Angel Hands (8 page)

The events of the day before, coupled with finding a white rose next to her on her pillow that morning, had put her in a foul frame of mind. The cast, the crew, and even Raymond had been on the receiving end of her barbs and snaps without apology.

"Come in," she said as steadily as she could manage.

A moment later, she wished she had gone ahead and told the caller to go to hell.

Carcasonne walked into her office, his ego and large belly filling up the small space and making it hard to breathe.

"Mademoiselle," he said, inclining his head. "I have come to your rescue."

"I wasn't aware I was in trouble, monsieur."

"A lovely little lady isn't expected to understand the magnitude of legal troubles, my dear."

There was a beat of silence as Mireille counted. She made it to seven.

"You are referring to the letter from the attorneys for
le vicomte
?"

"Yes, indeed. Now, if you will hand it over, I shall take care of it for you. Best to have a man of the world handle these things, you know."

"There is no need for you to trouble yourself with this matter." Mireille's voice was icy cold, and her glare would have sent most strong men packing.

"Well, well, well, you know that we let you play at running this theater, my dear," Carcasonne purred, coming around to her side of the desk. "A girl needs amusements if she doesn't have a home to mind. But, when it comes to something serious, like the law, it's best if you leave it to a man's judgment."

It was hard to count to seven even at that point. She clenched her hands in her lap and refused to look away from Carcasonne's gaze.

"You are quite right," she said icily. "I have already discussed the matter with my father, and we shall be certain to consult with the Opéra de Paris’ solicitors—who you should be relieved to know are men—as to the best course of action. However, I do not believe that the Vicomte de Chagnard has a leg to stand on. Neither he nor the vicomtesse are heritors of the estate of the 'phantom', and technically,
Don Juan
belongs to the phantom and not the Opéra de Paris. They have no grounds to object to the production nor to claim license."

Carcasonne sat down on her desk, his large rear squashing and crinkling the papers. For a fleeting moment, Mireille fervently hoped there was wet ink on one of the papers that would leave imprints of words such as ‘farce’ and ‘enormous’ on his immaculate—if overworked at the seams—faun trousers. He leaned in to her, forcing her back in her chair.

"You are getting a bit above yourself, my dear," he said, lifting his finger to tip her chin up to him. "It really is time you settled down. Now, I know you won't be able to secure a young boy like you probably want, but there is nothing wrong with an older, wiser man taking care of you. Someone like myself. After all, you're still young enough for my tastes and would look good on my arm."

"Monsieur!"

"Now, don't get all prissy on me, my dear. Consider yourself fortunate that I'm so generous. After all, you're no beauty, and you're certainly not getting any younger. I know your father worries about what will become of you after he is gone."

"Leave him out of this!" Mireille spat, trying to scoot her chair back, only to have Carcasonne's touch on her chin become an unforgiving grip. His other hand shot out and grabbed the arms of her chair to hold it in place.

"Think on my words, Mireille Dubienne," he hissed. "You are a woman who will be alone in the world. No money, no family, no support of any kind."

Abruptly, he let go of her and rose. Turning to leave, he added with a sick chuckle, "Besides, if you please me enough, I might even let you continue to play at running this theater."

Watching the door close behind him, Mireille clutched at the edge of her desk and took deep breaths. She felt nauseous and dirty, and for the first time, deeply frightened. Much of what he said was true, despite the cocoon of safety her father had created for her in the theater, she was a lone woman in a man's world.

Waves of heat and chills left her queasy and clammy. She needed to cool her face and wash the feeling of the slug's presence off her. Rising unsteadily, she slipped from her office and to the small washroom off the corridor.

The cold water calmed the nausea, but the anxiety remained. She had to think, untangle all the problems, deal with the vicomte, the slug, the production, the...the...the ghost...

Lifting her chin, she managed to walk purposefully from the room. No man ever got the best of her. It was a promise she had made herself all those years ago, and a promise she meant to keep.

