Hi. If you just climbed aboard, welcome to my little fan fic. Thanks for all of your great feed back. I will try to work in what I can where I can. Thanks Alda, Pertie and Littledaae for your creative and fun ideas, and yeah, I agree, I'd sure miss the feminine products (yarf). I'd thought about Christmas songs before too. There's a funny one here. Your ideas and feedback are always welcome, appreciated, needed …
AUTHOR'S WARNING: The first paragraph is rated Mature, so if you have problems with such content, kindly skip it.
Ch 13 - de Joyeux Noël
Re-cap: Gabrielle buys Erik a Christmas present and finds out about his secret room beneath the manor house
The right side of the bed depressed. Cool air hit my backside as the covers were pulled from my body. I was straddled from behind. What the…? Erik. He leaned forward and began to tease me with his tongue; issuing maddeningly light, quick, licks to my neck. He made a growl of animalistic desire and bit me. The pleasure-filled pain turned my shock into surrender. I responded to his intrusion by moaning and spreading my legs. Erik grabbed my hips and yanked me to my knees. In one stroke he was inside of me thrusting wildly. I matched his movements, and reached down to pleasure myself. I came hard. The sensation sent Erik over the cliff causing him to scream my name when he pumped his release into me.
"Merry Christmas Gabrielle," he whispered.
Huh? I bolted up in bed. The sheets and coverlet had been pushed to the end of the bed and I was slick with sweat. It was Christmas morning.
Which one of Ebenezer's Christmas Ghosts was that, I wondered incredulously?
Vivid dreams have a habit of wearing themselves on me for a few days before they retreat into my subconscious mind. The essence of the dream mingles with reality, which has the power to temporarily alter the way I view those present in my nocturnal head plays.
Of course I knew that Erik had not gifted me with his body, but I felt as if he could have; therefore I spent most of the day avoiding him. Something as simple as eye contact or hearing him utter a greeting could cause me to blush like crazy or rip his clothes off.
Neither reaction would have been cool.
It was Christmas Day and I had lots of work to do in the kitchen preparing for the evening meal. Just because M. Dupuis did not celebrate holiday traditions did not mean that I couldn't.
We were going to have a sumptuous, yet simple meal: Fougasse, Potage Malouin, Cailles à la Vigneronne and Pain d'epices.
Banishing images of the Thomassen family from my mind proved to be impossible, so I did what I could to keep my mind occupied. Anjalia, Dante and the rest of the horses and barn cats deserved a Christmas treat. I loaded several sweet, crunchy apples in a basket for the horses. I had also noticed there was some left over pate threatening to spoil—a perfect delicacy for the cats. I wrapped up warmly in my winter cloak and headed to the stables.
Once inside the barn, I heard a cacophony of animal voices. The normally reclusive barn cats mewed and rubbed around my legs. I heard Dante and Anjalia whinny loudly from the end stalls.
"You big babies, hold your…people? I'm coming," I called. I put the pate down for the eager felines then made my way to the horses. After much cooing and rubbing, I fed them their Christmas treats, which they munched greedily. When Dante had finished his, he thought he would try my shoulder. I scolded the majestic black stallion for being a naughty horsy, scratched each one again, then headed back to the house where the rest of the day waited to be organized.
The better part of an hour was spent standing at the large butcher's block in the kitchen slicing and dicing, peeling and cutting, stuffing and mixing in preparation for Christmas dinner. I could make out the dull thud of an axe from outside. Erik must be cutting firewood. I peered out the kitchen window and took note of the low, gray snow clouds; Mother Nature had indeed decided to turn down the thermostat on the French countryside. Erik was wearing a heavy wool coat, work gloves and a scarf. Seeing M.Dupuis in casual attire was a rarity. I found his alternate mode of dress ruggedly appealing.
Erik wasn't merely cutting the wood; he was slaughter it. I watched him hammer down mercilessly on the offending logs with a look of ferocious determination on the left side of his face. Just blowing off steam, I surmised. Maybe he'd had the same dream as me. Lord help me if he had.
I finished my prep work and headed back upstairs to freshen up. I grabbed the Poe book from my room, ran my bath and settled into the tub for a relaxing soak.
A loud rap on the door startled me. "Gabrielle, have you drowned in there woman?" Erik's voice bellowed from the other side of the door.
Poe splashed into the water, "Oh Shit," I must have dozed off because the water had grown cool.
"Apparently not, I heard an expletive. I would appreciate a bath myself if you have not helped yourself to all of my hot water again."
