Thomas is starting to wonder if writing might for him be nothing more than a pastime. It is something he keeps to himself, and so still puts ink on paper to prove to himself that his fear is wrong. At the moment he has put the history aside and is trying his hand at short essays. As far as he knows, the ancient Greeks had no muse for that. It is a modern form. His latest essay is about ambition, longing and betrayal. Or rather, that is his aim. Thus far it is a dishevelled mess. Yet Thomas knows in his bones that there is an inherent connection among the three, like the stages of a moth. The trick is to find the words that put what he feels onto the page. He is not there yet, and he does not want to ask La Beaumont for advice. She would think less of him for that, and he will not do anything to undermine what he has built. So Thomas will have to figure out how ambition, longing and betrayal are intertwined all by himself.
——
Not a day goes by that Jeanne-Marie does not tell herself that she is happy with this man. She likes listening to him talk about everything, or nearly so. Like when he tells her of the different letters he sends and receives from correspondents across Europe. It is a remarkable network of information he is part of. Or when he speaks about faraway wars in the colonies of France, Britain and Spain of which she had not previously heard. Or the enormous fortunes that come to the merchant families who trade in misery, by which Thomas means the trade in slaves. Out of Africa they bring the human traffic in numbers too great to comprehend, overseas to all of the Americas. “Their trade should be a source of guilt, not wealth,” he said to her the other day.
Madame de Beaumont even enjoys the more mundane conversations they have. Such as the time when he came back with the details of an exchange he had had an hour before in a bakery two streets over. Thomas recognized the King’s favourite composer, a German by the name of Handel, standing in line for pastries. Her man went right up to the musician to trade pleasantries. Or when Thomas tells her about the latest book he has read and what he judges to be its strengths and weaknesses. Though sometimes, Jeanne-Marie notices, he forgets that it was she who purchased the book for him as a gift, at the bookshop she likes so much down by St. Paul’s.
The only time she feels like wincing when Thomas talks – which she hopes does not show – is when he tells her about the boys he tutors. He often says their heads are thick as planks. She has hinted more than once that he should adopt an attitude that is more positive. Children give back what a teacher sends out. Low expectations are almost always met.
Truth be told, Jeanne-Marie does not think her lover should be a teacher at all. What he is meant to be is not clear, but it would have to be a profession where his deductive insight and ability to analyze, as well as his quiet discretion, are what is required.
——
Thomas leans back in the chair at his writing table. It occurs to him that his intimacy with La Beaumont is nearing a mark. A most agreeable six months it has been.
He sets his quill into the well, and pushes aside the sheet on which he was to begin a letter to his correspondent in Genoa. Codignola wants information on London’s pleasure gardens, and Thomas was about to grant his wish. He will get back to that later.
Yes, he and Madame have come to know each other well. Thomas feels he can fairly predict what she will say on nearly every subject under the sun, or just as importantly, the topics she would prefer they ignore. He has no doubt that she knows him equally well. No, they do not finish each other’s sentences, but they likely could. And maybe one day in the future they will. That would not be bad, he thinks. Companionship is a foundation on which deep affection is built.
When it comes to playing Eros and Venus, what Madame prefers to call making love, Thomas was initially surprised by how much she took to the act. It was not what he expected at all, given her reserved demeanour when she is clothed. Yet that first time she treated it like it was a meal and she’d not eaten in a week. Which Thomas supposes is how it was for her, given how long she had gone without. In any case, that first time set the tone that has continued on. That Jeanne-Marie believes there is no risk of pregnancy, because of the misfortune of her previous marriage, must be another factor in why she shows such enthusiastic abandon.
Thomas fills his lungs as he reaches up. It is good.
He glances down at one of the notes he has made over the past few days. It is part of the information he has assembled to compose his letter to Codignola.
Sadler’s Wells, Clerkenwell. Healing waters. Since 17th c. Escape and idyll. Curing of illnesses.
Vauxhall—New Spring Gardens, 1732, 12 acres. From pretty contrived plantation to a park of architectural delights. Musick too. Only a shilling. Lords and dukes side by side with commoners.
NB: Find the names of a few more
Magnificent country scenery in the city. Like going to a great estate, without having the title!
It is certainly not enough to compose a full letter, but it is enough to start. Provided Thomas comes up with an opening line, which as of yet he has not. So rather than waste his time waiting for words to arrive, he decides to go pay a surprise visit to La Beaumont. His musings about her has put him in a certain mood.
——
The smile on her face as she answers his knock is exactly what Thomas was hoping for.
“Good morning, Madame. I trust I am not disrupting your day?” Thomas offers her a fine reverence, as if they are not much more than strangers meeting in a public setting.
Madame plays along. She gives a curtsey. “That you are not, good sir.” Then: “This is a pleasant surprise, Thomas. Your timing is good. I have something to show you, mon amour.”
Down the hall they quickly step, Jeanne-Marie beaming and Thomas puzzled as to what she has to present. “There,” she says, arm outstretched across the salon.
Thomas’s eyes go wide as his neck snaps back. “You jest?”
“Jest?” La Beaumont strides across the room to rest her hand on the edge of the wooden tub. “Do not tell me that you are one of those. Please, Thomas, are you?”
He knows he grimaces, but he cannot do otherwise. “I do not know what you mean by those, but surely you know there are risks to sit in water. Everyone says the chills are—”
“Everyone says! Seriously, Thomas, I never expected to hear that from your lips. You are smarter than that.”
Thomas can only look at her.
“It is to cleanse. To wash away what sme— what should not be there. I propose we immerse ourselves once every week for ten minutes, taking turns. One in and the other adding heated water from the hearth. As needed. Not too hot, but warm enough to keep us from getting any chill.”
