Wow, thank you for the reviews on chapter 63. I noticed many new names, it's great to meet you—lots of pontificating going on too, and I like that. The quick update is your reward. Read on…
-Leesainthesky
Ch 64 Erik's Hovel
He wants me gone, fine.
After many hours of walking, screaming and more walking, I calmed down enough to make a rational decision; I would travel to Paris and face Erik at Christine's townhouse. I needed to hear Erik's rejection of me from his very own lips.
Finding the townhouse vacant would be sufficient proof that they had indeed left for Vienna. I planned to carry my belongings with me in case of such an incident; that way, all I had left to do was buy a train ticket to London where my friend Mary Anne awaited my tentative arrival.
I spoke my intentions to the walls of my bedroom as I flung pieces of clothing and other necessary belongings into a leather steamer trunk.
Not telling the Roux's would be unkind. I would wait for their return before venturing on to London.
At the moment, action was the only balm that I knew would sooth my fresh wounds. I packed all that I felt was necessary— toiletries, pens, ink and paper, and clothing. For Erik, I left my iPOD and the beautiful Spanish guitar he had given me for Christmas. I didn't wish to be reminded of music; let Christine find those things and pick Erik's brain about the nature of such unusual items.
My haphazard packing finished, I pulled the large trunk over the threshold of my former bedroom and down the hallway to the stairs. I grasped onto its hardy leather handle and let the trunk slide down the stairs one awkward step at a time. At the bottom I released it, allowing the heavy thing to come to rest on the floor with a thud.
That was the easy part; I could only guess how I would get the cumbersome piece of luggage up and on the carriage tomorrow morning.
While pulling the luggage through the house, I would occasionally catch a glimpse of a particular room or an object reminding me of my life with Erik. I used my searing pain as fuel to drive me forward in my quest for a new life.
The trunk's small rollers did little to help maneuver it around. Once I parked it by the front door, I sat and took a rest on it. Surveying the priceless artifacts and paintings that surrounded me, I fantasized about how cathartic it would be to throw and smash Erik's priceless objects against the wall.
But you're better than that aren't you Gabrielle? I told myself.
I may be from a vulgar future society, but I was at my core a lady. I would not debase the memory of this house by unleashing my frenzy on inanimate objects.
There was one thing I'd failed to accomplish the entire time I'd lived at DuPuis Manor; something that vexed me greatly, I'd failed to find Erik's secret underground hideout. Hell, there was not one square inch of the mansion I hadn't searched. The entrance must be via a secret trap door.
Damn it, it was happening again; each time I chose to swallow unsavory thoughts and emotions, my stomach lurched, and if I didn't barf, I wanted to.
And so I spent the next three hours on my bed with a large metal bowl and a pot of chamomile mint tea. This gave me ample time to pontificate all the thoughts I'd attempted to push from my conscious mind.
Why would Erik lie to me before he left? I ruled out sex, it simply didn't make sense. The men I'd known before would take what they wanted then do all they could to avoid you the following day. Erik took great pains to reassure me of his devotion to me.
His note did not match his actions. But this is the Christine—Erik's muse and darling. Could it be that the chasm between our time periods was too different for Erik? Spending time with Christine helped him to remember what it was like to share moments and memories with a woman who had actually shared the same past.
Science proved time and again that, in the final analysis, like always seeks out like, rejecting a perfectly acceptable surrogate in lieu of one's own. That dynamic was perhaps the one thing which I was incapable of competing against when it came to Erik and Christine.
Lordy, Gab you really are a misfit aren't you, I sneered.
Food seemed a horrific idea, but my nausea had long passed and I needed nutrition. Making my way into the kitchen, I wondered what continued to make me ill. I wasn't getting worse, so I ruled out one of those plagues I'd read about in history class.
Could Marie be right, was I pregnant? Perish the very thought! But I was late by a week and a half. No…
Wouldn't that just suck the big one, preggers and man-less in nineteenth century Europe? Nice joke, God, can I go back to Kansas now?
Two days ago this would have been joyous news. Boy, John Lennon was right when he said that life is what happens when you're making other plans. How would I break this news to Erik? Would I break the news to Erik? That was the true question here.
He did have a right to know if he was to be a daddy…someday, but not now. I had zero desire to be married out of pity or duty. Erik's uncharacteristic code of honor when it came to children and women would insist that he do so.
Buwahaha, my devious laugh echoed off the bedroom walls. Serve Christine right wouldn't it?
Thoughts of revenge always cheered me up whenever some meanie whizzed in my Cheerios.
