Re-cap: The Roux's houseguest, their son Warren, and friend Reginald, make a wager with Gabrielle to wash dishes. From here it gets messy…
Ch. 8 – Of Arrogance and Angst.
The evening meal moved along pleasantly as Warren regaled us with tall tales of life at the University. His father laughed at the outlandish fraternity pranks and other assorted high jinks, while his mother furrowed her brows, throwing in a disapproving comment here and there.
Erik watched the family circle of conversation with a bemused look most of the evening. Even thought he did not possess the experience to be au fait with such exchanges, I do think he was enjoying his guests.
After clearing the table and delivering dessert (rice pudding), I returned to poke fun at the young men about their impetuous bet.
"So, which one of you are to help me with tonight's cleanup; Warren or Reginald?"
Both of them looked up from their dessert and exchanged glances with one another.
"Oh, you thought I'd forget did you? Wrong-o buck-o! Confess, who will be my willing assistant in the kitchen."
Warren, with a mouth full of dessert politely pointed his spoon at Reginald.
"Reginald, are you up to the task at hand dear?"
"I will not shirk my duties Mdm. Gabriel, after all, how hard can woman's work be?" He shrugged.
"What are you people going on about?" Erik inquired tersely.
"It seem that these boys made a wager on their chess game. The loser's fate is to help me with tonight's cleanup. Isn't that a hoot—er— funny?"
"Absurd is more like it. Really Gabrielle, you don't entertain the idea that he will actually make good on the degrading wager do you?" Erik countered.
I choose to ignore the degrading comment; 19th century men were even more lacking than modern men when it came to deference toward the opposite sex.
"Of course! A man is only as good as his word, especially an Oxford man, isn't that right Reginald?"
Reginald placed his napkin on his empty plate, stood and bowed slightly to me, "Mdm. Gabrielle is correct, first and foremost, I am a man of my word. Show me to the galley Madame."
Erik scowled and shook his head, as did Warren's mother. Both father and son howled with laughter at the prospect of the fine young Englishman washing dishes.
I assigned Reginald the simple task of clearing the table. This he did without destroying any of Erik's fine china and crystal. Push came to shove when it was time to clean the pots and pans. I hated doing these because food embedded itself to the bottoms like crazy glue. Teflon lined cookware and grease dissolving detergent had yet to be invented in 1876.
"Reginald, you see to be a rather strong fellow, would you mind terribly to clean these pots and pans for me? It's is one of the less feminine of my kitchen tasks because it takes a strong touch." I offered him the offending pot and a bit of steel wool.
He smiled his brilliant smile at me, "Mdm. Gabrielle, your wish is my command; hand me some soap and I shall slay your dirty dragons."
Needless to say it took him a good bit of elbow grease and scrubbing to clean the cast iron thoroughly.
We had ample time for talking so I took advantage of chatting up one of the few human beings I had met during my tenure in this century.
"What is it like at Oxford, Reginald?"
"The University is an institution of prominence above all other seats of learning Mdm. Gabrielle. By virtue of its antiquity, doctrine and privileges it is a fine forum for learning and intellectual debate, " Reginald proudly boasted.
"Impressive Reginald." I compliment him.
"I had read that their prestigious halls produced many famous men such as Lord Byron, Isaac and Newton and Lord Acton who, I believe, coined the clever phrase, power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely."
"My Madam does have a vast knowledge of historical figures. Both bright and beautiful too—a rare combination in most women."
"Why Monsieur, I'm so very flattered," I batted my eyelashes at him coyly, all the while thinking moron.
"Many Americans have also chosen a royal education. Your fellow William Penn was an Oxford man." Reginald continued.
"Why yes," nearly adding that there was a recent American President as well, but I quickly recovered my wits in time to realize that Mr. Clinton had another 60 or so years yet to be born.
"You are good at yes your history Reginald. Penn was not only a famous champion of liberty and religious freedom, but he scandalously insisted that women deserved equal rights with men."
"It is indeed a good turn of events that the man made America his home? I am afraid his odd ideas would have him tarred and feathered in the streets of Europe," the boy chuckled as if I too would find the idea of equality among the sexes absurd.
