I apologize for taking so long with the updates. I've been very busy with work, school and a new kitten! Thanks to Barb, the beta for her amazing powers of the beta. I hope you enjoy this chapter. There's more to come…
-Leesainthesky
Ch 85 Nuptials
The truth behind why brides and grooms should stay separated on their wedding day has less to do with luck and more to do with insurance. Brides and grooms are nervous people. A case of nerves can lead to dissention and dissention can lead to disunity.
Thankfully, Erik and I had survived our pre-wedding spat. Feeling sheepish for dragging him into an argument in the vestibule of the Marie, I quietly slid my arm through his and allowed him to lead me into the lobby.
Dwarfed behind a massive oak desk sat the man who I assumed was the municipal clerk. He thumbed through a stack of papers pretending to work.
Erik's long shadow fell across the desk. Not accustomed to people ignoring him--ever, ignored, he stood for a blip of second before invading the clerk's counterfeit enterprise.
"Pardon moi, Monsieur," Erik's silky voice resonated pleasantly through the cavernous, room. "Several months ago, I procured a license of marriage from your office. My fiancée and I wish to marry today if it is convenient for the Conseiller Municipal."
The sallow fellow peered at over the rim of his John Lennon specs; he looked at Erik then scanned my bulging belly, nodding sympathetically.
"A wedding, Monsieur, and so soon—would you not care to wait another few months?"
I assumed the man moonlighted at the "Pig and Pigeon" comedy club.
"I care to do it now, if you please, Monsieur," Erik said with genteel acerbity.
"I'm sorry; Conseiller DeVane cannot be bothered today. Come back tomorrow," the impertinent clerk snipped and returned to his jumble of papers.
Erik's clenched his jaw. Fire hot enough for frying bacon sizzled in his eyes.
Oh crap.
Smelling an altercation, I placed my hand over my heart, batted my lashes and in my best "Pitiful Pauline" voice said, "Kind Monsieur, please understand that it was my dear husband's dying wish that I marry his kind and wealthy brother, before the birth of his only child."
His switched his attention from the desk to my pleading face.
I lay a protective hand on my stomach for added effect. "Monsieur, a woman is simple not capable of caring for herself and an infant child, you know," I added with a tinge of proper meekness.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Erik balk, ever so slightly, at my performance.
The bespectacled man's tone melted a degree. "Indeed, Madame, forgive my imprudence. Have you the required documents, Monsieur?" He cracked a pitying smile and focused on Erik.
"Indeed, Monsieur."
Erik slipped his hand into the right inner pocket of his suit coat and withdrew a slim packet containing perfect facsimiles of our birth certificates, proof of domicile, my "husband's" death certificate and our marriage license, which Erik had filed for two months prior to today.
The Banns, a public announcement for intent to marry, had hung in the Marie since Erik decided to come looking for me in England.
With an elegant flick of his wrist, he presented our brilliantly forged documents to the clerk.
I watched the man scrutinize the papers and wondered if his vacuous expression insinuated approval or refusal.
For Napoleon's sake get on with it! my brain screamed.
He folded the documents back into the narrow portfolio and handed it back to Erik.
"Everything appears on check, Monsieur. At the moment, the Conseiller Municipal, Monsieur DeVane, is unoccupied. I shall deliver his honor to you to post haste."
"Thank you, kind sir," I replied, with another flutter of lashes and a curtsey.
When the clerk scampered off to check on the Conseiller Municipal's availability, I rose on tiptoe to kiss Erik, who was brooding over either my flirting or my success with the municipal employee. "Remember, Erik, you get more flies with honey."
He regarded me solemnly. "Feminine manipulator, you are a complex and maddeningly crafty creature, my love."
"Moi?" I grinned. He brought my lace covered hand to his lips for a tender buss.
The door at the back of the main room clicked open. At the sound of footsteps clacking across the marble floor, we both made an abrupt swivel as if we were two naughty kids falling in line at the sudden appearance of our parents.
An ebony haired man of twice the clerk's height and girth entered. Because he wore robes, I assumed he was the Conseiller Municipal.
My breath made it half way up my windpipe before hesitating and retreating back into my lungs.
"Erik, if I faint, you'll catch me, won't you?"
"Of course I'll catch you, but I've never known you to be the sort of women who faints."
"Yes, well, I've never gotten married before."