From the long wall shadows, I knew sunset was near. There was still work to do in the barn. Erik's stupid roses could die for all I cared; just yesterday while I pruned them a large thorn from his Christine bush stabbed through the garden glove and into my thumb, making it bleed. However, the horses and barn cats did not deserve to pay for their owner's disloyalty.
I pulled on boots and a wool coat and headed out to the barn to pitch more straw into the horses' stalls. The chilly afternoon told me that the evening temperatures could take a significant dive.
The twilight sky shone purple gold over the treetops; Venus was a brilliant pinprick, and the moon, a silver sliver of a fingernail. I filled my lungs with cool fresh air. How I loved the French countryside— always glorious in her distinct seasons.
Before entering the main barn, I lit a lantern, making sure to close the glass surrounding it tightly. A blazing barn fire was the last thing I needed.
The horses must have heard me rattling around. Dante and Anjalia welcomed me with a hearty whinny from inside their individual stalls.
"All right my little ponies, who wants a treat?" Velvety noses sensed the apple slices I'd stashed in the coat pocket, even the little bay, Scherezade, rose from her slumber to check out the action. Doling out the goodies as I walked the row of stalls, I petted necks and noses for the last time.
My wounds from Erik's Dear Jane letter were so fresh that my system's natural anesthesia had yet to wear off. Sadness and regret would come soon enough; right now I used this numbness to get me through the chores before me in the next twelve hours.
Henry kept his hand implements in a small lean-two next to the barn entrance; there I would find the pitchfork.
"I'll be right back guys," I hollered to the beasties on my way to the tool shed. I grasped the latch in my right hand and pulled but it did not budge. Henri locked the shed, I sighed in frustration. I guess it slipped his mind. Hadn't I spied a rusty pitchfork propped against the small barn?
Better than nothing, I mused as I picked my way through tall, wispy grass to the barn where Erik kept two mules.
"Hey there Brahms and Liszt, I didn't forget about you two," I fed them both a half an apple and scratched behind their big lanky ears. Noticing the ample bed of straw bedding in each stall, I closed the barn door behind me and walked around to the backside in search of the rusty pitchfork.
The ground in that area was worn and still muddy from a recent rain. My left boot slid sideways and I reached out a hand to steady myself on the side of the barn. Several of the planks gave way, flipping inward. Naturally, I lost all balance and went tumbling into the darkness.
I landed on my rump in a type of vestibule. How strange, why would there be a false wall on the side of the barn? This is weird.
Feeling along the wall, I noticed the texture of the wood was smooth, not splintery and rough like that of the barn's exterior. I felt for seams indicate an entrance, but found none discernable to the touch.
Once, after showing Erik the small Berretta Tomcat that had made the time jump in the bottom of my purse and proving to him that I had the skill to shoot it, he showed me a wall in his study. If one were to apply pressure on the bottom right edge of that particular part of the wall, it would open and flip around to reveal an arsenal of firearms.
"Now, Gabrielle," he had instructed, "Should you need defense against a formidable foe, remember that these are here, armed and ready for use."
I kicked the bottom edge of the smooth paneled wall before me, and applied pressure. It couldn't have swung open any easier if I'd said shazzam.
If I expected narrow musty steps and hanging cobwebs, I got them the entire 18 steps downward. Fortunately the flame in my lantern did not extinguish when I tripped, and now at the bottom of the stairwell I could make out a doorknob. How funny, a simple, common doorknob leading to a secret chamber. Erik's humor, I supposed.
Fear told me to proceed carefully just in case booby traps waited on the other side of that door. I turned the porcelain knob and yanked at the door. Nothing; no spikes, nooses, or shards of glass. Gas lamps glowed low on the walls of a vast room.
I was Alice on the other side of the looking glass, swiveling my head to and fro while treading soft and slow across the carpeted floor.
An enormous throne sat upon a pedestal in the center of the room; all around it were huge brass candelabras. I noted a pianoforte to my right and a sitting area to the left. Velvet draperies hung over windowless walls. Musical scores and sketches littered the floor. Stashed in a corner near a barrister's bookcase, a wine rack brimmed with full bottles. Some sort of art perched on an easel, its surface covered with cheesecloth.
Indulging my journalistic curiosity, I lifted the cloth. What I saw took my breath away; it was an oil painting, a nude of me, but I was not alone. My likeness reclined on blue velvet, the precise shade of the duvet cover on Erik's bed. My hair flowed loose over golden pillows, green and brown eyes looked upward with rapt adoration to the naked man hovering above me. The man's dark brown hair fell into his face and hid his features, but the slender hands cupping my breasts were unmistakable.
