It will not be long before they will have to add blankets if they want to keep having their conversations and side-by-side readings of separate books on the benches of the royal parks. That prospect makes him shudder. Thomas is only thirty-six. He always thought one had to be at least fifty before taking shelter beneath a blanket. Of course, La Beaumont, as he likes to call her, is eleven years his junior. Perhaps that age difference explains why she does not seem to mind the growing chill as much as he does.
What should happen, though he hesitates to bring it up, is that they should take their budding friendship indoors. He would like to see them include not just talk and books, but another kind of intimacy. Thomas thinks she is ready too, but one never knows until one asks.
——
Into his building and up the stairs, he pulls out the key from the inner pocket of his veston. The tumbler clicks and he’s in. “Oh my,” he says aloud. He is picturing his first room as a stran-ger might see it. Perhaps it would not be wise to invite La Beaumont up here after all, not in the state it is. There is more than a hint of dust. And the shabby confusion would undermine the restrained gentility and cultured dignity he has worked hard to display to her over the past few months. Jeanne-Marie is a keen reader, yet she is a woman. No woman Thomas has ever met is impressed by teetering piles of books. Nor by wooden boxes stuffed with folio sheets, his many not-quite-yet-finished essays and ideas for different books.
Nor by a floor dotted with heaps of letters, each pile grouped according to the kingdom or republic its writer lives in, as indicated by the colour of the ribbon Thomas has tied round them. Blue for Scotland, white for France, red for Switzerland, green for the Italian cities and black for the Dutch ones. True, Jeanne-Marie would be impressed by the insightfulness of his various correspondents. They keep him informed about what is happening in Edinburgh, Paris, Geneva, Genoa, Rome, Antwerp and Amsterdam, while he passes on what he sees and hears in London. Impressed by the information – maybe. Yet Madame de Beaumont would not smile at what would likely strike her as untidiness.
Thomas glances down at the letter he began last night, which is still on his writing table. It is a reply to Giovanni Codignola. The recently added correspondent in Genoa wanted to know about London’s public squares, how many there were and if any had been added in recent centuries. Thomas shuffles the pages to refresh his memory as to where he left off last evening when he blew the candle out.
As for London’s public spaces which you Inquired about, I can give you the Dates for the Creation or Establishment of Each in order of its appearance in London and Westminster. I am told that this information is absolutely Reliable. It might interest you to know that my Source is a Huguenot whose parents fled to England from France. His name is John Rocque, and he is held in high repute as a Surveyor and a Cartographer. Rocque has in mind a project to create a new and detailed Map of this City, such as has not been carried out before. Or if such did exist, it is now outdated. There has been much recent Growth. London is now an oblong shape, expanding in several directions at once. Here is what Surveyor Rocque imparted to me.
1631—Covent Garden, 1630s—Lincoln’s Inn fields, 1665—Bloomsbury Square, 1667—St. James’s Square, 1671—Leicester Square, 1681—King’s Square, 1688—Golden Square, 1695—Grosvenor Square, 1698—Red Lion Square, 1713—Hanover Square, 1717—Cavendish Square
You see at once what remarkable Construction has gone on over the most recent century. This English capital is a place that does not stand still. Of course, the Great Fire of 1666 provided a great opportunity, consuming as it did over Thirteen Thousand homes and nearly One Hundred Churches. Only ten died, yet One Hundred Thousand were left homeless.
Thomas must finish off the letter and commit it to the post, because he has two other letters to compose, one to Jacques Notter in Paris and another to Gallatin’s old roommate Johnson, who is now in Edinburgh.
Thomas places the page back with the first two sheets, beside the blue and white faience inkwell he has had since he was a boy writing poetry in the cold grenier of his family home in Vire.
He gives his salon another good long look. No, he cannot invite La Beaumont here, not the way it is. But could they not go to her place? If it is anything like her, it will be pretty, pleasant and respectable. He will hint about it the next time they meet. If she is agreeable, well then who can say what happens next. All he knows is what he would like. For she is a woman and he a man. He thinks it well past time that they do more than just read. That brings a firm nod.