"Ok, I'll be right out, just hold on to your gonads!" I unplugged the tub and wrapped up in a large bath sheet. My robe was missing.
"Oh boogers, I forgot my robe. "Erik," I called, "would you be a dear and fetch my robe for me? I left it on my bed by accident."
The only answer I received was a huff and the sound of him walking down the hall toward my bedroom.
Ten minutes later Erik returned with my robe. What was taking Mr. Happy so long?
"Madame?" was all he said through the door. I opened it up a crack and took the flannel garment from his outstretched hand.
"Thanks I don't know where my mind is today," I apologized.
He laughed, "Certainly dear, it is my pleasure to serve. But please do vacate the premises soon. I must bathe. I smell like a street peddler."
I emerged promptly, smiling at him sweetly, "it's all yours Monsieur, I even rinsed the out the tub for you."
"How thoughtful Gabrielle," he chuckled as he closed the door
What's gotten into him? I wondered. He's suddenly gotten cheerful. "Weird", I muttered on the way to my room.
What do I have to wear that's even slightly Christmassy? I scanned my meager wardrobe. There was a deep red silk gown with velvet roses embroidered on the bodice. It was more of a spring dress but it would have to do. I pulled it out and placed it on the bed. That's when I saw my journal. I had left it out and open for prying eyes.
Is that why it had taken Erik ten minutes to retrieve my robe? He was a man of honor; he wouldn't dare invade my privacy…would he?
It ain't private if it's just sitting there Gabrielle, my mother used to say after I discovered she has been reading my diary when I was a little girl.
Damn, damn, damn. What incriminations had I written on the two open pages?
"Dec. 24th, 1976 & 2005. It's Christmas Eve in my new life and I am mostly alone in this dinosaur of a house. The quietness is deafening. I will not succumb to despair. What would that accomplish? Depression? Not going there, I can't allow it. Bah humbug. I want to go home! (I would, however, miss E.D. desperately). Erik does not celebrate for viable reasons. Maybe I can cheer him up. I have a lovely dinner planned with some of his favorites. It' not much, I just hope doesn't become ticked off at me for trying to celebrate a little — one never knows what will offend the Frenchman. Maybe I can give Erik his first pleasant holiday memory even if mine is not so swell." - GT
Please oh please oh please do not have read this Erik. I don't want my cheeks to match my cranberry colored dress tonight. Why would knowing that Erik had read this embarrass me so; because I cared about his happiness? Perhaps he's right, I do think too much.
Across the room the little Charlie Brown tree stood decorated. I'd hung silver tinsel, and tied red bows on it. A tiny angel I had found in a Parisian shop graced the top, Gabriel, the messenger of good tidings. Erik's gift was beneath. Had it been moved? It looked like it had. He wouldn't shake it would he? No, Erik wouldn't get that part about Christmas presents. My mind was playing tricks on me. Later tonight I would move all of all this festive paraphernalia downstairs to the salon.
I brushed out my hair and dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. Erik would complain that he felt as if there were a cowboy in his home, not a woman when I dressed this way. I didn't care, the Roux's would be gone for a week and I wanted to be comfortable.
I stuck my head out into the hall. Good, Erik was still bathing. I could get the tree and the present downstairs without his knowledge.
The small pine tree was prickly, but light. I carried it down the staircase, careful not to lose needles or tinsel along the way. Once in the salon, I found a new home for it on a marble table, which sat between two white velvet settees. This room was seldom used so I was sure I could keep the secret until after dinner. The golden package with the music box inside looked lonely and un-proportioned under the tree, but it would have to do. I had also knitted a Christmas a stocking for Erik, with his name on it. This I filled with gourmet chocolates dressed in festive tinfoil. Two-dozen fragrant frankincense and spice candles purchased while I was in Paris would complete the holiday ambiance.
I was apprehensive. I didn't wish to change Erik's mind about the holiday. I merely wanted to share with him what little of my real world I could.
Floorboards creaked above me. Erik was moving about upstairs. Swiftly I skittered into the dining room. I needed to get a move on. Dinner was to be served in an hour and one half. I moved to the kitchen and lit the gas stove.
I went about setting up the table. Erik's taste in everything from clothes to china was sublime. In his sideboard was a beautiful set of Limoges fine china and Baccaret crystal. Nice stuff, what if I dropped it? Lordy Gabrielle, don't even go there girl!