Forty-five minutes of scolding various stagehands and prop managers restored her to a measure of equilibrium. She was deep in conversation with the costumer about the procurement of enough red satin for the second act costumes when out of the corner of her eye, she saw Raymond approaching.

"Mademoiselle," Raymond said, addressing her formally as was his wont in front of the cast and crew. "A brief word with you?"

"In a moment," Mireille replied crisply.

"Now, please."

Mireille turned to Raymond, shocked at his assertiveness. She felt her jaw tighten even as she perceived from the expression on his face that it wasn't opera on his mind. He wanted to ask her about the day before, and that was a line of questioning that would only lead to trouble.

"I said later," she replied curtly. "I meant it."

He was still waiting for her when she finished speaking with the costumer. Coldly, he gestured for her precede him, and he took her into one of the dressing rooms.

"What happened yesterday," he asked, crossing his arms.

"We rehearsed for the production of
Don Juan
, as far as I know."

"You know what I mean, Mireille."

"Yes, I do, but I'm not going to tell you. It's nothing you need to know or worry about."

"You disappeared—and not for the first time. That, as far as I'm concerned, is something to worry about."

"What? You can't direct an opera without me?"

"Mireille!" He reached out to pull her into his arms, and she adroitly dodged him.

"This is a business, Raymond. Not everything about it is pleasant or perfect. I shouldn't have to explain that to you...nor should I have to explain myself to you. You have a job, so do I. That's where it starts, and that's where it ends."

"It's only because I care, Mireille," he said, stepping forward and successfully capturing her in his arms. "I can't help it if I want you," he added, softly kissing her cheeks and forehead. "I love you, Mireille."

He wasn't prepared for the violent push she gave him, nor for the agonized look in her eyes.

"Don't ever say that again," she said flatly. "Don't ever touch me like that again. I am the manager of this theater and you are the director. That's as far as it goes."

"Why? Why can't it be more?"

"Don't make me fire you, Raymond. I will, if I have to, in order to get you to leave me alone."

His face twisted from sorrow to an ugly anger. "Leave you alone? What for? So you can have more time with that ghost fellow? Is that what this is about—you want me out of the way so you can let him touch you and make love to you, and –"

Mireille's slap was hard, like the way she shut the door behind her on her way out. Her mind was running on a single track now. Raymond knew. Raymond knew about the ghost somehow. She couldn't fire him now. She couldn't turn down his advances without risking him going public with the story of the ghost. She was trapped.

No, Mireille Dubienne did not get trapped. The world of men hadn't trapped her yet, and she'd be damned before a Carcasonne, a vicomte, or a Raymond would checkmate her ambitions, independence, and power. As for the ghost at the root of all these troubles, she found herself dismissing him and his tricks and games of seduction. He was even more trapped than she was, and she'd make him pay her back for all the trouble she endured because of him. In fact, she planned on making him quite useful in helping her get out of her sticky situation.

She reached her office again, this time locking the door behind her to avoid unwanted intrusions. A plan was starting to formulate itself in her agile mind. She was so focused on her own thoughts that she didn't notice she wasn't alone until it was too late.

"You are a woman? I was told this is the office of the manager, Monsieur Dubienne."

Mireille stared at the handsome young man who stood in her office, his hands resting easily on a Malacca cane, and his blond hair tucked neatly behind his ears.

"Who are you?" she asked, standing and drawing herself up to her full height, though she knew it was not nearly high enough to be truly intimidating.

"I am Raoul, Vicomte de Chagnard," the man replied, not even bothering to incline his head in the merest of bows. "I was expecting to speak with Monsieur Dubienne, the manager of the Opéra de Paris."

"Your wishes have been fulfilled, monsieur," Mireiille replied icily, moving to take a seat behind her desk and gesturing with frigid grace for the man to sit as well. "I am Mireille Dubienne and manage the theater for my father and Monsieur Carcasonne, the primary investors and owners."

"But, you're a woman!"

"Your point?"

