“The man we later saw in the Assembly Room, studying everyone?”
“The same.”
“You may be right. There is something familiar about how he carries himself.”
“Let’s see if we are correct.” Monique lengthens her stride, picking up her pace.
“Monique! I do not think this—”
“Shhh. Come on.”
——
Thomas’s eyes go to the bottom of the blade. It’s a scratched design of some sort. He brings it close. It looks like – could it be – yes, it is. A tiny fleur-de-lys. Some Frenchman must have made this toy. Not impossible, of course, for certain parts of London virtually swim with French. But they’re mostly Huguenots and he cannot imagine any of them scratching such a symbol, not after being either slaughtered or exiled by the Catholic king for their attachment to the wrong faith. The wrong faith! As if there could be a right one. Faith by its nature means something not able to be either seen or proved.
“Bonjour, Monsieur.”
The singsong voice sounds like it’s directed at him. Thomas stops and turns round. He finds not one but two comely faces. The closer of the two is smiling, the other keeping back. Thomas feels the challenge. He tenders a smile to warm the farther one, then he makes eye contact with each in turn.
“Mesdames.” Thomas begins to bow, but stops when he realizes he has a child’s wooden sword in his right hand. A wry smile is his explanation. Women will understand it is a gift for a child.
“We bring no harm,” says the closer of the two in heavily-accented English. She has a grin on her face. “No need for use of épée over us. On us. With us.”
“De grâce, mesdames.” Thomas switches the conversation to French. “Or do I misspeak. Am I addressing two desmoiselles?”
“Mademoiselle de Vins,” says the one at ease. A curtsey comes with her smile.
She is coquettish, which is fine by him. He admires the cut and quality of the fabrics she has on. Her jewellery is discrete and her cheeks nicely rouged, not too much.
“And you, Mademoiselle?” Thomas rolls the hand without the toy sword toward the shyer one, she who is studying him. Her eyes are darting up and down, back and forth the way a woman’s often do. She is as pretty as the other, but still showing much reserve.
“It is Madame. Madame de Beaumont.” She neither curtseys nor smiles.
“But,” adds Mademoiselle de Vins quickly, “her marriage that was, is no more. It was annulled.”
“Monique!”
“It’s all right, Jeanne-Marie. He should know.” Mademoiselle de Vins turns to Thomas. “He who was her husband, he is dead in any case. You are not a scandalmonger, are you, Monsieur?”
“I am not. Discretion is … my command.” Thomas mock brandishes the wooden sword.
“Admirable,” says the one whose marriage was annulled and whose former husband later died, “but would not a knightly gentleman reveal himself?”
There is a sparkle in her eyes that was not there before. Thomas likes her bearing, accent and choice of words.
“Madame de Beaumont,” Thomas replies, “I’m not sure I understand.”
“No?” she says. “Would not a gentleman have told us his name?”
“Ah, yes, of course. I apologize. I am … Tyrell, Thomas Tyrell.”
“You’re sure?”
“Madame?”
“The hesitation. You seemed perhaps unsure as to your name.”
“No, Madame, I am very sure. And as Thomas Tyrell, I stand before you as a man who recognizes ladies of true beauty and grace when he meets them for the first time.”
The two women exchange a look, which gives birth to two tiny smiles.
“You think this is the first time we meet?” Mademoiselle de Vins gives him a cheeky look.
“Why yes, and it is entirely my pleasure.” Thomas bows again.
“You do not recall another time?”
Thomas goes back and forth between two much amused expressions. Neither shows mockery, yet they are clearly laughing at him in a gentle way. “I did in fact think there might be a certain familiarity, a resemblance to—”
“Too late.” Mademoiselle de Vins is shaking her head, pretending she is at the funeral of a close friend. “Too, too late.”
“It was in Bath, Monsieur,” says Madame de Beaumont. She places her folded-up pale blue fan against her chin. She apparently thinks she has given clue enough.