Thomas turns back to his writing table. This time not to the unfinished letter to Codignola but to the blank sheets up in the right corner beside the containers of ink and sand and the adjacent upstanding quills. It is obvious, is it not? He will approach Madame with his plume. He will compose a letter that raises the topic carefully. He has to be ever so careful, for Jeanne-Marie’s ghastly experience with her marriage must loom large for her when it comes to the subject of erotic love. Nonetheless, he must not let his knowledge of what happened with that other man tie him in knots. He has seen La Beaumont look into his eyes longer than need required. That, he believes, is a sign that Venus stirs in her, just as Eros stirs in him. Thomas needs only find a way to release those old Greek gods who reside in them. A letter composed of carefully selected words can work the magic an uncontrolled conversation cannot.
Thomas goes at once to the writing table. He selects the quill with the best nib then flattens a fresh sheet. He makes his first dip into the ink and writes the date. He halts. The opening line is important. It must have the right approach, the right tone. There can be no rushing her. Yet at the same time the woman has to see what it is that he is asking of her. He hears the words, and refreshes his nib.
My Dear Madame,
We wish You to know that your Esteem is Precious to us. There is a Nobility in your character that cannot be denied. It deserves this written Tribute, for it is the Radiance of your Fine Qualities that prompts this Letter. Yes it does. You are, Dear Madame, the object of our Ambition. We are speaking of the Ambition of Affection, which is the best and truest Sense of that Word.
He needs more ink. More importantly, before he dips, is he being too bold, to say that it is his ambition to win her esteem? No, it is not. He will continue with his original thought.
It is the Kindness you have shown that Inspires us with a desire, a longing deep, to Receive from you the Expression of your precious Good Will. We trust you will agree that you have given me such Encouragement. We hope and trust We are not being overly bold in setting our Feelings in ink. Rather, it is our respectful Gratitude and
Oh my, so very wordy. Still, in for a penny, in for a pound. He’ll wait until he has written the whole thing, then he’ll be able to judge if it will do or if he’ll have to start over again. He takes another dip into the well.
Ardour that bids us to take up the quill. What a Torment to my Sensibility it would be to lose your favour if we have misjudged how you feel. To be in Honourable Possession of your affection for us means the very world. We ask of you, Dear Madame, to give us your Consideration, and permit us to pursue the means to bring about a felicitous future for both.
He reads over what he has composed. Though excessive in obsequiousness, it is likely what is needed. It is the way a letter to someone important to you, a woman for her favours or a man for a position, must be composed. So, it’s not a bad start as preambles go. Now, however, it’s time to hint at the gist of what it is he would like to have from Madame de Beaumont. That is, that he wants “to know her.” How she will reply, in person when next they meet or in a return letter, will decide everything.
——
The letter in her hands brings a quiet smile. Jeanne-Marie cups her chin with her hand. How strange it is that a man can feel there are words he can write that he would not dare to say to us aloud. She nods her assent, and grins to hear herself use the same conceit Thomas did,
that they are both nous when in fact they are but je and moi. She understands the effect. It is not just formality, it is the implied majesty. It is why kings and queens speak as they do, not just for themselves but on behalf of their realms. Well, she and Thomas are monarchs too – of their own hearts and souls. So the use of nous is right.
She rereads the letter, more slowly this time, studying it as a writer. She separates what Thomas said or was aiming to say – the underlying sentiment – from the words he selected to express those feelings and ideas. The first thing she would say is that Thomas really could have used a bit more time to compose his words. What was it the great Pascal wrote? That he would have made his letter shorter if only he had had more time? Well, that seems to be the case for this epistle from Thomas Tyrell as well. He would have been wise to set his letter aside and come back to it and eliminate the excessive wordiness. The best expression takes time. It is not a sudden outpouring.
