven’s wing and he exuded confidence and mastery. He raised one gloved hand to the angry horse’s neck, fearless of the waving hooves not far from his head.

  I, on the other hand, clung to Pierrot’s mane for grim death, willing the horse to cease his frightened antics. I looked into the stranger’s green-gold eyes and, in that motion, shifted my weight just enough on the seat bones to unsettle Pierrot’s balance. He returned his forelegs to the ground, stamping and snorting impatiently.

  My rescuer wrapped his gloved hands around my waist and lifted me tidily from the horse; I noted that he smelled of sandalwood. He lifted the saddle flaps, undid the girth, and started in anger.

  There was a short nail driven through the saddle flap, one that would not have affected Pierrot until I used my legs to grip but that would then have put him in agony. Horses’ skin was so sensitive that they could feel a fly land; this was unconscionable. Whoever had done this had also, I was sure, put the gag bit on the horse, knowing I would remove it.

  “I will see that this mischief is punished,” my rescuer said, his eyes flashing. With a swirl of his cloak, he was gone.

  I removed Pierrot’s saddle, inspecting his hide. There were numerous punctures, oozing blood. I could not ride him in this condition; it would be inhumane. I fumed as I put a head collar on the suffering horse and returned him to his stall. Whilst filling a pail with water to bathe the poor creature’s wounds, I found Francois.

  “Find a runner; I cannot ride tonight. Look what has happened.” I showed him Pierrot’s hide and related my tale. “The saddle can be fixed. The horse’s trust may even be regained eventually. However, someone wanted me hurt. Badly.”

  Francois grimaced. “Giraud said that you had given orders to be left alone with Pierrot, so we all went about other business. You do that at times; none of us thought the better of it.”

  It was true that I sometimes wished to be alone with my mount -- and my memories. Tonight, though, I had given no such order, and told Francois as much. Francois said he would look for a runner and I returned the way I came, prepared to return to my room and a book.

  To my astonishment, Cesare stood in the paddock, a single rose braided into his tail with black ribbon. A note, on the familiar stationery, was tucked into his saddle flap; I opened the envelope and read the familiar hand: “Mademoiselle, it would honor me if you were to use my mount. I assure you he has been well taught. I will watch from Box Five. O.G.”

  As Francois approached, I decided nothing would be lost by trying. As I had with Pierrot, I mounted from the block and found Cesare responsive to my aids. The gentlest leg movement produced beautiful tempis. He collected himself at the slightest resistance on the bit and performed a piaffe that made my heart pound with excitement. I could ride tonight after all.

  “Francois,” I called, “Lead me to the wings. We are ready.”

  His shock at seeing me mounted on an unknown horse was surpassed only by his surprise at seeing the horse’s excellent haute ecole schooling, and so he did as I asked.

  It was not until I was in the wings, awaiting my cue amidst whispers of “Isn’t that Cesare, the horse that disappeared last year when he stole it,” that something else occurred to me. The horse’s tail decoration was identical to the rose I had found in my room.

  There was no opportunity to consider further, though, as it was now my time to take the stage.

  As promised in the note, Cesare performed beautifully. I did not ask him to rear on command, nor to bow; those were tricks that I had taught Josephine over time. However, the remainder of the balletic freestyle dressage went well enough.

  I returned to the paddock to cool the horse after his performance, wondering whether I should take him to the stall in the fifth cellar where I ordinarily found him. I decided to do so, but first I needed to change into more practical attire. I cross-tied the big horse and ran up the brief flight of stairs to my room.

  Inside, I stripped hurriedly from the green gown and donned the breeches and loose shirt that I kept at hand. My green-topped boots completed the ensemble. I turned to the pier glass to brush and braid my hair before returning to the stable. For a brief moment, I could have sworn I saw my rescuer looking back at me, the strange half-mask balancing a face of such incredible masculine beauty that Lucifer himself might have swooned with envy. When I blinked, the illusion had disappeared.

  “I must have been more frightened by the incident with Pierrot than I thought, if I’m hallucinating,” I said to my reflection. I turned on my heel and went down to care for the horse.

  I led Cesare down to the fifth cellar stall, talking to him the entire way.

  “Nights like tonight,” I said as I removed the horse’s saddle and began to brush his coat, “I wish that Philippe were still alive. He would have loved to see you.”

  So it was that I spoke of something I seldom talked about: my fiancé, and the reason that my heart was so hardened to any advances.

  “You see, Cesare,” I finished as I braided his mane, “Philippe risked his life to go into the burning barn after Josephine, my mare. He himself was badly injured; the burns were horrible. I didn’t care, and would have tended to him for the rest of my days. I still saw the man I had loved. I believe that all things are beautiful, if one only has eyes to see. Philippe died, not from the burns, but from an overdose of laudanum. There’ll never be another for me.”

