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-Leesainthesky

Chapter 44 Moving Forward

Sage wisdom tells us that the longer one lives; the faster time seems to pass. This was revealed to me during the summer of my engagement to Erik. The past year had flown by like a day; the past week as second.

Within one week, I'd become betrothed, consummated my relationship with Erik, and written my first piece of work for publication in the 19th century.

Two months ago, I submitted samples of my written work to George Eliot. She was quick with her reply, suggesting minor alterations. With Erik serving as editor, my work was as close to flawless. (If she only knew my writing was adapted from the 21st century).

Impressed with my knowledge of the suffragette movement in Europe and especially the abandonment of the French movement following the Revelation, Eliot referred me to Adolphe Gueroult, colleague and owner of the left-leaning newspaper, L'Opinion National.

The idea was to offer readers an American point of view of the European women's movement.

It seems that the French were so comfortable in their post-revolution freedoms that the idea of yet another cultural upheaval was too much to bear. The suffragette movement had rolled backwards at an alarming pace.

Fear gripped me momentarily when I thought about seeing my words printed in a Victorian publication.

Did I have the right to comment on historical events of which I'd not actually lived through? If I did, what responsibility would I incur by doing so? Could I make a difference in the lives of these women without altering history? Would Erik allow it?

Facts would need checking, and that meant traveling to libraries and the homes of significant personalities within the movement.

My darling Erik harbored an enormous respect for my ability and intellect; that wasn't the problem. The problem would be allowing me to travel. You see, Erik has absolutely no experience as a mate; therefore he does not always possess the ability to discern the intentions of others. Being a paranoid sort, I imagined him fearing he would lose me should I venture too far into the world without his guidance.

I would need to be both sensitive and prudent in my approach.

Erik and I were hanging around his music room, engaging in one of our favorite platonic ways to pass the time; accompanying one another on guitar and piano. Occasionally, when he was in a patient mood, would tutor me in strengthening my vocal skills. "You have a fine ear dear. You can hear the notes, and if you can hear them, you can sing them. You need only to strengthen your instrument and develop your own style."

"I remember some of my early training in the school chorus, but I am afraid I will not be able to sing opera, don't want to either. I am more of a modern sort of singer. I'm not a disappointment to you, am I Erik?"

I'm no Christine.

"Of course not. I understand your limitations darling. I am far more patient than you give me credit for and I have no lofty expectations. I merely wish to foritify what you already have."

"You're sweet. Don't you give me that "No I'm not, I'm a bad ass" sort of look, Erik. You are, you are, you are; you are a sweet man!"

"Come here you insufferable woman. Come and sit on my lap"

Swiftly I oblige sitting across his legs and wrapping my arms about his neck. I place many quick kisses on his face, then lick up the length of his cheek.

"Odd aren't you?"

"Sweet, aren't you, like spun sugar," I retort.

"Good god, I can never again be menacing creature with you in my life can I?"

"Do you wish to be?"

"No, that persona no longer serves me. He has been vanquished to a remote part of my being, only to be drawn out in case of danger or harm to those I care for."

"Erik, sweetheart, you have read my writing. What is your true opinion of it?"

"Well," he said twisting a lock of my hair around his index finger, "It is progressive and inspired if not a tad too progressive for the average citizen puerile brain. Why do you ask?"

"George Eliot, Miriam, wants me to submit an editorial piece for her friend's paper."

"Which will cater to an avant-garde audience. That is fabulous news Gabrielle; finally your talents will be of use, at least those not exclusive to me."

"Then you are alright with me writing for publication?"

"Of course, why wouldn't I?"

"Suppose I must travel for research or events pertaining to, say, women's rights?"

"Suffrage is a noble cause; however, I would not wish for my wife to be absent from my arms for long. And I do worry for your well-being," he said, nuzzling the side of my neck.

"I know you do, but you mustn't. I am thinking that whenever possible, perhaps we can coordinate our working trips at the same time."

"Perhaps. Allow me to mull it over for a day, if you will dear."

"Yes. But remember, I don't cotton to being caged like a bird. You do know you can trust me Erik. I am forever yours," a point I punctuate with a kiss upon his unmasked nose.

He rewards me with a beatific smile. "As long as you continue to kiss me and please me with your feminine charms, I am potter's kaolin in your hands."

We abandon our pursuits of the piano and guitar in favor of our most favorite instruments, each other.

Three days later, I make the final edit on my piece for L'Opinion National, seal it and send it off in care of George Eliot. All I can do now is find ways to amuse myself while waiting not so patiently for a reply. Thumbs up, thumbs down.

I hate waiting.

Recently, Erik has been pestering me to arrange a visit to Madame Broussard's. She is the premiere couturier of wedding gowns in Paris. It seems that my fiancée sent her a letter by courier requesting her services.

"Gabrielle, you forget, it is not possible to sew up a gown in the snap of the fingers as you people from the 21st century do."

"I know that Erik, and you're right. It's just that the days, they're flying by me at a break-neck speed. When would you like for me to go for a fitting?"

"Next Wednesday. Madame Roux and I will accompany you to Paris."

"Why Marie? I can certainly go on a fitting by myself. I am a big girl you know."

Erik caresses my body with his smiling eyes, "Indeed, I've noticed. But it would be odd for a young woman to go un-chaperoned to a fitting for her wedding gown. I will wait in the carriage while you are being attended to. The monetary details have been handled as I've forwarded a goodly sum of money to Madame Brossard as a retainer."

"Got it all figured out don't you. I'm not sure I like having my life managed for me."