"Bigheaded Butt-munch," I quietly seethed. I didn't care if he didn't know any better.
Perhaps it was time for Reginald to learn a lesson of another sort.
"Of course Monsieur, women could never match the intelligence of men. We would be silly to wish for anything more that the fine duties of motherhood and service to our husbands, do you not agree?" I intoned sweetly, batting my eyelashes at him again.
"But there are no women at Oxford, so where does a fine young catch like you go for female companionship?" I moved closer to him.
"He smiled a smile of haughty confidence," actually Gabrielle, my parents wish for me to wed a girl who is the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Leicester. The nuptials are to occur shortly after graduation. Our family has enjoyed great stature in England for centuries and it would not do for me to marry below my station. But, I assure you; I have my share of willing wenches while I remain a bachelor." Here he winked at me leeringly.
I moved in for the kill.
"Oh, no doubt of it; you are a very virile man. If I weren't older than you, I might fancy you myself," I blushed and flirted shamelessly.
It was all I could do to not burst out laughing when he took a step near me and whispered in my ear, "Gabrielle, you can't be that much older, anyway, I am quite mature for my age, I am certain that a young man would be able to satisfy your needs as much better than that old fellow Monsieur DuPuis."
He thought I was sleeping with Erik. I had to cover my mouth to keep from laughing.
I feigned outrage." You think I am sleeping with the master of the house, oh Monsieur, what sort of woman do you think I am! He is my benevolent benefactor and nothing more; really, he's much too old for me. I prefer my men younger."
I looped my dishtowel around his neck and pulled him nearer.
Reginald scanned our surroundings nervously for any sign of life. Once assured that no one could see us, he grabbed me around the waist, roughly pulling my body to his. His mouth crushed down on mine for a sloppy, clumsy kiss.
"Well then Reginald, I whispered in his ear, is it the hay then, in the barn loft?" I intoned seductively.
I don't think the green young man expected such an invitation from me. He turned red and stuttered nervously, "why, of course Mdm—er—Gabrielle; that would be lovely. I'm afraid we don't have any French letters on me."
"Then we'll have to make due won't we luv," I cooed knowing full well that he would never attempt such a daring act as to bed the formidable Monsieur DuPuis' partner's Niece.
I reached between his legs and grabbed his package firmly in my hand. I looked him dead in the eyes.
"Of course if Monsieur DuPuis caught us, I could be out on my fanny and you, well, I dread to know what the dark Lord of this manor might do if he even caught us kissing in his kitchen. But then I am just an ignorant, lower class woman, Isn't that right Reginald? Good for nothing more than a good rutting or two."
He was sweating profusely and turning more red than I thought humanly possible.
"M-madam Gabrielle, I don't know what you are insinuating, I, I must take my leave!" He bolted from the kitchen like a wild horse with a cowboy on his back.
I bent over in the corner of the kitchen galley, attempting unsuccessfully to stifle the laughter rolling up from my belly. I had tears in my eyes when I turned around. I straightened up and leaned against the sink. When I looked out into the dining area I saw Erik; and he did not look happy.
"What in god's name have you been doing in here?" He snarled at me.
I sobered up quickly. "Just toying with that arrogant young man, he deserved to be knocked down from his pedestal a few pegs."
"I came in here to see how badly you were torturing the boy with that retched bet when I saw him grab you. I saw the kiss, I witnessed you nestling up to him and whispering in his ear too."
He gritted his teeth and came so close to me I could feel his hot breath on my nose.
"Gabrielle, Please tell me it was a hallucination of mine when I thought I saw you grab that boy's crotch?"
I was stone cold busted.
"Welllll, yes and no. I was teaching him a lesson. Honestly Erik, do you think I want that little whelp? If I were truly a wanton, of all the men in this house at the moment, Reginald would not be my first choice for seduction." I peered at him shyly hoping to charm my way out of this pickle.
"Don't even start with me Madame. I heard what you said. I have no delusion about your intent toward me if that is what you are inferring. Do you think me a fool Gabrielle? You little wench; if I should ever catch you plying your trickery upon anyone in this house again, especially a guest, or conducting yourself in any manor that is not becoming of a lady, you will find yourself out on your rear! Do I make myself clear Madam?"