“Bath,” Thomas says softly to himself. Memories swirl back. Of him and Hélène thrusting in the Cross Bath. The futile search for Élisabeth. The bonfire the first night. The climb up into … “The hills?” he asks. “The footpaths? In dresses rose and green.” Thomas looks down. He grins and points at their parasols. “The very same, are they not?”
“Voilà,” says the one called Monique.
“Bravo,” adds Madame, whose first names Thomas recalls now: Jeanne-Marie. “We were also in the Assembly Room as you— well, you were undertaking a study of some sort.” Madame de Beaumont flexes her eyebrows.
“A study? I think not.”
“No? Was it not an exploration of a faraway land, Assemblia Rooma and all creatures therein?”
Thomas stares at this Madame de Beaumont. They are barely introduced and she is already making fun of him. That she speaks the truth about his listening in on other people around the ballroom in Bath is beside the point. It is rude. Though she does describe it in a droll way, does she not? She is not just a pretty face and a shapely form. She is smart and wary at the same time. Whatever happened in her marriage that caused it to be annulled? Too bad he cannot simply ask.
“Well played, Madame,” Thomas says. “You caught me out. I was a spy in the kingdom of His Self-Appointed Majesty of Rules, Mister Beau Nash.”
Jeanne-Marie sputters a laugh. Mademoiselle de Vins looks confused, until she too gets the joke.
Thomas takes a half-step closer to the two women, pretending he is getting out of the way of a couple with full baskets passing behind. Without the ladies knowing it – he hopes – he secretly inhales their fragrances. Flowers and fruits distilled, with a hint of musk that seems to be coming from the more forward of the two, Mademoiselle de Vins.
“I would like to get to know you ladies better, if you would grant me that wish. I think we could become good friends. Tolerable at least.”
Mademoiselle de Vins answers not with words, but with a coy smile. Madame de Beaumont at first looks far away then returns her gaze to fix it firmly on Thomas. There is much liveliness there. Her eyes have many shades of green, and he thinks he sees tenderness and vulnerability combined.
“We’ll see,” Madame says at last.
Thomas had hoped for no more than that. An encounter such as this is an audition, nothing else. He inclines his head slightly as he steps back then bows to take them in, head to toe. What a pleasure of discovery it would be to touch and kiss the warmth and softness of their skin. What a delightful mystery each woman is. And what an impression he made on them, he thought.
There is a flash overhead, followed by a crack of thunder. All three duck at the same time, along with everyone else in the market square. The hum of conversation stops. Then it begins anew with raised voices. The rain comes down at once, pelting hard and fast.
“I have to go,” Thomas waves the sword in his right hand as he rolls up his collar with his left. “I am expected elsewhere. I have … an obligation.”
He hopes his tricorne will give him a bit of protection from the downpour for at least a few blocks en route to pay homage to the child Gallatin and Hélène have brought into the world.
“As do we,” says Madame, hurrying to open her parasol. “We have a friend we visit on Sundays.”
“Alas,” Thomas thinks he hears Mademoiselle mumble. She already has her parasol open above her head.
The women look ridiculous standing there, feet planted, under their already dripping, thin-fabric parasols. They are soon to be drenched. And judging by the look of fading hope on their glum faces, each knows that all too well.
“Au revoir,” says Thomas, eager to flee.
“Oui, au revoir.”
“Until next time.” Mademoiselle’s hand rises in a weak salute.
Thomas takes that as his cue. He is off. First at a rapid walk, then a skipping trot, finally a full-out run. He does not care how he looks. Besides, he is far from the only one running away from the market square. No one is standing still. All those who do not have tables and stalls to guard are fleeing like him.
Sodden as he is becoming, Thomas feels his spirits lift. It is the pleasure of the two women. He will do all he can to see them again, together for conversation or with good fortune separately to get closer still. He has not had a lover, meaning someone he likes to be with and whose conversation he enjoys, since Élisabeth took off from Bath. Sex, yes, for he has not become a monk. But he fights his urges more often than he gives in. It disheartens him to make the required purchase on the bridge or in the parks. Yet what choice does he have? He is not going to bring one of the purchase ladies into his own rooms, nor is he ever going to go to theirs. There is too much risk in that. A lurking billy boy could knock him and steal his purse.
