In The Eye of the Beholder A Novel of the Phantom of the Opera Sharon E. Cathcart 978-0-9561884-7-2 Turner Maxwell Books Free Publishing Free Books Free Literature Free Writers Turner Maxwell Books are an independent co-operative of new writers, committed to publishing inspirational literature. Turner Maxwell Books has over one hundred writers, producing original stories not seen in any other bookshop, Turner Maxwell Books has established itself as a successful and viable publisher. This achievement lies in its innovative and daring approach to establish a shorter supply chain that is simply focused on the requirements of the reader.

In The Eye of the Beholder

A Novel of the Phantom of the Opera

Sharon E. Cathcart

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.

Published by Turner Maxwell Books

ISBN 978-0-9561884-7-2

First published 2009.
Copyright © Sharon E. Cathcart 2009

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