I am thrilled to see new names in the reviews. Thank you for taking the time to voice your opinions (Miss Ann Thropy, indeed ) Also of note, iluvmyphantom created an astonishing rendering of 21st Gabriell. Check it out by going to her profile page, ID: 1048132 and scroll down to "Time the Avenger"Gabrielle. . . très cool.
-Leesainthesky
Ch 96 Fait Accompli
My first two week of motherhood passed with exhausting duplicity; a vacuum of endless feedings, changing, and stolen naps. Four days after giving birth, a letter arrived from Doctor Barrett detailing her plans to visit manor on July 3rd, less than three weeks after little Erik's birth on June 16th—exactly two years since my untimely drop into nineteenth-century France, an occurrence I considered not altogether a coincidence.
At over eight pounds, young Erik was not born prematurely; the good doctor merely overshot her prediction of my due date. I smiled thinking on the inaccuracy of late eighteen-hundred medicine. I knew dear Elizabeth would be mortified when she learned she'd missed the opportunity to make good on her oath to help deliver my child.
As a father and husband, Erik was doting and attentive, insisting on helping me with diaper changing and sponge baths. Marie would shake her head, throw her hands in the air and mumble about how we were raising a child who would not know the difference between the roles of men and women.
Erik rewarded her sniping with a glower and a gruff lecture on how it mattered not which parent tended a child as long as the child was tended to with loving care, a point Marie could not debate.
Husband and housekeeper also bumped heads on the matter of baptizing our son and I found myself intervening during one such conversation.
Erik and I were at the breakfast table, Mademoiselle Caruso was in the kitchen washing the breakfast dishes while Marie served us coffee.
"Monsieur DuPuis, I am sure you and you wife will agree that a priest must be called on to baptize young Erik post haste. Do not leave his dear little soul vulnerable to an eternity in hell," Marie advised, her jaw set in stern righteousness.
Erik had been quietly reading the paper as I sat nursing the baby beneath my "nursing serape", an idea borrowed from American Indians.
He crushed his paper noisily and glared at her, his impassive expression morphed into a hard, determined anger.
"Madame Roux," Erik bellowed, "My child will certainly not go to hell because some sanctimonious Vatican appointed idiot has yet to dip Erik's tiny head into water. How absurd, really Madame. I rather doubt I would allow a stranger to bother my son in such a manner in the first place!"
"Monsieur, you cannot be serious. Without baptism in the name of the holy church, there is no salvation." Marie fingered the crucifix hanging from a chain around her neck and gaped at him as if she were going to faint from the very idea.
"Damn it all, Madame Roux, I do not accept your draconian apologia. I want no part of a God who damns little children to hell because they have not been properly processed by a man-made institution. And that is the end of it!" Little Erik began to wail.
"Now look what you've done," Marie scolded Erik for upsetting the baby.
"Me? It is you who insists on this idiotic superstition."
"Forgive my boldness, monsieur, but you may do well to partake of the baptism yourself."
Erik's eyes shot hot green sparks in Marie's direction.
I remained impassive, soothing my son cries by speaking softly and rocking him, hoping these two would tire of bickering and just drop the subject.
They didn't.
"Time out you two, you're upsetting the baby and that upsets me. I am this child's mother and I have a say in all this. First off, Madame Roux, it says nowhere in the bible that we get a free pass to hell if we aren't dunked, sprinkled, showered or dipped in holy water, in fact I think there's something in there about 'baptism not by water but by the holy spirit.' Jesus was baptized by a wandering woodsman."
Marie crossed her arms over her chest in a show of defiance and glared past me and out the dining room window.
"It's like this; if Erik doesn't want a priest, there'll be no priest. Now, you." I turned my attention to my husband. "Grow up."
Erik's jaw twitched. He cast me a sharp look and opened his mouth to admonish me for my blunt criticism.
"No, Erik, listen to me. Angry voices are not good for your son. This child will be baptized because I want it, not because I am afraid of hell. My God doesn't send innocents there, period. The clergy we use to marry us in our spiritual ceremony can do it on the same day. Comprenez?" I said in a stern, clear voice looking both Marie and Erik in the eyes.
"Now if you'll excuse me, my son needs changing." I rose from the table, and retreated to the baby's room. I changed the babe's smelly diaper, disposed of the evidence and sat in the ornate oak rocking chair to nurse my sweet son. I was beyond tired from little sleep.