And so it’s off to play godfather in Spitalfields. It really is a joke. If ever there were someone ill-suited for such a church-based role, it is him. No matter. Gallatin will be glad to see him, as he will be pleased to see his old friend. H. of course will give him a chilly shoulder and he will reciprocate. That is simply how it is, or was a year ago the last time he saw her and her child at Church Street. Truth be told, it does sadden him. Once he would have done anything for her and to be with her. That affection has withered, as has hers for him, alas.
But there is the boy, the one whose birthday it is. Little Tommy, Gallatin’s pride and joy. Thomas is curious to see how much he has grown. Since he is only one, there can be no real conversation. All a child that age can accomplish is to crawl about or maybe take a few staggered steps. Thomas shakes his head. The child will have to become a lad, to have attained the age of reason, before Thomas will be able to be the guiding godfather Gallatin wants him to be.
Thomas slows to avoid a giant puddle in front of an apothecary shop. In so doing he has to smile. Soaked as he already is from the heavy rain, what would it matter if he were to splash right through the pool? His shoes and socks could not get any wetter than they are. So Thomas stomps at the corner of the puddle, sending up a wave upon both ankles.
Ahead, through the thick slant of rain, Thomas can now see Christ Church Spitalfields. It looks good, the area he once called home. Gallatin will surely have a fire in the grate, a roaring one at that. And maybe his friend will loan him some clothes while he spreads out his to dry close to the hearth? Surely, his old friend will do that as well.
Yet H., the angry Hélène, what will she say when Thomas comes dripping water onto the floors of her home? He sighs. Maybe the year that has elapsed since they last saw each other will have done some good. Thomas would like that. He and she could be friends. But really, could they? Friends is not exactly what they ever were. Can a man and a woman who used to breathe in each other’s breath – can they forget all that and be merely friends? Thomas does not know.
In the meantime, with the door to No. 5 only a few strides away, Thomas’s thoughts spin back to the fresh encounter he had in the Covent Garden a short while ago. He can easily imagine himself getting close to one or the other of those two women. Something tells him he might have a chance with them, either the forward Mademoiselle de Vins or the hesitant yet obviously quick Madame de Beaumont. He would dearly love to have again the warm affection that he has several times had in his life yet always lost. He would not be so careless again.
VII
Amour
London – December 1736 to February 1739
Jeanne-Marie goes to her favourite window, the one on the right. Though now forlorn, with a thin dusting of snow, what lies outside on the ledge still draws her from time to time. For what is there is what led her last spring to choose this apartment on Woodstock Street, instead of an arguably better set of rooms she had viewed earlier that day. It brings a wry smile to recall it now, but when she first spied the nest on the ledge, with its solitary egg – that delightful shade of blue – she instantly wondered if it might be a sign. When a moment later a robin landed on the ledge and hopped into the nest to drop a second egg, her inclination was confirmed. Despite the apartment’s dowdy furnishings and battered floors, these Woodstock Street rooms would be her new lodgings. The desire to see the eggs hatch and the mother take care of her young was too strong to resist.
Madame de Beaumont unlatches the window and reaches out. The abandoned nest is so very light in her hand. Just sticks, mud, dried leaves, a few threads and what looks like a lock of a girl’s red hair. It is a marvel what birds are able to engineer, and how they give and protect life.
Through a curtain of gauze she put up right away, Jeanne-Marie followed what happened on the ledge last spring. There were four eggs. The mother warmed and rotated them, with the father dropping in from time to time. Sometimes he took her place; more often he brought the female something to eat. Once the eggs hatched they were both busy round the clock. Bugs and worms to quiet the crying brood. One morning Jeanne-Marie saw there was one less baby in the nest. It was too early for it to have fledged. That meant it had either been shouldered out by its siblings or prised away by an enemy bird.