"Your Honor?" I approached the Conseiller. "I know it's not common for the bride to exchange rings with the groom, but Erik and I, we'd like to exchange symbols of our love. I have a ring for my husband—fiancé. I mean."
I focused my gaze on the staunch man, waiting for his approval. What I got was a stern bull-dog glare, like I'd requested Erik and I have sex on the Marie's marble floor instead of giving my man a piece of sacred jewelry.
"Do you consent to this, Monsieur DuPuis," Conseiller DeVane looked past me to Erik.
"What sort of ninny would I be to reject this lovely creature's wish to embellish me with a token of her eternal love?"
"It is highly irregular, but if you insist—" he grumbled, thumbing through our papers with a frown.
A bout of anxiety played on my nerves and I wondered if something was wrong.
I fiddled with the cuff of my lacy gloves and recalled my friend from Chicago, Janis. Two minutes before her walk down the aisle she erupted in a rash of hives making her look like one of those cartoon zits in an acne cream commercial. Thinking quickly, I grabbed a cold drink from her mother's hand, rolled the icy glass over her blotchy décolletage, and then disguised the remaining welts with my cover stick.
Small wonder I'd become known in my circle as 'Gabrielle, the most likely to be asked to serve as bride's maid," an honor that won me a closet filled with horrid pastel ruffled satin gowns.
I suppose everyone who takes the covenant of marriage seriously does, or should, experience last minute jitters, yet when I stole a glance at Erik; he appeared as calm as a post storm dawn.
"Your Honor, concerning the 'obey' portion of the vows, I prefer to include it in my oath to my bride," requested Erik.
Monsieur DeVane's bushy brows spiked in surprise. "Monsieur DuPuis, in France, vows not exchanged within holy walls are strictly civil service. Omission of sacred text is a matter of law, not convention."
"I see." Erik turned to me, a smug sort of grin waggling at the corners of his mouth.
"There, my dear, you're ire was aroused for naught."
I shrug off his gratified smirk and turned to face Conseiller DeVane.
The Conseiller, looking as if he'd had a long and rowdy night of small town carousing with the sailors, sighed and regarded Erik with heavily lidded eyes.
"If it pleases you, Monsieur, Madame, shall we proceed with the nuptials?"
Erik and I nodded simultaneously. I reached up to straighten his cravat, not that it was askew, not with the meticulous Monsieur DuPuis, but I felt the need for the small, intimate gesture.
Erik looked—not nervous, antsy. His was an I-can't-wait–for-Christmas-morning sort of restlessness. Catching my hands in his, he pulled me closer. His eyes spoke of promise and of hope.
"Ma belle femme, you are my avenging angel, fallen from time. Because of your exceptionable love, I am no longer broken."
"Erik—" his name quivers on my tongue.
For our wedding ensembles, we wore our best traveling clothes; Erik in a black on black pin-stripped suit and waistcoat, with a crisp white linen shirt and gray silk cravat; he looked relaxed, satisfied, and grandly handsome.
Even though I did not get to wear the sumptuous couture gown commissioned for me months before, I feel like a princess bride, (well, maybe more like a Fanny Brice bride in "Funny Lady" in my plain green silk dress with the matching bolero jacket, trimmed out in a dark green braid. For extra comfort, the skirt had extra pleats sewn in to accommodate my third trimester expansion.
What a vision we must be; the six foot two man in the beige half mask and his very pregnant bride. I would have killed for a photographer who could permanently capture our image on film.
"Oh," I said aloud when the idea popped into my brain. "There's no chance you have a camera available, is there?" I asked, hoping for the improbable. In this century, cameras were expensive monsters and rare to find outside of a photography studio.
"You honestly want a formal photographic record?" says the Conseiller incredulously.
"Why, yes--it is my wedding day," I return indignantly.
The desk clerk, whose name I'd still not heard, perked up.
"Monsieur Knight, the accountant, he recently purchased one—keeps it on hand in his office should anyone in town have need of instantaneous portraiture. It is his extravagant hobby," he scoffed slightly. "I believe he's in the back working on the ledger. Shall I fetch him?"
"If you wish," grumbled Monsieur DeVane. "But do be quick about it."
"One moment." The clerk excused him self with a hasty bow and dashed through one of the Marie's central doors at the back of the room.
"Shall we proceed while my clerk scrambles about for a camera?"
"Lets," said Erik.