"You shouldn't be doing this. It is unseemly! As a former patron of the opera, I insist-"

"’Former’ being the operative word, monsieur. Since you withdrew your patronage, we have secured other funding and means of support. Forgive me, but your opinions and insisting mean very little to us now. My only responsibility is to the current investors."

"Perhaps I should speak with Monsieur Dubienne or Monsieur Carcasonne."

Mireille eyed the young man with a great deal of dislike, giving him her best governess-glare through her glasses. For a fleeting moment, she sympathized with the Opera Ghost's dislike of the vicomte. To lose a girl to this fop must have been galling to him. Then again, Mireille reasoned, the girl herself must have been a twit to make that choice in the first place.

Bringing herself back to the moment at hand, she looked the Vicomte de Chagnard squarely in the eye and spoke.

"There will be no need to speak to either of those men, nor will there be any need for you to pursue your legal maneuvering to try and halt the production of
Don Juan
."

"What would you know about legal maneuvering?"

"Enough to know that you haven't got a chance in hell of getting a judge to agree with you."

"Oh really?"

"Yes."

"You're sure of this, are you?"

"Absolutely. They're all season ticket holders."

"I will go to the press then, and bring the wrath of the public down on your head! Your name will be reviled in the streets, mademoiselle!"

"That matters very little so long as my bank account is full."

"The press will expose you."

"Which will only serve to fill every last seat in the house, every last person beyond eager to taste the scandal of the phantom’s infamous opera. Obviously, monsieur, despite your...status...I must point out you know very little about the way business works. Now, unless you have something else to say, I see no point in prolonging this interview."

"Have you no decency, no shame? What of the respect of a good woman's name?" The vicomte was becoming flushed and angrier with every exchange. "What of all that my wife endured?"

"Should you wish to remind all of society that you married a chorus girl, by all means, bring up the issue of your wife's good name," Mireille replied coolly. "And as far as decency and shame go, I would have to say that no, I do not have any decency nor shame. After all, as you yourself pointed out, I am a woman doing business in a man's world."

"This is not the end!" the vicomte thundered, rising and smacking his cane against the ground.

"At least for today, it is," she retorted, narrowing her eyes. "Good day."

She watched impassively as the young man stormed out of her office, then sighed and leaned back in her chair, massaging her temples. The only thing missing from the day's parade of harassment was some nuisance from her ghost.

Even as she worked steadily through the rest of the day, she waited for the ghost to pop up, startle her halfway into a decline, and give her grief about Carcasonne, Raymond, and de Chagnard, in no particular order. The fact that he didn't show himself at all was both puzzling and relieving to her. She found herself almost grateful for what undoubtedly passed for tact on his part.

***

As she sat that night in her bedroom, absently brushing her hair, she mulled over the day's intrigues, trying to focus her mind into marshaling a plan of action that would sweep the board of all her problems. Moving from the dressing table to the bed, she glanced at the pillows, remembering the white rose that had greeted her when she had opened her eyes.

She shivered, thinking that the ghost must have been in her room, standing by her bed, above her defenseless, sleeping form. Yet, he hadn't done anything except leave her a rose. Not that she had wanted anything more. Not at all.

Mireille laid down on the bed, slipping under the covers and allowing herself the luxury of relaxing. Problems would still be there tomorrow...and what of her ghost...did he even have a name beyond Opera Ghost and phantom...and, Raymond was going to be difficult...she'd have to go to the press about de Chagnard before de Chagnard did...make him look a whiny fool...Kristin must have been a simpleton to see him as a paragon of strength…and...

A dark figure stepped out of the shadows and watched the sleeping woman for a long time. Silently, he deposited a white rose on the pillow next to her then slipped away into the night.

11. Of Rats and Resignations

Rain fell steadily outside the office window. The light from the oil lamp offered a small pool of warmth in the gloomy room.

Mireille gritted her teeth as she read through the sheaf of legal documents that de Chagnard's lawyers had lobbed at her, the opening salvo of what was sure to be a battle royale. There was a cease and desist, a confidentiality requirement, the threat of suing for slander, a potential criminal investigation...