January 4, 2007

Thank you for your patience in waiting for this next chapter. Now that the holidays are over, I hope to be writing more regularly. This chapter isn't quite as long as the first, but I think you'll like it just the same. I hope I caught all the typos and such. Oh well, if I didn't, I'm sure my faithful readers will let me know…

Chapter 2
The Reply


Late July 1881


To whom it may concern…

Erik set his pen aside, looked at the paper, wadded it in a ball and tossed it over towards the wastebasket. "Damn!" he muttered when he missed the basket. Rather than pick up the paper, he instead reached for a clean sheet of paper and began to write again.

Dear Father…Allow me to introduce myself; I am Erik duBois…

Again dissatisfied, he crumpled the paper and likewise tossed it aside. He had made numerous unsuccessful attempts to compose a letter to the parish priest at Boscherville, but whenever he put pen to paper, nothing came out right. Sighing heavily, he shoved the writing utensils aside. Leaning back in his chair, he tried to collect his thoughts.

Downstairs he could hear the sounds of Mamma working in the kitchen, which was immediately below his workroom. Being summer, the window to his workroom was open, which allowed the aroma of the roast she had put in the oven for supper to waft its way into the room. Maybe that is what is distracting me, he thought, inhaling the aroma. His stomach agreed, and growled in approval of the choice for this evening's meal. He closed his eyes and rolled his neck, trying to work the kinks and stiff muscles when he heard a light rapping at the door. Turning around, he saw Christine enter the room.

"Choir practice over already?" he asked.

"Already?" She laughed. "Have you seen how late it is?"

"Oh," he replied, looking over at the mantle clock. He grinned sheepishly. "I guess I lost track of the time."

"It's of no importance," she shrugged casually as she looked around the room, noticing the remains of the numerous attempts at letter writing scattered over the floor. "Still at it?" she asked, shaking her head as she bent over and picked up the crumpled pages, tossing them into the basket. She looked over at Erik, cocking her head to one side. "Maybe we should move this closer to your desk?" she suggested.

"And here I thought you were willing to overlook my shortcomings," he replied.

An eyebrow rose as she said, "To a point."

"Here, come sit with me," he said, inviting her onto his lap. "Tell me, how was choir practice today?"

Christine snuggled against Erik as she joined him on the chair, then sighed forlornly. "I fear I am sadly out of form," she said, putting her arms around his neck as she rested her head against his shoulder. "I need my teacher's help."

Erik wrapped his arms around her waist, caressing her, and kissed the crown of her head. "Is that what the choirmaster told you?"

"No, the dear man is quite accustomed to dealing with untrained voices. In his opinion, mine is perfection itself. However, I know better. I cringed when I listened to myself sing. My high notes are harsh, and my middle range is not distinct."

Erik tsked. "I see," he said consolingly. "You are quite right, of course; this will never do. I fear we are dealing with a very serious situation, Mme duBois." He went through the motions of giving the matter careful thought. "By all means," he concluded, "we must set about correcting these problems, and soon."

"Shall we start tonight?"

"No, not tonight. We shall start tomorrow. You already had choir practice today. We don't want to strain your voice. Besides, you look a little tired."

"I'm fine," she said, trying to hide a yawn. "I'm not tired in the least." Striking a coy pose, Christine slipped off her shoes and started rubbing her stocking feet against her husband's legs. "Oh…and M. Ledoux, the organist? He asked me to thank you for the musical exercises." Grinning to herself when she heard Erik let out a soft moan, she continued massaging the calf of his leg with her foot. "He…uh, says they have been most helpful…and already he can notice an improvement in his playing. I can, too." Leaning closer, she brushed her lips against his.

"Mmm…it was…the least I could," Erik said, returning her kiss and finding himself noticeably distracted by what Christine was doing with her feet. "It…was…the least I could…do," he repeated, pausing to kiss her again, "after hearing…him hit all those…sour notes at church two weeks ago."

"So, tell me, why is it taking you two days to write a simple letter?"

He sighed and shook his head slowly. "I don't know. When I put pen to paper, I cannot seem to find the right words."

"You're trying too hard. You should simply explain who you are, and what it is you are seeking."

She slid off his lap and took the chair next to his. "I'll stay here. Maybe my presence will inspire you."

Erik laughed softly. If ever his mood was dark, he only needed to look at Christine, to see the love in her eyes, for his spirits to be lifted. Taking her advice, he tried once again. This time the words came easily. By the time Mamma called to tell them that supper was ready, the letter was written and ready to be mailed.

-0-0-0-

It was late afternoon. Erik sat at his worktable, drawing up a plan for M. Kerjean's new barn. Two weeks had passed, and he had all but given up on receiving a reply to his letter when Christine came into the room, an envelope in her hand.

