Thank you for the reviews you've been diligently sending me. They are appreciated more than you know. Thank you Amy for the beta work. Hang on; there will be more Erik to com!
-Leesainthesky
Ch 66 First Contact
"Oh Gabrielle, that dreadfully dull diva has stolen away your Erik hasn't she?" Mary Ann's large brown eyes shone with compassion. She'd received my letter a few days past.
"I'm afraid it's true, Mary Ann," I said.
"Honestly, I never imagined Monsieur DuPuis as the libertine sort. You never know what distortions lay within the soul of a man."
"Or woman, my darling," added George. He grinned at his wife and winked.
She shot her companion an astute expression. "Be a dear and find Carlisle for Gabrielle's things, would you George?"
"Certainly darling, traveling can be grueling; no doubt you'd appreciate a nap, Madame Thomassen." George bowed and retreated into the house to fetch their butler.
"Now that I'm standing on solid ground, the weariness is swallowing me from the feet up," I replied.
Mary Ann continued to hold onto me. "Forgive me for saying so, but you do look exhausted Gabrielle. Once you get a nap behind you, we shall take tea and you can fill us in on your misfortune."
A male servant appeared form the end of the hall, walking briskly toward us. "Yes, Madame?"
"Carlisle, this is Madame Thomassen, please take her luggage to the yellow guest room and make sure the maid tends to the linens and turns down the bed immediately."
"Right away ma'am," Carlisle nodded and retreated in much the same direction from which I'd seen him appear.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Later, after a nap that was more toss and turn than rest and relaxation, I joined Mary Ann and George for high tea where I spilled forth the details of my tumultuous last two weeks.
Mary Ann suggested that Erik may come looking for me once Madame Roux alerted him of my condition. Marie Roux was an honorable woman and would not have her employer going about unaware of his impending fatherhood even if the recipient of his seed grew within his cast-off rather than his new bride.
The plan was to let me stay only two days in the London house, then travel to the country home of her dear friend, writer and activist Barbara Leigh Smith-Bodichon.
"You will absolutely adore one another, Gabrielle. Madame Bodichon is a brilliant and forward thinking woman; the two of you might even choose to work on suffragette projects together," she encouraged.
Madame Bodichon was a tireless supporter of a women's right to viable work, decent wages and education. An accomplished painter, Barbara spent most of her time with her equally brilliant husband, Eugene. The accomplished couple was fit to rub elbows with Europe's upper crust; they preferred the company of other artists and bohemians.
Barbara and her friends preferred to mill about London un-chaperoned, wearing black clodhopper boots and blue tinted glasses. They caused quite a stir among their fellow Victorians whose beliefs allowed them to approve only of personal repression. Along with Elizabeth Garrett and Emily Davies, she was also was responsible for founding Girton Women's College.
Barbara took me under her wing immediately agreeing with Mary Ann on the matter of my identity. Within the next day and a half, I found myself nestled into yet another new beginning at Scalands Cottage, Barbara's country home in a pinewood clearing at Harding's Wood.
"Now about the your writing, you will not be able to continue using your given name Gabrielle Thomassen; Erik will guess you've been in London with Mary Ann."
"Yes, I know you're right. Your home will be Erik's first stop should he decide to track me down, and I know he will once he learns of his impending parenthood. I'll be dammed if I let him take my child away so he and Miss Muffet can raise her," I stared pointedly at Mary Ann and smacked my hand against my thigh.
This was the sort of thing the authorities did to single mothers back in the 1800's.
I did like the idea of a pen name, something mysterious and clandestine chosen by me, for me alone.
The next month of life consisted of making new friends within the modern circle of London society. I fit in well; being a woman of independent means made me a curiosity, but it was a lifestyle admired and championed by many of my new friends.
And so my social calendar grew right along with the size of my belly. The ever present need to toss my biscuits and the fatigue abated, a sure sign that I must be moving into my second trimester. I snickered at the irony of what my Catholic friend from Chicago, Mary Pat, used to say, what do you call a woman who uses the rhythm method of birth control? Pregnant.
Well, who would have guessed between the condoms and my expert calculations…
OBGYN care in 1877 was questionable at best; between mid-wifery, dangerously over blown modesty and doctors with training equivalent to that of a voodoo priest, there was ample reason to be frightened about impending motherhood.
I'd experienced a modicum of relief when Barbara introduced me her friend, Dr. Elizabeth Garrett. Garrett was co-founder of the famous Elizabeth Garrett Anderson Hospital in London and one of the first physicians to champion extensive research in the area of women's re-productive health. I agreed to allow her to oversee my pregnancy and delivery.