How she could relate to that. Her father and step-mother, and a willing priest, had allowed, nay encouraged her, to marry young. She came out of a convent, not yet having taken her vows, and gave herself in holy matrimony to a man who turned out to be debauched. Diseased loins. Her intimate relations were a horror. She fended off Monsieur de Beaumont as often as she could, but total chastity was impossible. For months, once or twice a week, she endured what had to be endured. Finally she spoke to a different priest. It took a while but eventually the Church found a way to annul the union. Though released from her awful fate, the year and a half had taken its toll. And not only on her heart and soul. Jeanne-Marie fears she no longer has the capacity to bear children, should she marry again.
If she could make but one suggestion to God, it would be this: Immorality should show up on people’s faces. Sinfulness should be a blot you cannot miss. If that were so, her parents and the priest would never have been so fooled. But since that is not the way of the world, in her classes to wide-eyed English girls about the French language and literature Madame de Beaumont passes on all the advice she can to help other girls avoid the fate she had.
Madame de Beaumont returns the nest to its place and latches the window shut. She hopes another pair of robins, or any other bird, will bring the nest to life again next spring.
Picking up her cap and cloak, Jeanne-Marie readies to go out. She has some time before her tutoring to visit what has become her favourite bookshop, near St. Paul’s. This time, instead of looking for some novel for her own pleasure, she wants to see what there is on the moral education of children, for those old enough to read. If the field is as scant as she believes, she has an idea that she could write her own book. The Triumph of Verity is the title she has in mind.
Out on the cobbles she has a fresh thought. What if she were to create a monthly compendium of stories that children could read? It would be a literary magazine, only for the young. The formula works for adults so why not for those not yet fully formed? The right stories would help them on their way. Jeanne-Marie has already had a few stories published here and there. She could have more impact with a journal whose sole focus is the young.
She lowers her eyes to where her feet need help. There are horse droppings across much of this section of the street. Skirt lifted, she tiptoes
safely past.
It occurs to her as she picks up her pace coming out of Hanover Square that she should also ask at the bookshop what is newly arrived from France. The man who has entered her life over the past few months strives to stay abreast of the latest Paris tomes. He aspires someday to see his own name in print, as she has now seen hers. Yet he is reluctant to send anything off for consideration, neither to the literary journals nor to the publishers of books. Jeanne-Marie wonders if, somewhere deep down, he does not have the confidence that he pretends to have. She knows from her own experience, nothing ventured, nothing gained. It is better to take the risk than not to try at all.
Oh, that makes her wince. It sounds like behind his back she is criticizing a weakness in the man. A silent reprimand. But that is not it, not at all. She merely wishes Thomas Tyrell could find the success he desires. And that is to be not only someone who writes, but someone who is read. That requires submitting his pages to an editor or a publisher, which he steadfastly refuses to do. It is as if he is afraid of finding out his words do not measure up.
That frustration aside, Jeanne-Marie is blessed to have found someone so unlike Beaumont as a new friend. Her Thomas is a good and learned man. If only his ambition would leave him alone.
——
The tiny shoots and blossoms are out, shimmering green and pink and white. Wherever they are, the springtime bursts, they bring life to the brick and wooden city. It has been a long winter with more than enough chilling rain. So what a relief to come out the other side, with longer days and new growth providing a feast for the eyes.
Thomas sucks in a deep breath. He can smell the tiny blossoms on the trees, a few fragrant snowflakes of which are gently tumbling down. It is life itself, all around him in the present tense.
He will take his time heading for his rendezvous with Jeanne-Marie in Green Park. Not because he is reluctant to see her, but simply because this is a spring day he wants to savour as much as he can.
The leaves have long since lost their deepest greens. Some now show the inevitable fading and here and there even hints of yellow. The end of the warm days cannot be too far ahead. The nights are already turning cool. Thomas saw his breath last evening, coming back from the shop en route to his rooms. Even now, just past midday, returning from a pleasant hour with Madame de Beaumont in Hyde Park, he can feel a change in the air. The smell is not of freshness and growth, but of impending decay.
Crossings, A Thomas Pichon Novel Page 10