Bienvenue! The following is a quick bridge chapter. Thanks for your diligent reviews, there is an author's note to follow.
-Leesainthesky
Ch65 Numb
The hand was level enough at the bottom for it to sit up right on Erik's bedside table. I made sure to open the draperies so the sun could illuminate the brilliant fire in the ruby and diamond ring, which now adorned the wax trophy's ring finger.
I clasped my hands together and stood back to admire my handiwork, a malefic smile twisted at the corners of my mouth.
Perfect, I said aloud.
My engagement ring. At first, I considered keeping the ring, after all Erik gave it to me in love, but now he loved another. I thought about how much money the major piece of bling might bring in, but decided that leaving it on Christine's detached hand by his bedside was worth more to me than money.
I owned scads of other jewels I could hawk if necessary. Money was not an issue at the moment; I'd saved most of my earnings from my days of employment at the manor. Even after Erik and I became engaged, he provided me with an all too generous allowance.
Screw him, he can keep his engagement ring and the money in the hookah; I no longer needed the benevolence of Monsieur DuPuis.
I considered Erik's letter; should I tear it into minute pieces, burn it, or leave it for him to find?
How about making a game of it? Erik loves a challenge, why not leave it for him—torn into many tiny bits of paper in the music room waste can. If his curiosity gets the best of him, he can piece it together, that would be my answer to his letter!
I left his bedchamber without a backward glance, past my bedroom and down the stairs to his music room where the farewell letter waited on his piano bench.
I stood above the tin waste can next to the piano poised to rip savagely at the fine parchment. Each piece of torn paper a manifestation of my shredded heart; one for the times Erik claimed to love me, one for his kindness, another piece for putting up with his arrogance, more for the way I'd kept his dark secrets and many, many more for the times we made love.
Instead, I stashed Erik's note in my skirt pocket.
I walked down the hall to the back of the mansion. My traveling cloak and riding gloves lay across a carpet bag. I swung the cape across my shoulders and slid on the sturdy leather gloves, picked up my bag, leaden with slightly more than I entered this nineteenth century world with, and walked out the door into the waiting carriage that would spirit me away from DuPuis manor forever.
The day was in concert with my mood, steel-gray and chilly. The carriage horses trotted down the long lane toward the front gates. I resisted the urge to glance behind me for one final look, lest I turn into a pillar of salt from the tears that promised to fall.
All the way into Paris, I thought about Erik's letter. Why would he do such a dastardly thing? It didn't ring true for him, but then love can do strange things to a person's rationality.
No time to ponder what you cannot possible know, Gab, I told myself. You just keep your eyes focused on the new road ahead.
A light mist began to fall when I turned the carriage onto the street where Christine lived.
The beat of my heart took on a Doppler effect when I spied her townhouse, thumping louder and louder the nearer I came.
I fully intended to tell her off if she were there; Erik too, of course. Would I be able to say what I had to say without completely coming undone and turning into a scorned, angry shrew? I didn't really know and I didn't care.
I drew up the horses and jumped from the landau's high driver's throne. Drawing deep calming breaths, I approached the double doors of the de Chagny residence and hit the door knocker swiftly three times.
I'd no sooner taken my hand from the brass lion's head than the door opened inward. The same fellow who greeted me a few days back now looked at me. His raised his uni-brow at me. "May I help you Madame?"
"The Comtess and her guest, Monsieur DuPuis, are they in?" I asked.
"I am terribly sorry; Madame, but they've both departed as of yesterday. Would you care to leave a message for the Comtess?" offered the impeccably dressed servant.
"No Monsieur," I held my cloak closed against the wind and prepared to leave when I had another thought, "One more thing if you please, when will the Comtess be returning from Venice?"
"We expect her party to return the following Thursday."
"Of course, thank you." Before he could inquire of my name and business, I retreated down the steps, the wind knocked from my sails.
I heard the door click shut behind me.
Damn! Nervous though I was about a confrontation, I realized that was exactly what I wanted—a fight. A shot at telling Erik what a duplicitous prick he was and to Christine, what a conniving little whore I thought she was to have played her hand for an engaged man.
There was nothing left for me to do than drive to train station, leave the carriage and the horses in the hands of the livery, buy a ticket and roll to London.
Gare Saint-Lazare was always a busy place, the hub of travel for well-to-do travelers, it was a place of opulence with its Beaux-Arts style façade, large exterior clock and high arched windows.
I'd visited the station once before in 1998. The irony of my improbable circumstances was not lost on me. The Gare Saint-Lazare had only been finished thirty four years before, in 1843. The old world beauty was wasted on Gabrielle Thomassen; if I admired the architecture, I would only wonder what Erik might say about the structure. Today I had no wish to ruminate on the likings of Monsieur DuPuis.
Did I remember the disapproving look of the ticket agent when he realized I traveled sans chaperone, or of the porter relieving me of my luggage, or even of the call to board? In all honesty, I could not. All I remember is jockeying for position in the crowded train car for my window seat.