Oh was he livid; I had never seen Erik appear as menacing as he did at this moment. Why had my shenanigans set him off so? He looked like he wanted to strangle me.
His grip on my arm was becoming painful. I started to tear up from pain and humiliation.
"It was only a joke, Erik, I swear, I will never do anything remotely like that again. Just please let go of my arm, you're hurting me."
I don't even think he realized he was holding onto me. He gapped at his appendage as if it had mindlessly wrapped itself around my arm, then released his grip but continued to stare at me with a look of disgust
"Gabrielle, I don't care if it was a joke. In this time and place, in my home you will not conduct yourself like a whore while you live under my roof." His voice was low and menacing.
"That's what you think of me Erik? Then aren't you insulted that I have yet to invite you into my bed? I could profit much more from bedding the master of the house than a callow school boy." I lashed out at him angrily.
"How dare you speak to me in such…"
I cut his terse reply short by pushing past him and running for the sanctuary of my room.
Once there I turned the key and pushed a small chair in place under the doorknob. It was the only object device that would keep Erik from entering should he choose to.
It was near midnight when the house finally settled down into the silence of slumber. I desperately needed t o make a visit to the water closet, which of course meant venturing into the hall and risking a confrontation with one of three men who slept in the house this night.
I made my way as stealthily as possible down the hall, careful to avoid any loose floorboards that would announce my presence by creaking under foot. Once the mission was accomplished, I became brave and headed down to the kitchen. I needed provisions. First two bottles of wine from the current selection I had brought up earlier that day from the wine cellar, then a ½ baguette, followed by a small bit of Chambret. I tucked all but the wine into a napkin and headed back upstairs. There were still a few items I needed from the bedroom, a pillow, blanket, my journal and IPOD.
Now I was ready for my hideaway.
Although I preferred the presence of others to living the life of a loner, sometimes a person needs a temporary haven from the world. The turret in the mansion's west wing was my destination. I had discovered the desolate location during an exploration of the house one very mind-numbingly dull afternoon when I had had my fill of books and naps.
The door to the highest point in the house was caked with dust and cobwebs. Because there were no fingerprints anywhere on the woodwork, I assumed that this area had remained untouched for a substantial amount of time. It seemed the perfect cubbyhole for a wayward wanton woman.
Trying to leave little evidence of my own presence, I carefully pried the door open. The wooden stairs wound narrowly upwards in the dark. I heightened the gas lamp's wick and climbed the 20 plus feet upward until I found the turret's simple wooden door.
Pushing it open with my foot, I tentatively ducked my head in, almost expecting bats to hear the swooshing of bat wings. No bats came, so I entered the round room and secured the door behind me.
Dusty trunks and boxes were stacked all around the area. A large stained glass window adorned the house's front side. In the gloom it was impossible to discern what sort of design there was on it. I had noticed the window from the outside before, but the only thing that stood out in my mind was its colors gold, green and purple. Nothing but dust occupied the space underneath, so I made my camp there under the dark glass.
I made a palate, put on my headphones and opened a bottle of the wine. The food I would save. I had no inkling as to how long Iwould stay stashed up here, but I wasn't in any mindset to join the company of my harsh taskmaster anytime soon.
A fierce despair had enveloped me. Was losing my place in time nature's way of punishing my father for meddling in certain laws of physics of which he had no business? "Gabrielle," I chided myself, "Aren't you being a bit over the top?"
Home and family were lost to me now. I had vanished from the world in which I had lived, and was invisible toa world where I now existed. As a woman, my opinions, abilities and choices mattered little in this century. And yet I belonged nowhere and to no one.
All I knew of this time was a sliver of Paris, the manor house in the country; it's inhabitants and the fifth cellar of the Paris Opera house. I often slipped back to that strange night when I found myself dirty and injured on the floor of that cold place—the place where I first met Erik. Disorientation and fear had been my prevalent state of mind that dark night. I never thought to ask him what he was doing slinking around down there. It seemed an odd location for a wealthy gentleman composer and architect to be spending his evening. Perhaps he was searching for stored manuscripts, but still, how strange…
I put on my headphones turned on the IPOD and popped the cork on a bottle of the Bordeaux. I was hesitant to deplete the batteries of the IPOD, but I craved the comforts of modern technology too much to concern myself with the worry. I drank and I wrote in my journal. When Trent Reznor or Chrissie Hynde ranted in my headphones, I ranted on paper, when Tory Amos mourned, I too mourned, when hope rose from the Lyrics of P.O.D. I too wrote of the hope found in being alive.