The windows in the large French country kitchen were steamed up with the heat from the oven. I put the entrée in the oven and washed up the prep dishes while humming Christmas songs to myself. The repartee ranged from classic hymns to silly novelty songs.
I was kicking it with a touching rendition of that classic carol; Grandma got run over by a Reindeer. I had always loathed the song, but it's one of those tunes that get lodged in your head like a bad cold.
I was belting out the last verse, "They should never give a license, to a man who drives a sleigh and plays with elves," when I felt someone watching me
Peeking over my right shoulder, I spied Erik. He was leaning on the doorframe between the dining room and the kitchen. His arms were crossed and he wore a look of consternation.
"Hey there!" I said brightly.
"Good lord! I was certain chickens were being murdered in here. Have Handle and Wesley been replaced by Barnum and Bailey?"
I snickered and tried not to look embarrassed.
"Awful isn't it? Stupid novelty songs are a guilty pleasure of mine. The radio stations I've told you about play them non-stop during the season," I explained.
Erik shook his head, "Then the future is indeed grim."
"Dinner will be served in thirty minutes Erik," I added.
He was already dressed impeccably in a black wool crepe suit, tailored perfectly to fit his impressive form. Beneath the topcoat he wore a golden brocade waist coast and his signature black silk cravat. Even with the white Kidd mask hiding part of his face, Erik was breathtaking.
"Shoo, I flapped my hands at him, you may return in thirty minutes."
"Bossy wench," he taunted on his way out of the kitchen area.
All I had to do was a quick change into my dinner gown, brush out my hair and add a dab of lip-gloss. On the way upstairs I heard Erik in the music room. He was paying The Coventry Carol on his violin; a beautiful yet melancholy 15th century piece about Herod's slaughter of the innocents. How Erik, I thought.
I stood just beyond the open door, breathing in the glorious notes as if they were oxygen. I waited for him finish the piece before entering.
"Dinner is ready Erik," I interrupted softly.
His eyes were shut He appeared to be luxuriating in the resonance his deft fingers elicited from the old instrument. Returning to the world, he opened his eyes, nodded, and replaced the violin back in its case.
By the time he made it to the table, I had already arranged our meal on the table.
"The master of the manor should choose the wine tonight," I suggested. "We're having quail, Cailles à la Vigneronne."
"Have you a preference Mademoiselle?"
"Whatever you choose will be perfect."
"Is this a special occasion"?
"It is to me Erik, it's Christmas."
"Oh, yes, of course—ahem—a robust red; Chateauneuf du pape then?"
"Splendid choice Monsieur. Now, open it up so it can breathe. I'm in need of a substantial swig."
He furrowed his brow at me, "A swig Gabrielle? Really."
"Let's sit, everything is ready. Oh, I forgot the bread. How un-French of me," I scurried back into the kitchen for the Fougasse.
I set the bread down and began to pull out my chair, when Erik intercepted my efforts. "Please allow me Mademoiselle Thomassen."
"Why thank you Monsieur DuPuis," I tried not to giggle at our formalities. Erik was being such a gentleman I wasn't in a hurry to break the spell.
"I see that I am back to being a Mademoiselle."
"The Roux's will be absent for a while. There is no need for pretense tonight, unless you enjoy playing the grieving widow."
"Hardly." I bowed my head for a brief grace and noticed that Erik was giving me a curious hairy eyeball.
"I don't pray."
"I do, Erik. I want to say grace, I know how you feel about religion so I don't expect you to participate."
He pursed his lips and shrugged slightly.
"Dear Lord, I am thankful for your provisions and protection, please bless this food, this day and my loved ones, In the name of the son, amen."
As I finished I noticed he had bowed his slightly, in deference to me I supposed.
'You're not Catholic are you Gabrielle?"
"Actually, I was baptized Episcopalian, its close, but not as many rules. Why do you ask?"
"Your blessing was the most casual one I've ever witnessed."
"I think God prefers to hear things from the heart, rather than by rote."
"Shall we toast?" I suggested moving the subject back into his territory.
"To?"
"Why you Monsieur DuPuis,' I raised my glass, "For your for your generosity these past six months. You're sort of my…well, hero you know."
"I am not anyone's hero," he blanched.
"OK, how about toasting to your genius and my sparkling wit?"
"Indeed," he raised his goblet to meet mine.
- o -
footnote: Roast hen with figs in a wine cream sauce, square bread made with onions and herbs, potato and vegetable soup and, spiced ginger bread.
Thanks for reading (and reviewing too). Please review if you have time, at least let me know that you are out there or I will cry. - Leesa