Tomorrow morning the train would arrive at the shores of the English Channel, where I would ferry across and link up with another train into London. From there I would take a cab to the doorstep one of the century's brightest literary minds, my confident and mentor George Eliot, aka Mary Ann.
I slipped a hint of laudanum into my tea, stuffed a small pillow behind my neck, and entered a dreamless twelve hour sleep.
"Madame, Madame are you all right?" I heard the voices and thought they were part of a dream, and then I felt someone's hand on my shoulder. "Please say something!"
I willed my eyes to open, and there looming over me I saw a man and two women. They appeared to be most worried about something.
"Oh, thank goodness!" one young woman with a too big black velvet hat exclaimed.
"There, you see all is well," said the man placing a comforting hand on the young woman's shoulder, "only sleeping dear." He then looked over at me. "Madame may I fetch you refreshment?"
He wore a uniform and coordinating hat; I assumed the man must be an employee of the rail line.
My mouth felt like I'd sucked in a couple of fuzz bunnies. "Water please," I said. Good heavens, did these people think something was wrong with me? "What time is it?" I asked.
"Two thirty-three," said the man as he checked his pocket watch, "An hour shy of pulling into the station. These good people noticed that you'd not stirred the entire trip and thought that perhaps, well that you…"
"…You were dead, or s-something." The young woman was surprised by her own morbid thought, blushed and placed two gloved fingers to her mouth.
"Come now Darleen, do not say such things," the larger older woman scolded. I figured the elder one must be the young woman's mother or her chaperone.
I sat up and removed the silk pillow from my neck. "I've been terribly tired and must have fallen into an extraordinarily deep sleep. Gosh, I didn't mean to scare anyone. I'm fine, really—thank you all."
I accepted the glass of water from the uniformed man and gulped it down as if it were fine champagne.
"If you are certain," the elder woman asked.
"Yes, absolutely," I smiled.
Slowly the two women backed away and returned to their assigned seats.
I had a feeling I looked frightful, I'd probably had drool coming from my mouth while I slept.
The ferry trip over to England was not as easy and breezy as the train ride. Always turbulent, the waters of the English Channel tossed our vessel about, awaking the sleeping nausea-beast in my stomach.
I spent much of the trip to the British shores ralphing over the side of the ferry boat.
The remainder of my journey to London went considerably more smoothly. My stomach calmed down and forgave me enough for me to down a few biscuits and some mild tea.
Catching a cabby to take me to Marry Anne's London home was an easy feat as every man in proximity of the Victoria Station fell over himself in his quest to assist a lone woman. They figured I was too stupid to know what the going fare was and they could rip me off.
Wrong-o; I paid close attention when Erik and I had visited earlier in the year. A quick trip to the center of the city should cost less than a shilling. The Eliot residence wasn't much farther that.
The cabriolet rattled over the cobblestone streets of London, past shops street vendors, poultries, bakeries and greengrocers. I closed the curtain against the frenzy of folks tackling the business of their day, yet welcomed the dank, putrid stench of organic rot and coal smoke often prevalent in the city. Rather than repulse me, it reflected my mood.
Mary Ann and her partner, George Henry Lewes spent their summers in the country and the winters in London, where access to necessities and friends was far easier.
Once at their London home, my young cabbie assisted me to unload my steamer trunk. I tipped him amply for his services and approached the door of the literary couple's home.
A sudden bout of trepidation swallowed my heart; what if my new nineteenth century friends did not welcome drop in guests? I'd be up ye old merdé creek.
Moments later, after a brave knock on the door, my angst departed. The honorable George Henry Lewes opened the door himself.
"Good day Mr. Lewes, I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd pay a visit," I curtseyed and smiled brightly.
"Dear, dear Gabrielle, it is my pleasure, do come in. Mary Ann," George announced loudly into the hallway, "Gabrielle has come to call, and it appears she's come for a stay." He gestured at the trunk.
I stepped into the vestibule, dragging my trunk and carpet bag with me when the tall, narrow faced Mary Ann appeared from a doorway halfway down the hall. The literary master whose hand penned classic novels Middlemarch, Daniel Deronda, and uncountable other genius literary works, walked toward me. She cast a glance at my luggage then to my face and held out her arms to me, full and welcoming,
"Misfortune has indeed brought you to me, hasn't it dear?"
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Author's note: It's nearly unanimous; many of you think Christine to be a "foul gerbil" and a "biatch" and want to see her "townhouse carpet-bombed by F-14s." Calling Gab a "weenie-assed redhead" wasn't fair, geez, who can think straight when their stressed (lol, PMEL)? Someone called me a devil (lol), and treated to plot against me. If I seem to be throwing you for fruit-loops, well it's my job. For the reader who covered all the chapters in two days bless your little eyeballs. Thank you for the responses.
-Leesa