Erik had painted us in the act of making love. The artist's choice of lush colors and brilliantly simple technique hinted at hope, promise and passion. The rendering was erotic and beautiful; I searched the painting for a sign that might tell me when he'd created the art. Tucked into the left corner I spied Erik, 1876, months before we had become lovers.
This was his ardent fantasy, come to life on canvas.
For the first time since that stupid letter arrived, I wept.
I knelt in front of Erik's painting and reached up to stroke the surface as one does a bottle hoping for a live genie to emerge and grant three wishes.
"Oh Erik, why," I whispered.
Shifting my gaze, I noticed something rather unusual across the room, beyond a single bed where I assumed Erik slept when he holed up here. I saw something that resembled a curtained dressing area. Three sides of the apparatus were visible. Lapis velvet swags and valances hung from the poles. I had to check it out.
Braided ties lay limp at the side of the swags and I guessed they were meant to open the area up when not in use. But why would anyone require privacy way down here? Could it be a showcase for one of Erik's splendidly cool automations? I just had to check it out.
Eagerly I reached out to brush aside a panel. The wan light did not afford me enough illumination to see what hid behind the velvets.
I took hold of a tie and fumbled around for the hook to fix it on, then decided to repeat the procedure on the other side.
Mon dieu! Before my eyes stood a life sized figurine of Christine. She wore a lacy wedding gown and veil. How long I stared at that thing, I couldn't tell, time was swallowed up in disbelief.
As if the life size Chrissie doll weren't enough, Erik had built a sort of alter around her. Miniature Christine's in various costumes and settings were everywhere. Interspersed between the dolls I saw candles and dead roses tied with black ribbons. Sketches hung from the velvet walls. Beneath my feet I saw two or three handkerchiefs. I bent to pick up one but promptly threw it back in disgust when I felt the tell-tale stiffness of the fabric.
This was Erik's perverse shrine to his diva. While I grasped the fact that he probably built this shortly after coming to the manor, I couldn't get past knowing that in the past year and a half, he'd spent significant time down here with her.
Finding the curtains of the shrine closed did nothing to quell my misgivings. Even if Erik no longer worshiped at the shrine of his Nordic virgin, why hadn't he destroyed it or simply put it away once he became an engaged man?
Bitter bile rose and burned in the back of my throat. Here, before my eyes lay all the proof I needed that 'my' Erik continued to love and desire Christine.
I no longer doubted the legitimacy of his Dear Jane letter.
Even a sound vessel can burst under pressure. For weeks I buried my trepidation, anger and sorrow beneath a façade of sensibility and strength.
Two choices presented themselves to me; explode or implode. I choose the former.
"Ayiieee!" My battle cry reverberated through Erik's fancy hovel. I filled my fists with velvet, tearing savagely at the swags, ripping them from their supports. Wooden and bamboo poles clattered to the ground, drawing paper, wax figurines, candles— everything went flying in all directions.
I stood amid the ruins, a wild-eyed madwoman, panting, a velvet panel still clutched in one hand.
What fresh hell was this that the waxy Christine remained like a serene Madonna in the center of the chaos, a placid smile on her cherry painted lips?
You bitch; even your facsimile mocks me. Pulling back, I delivered a swift and precise roundhouse kick to the Chrissie doll's face. If her curl-laden head had snapped off and rolled any better, she'd have been Marie Antoinette.
"Score, sweet!" I hollered. Next, I nabbed a wooden pole from the floor and started swinging. This time I was Derek Jeter.
Wax arms crumbled at their joints and bits of Christine scattered, leaving only a gown-clad torso.
Nice dress Erik, too bad it needs a serious alteration. I latched onto the neckline of the lacy white wedding gown and tore fiercely at the expensive lace. The ripping sound was sweet music to my ears.
The remaining torso toppled over with a push from my hand.
When I stepped out to walk away from the carnage, I kicked something that felt like a plastic dog toy.
There, inches from my toe of my right boot, lay the remnants of Christine's delicate left hand. I picked it up and examined the falsie. It was broken below the wrist and cracked diagonally against where her lifeline should be.
I smiled the manic smile of a jilted woman who finds great joy in performing inane acts of revenge; calling and hanging up at four in the morning, writing rude messages in shaving cream on your ex's car, putting his name and phone number on the telemarketing list and the like.
I bent down and picked up the detached hand, holding it between my thumb and fore finger as if it were a dead rat. I walked with abnormal calm through the room, out the door and up the dark steps and back into the inky night. I didn't bother to close the door behind me; I wanted Erik and Christine to know, to see the depth of my hatred reflected in the destruction below.
I paused and gulped in the cool night air, then stretched my head back and rolled it around from shoulder to shoulder.