I planned to increase Dr. Garrett's knowledge by telling her of some new techniques (adaptable to nineteenth century medicine). My claim would be that I'd learned these techniques while assisting my Uncle, also a visionary physician. She'd never heard of him because he'd gone to the wilds of Canada to assist the less fortunate Indian tribes still living within remote areas of the Great White North.
My hope was that the stories I wove were untraceable. I rationalized that revealing knowledge from my century would not upset the delicate balance of the time and space continuum, but indeed be helpful if I was to have a healthy baby. Such knowledge might, in small ways, assist Dr. Garrett in her cause for women's health.
My stay at Scalands was indefinite, so while there I took over the cooking. Evidently, the pervious cook had run off with an errant young Scotsman. Neither Barbara nor her husband Eugene, a French physician, cared to do it, therefore, if I'd not taken over, we would be dining on either gruel or cheese and bread on a daily basis.
The unconventional and generous couple lived mostly in London or abroad, and so offered up the cottage to me as a home for which I could raise my child. The thought of eventually making my way back to America also swam around in the back of my mind.
The country cottage held much beauty and quiet; if it weren't for my writing and visits from Mary Ann, George and Barbara's associates, I would have lost what was left of my tortured mind. It was in the quiet times of the evening when I stood at the window in my room watching the purples and blues of evening brush over the reds and yellow of the day that a veil of melancholy would descended over me.
In my previous life, I'd never entertained the idea of having a child—just wasn't in the cards for Gabrielle 2006. When Erik asked me to be his wife, I wanted to give him a child in spite of the perils of nineteenth century medicine. And now here I was in 1877, man-less, but certainly not childless.
I smiled and patted the small baby-bump now forming at my waist line.
Living among Victorian society's contemporaries wasn't all sadness and regret, running with this crowd afforded me more room to breath. Here were women who seldom bothered to wear tight corsets; some wore pants or bloomers with those little skirts over them. They moved about town unescorted, demanding admission to places where only men were normally allowed.
And oh, if one is a lover of the arts in any combination of her rich and varied forms, then I was nose deep in a utopian edification. Imagine playing parlour games or enjoying a splendid evening repast, good wine and lively conversation with the likes of George Eliot, future Prime Minister Herbert Gladstone, the Barrett Browning's, and John Ruskin.
Dinner parties were merry events where I regaled the guests with stories from my life, altered to fit the nineteenth century. Yes, my mother left when I was young, my father who was a doctor, died two years ago and I have no other relatives living, except for an uncle-in-law. I had no desire to belong to any man and preferred to make my own way.
Would I donate my time and creativity energies to the cause of furthering the lives of women? Absolutely. I found myself writing articles for the Liberty, and attending suffragette rallies. For such outings, I wore a short blonde wig and glasses.
I'd decided on a pen name too; Deborah Harry, singer of the 80's New Wave Rock group, Blondie.
However, my newfound freedoms weren't sufficient to mend my shattered heart. I missed Erik terribly. Loving someone you cannot have is a most excruciating and impossible hell.
No matter how strong and imperturbable I believe I may be, I can't escape the grip of this mother of all miseries.
Once my new allies and mentors had me safely ensconced in Hastings Woods, I settled into a routine. Like many in this area, Barbara was not often present in the winter months. The cities were far less susceptible to the cold winter wind. Mr. Bastion, a do-it-all sort of servant, stayed on at the cottage to help with maintenance and as a sentry of sorts—a pregnant woman should never be alone in the country even if she does have martial arts training.
I seldom saw the man, and so he scared the poodlie out of me the day I sat darning a pair of tights in the light of the parlour window. I'd had an odd sense of presence and looked up to find him staring at me, hands clasped in front of him. The needle missed and ended up sticking my thumb.
"Bastion, Lordy man! Do say something or cough next time you wish to approach me."
"Terribly sorry, Madame. I wished to wait until you'd finished."
"What, the all consuming chore of mending a stocking?
He dropped his chin.
"You've done no harm Bastion, but next time, do speak. You won't be a bother if you do, honest. What is it you require?" I asked with a smile.
"Madame Eliot to see you, shall I escort her in?"
I eyeballed him, "Naturally Bastion."
Intriguing little man.
He bowed out of the room and disappeared if he were a vapor. Within a few seconds, Mary Ann entered the parlour. Not a particularity handsome woman, she possessed the grace of a tall gazelle.
In her slender hand, she held a letter which she handed to me before accepting my invitation to seat herself.
"I felt it my duty as a friend to deliver this in person, you see it bears postmarks from the post in London, the receiving docks of Dover and Paris."
- 0 -
OMG, not another not!
Lurkers, readers and regular reviewers, please send me some feedback, more to come soon. Thanks,
-Leesa