Unmasked

by Michelle Marcos

  Unmasked

  Unmasked

  Midpoint

  UNMASKED

  by

  Michelle Marcos

  Copyright © 2012 by Michelle Marcos

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  The author gratefully acknowledges the work of Gaston Leroux, who created the character of the Phantom of the Opera on whom this story is based.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Discover other titles by Michelle Marcos at

  http://www.michellemarcos.com

  ~~~~~~~

  "A talented storyteller, Marcos gives a very human face to all her characters and the moral dilemmas and situations they face."

  -- Fresh Fiction

  "The depth of emotions, realistic characters, history and sensuality make her novels keepers."

  -- Romantic Times Book Reviews

  "When I want a great historical romance, I’ll reach for anything by Michelle Marcos!"

  -- LISA KLEYPAS, New York Times bestselling author

  ~~~~~~~

  Me

  No one would ever make love with a monster.

  Least of all one that looked like me.

  The other villagers made it their duty to be certain I never forgot this fact. The farrier’s wife, Madame Bouchard, was especially conscientious in reminding me. “Is that an earthquake?” she would ask, loud enough for all to hear. “Ah, no,” she answered herself, “it is only Paulette walking to market.”

  The blacksmith was always quick with a barb. “I think the whalebone in her corset still has the whale attached.”

  I tried to ignore their taunts, careful not to let a misstep betray my humiliation. But I could never hide the rising color in my face, which inevitably grew hotter as everyone within earshot laughed. In a town as small as Sescité, where there is precious little entertainment, people take their sport in mocking defects in others. Of Gaspard the drunk, Monsieur Petit the dwarf, and me, I was the preferred target.

  My family had been prosperous when I was a little girl. Papa was a well known merchant in Paris. He took great pride in his wealth, and he was anxious that others notice his circumstance by the grandeur of his home and the size of his wife and his daughter. Papa used to say that a well fed wife was a joy to display, and that there were few things more charming than a child with rounded cheeks at both ends.

  When my parents succumbed to the fever, which for reasons I had yet to comprehend spared me, I was sent to live with my maternal grandmother in Sescité. My father’s debts had dissipated my inheritance, leaving Grand-mère without an allowance and me without a dowry.

  Not that the dowry would have ever been claimed, for I had neither suitors nor followers. Grand-mère watched with growing alarm as I blossomed into womanhood without a trace of admiration from gentlemen. There was nothing I could do to arrest the increase in my weight, compelled as I was into the sedentary position of seamstress, a post to which I had to devote myself morning and night in order to provide for us both. Grand-mère was kind, but honest. She thanked God that He had bestowed upon me a fair complexion, bright green eyes, and fashionably wavy brown hair. She used to smile at me, her papery hand cupping my chin. “Such a pretty face. If only…”

  When she passed away, I was bereft. Friendless and unmarried, my prospects seemed as bleak as winter in Sescité. I remembered the name of an old friend of Papa’s. Monsieur Frenet was a business associate who was a patron of the arts. I thought if he could find me a situation as a seamstress in the theatre, or even as a tutor, for I had some knowledge of books, I might be able to make my own way in life. I gathered my remaining coins and embarked on the uncomfortable journey to Paris, to the house of the only man in the world who could help me.

  The servant who opened the door was very rude, but I expect his attitude had something to do with my frock, which bespoke years of alterations, and the scandalous fact that I was unescorted. Nevertheless, he informed me that I could find Monsieur Frenet at the Paris Opera House.

  Perhaps I should have recognized the name of the theatre right away, but I did not. The Opera had long been associated with a sinister phantom, the lurid tales of whom had reached even the remote ears of our tiny village. But that day, as I set out on the arduous walk to the theatre, my thoughts were consumed with steering clear of the pickpockets and dodging the buckets of waste that Parisians emptied from their windows.

  I reached the steps of the Opera two hours later, nearly collapsing on the banquette near the curb. Though exhausted, I could not help but marvel at the splendor of the theatre. The façade was grand beyond my expectations, its gilded statues and dome ablaze with the reflection of the setting sun. Approaching the door was like stepping through the gates of heaven.

  The lobby was dark, but I could imagine how impressive it must be when alive with the promise of a performance. The lobby was a broad stroke painting of marble, velvet and gilded plaster. Statues of Greek figures, frozen in the beauty of an instant, lined the expanse. A wide staircase flowered out onto the second story, the purview of those wealthy enough to afford privileged seating.

  Tiptoeing upon the blood-red carpet, I followed the path to the immense doors that led to the theatre bay. The air was thick with the leaden smell of paint, and the sound of hammering assaulted my ears. Two men were on the stage arguing heatedly. At first, I took them to be actors preparing for a play. But the subject of their dispute proved me wrong.

  “Monsieur le Directeur,” said the taller man with an exasperated flourish, “if you cannot find a way to make do with the costumes in stock, then I’m afraid you will have to acquire any new costumes at the expense of your salary.”

  “This is an outrage,” yelled the other. “Do you now expect me to work for nothing?”