Erik and I had decided to go ahead with our original wedding celebration as the previous civil ceremony was but a brief, inelegant, legal procedure. Although I had a list of guest from our planned marriage last fall, new announcements needed addressing and sending, a new summer menu planned, and so forth. Would I be up to the speed of it all in four weeks? Who knew.
I closed my eyes and must have dozed off in the chair. When I awoke, I was in the bed I shared with Erik and the babe was asleep in his bassinet next to the bed. I yawned and rolled over on my left side to find myself looking into Erik's smokey jade eyes.
"Hello, my love," he said silkily, resting his hand on my hip. I surprised myself; in spite of the fatigue, I craved intimacy with my husband.
"Hi," I smiled back, shifting in the bed and twisting my gown, inadvertently exposing one plump breast.
Erik could not help himself. His eyes flicked down to gaze at my nakedness, he closed his eyes and released a long, pensive sigh.
"How long?"
"It has been eight days since our little son made his grand entrance--that makes five more weeks."
He pushed out his bottom lip. "I am consumed by my cupidity for you, wife."
"Oh geez," I giggled. "Don't pout, there are 'other' ways to entertain ourselves."
"Indeed, there are," he replied, brightening with a wicked smile. "I shall never, ever, forget that first time you taught me the many ways to indulge in erotic stimulation without breaching your, shall we say, virtue?"
"Nor will I. As I recall, you were a fast learner."
"I was beside myself with want for you, Madame. You see, being a man conditioned not to expect human affection, I numbed my mind to such hopes; however, living in the hedonistic colony of the Persian court and the backstage of a Parisian opera house, I indulged my curiosity often. Whenever, during my nocturnal wanderings, I came across a coupling, I invited myself to watch, to learn. It was the only way I would ever see what transpired between lovers. And oh, the things they did to one another! When you came to live at the manor, I fought the urge to fantasize about engaging in those acts with you."
"Did you now? My dark hero, a powerhouse of passion and energy, desperate for a desirable outlet to plug into. I was enchanted by you, Erik."
"And I, you, you delicious, wet, accommodating little temptress," he whispered low and sweet, inviting a pleasurable spark to ignite within me.
We lay in silence, our arms wound about each other and listened to young Erik's soft, measured breathing. "Think of it, Erik, July 29 marks six weeks and a day—a fitting date for a wedding ceremony and subsequent honeymoon night, wouldn't you agreee?" "Oui," he grinned, his amazingly straight, white teeth flashed from behind full, roguishly uneven lips. In an instant his countenance became serious.
"Gabrielle, do you understand that you are much more to me than a feminine vessel for my seeds? Our lovemaking, while sublime, is not the only measure of my love for you. It is how you intrigue my mind and your true regard for me as a man that binds me to you for eternity."
"Yes, Erik. I know," I said, propping up on one arm, resting my head in my hand, and wondering where he was going with this. I pursed my lips, weighing his words. "So if I weren't an obliging sex machine of a woman, you would still love me then?"
"Why, of course." He seemed wounded.
"You've never been one to turn down a good shag. But seriously, Erik, you're as principled and disciplined as you are passionate."
"Me, a principled man . . . an amusing thought to be sure," he sneered and fiddled with the cuffs of his shirt, turning them up to just below his elbows.
"Honestly, Erik, many men often bitch about how cold their wives are to them in the bedroom, yet they don't give a dribble about their wives's needs, seldom considering that a drunken poke is less than appealing to a woman who has spent her day cleaning house, fixing dinner and tending children. She receives few kind words for her obedience. You, you're not like that, a rare breed in any time period."
"I've long considered men who pester their wives relentlessly for sex, but give theme little regard for anything else to be boorish and crass. I do not wish to become that sort of man."
"Your sensitivity would never allow it, darling."
"You are too kind, my sweet," he said touching my face gently. "Before you left for England, I often treated you with indifference, even though I claimed to love you. Oh Gabrielle, I know so little of how a man ought to act. I forget that, as you say, 'it isn't all about me'. Can you forgive me?"
"Already have. You're an artist, Erik, and as an artist, I realize you're deeply involved with your creative process. When you are, I expect your craft to hold you for a time, but you always come back to center. I'm not the sort of woman who would spend days holed up in her room feeling ignored. I have my writing and it takes up lots of time and brain power, and now a child who can suck the libido right out of a person, temporarily. So please, do not fret about wanting to fuck me all the time. I rather like being a sex object," I said, reaching over to caress his naked face reassuringly.