My future husband and I shared a look so intimate that Conseiller DeVane took to staring at his shoes before beginning the ceremony.
Eager to be rid of us and return to what I assumed was be a late morning cat nap in his office, he cleared his throat, snapping us out of our love-sick stupor and launched into the brief civil ceremony; "I do solemnly declare that I know not of any lawful impediment why Gabrielle Caroline Thomassen and Erik DuPuis may not be joined in matrimony."
Monsieur DeVane directed a thin-lipped smile at me and nodded. "Repeat after me, Madame ..."
Listening carefully to the official, I recited my declaration of marriage to Erik.
"I call upon these persons here present to witness that I, Gabrielle Caroline Thomassen, do take thee, Erik DuPuis, to be my lawfully wedded husband."
A pink cloud of surrealism engulfed me. It was in 1877 France. I was getting married to the famous composer, (and former Phantom) Erik DuPuis.
The love of my life.
"Monsieur?" the Conseiller said, pointing at Erik with his worn leather book of ceremonies.
For what I am sure was a full minute; Erik stared, mute. A less secure bride might have taken her groom's actions as cold feet, but I knew better. He was in a state of wonderment, gathering in all he could of the moment, the very textures, scents, and adrenaline rush of emotions.
I smiled and waited patiently. The Conseiller's left eyelid twitched.
"Gabrielle." My name rolled off of Erik's tongue in resonant, silky waves of sound. I was not surprised when Erik interrupted the Conseiller, reciting his lines by memory.
"I call upon these persons here present to witness that I, Erik DuPuis, do take thee, Gabrielle Caroline Thomassen, to be my lawful wedded wife, until the end of my days."
DeVane expelled a sigh. "And now the ring ceremony. Take your bride's hand, if you will, Monsieur."
"Gabrielle, I give you this ring as a token of our marriage and as a symbol of all that we share."
My hand betrayed my cool demeanor by shaking as I struggled to peel off the lacy glove from my left hand. Erik slipped his right hand in mine and paused, our eyes meeting, then he slipped the ruby and diamond ring on my finger.
"By the powers given lawfully to me, Conseiller Municipal, Horatio DeVane—"
"I believe we are not finished," I interrupted quietly. I assumed that, unaccustomed to a groom receiving a ring from his bride, he has forgotten me.
"Yes, forgive me, Madame." he said.
The Conseiller then nodded and addressed Erik. I began to shake with emotions so intense, I wondered if I was having an out of body experience.
"Erik DuPuis, I give you this ring as a token of our marriage and as a symbol of all that we share. Beautiful and shining though it is, its beauty cannot match the beauty of the man who stands before me."
I peered into Erik's eyes--they were the color of fine emeralds flecked with gold and shimmered with tears.
Again, my body became hostage to my emotions. My voice shook and a solitary tear slipped from the moat in my lower eyelid. I was graceless when I tried to place the platinum band on Erik's finger. I kept missing. Nerves caused me to giggle; Erik smiled at me and assisted by aiming his ring finger at the shining circle. He stared at his left hand, he stared up at me, then back at the ring. I took it to mean that he was pleased.
I think his Honor is speaking to us. Yes, he is pronouncing us man and wife, Monsieur and Madame Erik DuPuis.
I ignored the gasps from the three straight laced men in the room when I threw my arms about my new husband's neck, pressed my lips to his and went tonsil spelunking.
Erik did not resist. He embellished by smoothing his hand down my backside.
"Lawfully yours," I giggled into his mouth.
"It had better be," Erik responded.
Our public display did not bother either one of us one whit.
It was our wedding day, after all.
"I dare say, Reginald, they've done that before," said a cheeky fellow standing near the far wall next to the pale desk clerk, whose name was surely Reginald. This onlooker clutched an enormous piece of equipment, which I assumed was his camera set-up.
"Voilà, Monsieur Knight has been found," said Monsieur DeVane.
Erik squeezed my hand. Amused that, against all odds, my wish had become reality, he also winked. "Who would have guessed a man with his own Daguerreotype machine should be beneath our very noses," he marveled.
"Ah-well, here is the lovely couple, no?" Monsieur Knight, nonplussed by the sight of the odd couple before him, dipped and smiled at Erik and I like a kid laden with cheap candy.