  “No, Rénard. My intention is merely to demonstrate to you that I cannot expend a single franc more on this production.”

  The men continued to debate loudly over the pounding, and I walked to the front row unnoticed. It had been about eleven years since I had last seen Monsieur Frenet, but I recognized him immediately.

  “Monsieur Frenet?” I ventured.

  He turned to look at me, and a scowl twisted his face. “Who the devil are you?”

  “My name is Paulette. I am the daughter of François de Sauvoigny. He was an old acquaintance of yours, yes?”

  Recognition illuminated his face. “Oh, yes…François. Now I remember you. How you’ve – grown.”

  The double-edged remark was not lost on me, but I chose to ignore it. “My father spoke of you often as a friend, monsieur, and I’ve come from Sescité to speak with you. Might I have a word in private?” I asked, glancing at the workmen who had stopped their hammering to stare at me.

  “I’m afraid not. I’m rather busy at the moment. Perhaps you could come back next week.”

  My hopes plunged at the curt dismissal. “No, monsieur, I cannot. You see…I…well…”

  His expression angered to annoyance. “Come, come, out with it.”

  My courage faltered in the face of his impatience. “I know no one else in Paris. I was hoping you might find a position for me in the
theatre.”

  He heaved an exasperated sighed. “What can you do?”

  “I can sew. My grandmother taught me well.”

  “Another seamstress,” said he, rolling his eyes. “We have all the women we need. And what we don’t need are more costumes. I’m sorry.”

  He made a move to go backstage, but I stopped him. “Monsieur Frenet, please. I need to find work.”

  “There is nothing for you here,” he insisted. “I’m sorry.”

  “I can teach,” I offered hopefully. “Your children –“

  “I have no children. And I have no work for you. Good day.”

  “Then let me clean for you. I can scrub the floors or polish the brass.”

  “No. I don’t need you. And I don’t want you. Now go!”

  I never intended to show my weakness, but I could not keep from crying. It seemed I wasn’t wanted anywhere.

  “I have nowhere else to go,” I pleaded desperately.

  The director leered at me from the stage. “There’s a circus in town. Why not try there?”

  His off-hand remark brought a round of laughter from the workmen.

  “Why not try raising your skirt on the corner?” one of them said. “Maybe then someone will take you.”

  Again the laughter. My head began to spin.

  “Gentlemen, please,” admonished Monsieur Frenet, his finger aimed straight at me. “No one would pay half a sou for that!”

  The poisoned arrow found its mark. Not “her,” not “that woman,” but that. Something inside me crumbled, and I began to run. The word beat at me like a club – that, that, that – bludgeoning away my femininity, my very personhood, and I fled from the bloody, crumpled thing that was the object of their derision. I flew through the very first door I saw, away from the unfeeling laughter, that horrible sound that seemed to follow me everywhere. I hated myself for being so grotesque, not just to the ignorant villagers of Sescité, but to the enlightened, sophisticated eyes of the rest of the world. I wished the earth would swallow me whole, and bury this ugliness forever. Hot tears blurred everything I saw, one corridor melting after another, flights of steps leading down to more.

  Until I collided with a locked door.

  I stopped to wipe my wet face with my sleeve. The voices that haunted me had disappeared, replaced only by the sound of my ragged sobs. I had no idea where I was. Instead of taking me back to the Paris streets, my blind flight had led me here, to what seemed like an unused part of the theatre. It was very dim, but I could still see the cobwebs streaming from the hinges on the door and the heavy dust upon the knob where my fingers had not touched it. A key glinted in the lock. I curled my fingers around it, and with a loud metallic grind, it turned.

  Opening the door, I was instantly enveloped by darkness. There was a faint odor of moisture and mildew, but there was nothing to be seen, save for the palpable blackness. I released the knob to wipe the tears still pooling in my eyes, and the door fell closed with a loud echoing thud.

  I whirled around to open it again, but there was no knob from within. I clawed the door, a cold dread smothering me as I realized that no one could possibly find me in this decayed cellar. I beat on the door with my fists, but only my own strangled cries reached my ears. Eventually, my screams grew fainter and shorter, dying down with the hope that I would ever be rescued.

  I had wished to be buried forever, and God had granted me that wish.

  I leaned my flushed face against the cold mortar. That is when I heard the rustling.

  It was very faint at first, but it grew louder. And nearer.

  “Hello?” I rasped.

  Nothing. I called out again, afraid of hearing no answer, but equally afraid of hearing the wrong one.

  Then I heard it. Squeaking. I shuddered violently. A rat! Bunching up my skirts, I flew away from the walls toward the center of the room. I heard it scurry along the corners and pause in the very spot I had just vacated. Then it scrambled across the opposite wall, and then it vanished.

  I let out my breath, unaware I had been holding it. I have never been able to abide rats, not since I was ten years old and Jean-Louis threw one in my hair and it ran down my face. The darkness intensified the remembered sensation of the rodent's sharp nails clawing my cheeks, and the horrifying memory drew out a whimper.