Above me, Cassiopeia and Andromeda winked in the autumnal sky. Venus had barely popped over the horizon when I went down there.
Geez, how long was I underground? Oh, please let me have slipped through another time in time. When I peer through the carriage house window, let me see parked within, not carriages but automobiles.
No suck luck; through the four-paned windows of the carriage house I saw only familiar shadow of Erik's luxurious landau carriage.
Lordy, was I beat. The night didn't feel like it was going to be as cold as I'd originally thought, which meant that the horses would be plenty warm in their existing beds of straw.
Dragging my weary bones into the manor house and up stairs to the water closet, I soaked in an overly warm bath, drank a small glass of wine and stuffed my carcass into my bed. Tomorrow would be a busy day for me.
The fact that I slept is proof that there is a God.
I awoke with a deluge of ideas that whirled and buzzed in my mind; what would I do once I reached Mary Ann's and how I could elude Erik wherever I ended up, those were the biggies.
I made the decision to leave early in the day, before the Roux's returned from their brief holiday. Disappearing before I could say my personal farewells to them was a grievous breach of etiquette; I'd come to love the old French couple, but I did not have enough might left to recount the unpleasant story of Erik's letter or my findings in Monsieur Dupuis' underground room. Answering questions as to where I would go could also prove sticky because I wished to put distance between the lord of the manor and me.
If Henry and Marie knew, they would, out of respect for their employer, feel obliged to inform him of where my whereabouts.
The older couple was kind and helpful to me while I lived at the manor, their daughter was my friend and I felt they all deserved an explanation and a proper goodbye. As for Erik, although he had been kind to me and I suppose he had loved me, I didn't know if I could pen a note for him. I would only vacillate between sorrow and anger. To what advantage would that be?
With pen and parchment in hand, I seated myself at the kitchen table and began to write:
Dear Mdm. and M. Roux,
When you receive this note, you will not know of Erik's news. He informed me by messenger yesterday that he and Christine, Comtess de Chagny, are to be married in Venice this very week, after which the couple plans to return to the manor.
Naturally, Erik has requested that I vacate the house as soon as possible. I figure sooner is better than later.
I'll be availing myself of the carriage, which I will leave in the care of the stables at the Paris train station. It is with much sadness that I bid you adieu; your kindness will remain forever in my heart. Give my regards to your dear daughter Caron. I promise to write when I settle into my new accommodations.
Please forgive me for withholding my destination from you; I'm not sure I want Erik to know of my whereabouts.
And Marie, I fear you are correct about my condition. Do not worry about me, I am a strong girl.
With affection,
Mdm. Gabrielle Thomassen
I creased the parchment neatly in fourths and slipped it into an envelope. Writing the Roux's name on it, I left it unsealed on the table.
Sucking on the end of the pen, it took some time before I made finite decision to leave Erik a note.
Considering what we had been through these past fifteen months, my appearance in this century, Erik finding and rescuing me, his belief of my outlandish time travel story, plus the uncommon friendship and love which bloomed between us. Then there was the trust…
Trust, I spat the word out like a bad bit of food. The note would be short, no use in rehashing day old love after all.
I dipped the nib in the blood red ink and began,
Erik,
When you receive this note, I will be long gone from your life. Thank you for your benevolence, for the nights of reading and of music, of your guidance, and of making love. I hope you and Christine will live happily ever after(not really, but it's the civilized thing to say, no?).
I am a fool to have thought our affair was unique and never ending. I now realize that I could never compete with a woman of your time. We would have only remained unsolved mysteries to one another. For a man of your genteel sensibilities I am too independent, too forward, too peculiar, too opinionated and perhaps even not talented enough for your discriminating tastes. Erik, I loved you as if you were a part of my very soul, and so part of my soul shall always remain with you.
Remember these wise words from a future first lady of the United States, Eleanor Roosevelt, "No one can make you feel insecure about yourself unless you allow them to."
In love and loss,
Gabrielle
"Asshole," I muttered out loud. Angry curse words have always been my favorite way to blow off steam. My brother used to tell me that I had Turrets' syndrome.
I sealed the note its envelope and climbed the stairs to Erik's bedchamber.
He couldn't miss this if I placed it right on his pillow. No, she might find it and destroy it. Better to put it on the piano in the music room. Christine wouldn't dare go in there without Erik's permission.
A wicked smile crossed my lips when I thought about what I held in my other hand.
- 0 –
Thank you Amy for the beta help and thank you readers and reviewers. You already know that Erik is not intrinsically a bad man, but how much does he have to do with Gabrielle's leaving DuPuis Manor? You'll find out after Gab makes a new life for herself. And now, a review please.
(Have a stellar weekend)
-Leesa