Jeanne-Marie purses her lips then puts a hand to her brow. What is she doing? She is being so very unkind. Thomas has written to her of his affection, his admiration of her, and she is examining his words as if they are in some text she might take apart for her students. She is kinder and better than that.
Back to the letter she goes, skipping over the flattery with which it begins. It is mere puffery Thomas has used, a convention, nothing more than that. The heart of the letter, two pages in, that’s a different matter. She reads it over, mumbling the words aloud this time.
Our mutual respect is the basis of our Friendship. It is deep and abiding, as is our Affection. Yet our Affection could be deeper still. This I believe with all My Heart.
Jeanne-Marie notes that Thomas has dropped the nous and gone with the je and mon. Was this a slip? No, she thinks not. Because the line that comes next reveals to her that Thomas was no longer composing at all. He was letting his quill spill the honest, simple truth.
We could have the ne plus ultra of Amour, and we should. That is when a man and a woman come to know each other as fully as Nature allows.
Jeanne-Marie rises from her chair and paces the floor. By habit, it is to the window she goes. The little nest on the ledge has a dusting of snow. She nods at the chilly scene. Or, she wonders, is she nodding at something else?
That makes her take in a great breath. Yes, it is true, she does want that to which the man alludes. The ne plus ultra that Nature has designed for women and for men. She imagines it will be … good. Platonic love may be the most admirable of all loves, but she is not there yet. Though once deceived and betrayed – by a foul husband who spent her dowry at gaming tables and died in a duel over his unpaid debts – her memory of him has happily gone dim. More importantly, this new man, sweet Thomas, is nothing like Beaumont was.
Jeanne-Marie does another circle of the room, takes yet another glance at the empty robin’s nest. It is simple, is it not? She feels something in her heart and that is enough. What are feelings but longings revealed? The answer is obvious. Yes, yes, she would like to know this man.
——
By its light weight, Thomas can tell that the return letter from Madame de Beaumont is brief. Seal broken, he finds only a few lines.
Mon Cher Thomas,
Your letter was Bold. For that I Confess I was glad. For I too see that there is a time to talk and times to read and write. And yes, you are right. There are the other times when Nature should be heeded.
I invite you to my Apartment on Woodstock Street this Sunday, two hours after noon.
Until then …
Jeanne-Marie Barbe
Le Prince de Beaumont
——
“Until then …” Thomas reads aloud to the empty room. He has to glance up at the beams above. He wants to laugh. Is that not good? This woman can entice and intrigue. And in this case it’s not the words but the beckoning ellipsis at the end. It’s up to him, the lone reader, to fill in what comes next.
That he does, in his imagination, and with relish. What an encumbrance, that he has to wait until Sunday to see if the real story unfolds as well as the one in his head.
——
It is not her first sack back dress, but it is the finest she has ever owned. She turns round and cranes over her shoulder to see how its long, wonderful pleats look in the mirror. She loves the fabric of brocaded silk. How dark and luxuriant is the pink. The contrast with the floral motif, made from silver metal thread, is sharp. And so it should be. The dress cost Jeanne-Marie two months’ wages from her hours of teaching children French, but every penny was well spent.
Though she would prefer to have a special event to attend to show it off, the first time anyone will see her in it will be tomorrow afternoon, when she expects Thomas Tyrell to pay her a visit.
Jeanne-Marie’s gaze goes again to the mirror, this time face on. She likes how the edges of the bodice come close together yet do not meet. The open robe style allows the petticoat to offset the colour and pattern of the dress. When she puts on the pearls, not one but four strands round her neck, she hopes they will add to the look. Though there will still be her hair to solve. And to be sure, she has to decide which shoes to wear.
There is a knock on the door.
Jeanne-Marie turns to the mirror. A worried face stares back. Is this a mistake? What if he only wants to take advantage of her?