  But it slowly dawned on me that rats do not simply vanish, and that it must have come from – and gone to – someplace. I placed my hand upon a wall, and followed the wall around the room.

  To my surprise and joy, I discovered that this was not a cellar, but a foyer into yet another room. I continued along this path, my hands in front of me as far as they could reach, until I came upon a room with a door at the far end. My eyes were by now well adjusted to the darkness, and there was a dim glow emanating from beneath the door. The doorknob turned freely, and my eyes beheld candles.

  It

  It is a mortifying sensation when one arrives at a conclusion that should have been patently obvious. Such was my regret when I realized what a perilous predicament I was in. It was then, and only then, that it occurred to me that the rumors about the infamous Phantom lurking beneath the Opera might not have been exaggerated. The juxtaposition of fresh candles and spent ones made it clear that whoever inhabited these depths had been here for some time.

  A curious smell pervaded the room. My terrified imagination immediately suggested that it was the smell of death. After the initial horror passed, however, I realized that it was actually the foul stench of stagnant water. I looked down and found that I had been standing on a ledge overlooking a seemingly interminable channel of bilge water. Across the fetid channel, pedestal candelabra were perched on a narrow precipice, much like the one upon which I stood. The faint light of the candles did little to dispel the thick soup of darkness, but their flickering reflections danced upon the surface of the water like stars, giving the impression that earth and sky had reversed their positions.

  “Who is there?” A deep voice called out from the darkness.

  My heart froze.

  “What purpose have you here?” it demanded, its anger resonating upon the ancient stone walls.

  A numbing cold paralyzed my limbs, and I began to shiver. I opened my mouth to answer the presence, but no sound emerged.

  “You dare ignore me?” The disembodied voice seemed to travel around the room. I thought only of escape, but my legs were senseless.

  “Your silence will follow you to your grave!” This time, hot breath fell upon my neck.

  I whirled around, and It was there.

  It was a ghastly spectre, a hideous white mask hovering above a cloak of black. It loomed high above me, and I reeled backwards to flee the terrifying phantasm. In my horror, I forgot the ledge, and with an overdue shriek, I plunged into the murky water.

  The cold, heavy water stabbed me like a thousand blades. I kicked wildly, my feet seeking purchase but finding none. Unable to swim, I tore at the surface of the water, and I made it up for a gasp of air. But my feet quickly became entangled in the folds of my skirts, and I sank again. The heavy fabric clung mercilessly to my legs, immobilizing them further. A tightness squeezed my lungs, forcing me to gasp. Rancid water filled my mouth, and my arms beat the water more wildly than before. From beneath the water, my eyes flew heavenward. The apathetic, unfeeling mask looked down upon me, its visage distorted in the colliding ripples. A sleepiness overtook me, and closing my eyes, I gave myself to the darkness.

  Him

  The mind is a strange thing. Even in the throes of mortal dread, images can take shape. I had a dream that I had died in the water, and an angel dressed in black fell in the water with me. His lovely face was porcelain white, and he lifted me in his black wings and carried me to heaven. The angel placed me in a golden bed, and I slept and slept and slept.

  It was in the midst of this dream that I awoke. My eyes fluttered open, and I thought myself to be in heaven. I stirred in the bed, and took a deep breath. A coughing fit wracked my b
ody, and the dull pain in my chest convinced me I was not spirit, but corporeal still. The air sputtering out of my lungs tasted foul, like old garbage, and I was forced to suppress a wave of nausea. When the spasms had subsided, I wiped the warm tears from my eyes and looked around.

  The bed on which I lay was draped with sheets of smooth blue satin. A net of sheerest voile hung from somewhere above the bedpost and cascaded all around the bed. Through it, I could see rich Persian fabrics adorning the walls. Scattered about the room was the most ornate furniture I have ever seen; it seemed more theatrical than merely luxurious. The air was filled with a sweet fragrance, which no doubt emanated from the bouquet of fresh gardenias resting on the bedside table. My surroundings reminded me of a Turkish harem, for I had read of such places. Spread upon the bed was a woman’s dressing gown – elegant but garish, like a costume. I called out, but no one answered. Hastily, I peeled off my wet dress. I retained my undergarments, still damp but warm, and poured the gown around me, grateful for its concealing thickness. I then pulled back the heavy curtains, for there was no door, and ventured out.

  The Phantom was there.

  It stood in the center of the room, a profusion of candles illuminating the stern-looking mask.

  “Are you well?” It asked, with a hint of concern that was hard to ignore.

  “Yes, thank you,” I heard myself respond.

  It turned around, and began to pour something out of a bottle. I stole the opportunity to study this strange creature more. Its black hair was straight and combed flat against its head. The cloak was gone; what remained were an impeccable black tailcoat and trousers, and a snow-white cravat. Its clothes suggested a fashion of an earlier decade, as if time had stopped on a single day long ago. It was tall, perhaps extraordinarily so, and it was possessed of a physique that was as striking as it was masculine. Here was no spectre; this was a man.