He gave a little nod of acceptance. "Good, because the ways in which you delight me are uncountable."
I blushed bashfully and he leaned in to kiss me, opened mouthed and wet. I breathed his name and wiggled over to press against him.
Erik threw one lean leg over mine and I could not ignore the bulge hardening against my quadriceps. Soon his fingers found their way to my engorged breasts, skimming over them with a touch so light, you'd think he were fondling delicate Fabergé's eggs.
I slid my hand down the length of his leg and around the curve of his hip to the front of his trousers where his hard-on begged for attention and teased at the outline of his tip with my thumb.
"Gabrielle." My name slipped from Erik's lips, the last syllable an elongated rumble.
"Shhh, quiet now my love," I commanded, fumbling with the trouser buttons and withdrawing his overabundant phallus.
I couched down mouth level with his sex, kissing and licking, dipping it deeply into my moist mouth. I wasn't sure I had the energy for an orgasm, but I saw no reason not to pleasure Erik. With one hand around his balls, I squeezed lightly, rolling them around, then drew one finger between his buttocks circling his tight opening with the tip of my finger nail.
He shivered and the intensity of his breathing increased. I rose up so my breasts brushed against his balls and pinched his nipples hard with my free hand while sucking hard and strong on his cock.
"Mon dieu—" he gasped grabbing a handful of my hair.
Certain his fervent cries would wake our son, I intensified my efforts, grasping the thick base of his cock and pumping in rhythm to my suckling.
Caught up in his desire, I groaned against his cock. Erik thrust his hips against my mouth, arched his back and gifted me with a generous amount of his seed.
"Drink of me, Gabrielle," he begged.
I obliged, swallowing with an appreciative moan.
Finally spent, he panted quietly. I licked the traces of his ardor from his sex, lifted my head, smiled and licked my lips.
"Come here. . ." He pulled me to him, kissing me and diving his tongue into my mouth, tasting.
That was when young Erik awoke from his nap, hungry and crying for my breasts.
"What is it with you DuPuis men?" I said, humorously, eyeing my satiated husband as I rose to tend to our infant son.
"Do you think our carnal display has marred the child?" he asked, somewhat alarmed.
I fought an urge to laugh at Erik's naiveté. "No, darling, but it won't be long before we'll have to carry him from our bed to his and then lock the bedroom door for brief child-free sessions."
Erik furrowed his brow, mulling over what I'd said, watching with rapt interest how expertly I hefted our son from his bassinet and brought him to my breasts, urging him to latch on. Only moments before these same breasts, now the means for a meal, were objects of lust.
As my son suckled, I cooed and talked to him, marveling at how this tiny, vulnerable, precious boy was created by two misfit lovers rescued by time.
I ran a hand through my tangled mane and cast a glance at Erik. He was fixated on the suckling babe at my breast, a look of sad longing in his luminous unmatched eyes.
OOOOooooOOOO
The next morning my good friends, Doctor Elizabeth Barrett and Mary Ann, aka George Elliott, arrived at the manor, followed hours later by the dressmaker from Paris who carried with her my long awaited wedding gown. I told Erik I could make the brief jaunt to Paris for my fitting, but he insisted I stay within the safe walls of the manor a while longer. He would pay for the dressmaker to come to us.
With so much claiming my attention, I hadn't the energy to argue with his logic. Paris could wait. During my stay in England, I'd leaned down a bit, as sadness left me with little appetite. Post-partum, I now weighed less than before pregnancy, however my bodily proportions had changed and I seriously doubted I would fit my bulging breasts into the bodice of the long-ago commissioned wedding dress.
The dressmaker left me alone to slip on the unfinished gown. I'd nearly forgotten what it looked like, but there it hung on the back of my dressing room door; foamy and pure white meringue silk with tiny pearls punctuating where the soft drapes gathered on the skirt. The bodice bore a sea of crystals and pearls over silk. Sheer organza draped across the décolletage and down the arms. I was certain hours of laborious sewing had gone into creating the simple, elegant masterpiece.
I cried. Weird how a garment had that sort of power. The power of promises fulfilled.
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Too fluffy? I hope not, a bit of spice for th daddy. Svp revue,
-Leesa