  I turned to work on Cesare’s tail and was surprised to see my masked rescuer standing there.

  “A tragic tale, Mademoiselle,” he said, his tone cynical. “Is it true?”

  “Why on earth would I lie to a horse, Monsieur?” My voic
e was a bit more sarcastic than I intended. “I loved Philippe.” An unexpected tear coursed down my cheek and I wiped it away with the back of my hand. “No amount of ravaging to his face and form would have changed that.”

  I unfastened the ribbon that held the rose in Cesare’s tail.

  “I thank you for your assistance earlier, Monsieur. I do not know how you found your way here, or why. However, I am paid handsomely to care for this horse and I must do so now.”

  “I know, Claire,” he said, stepping closer and looking down at me, causing me to realize again the disparity in our heights. “Cesare is mine.”

  My eyes widened in surprise. The stranger’s beautiful mouth twisted into a cruel sneer.

  “Do I frighten you?” He seemed to revel in the idea, and the thought irritated me.

  “No, Monsieur, you do not.” I spoke the simple truth.

  I thought about what little I knew of this man as I finished braiding Cesare’s “mud tail.” Christine Daae, now the Comtesse de Chagny, had unmasked him on stage, revealing a face reputed to be so scarred and hideous that women fainted in fear. If he hoped to provoke that response in me, he would be sorely disappointed. Nothing could frighten me after Philippe’s burns.

  I turned again to face him.

  “I am finished, Monsieur. May I return to my quarters?”

  “Of course, Claire.” His smile was a vicious slash in the beauty of his left side. “And please, call me Erik. It seems only right that we should use our given names with one another.”

  I made to sketch a curtsey and realized how foolish it looked in the breeches I wore. He seemed amused by the aborted gesture, but he took Cesare’s lead and walked away from me.

  “Erik,” I called after him. “Thank you. For your help with Pierrot, and for the loan of your horse.”

  He turned back to me over his shoulder. “The pleasure, Claire, was mine. It’s been nearly a year since I so enjoyed watching a performance from my box.”

  With that, he was gone.

  I made my way back to my small room, grateful that the building was so quiet. It wasn’t until I had changed into a night rail and settled into bed that I shook with the contained nerves of the evening. I could have been killed if Pierrot had thrown me.

  I tossed and turned, sleeping fitfully and waking often from bad dreams. I heard a quiet voice, singing songs of love in such a beautiful, pure tenor that it wrung a tear from me. I was sure that whichever chorus boy was practicing at that hour was doing so to impress a soubrette in his chamber. Nonetheless, I fell asleep at last with the beautiful voice teasing my dreams.

  CHAPTER 4

  I woke the next morning to find another ribbon-wrapped rose on the night stand next to my bed. I inhaled its fragrance and wondered whether the Opera Ghost might have stood in my chamber and sung to me. The idea gave me an unexpected frisson of pleasure, particularly as I remembered the enchanting green-gold eyes that gazed upon me in the fifth cellar. Surely not. I was not given to such flights of fancy; I shook my head to clear the night’s cobwebs away.

  I laid out a gown to wear for the day; I would be shopping and could hardly walk around Paris in a divided riding skirt or breeches. The green wool was simple, yet elegantly cut, and I felt beautiful in it. I had a few pieces of jewelry to go with the dress, including a silver ring in the shape of a gargoyle with a faceted peridot in its mouth. I was fond of the piece, admiring the artistry and eccentricity of the jeweler who had designed it. But first, a bath.

  I rang for the water boys, who soon appeared with a sloshing, steaming tub. I poured a bit of my rose-scented oil into the water and undressed. I luxuriated in the tub before finding my soap and scrubbing my skin. I then washed my hair and rinsed it in the cooling water. I stood in the tub and reached for a towel ... and watched as my mirror slid away into a siding.

  Erik stepped into my room, attired in snug-fitting fawn breeches that showed off his muscular legs to perfection, a tailored shirt, and riding boots. Instead of the white porcelain mask I had twice seen, he wore a black leather domino. He carried a black shadbelly coat and a hat; a cravat was draped over his arm. These latter items he deposited on the bed next to my own garments.

  “I wonder, Claire, whether you would accompany me for a ride today.”

  I wrapped the towel around myself and drew myself up to my entire diminutive height.

  “How dare you! You enter my room at a whim! You demand my time! Agh!” I sputtered.

  I did want company, if the truth were to be told; solitude and loneliness were friends whose fellowship grew tiresome. I sighed with more resignation than I felt.