Bustling to-and-fro with haste, he chattered away while setting up his ancient/new equipment. We learned of the types of cameras, exposures and his hope to earn enough on the side to pay for what his wife called his 'silly hobby.'
"The heavily draped windows make for an adequate backdrop," he indicated a window on the far side of the room.
Now then, stand side by side—Monsieur DuPuis, face the camera if you please," He instructed.
"I do not please." Erik scowled at Monsieur Knight.
Startled by Erik's abrupt gruffness, Knight gaped at us mutely, blinked and struggled to regain his composure.
"Er—very well then, do as you wish. The camera's eye sees more intimately than the human eye, you know, so close together now," the accountant re-worded his request with a flap of his hands.
We complied, and Monsieur Knight, satisfied with our positioning, disappeared beneath a length of cloth attached to the rear of his camera.
"When I say 'ready' you are to pose and stay perfectly still until I release you. If you should move before that, you, you will ruin the photograph."
"Understood, Monsieur," Erik said. He appreciated technology.
"I'm going to hold your hand and smile," I whisper to Erik. "I'll not have our grand-children and great-great grandchildren digging out our wedding photo and deciding that their grand-mère and grand-père must have been forced to marry. Often, when I would run across my ancestor's photographs from the 1800's, they looked as if they were receiving a high colonic.
Erik stifled a laugh. He stood facing the camera at an angle revealing his unmasked left side. I, being over a half a foot shorter then Erik, posed against his right shoulder effectively blocking the mask.
He looked terribly uncomfortable, and then it occurred to me—no one had ever bothered to record Erik's image before.
Good heavens, he must be miserable, I thought with a touch of guilt. I just had to have my wedding photo—at his expense.
"And ... ready," Monsieur Knight said, followed by a blinding flash and a burst of smoke that smelled like burning tires.
As a former television personality, I reflected on the absurdity of having my picture taken with the latest in nineteenth century image production. The technique gave new meaning to the phrase, "lights, camera, action"!
Now I knew the reason behind my ancestor's sour-faced sepia-toned photographs—fear.
"Please, hold your pose until I give the word for you to move again," said Monsieur Knight. He consulted his pocket watch counting down the two minutes until our "instantaneous portraiture" had finished the developing process.
Erik and I held our serene smiles waiting for release from our mannequin poses.
"You may relax now, Madame Monsieur."
Used to posing before the camera for uncountable minutes, I fell easily from still life back to animation.
Erik, who is most uncomfortable with his new experience and restless beneath the thinly veiled scrutiny of the three municipal employees, released his hold on my hand and strode over to the front window. He parted the draperies enough to feign interest in the street bustle.
Monsieur Knight, pleased that I'd shown an interest in his camera, was chatting me up about how his Daguerreotype camera worked its magic. He was thrilled to explain how it used the new "dry plate" process, an emulsion of gelatin and silver bromide on a glass plate.
"It takes nary a minute to produce a Ferrotype image so clear you'll think it is living!" I envisioned a crude sort of Polaroid.
"Keeping up with the enormous demand for portraiture keeps me up to my chin whiskers in opportunities to make money, a fact of which I am thankful. New equipment is obscenely expensive. Millicent, that's my dear wife, hasn't an idea if the cost. I'd be sleeping on the floor of my office if she did," he chuckled.
"Oh dear!" I reacted, using the proper amount of exaggeration. "Mum's the word from my lips."
"If only she realized how wealthy I could make us—"
"Gabrielle," Erik said, turning abruptly from the window. "Our train departs within the hour. This . . . picture, it won't keep us much longer, will it?"
"Monsieur Knight, will it be much longer?" I asked.
"With my new plates, it is dry and ready for your enjoyment now, Madame. Ah, magnifique!" exclaimed the excited Monsieur Knight, scanning the plate he has just pulled from his massive machine. He dipped the "tin plate" into a clear solution, which he'd poured into a baking pan prior to snapping our picture, and set it on a chair to dry.
I walked over to inspect. "Wow." The modern exclamation popped from my mouth. I struggled to comprehend the reality before me; I was starring at a four by five black and white reproduction of my wedding day, March 29th, eighteen seventy-seven.
Erik had slipped up next to me silently; his voice jolting me from my momentary trance.
"You are a vision, Gabrielle."
"Lordy, Erik—I am my great-grandmother Berhow," I whispered.
-()-
I'm so excited for them, they're finally married. Please, you simply must review for me.
-Leesa