——
This is good, as good as Thomas has felt in a long while. He has not a souci in the world. He is warm and soft. Delightfully spent.
“Thomas,” comes a whisper.
He shifts onto his shoulder to find a focus on La Beaumont’s twinkling eyes. Her face is flushed. There is perspiration on her brow and upon her throat. Thomas glances at her full breasts but resists the urge to touch. He is content to lie beside her, still for a while.
“Was it … acceptable?” she asks.
“Acceptable?” Thomas wants to laugh. With a terribly grave face he says, “No, that is not the word I would use.”
Her face is aghast.
“Heavens, woman, it was delicious. So very good.”
Her eyes and lips are relieved.
“And you?”
“And me what?”
“What do you say about—” Thomas waves his hand above their two intertwined naked bodies. “About it?”
“Please, Monsieur, a woman does not talk about it.”
“Why not?” Thomas urges her on with his eyes. Then he reaches with the fingers of his left hand to fluff her thin triangle of curly hairs.
“No, don’t.” She shakes her head so he withdraws his hand. She pulls the blanket across the lower half of her nakedness. “It was the first—” She hunches her bare shoulders and looks across the room. Thomas follows her gaze and sees that she is looking at the two folded piles that are their clothes. Her dark pink sack dress and his justaucorps and breeches are laid across a table and upon the arms of a chair. Then there are the other articles, in a heap on the floor where they landed after they peeled each other’s layers away not long after Thomas came through the door. He hopes La Beaumont is not having regrets, because he has none.
“I’d rather you didn’t call me Madame. I prefer Jeanne-Marie, or Jeanne-Marie Barbe if you want to use all three Christian names.” She presses close. “Le Prince was my maiden name before I became Beaumont.”
“Well, Jeanne-Marie Barbe …” Thomas finds he cannot quite lean back far enough to see her whole face, pressed as she is against his chest. “Will you at least tell me if you found pleasure in our … exchange?”
“Exchange? Yes, I suppose that’s what it is. Better than some other terms. But, no, I will not say more. Shhh, I need a nap.”
No, Jeanne-Marie does not want to talk about the physical, sweaty side of love. Yet to herself she confesses it was good. No, better than good. It was exactly what Thomas put in his letter a few days ago. It was the ne plus u
ltra. In fact, she felt the ultra not once but twice. That ultra must be what is making her so very tired.
——
And so it goes. Thomas and Jeanne-Marie meet in her apartment for months, usually once a week. The sequence in which things develop varies, but not the essentials. There is always conversation, if not before then after what they call the close touch. The talk always centres on what each has just written or read, or is about to read or write.
To Thomas’s ongoing bewilderment, Jeanne-Marie has the jump on him in getting ink on the page. He cannot understand how she keeps up with her everyday life, meaning her work as a governess, and is still able to write as much as she does. She writes ten pages to every single one he completes. It baffles him. It would be one thing for La Beaumont to have good ideas for stories to write, which she does. But she also succeeds in putting them down. As Thomas sees it, and this he has shared with her several times, one particular tale of hers has the potential to be widely read. It’s her tale of a beauty and a beast. It is good enough to be mistaken for an ancient fairy tale, honed over time, such a story of impossible love. Yet it is not old at all. It is entirely hers and comes from nowhere other than her clever mind, out through her quill onto the page.
Thomas, on the other hand, sometimes curses his own muses under his breath. Is poetry only given to the young? Is it that the older one gets, the verses dry up? Thomas feels that is how it is. He has now given up on Euterpe, she who when he was young used to whisper poems in his ear. She must have gone back to Olympus and left him on his own.
Clio does speak, at least once in a while. Thomas has been cobbling together pages of facts and observations with a hundred details about London. It’s a lot of history, but so far they are nothing but disconnected paragraphs. What he lacks is something to unify all the bits. Details are not enough by themselves; they need a frame or path. One does not just wear lace, it needs a garment underneath.
Crossings, A Thomas Pichon Novel Page 11