  “I have errands in Paris to do today. I will need to accomplish them before anything else.”

  Erik laughed insolently as the mirror slid back into place. I wondered what stratagem he employed to make it so. He picked up my regular corset, a pale blue China silk, and examined it somewhat disdainfully. My stays had no lace or fripperies; the only ornamentation was the fabric itself.

  “Well, then, Mademoiselle, I suggest you don your chemise and allow me to lace you in. We can use my carriage.” On seeing my expression he laughed, a trifle cruelly. “Oh, yes, my dear. I have a carriage. Money can buy a great many things. My face cannot be seen, lest I be recognized, but I do go abroad in the daylight. Now, don’t dawdle, Claire.”

  I was too surprised to argue, so I slipped into my chemise and allowed him to lace me in. He dropped the petticoat over my head and tied its laces at my waist, and then just as expertly assisted me with the skirt and bodice. I drew the line at assistance with my stockings and boots, but he watched me don both with the same insolent expression on his face.

  I brushed and braided my hair, twisting it up tightly and pinning it in place. I opened my armoire to reveal my small selection of hats and debated among two, a fancy one and a more serviceable poke bonnet.

  Erik came up behind me and again I noticed the slight scent of sandalwood that surrounded him like an aura.

  “The small green one with the black feathers, of course,” he said, taking it down from the shelf which he could more easily reach.

  I donned the hat, ring, and matching ear bobs with peridot drops. No precious gems for me anymore; semiprecious stones were all I could afford and I had but few of those. I opened a drawer and took out a pair of gloves. I slipped them on, buttoning the wrists.

  Something inspired me to be slightly sarcastic when I was finished.

  “Do I meet with your approval, Monsieur?”

  He turned from the mirror where he had been arranging his cravat in perfect folds. He looked me up and down as he slipped his broad shoulders into the shadbelly coat that accented his flat abdomen and narrow waist.

  “Oh yes, Claire. You’ll do.”

  From the tail pocket of his coat, he took a list. “I need these items. You will pick them up as we conduct your other errands, of course, since I cannot be seen. I will provide the funds.”

  He opened the door to my room and looked out to make sure no one was in the area. We hurried down the stairs to the courtyard, where waited a closed coach with a driver. Erik stepped inside, and I gave the driver my instructions for the route to make my purchases.

  As the carriage rolled out of the courtyard, Erik spoke again.

  “So, your lover was badly burned, was he? Tell me how it happened. You see, I missed the majority of the tender tale you told my horse.”

  “We were to marry, Philippe and I. He was a very handsome man, and understood my love for animals. I’ve always had a gift for healing them.” I looked just beyond Erik as though seeing into the past. “We were very happy, and I looked forward to being his wife. Philippe had a larger house, where we would move after our marriage.”

  A tear coursed down my cheek as I remembered. To my surprise, Erik’s gloved finger wiped it gently away, his reach across the carriage sudden and tender.

  “Go on,” he urged; there was nothing of his previous arrogance in his tone.

  “One d
ay, there was a fire in the barn. I still don’t know how it started. Philippe was visiting and we were having tea. I heard the alarm bell sound and started up quickly. I saw the smoke, and ran outside toward the barn, but Philippe was taller and faster. ‘Stay back, Claire,’ he said. ‘Stay back.’ I didn’t listen, of course, but kept running even though he passed me by.”

  I choked back a sob.

  “While I was seeing to the grooms and making sure that everyone was out safely, I heard a frantic neigh and realized that no one had seen to Josephine. Philippe ran into the burning barn, tearing off his coat. I tried to follow him, but the groom held me back. A few minutes later, Philippe came back out, his coat tied around Josephine’s head, covering her eyes so that she couldn’t see the flames. And oh, my god, the flames. Philippe’s shirt and hair were on fire ... and ...”

  I could no longer stop the tears, and so I cried quietly for a few moments. Finally I gulped a bit and went on.

  “I looked after him in my home. The pain of his burns was incredible, and the physician left laudanum to help him. One day, I found him standing in front of a mirror, confronting his appearance. He turned and screamed at me to get out of the room -- that there was no possible way I was with him from anything but pity. That I could not possibly love such a monster as himself. That surely I would never want to make love with him again.”

  Erik sighed, his mouth twisting into a cynical grimace. “How well I know that feeling.”

  “But, you see,” I rejoined, “that wasn’t true. I loved Philippe with all of my heart and being. I still planned to marry him as soon as the doctor said he was well enough. I didn’t care about his face. I cared about his soul.”

  “And did you ever tell him that, Claire?” Erik shifted to sit next to me on the leather seat of the carriage.