Mercifully sleep claimed my body granting temporary rest to my weary soul.
The earth in December pulls farther away from the sun causing it to shed a less brilliant light over the French countryside, thus making it harder to tell time by the position of the sun. I opened the little stained glass window and peered out. Life below the turret was quiet. Judging by the angle of the light in proportion to the trees, it was near 3:00 in the afternoon.
"Had I really sleep that long?"
Not prepared to face the land of the living just yet, I stood and stretched, then began to wander around the cramped attic area. I found stacks of boxes tied with twine and several great steamer trunks littering the floor space. Dust particles swirled into the sunbeam as my footprints disturbed their slumber on the old floor.
I admit to being a voyeur. I love knowing about people's lives. Where they have been, what they have worn, what they had held dear—even saved magazine and newspaper clippings tell a lot about a person's historical and emotional make-up. Finding bits of people's lives was fascinating. There were often wedding and birth announcements. Locks of hair from heads that had long since had any. Stray teeth, elementary school pictures with crooked smiles and pictures from your first dance with that awful hair-do you spent good money on. I figured perusing these trunks wasn't snooping; it was investigation, which had been my trade. How else was I going to learn anything about the famous Erik DuPuis?
I snatched a peek here and there into a few of the trunks. Most of what I found were piles of sheet music or old blankets and clothing. Occasionally I would run across a trunk filled with strange trinkets—bee's wax tapers, some small gilded candelabras, a diminutive wind-up music box with a porcelain dancing girl on top and several dead roses.
A particularly large trunk held many drawings and rolls of blueprints. One blueprint appeared to be of a palace. Its intended location I could not discern, but I know I had seen it in a book on the Persian Royalty some years ago. Reading Erik's notations proved impossible so I moved on to another treasure chest.
A small black tin trunk that had been tucked among some boxes caught my eye. Inside were yellowed copies of various newspaper clippings and other mementos.
I came across a ragged stuffed monkey, a beloved childhood toy I'm sure. Then there was this curious bit of cotton resembling a small pillow, however on closer inspection I could see three tiny holes had been cut into the fabric—one for a nose, and two for eyes. A sickening chill ran through me as I realized that this was not a child's play costume, but a mask scaled to fit an infant for the purpose of hiding him from the world. What sort of mother would make her baby wear something so wretched? "Oh Erik!" I gasped audibly when I realized this horrid mask must have belonged to him.
I began nosing through the clippings. Most were only five or six years old. There was one detailing the story of how a gypsy had been strangled at a fair traveling through France. A young waif was the suspected culprit. That one was yellowed, barley legible and dated back some forty years. There were announcements on new building projects, and a review of an opera singer, a Mademoiselle Christine Daae.
The majority of the clippings I read had a common theme; a missing soprano and her fiancé', a fire at the Opera Garnier and a mysterious masked figure they called the Phantom of the Opera.
"Whoa," I thought. I remember a book by that name. I think I read it when I was a kid, maybe eleven or so.
I read through a half a dozen of the newspaper accounts before I began to realize that legend was reality.
Another report in the Gazette said that French authorities had been searching for the madman they claimed was responsible for the sinister chaos at the opera house. He was tall, six foot four, with black hair, green eyes and most likely wearing a mask. If not, he would be badly deformed on the right side of his face and his hair might be brown. He was believed to be a composer who had fallen for the diva Christine Daae'. The man in question had allegedly written a most vulgar opera for her then taken her hostage when she unmasked him on stage during their performance.
Bells were ringing in my head. "Tall, dark, masked, composer—oh $hit."
Please R & R. Thanks to my lovely reviewers Pertie, Kay, Elise and all of you others! xxoo. Until next time, Leesainthesky.