"The postmaster stopped by in person to deliver this," she announced. Erik sat and stared at the piece of paper as if trying to divine its contents from a distance. "Go ahead," she said, holding it out to him. "Open it. You know you're dying to know what it says." She gave him the envelope, and taking a chair next to his, waited eagerly as he opened it. Though he took the letter from her quite confidently, she noticed the barest trace of a tremor in his hands as he slid the flap open. This was very important to him, and she knew that while he would not say so, he felt some trepidation as to what the letter might say.

Pulling out a sheet of paper filled with a neat if sprawling script, Erik read the short missive, then set it aside and sighed. He saw Christine looking at him, visibly curious as to the letter's contents. "It's from Father Martin Godenot, the current pastor of the parish," he said at last. "He writes that he only came to Boscherville eleven years ago and therefore has no firsthand knowledge of the duBois family. He is very polite, though, and has invited us to call upon him at our convenience." He looked down at the floor, then at the letter lying on the work desk. "I had so hoped for more than this," he said, disappointment in his voice. The envelope drifted to the floor.

Christine leaned down and picked it up. For an empty envelope, it felt heavy. She peered inside. "Did you see this? There's a second page inside." She pulled out the paper and handed it to Erik. As he read, she saw his expression change from one of dejection to one of hope.

Finished reading, he looked up at Christine, a small smile trying to form at the corners of his lips. "I guess I should have read the entire letter first," he said. "Here, you should read this, too."

She took the letter from Erik and began to read.

Monsieur duBois, although I was not present in Boscherville when your family lived here, my predecessor, Fr. Mansart apparently knew them well. When I first came here as Fr. Mansart's assistant, a position I held for little more than a year before that sainted man passed on to his heavenly reward, he used to tell me of the people who lived here so that I might better understand my flock. Some of the stories he told me were happy ones, while some of them were sad. In thinking back, I recall him telling me once of Monsieur and Madame duBois and their unfortunate child.

I want to get this off to you as quickly as possible, knowing that you are undoubtedly eager to read what I have to say, and so I have made a quick search of our records. According to them, an Absolon and Jacquelyne duBois, both of this parish, had a son who was baptized Erik and who was born on the 8th of June, 1840. Fr. Mansart wrote in the margin next to the entry that he tried to persuade the new parents to give their son a proper French name, but the wife was adamant, explaining that it was the name of her father, a man of Norwegian birth.

She looked up at Erik. "Your mother's people were Norwegian? That's makes us practically cousins."

He merely grimaced. "I really never knew that much about my parents. I suppose I should have suspected something like that, with my name spelled the way it is."

"And your father's name is Absolon. That's an unusual name, is it not?"

"Yes. Ironic, isn't it? The name is from the Hebrew for 'my father is peace'."

She wondered what he was really thinking. "Interesting," she said, then looked at the paper again. "And now I know your birthday, too. We shall have to celebrate."

Erik only snorted. "I'm not sure I like that idea. It will only make me feel old."

"Poor man," she fussed, tousling his hair. Then she turned her attention back to the letter.

I recall Fr. Mansart telling me that when the child was about a year old, he was terribly injured and almost died. I have no information as to the details of the injury or its cause, but perhaps some of the older residents in the area might know. I looked through some of Fr. Mansart's old correspondence, which is kept with the rest of the church records, and it appears that the injury left the child an invalid, and that he was not seen afterwards.

I am certain that some of the older parishioners may remember the family. If you would come to Boscherville, I can make some inquiries and perhaps introduce you to someone who can provide you with the information you seek. We might also go through the old church records again and see if they can illuminate these tragic events of long ago.

When she finished reading the letter, she said nothing. She instinctively put her hand on her stomach, thinking of the unborn child she was carrying, and wondering about what kind of woman Jacquelyne duBois was. Her thoughts were interrupted when Erik spoke.

"Are you up to a trip to Boscherville?" he asked. Her brow furrowed, and he explained, "I only ask because I am concerned that the journey could be tiring in your present condition."

She looked down at her stomach, then back at Erik. The seriousness of the mood was broke when she laughed. "You're not going to get rid of me that easily. I'm not the first woman to ever be expecting, but I thank you for your concern." Leaning over, she gave him a quick kiss. "Besides, I'm not going to remain here with nothing to do but housework while you're out and about. I plan on being at your side throughout the whole trip."

His own mood lightened perceptibly. "I wouldn't want it any other way."

"You once told me that you had wanted to make peace with your parents when you first returned to France."

Erik nodded. "I remember."

"Perhaps this journey will finally provide you with the opportunity to do that."

Author's Note:

Those of you who have read Susan Kay's Phantom will no doubt recognize Father Mansart. Just a little tribute on my part to that fantastic (er, phantastique?) novel.