Erik is baffled. "It is merely a matter of getting things done. You seem displeased. Are you not amenable to the idea, darling?

I realize he is accustomed to forging ahead with his ideas. Another woman's wedding dress surfaces in my memory.

"I'm not upset, and I am grateful for your assistance, Erik.

He nods in understanding. We are both used to arranging the details of our own solitary lives. The shared responsibilities of being a couple will take some adjusting to.

"Please remember that I'm a woman used to doing things for myself," I add.

"While it is an attribute we both share, my intention is merely to be of assistance. I only wish to help. You are my princess, Gabrielle, and should be treated as such."

My nose and eyes start to tingle; he's going to make me cry.

"Erik, you sweet man, you are too good to me."

I wrap my arms around his waist and hug him tightly. He reciprocates with my favorite affectionate gesture, kissing the top of my head.

"Then it is settled. This coming Wednesday, we shall take the carriage to Paris for the first of your bridal fittings."

I am actually very excited knowing my wedding dress is to be designed by one of Paris's first famous couturiers. Even though our ceremony will be small, I hold dear Erik's need to dote on me as if I were his Princess.

Two months from tomorrow, Erik's opera, La Femme du Norde, will open at the Lyric in Paris. Three weeks and two days later, we will be wed in the garden at DuPuis Manor.

The opera's score is complete and now in the hands of the directeur de l'opéra. Rehearsals are underway for his production, and because it is a new piece of work and Erik's baby, he insists on attending rehearsals..

Erik sits in the dark of one of the house boxes, listening and jotting down his critiques for the director. He wears his flesh tone mask so no one will imagine that he is, or was, the infamous Phantom of the Opera Garnier.

It is a distasteful venture for Erik, but he must attend once weekly to insure the company does not butcher his masterpiece.

The citizens of Paris move in slow motion under the hot summer sun. Women with their parasols open drag whiney children along on daily shopping routines and men congregate in the shade of the trees and buildings along the boulevard, seeking relief.

Madame Broussard's is on the Place Vendôme, a street littered with fine shops. Henri parks the carriage to the right of the shop, where the carriage will remain shaded and partially hidden from her window. This way Erik can keep an eye on what transpires within from the carriage. Henri invites Erik to share a pint with him, which he declines. Always the vigilant one, Erik wants to stay sober should I should require his assistance. Madame Broussard is obviously acquainted with Erik (that little diva's wedding dress perhaps?).

"Enjoy your adventure darling," he says kissing me on the lips and stealing a quick glance at a disapproving Madame Roux. In Marie's book, blatant displays of affection from unmarried couples are infelicitous.

Marie and I enter Madame Broussard's to the merry sound of tiny silver bells, tinkling in accordance to the hopes and dreams of those entering her domain.

"Marie, what a posh place. Is it true the famous French soprano, Rose Caron has her gowns made here?" I enthuse to my advisor and chaperone, Madame Roux.

"Oh, no, no, no!" the exalted Madame Brossard interrupts peevishly. "Dear girl, my gowns are never made. My gowns are creations! Of course, being a woman of American descent, you do not know such things."

"Forgive me Madame Broussard; I am such a novice in the areas of couture." Which is not true, since as a feature reporter I had covered fashion week around the globe many, many seasons, but I try not excite the natives.

"You nouveau riche foreigners, I am not inclined to waste my talents on your ilk when the crème de la crème of European society queues up at my door," she sniffs.

Marie despises high and mighty attitudes; she stiffens and opens her mouth for a terse reply when Pierre, Madame Broussard's effete assistant, saves us.

"Madame Broussard," he says in a stage whisper, "I am certain she meant no disrespect to you. Be of mind that Mademoiselle Thomassen's fiancée is a celebrated French composer and a prosperous businessman; his money is as good as anyone's is. The young and famous of Paris also require the benefit of your exceptional talents. The old money of Parisian bluebloods is all well and good, but, alas they will age and die and with them, your legacy."

The little stick of a woman appears to be soaking in his words, but I can't tell if he's convinced her of my worthiness.

"Remember what happened to Monsieur Tristan? Dying customers and prêt a porte put him out of business, poor fool. You can only benefit from having your glorious creations paraded upon beautiful, young wealthy women. Why, when she appears at the various galas, and openings, you will continue to be the talk of Europe!"

Marc beams and simpers to both of us simultaneously.

This dude is a prolific brown-noser.

I can see the old biddy mulling over the words of her handsomely effeminate attendant.

With a terse wave of her hand she says, "Indeed Marc, there may be some truth to your insight. Very well, I shall acquiesce to creating a most exquisite gown for you Mademoiselle Thomassen."

I smile appreciatively at the wiry blonde assistant and throw my arms around his neck. "Thank you Monsieur, you have such marvelous vision."

He gushes over my compliment and kisses me on the cheek. If I left this shop without contract on a wedding gown, Erik would grill me about what mischief I must have caused. The last thing any of us needs is to rile the ire of Erik DuPuis over something as silly as Madame Broussard's boorishness.

I steal a glance through the shop window, eager to reassure my fiancée with a happy smile. He is still sitting in the carriage, just within eyeshot of the shop's multi-paned window. Erik is frowning profusely and motioning with a crooked finger for me to come to him.

Hells bells, what now?

- O -

Author's note: The Lyric Opera House referred to in my story is fictional. There was never a lyric in Paris. Mine is a fairly new opera house featuring works from the more progressive composers.

Prete a porte: Ready to wear

Thanks to Amy the super-beta! Thanks to you for reading, please review the chapter.