Thomas knows he should say something, but nothing comes to mind. He has never had a bath, nor ever swum for that matter. He likes to think he keeps very clean in the usual way.
“Are you suggesting that I … that to your nose, I … I give off a repellant smell?”
“No, no,” Jeanne-Marie says, placing a kind hand on his sleeve, “you cover yourself well with a lovely scent. Most of the time. But … but this will be better, I am convinced. We will not have the sulphur water they have in Bath, but it will be much better than a damp cloth from a basin.”
“And this is something upon which you insist?”
“Insist? Well, I had hoped you would see the merit. Do you not?” Jeanne-Marie shows him a hopeful smile.
“As you wish, Madame,” Thomas says, lowering his gaze and making a subservient bow.
“Enough of that,” she says. “Here, you take the other side. I want to move it closer to the hearth. And then I say we strike a fire and warm some water.”
“Should I go to the well up the street with your two buckets?”
“Would you?”
“I would and I will.”
“I suppose it will take a few trips. I am sorry for that, but I do believe the immersion will be someth
ing we enjoy. A pleasure we look forward to.”
Thomas attempts a smile. Does she know how many trips with full, heavy buckets that will be? And then afterwards he’ll have to carry the soiled water away to spill in the street.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he says.
“I am content that you are happy about the tub, Thomas.”
“Yes,” he says.
——
Sure enough, as she predicted, Thomas does look forward to sitting in the steaming water for his allotted time, with the flames in the nearby hearth warming the air as well as the next bucket to be put in. More than once he has recalled how often over the years Gallatin preached the merits of such a full ablution, citing the Romans, of course. Thomas wishes now he had listened to his friend way back when. It really is a pleasure to soak in a bath. Additionally, it kills some of their ticks and lice. He itches less now that he immerses in hot water, and Jeanne-Marie says the same.
“Don’t forget to give your underarms a scrub,” La Beaumont says.
Thomas gives her a look. “I will get to that.”
“Of course, I apologize. Continue on.” Jeanne-Marie glances at the small clock on the mantle. “You have another three minutes.”
——
“Thomas?” La Beaumont asks one warm, sunny Sunday afternoon. They have finished soaking in the tub and are sitting naked, cross-legged on the Persian rug, drying slowly in the air.
Thomas twists so he can have eye contact. “Yes, Madame.”
He glances over at the nearby tub. After they finish their love-making, which should be coming up, he will have to carry two buckets at a time down the stairs to empty them in the street. It is usually half a dozen trips.
“I think today maybe we should go for a walk instead.”
“I do not understand.”
“A walk, instead of … you know.”
“Instead of skin on skin?”
“That’s right.” There comes a nervous smile to her face, followed by an exhale of relief.
“Why would we do that?” Thomas asks.
“It’s … I’m not sure.” Jeanne-Marie shivers like she has suddenly been caught in a north wind. She reaches for the nearby red blanket and wraps it round her shoulders, pulling it to cover her front.
“What is wrong?” Thomas asks. He cannot tell what his lover intends by this unforeseen conversation. It does not look to be a joke.
La Beaumont hunches her shoulders then fixes him with her gaze. “What we do is not right.”
Thomas knows he goes wide-eyed. “What we do? Our closeness? The … oh, please, Madame, you know it is good. I see your face and hear you moan and—”
“Thomas, we cannot pretend that there is a likely prospect of me ever being with child.”
But is that not a relief? Thomas thinks. He knows Madame is sensitive, nay disappointed on that score.
“I don’t understand, I do not.” He slows his speech, picking his words carefully. “Jeanne-Marie, how could a pleasure we both enjoy not be good? And therefore right?”
“The Church.” Exasperation fills her voice. “The teaching is that the reason men and women come together – the sole purpose – is to have a child.”
Thomas does not groan or shake his head. He is able to control that. Yet he fears she can read his expression. The Church! He has to close his eyes, then slowly, like he is considering her point of view, he looks at her gravely and nods his head.
“Do not treat me as if I am a child,” says Jeanne-Marie, a flash of anger in her eyes. “I see your mask.”
The blanket falls off as she reaches toward the nearby wooden chair, where her folded chemise has been waiting for her. She pulls it on.
“Though you have fallen away, I have not,” she says to him with a challenge in her eyes. “You were raised in the faith, Thomas Tyrell. It must still be within you somewhere.”
Thomas still does not say a word. Instead, like Madame, he reaches for his own fresh chemise, resting upon the floor. Modesty, it seems, is suddenly required. On goes the chemise.
“You know,” Thomas ventures, “what you say is true.” He aims to keep any fierceness out of his voice. “What priests inculcated in me as a boy is still inside me, it is. And yes, there are times when I do wonder, despite the implausibility of it all, if I might not end up in the fiery cauldron of Hell.” He hunches his shoulders and waits for her reply.
“Oh, Thomas.” Jeanne-Marie clasps his hands and her eyes glisten. “That is what I thought. It need not be like that for you.”
“I know.” He frees his hands so he can stretch out both arms. With his right hand he taps the top of his head “But Reason has to triumph over ... over old ideas.” He is pleased he has avoided the word foolishness.
Jeanne-Marie shakes her head. Up she stands. Thomas smothers a sigh. It is now certain there will be no intimacy today. He too gets to his feet.
La Beaumont is staring at him. “I’m afraid,” she says, “you have it upside down. Yes, Reason is a tool, an important one, but it is no foundation. The only base is the religion that is true.”
There is a hardness in her eyes. Softly, he says, “There are those who disagree.”
“And you are one, is that it?”
“I am.”
Thomas watches Jeanne-Marie inhale. It is deep and long, in through her nose, with the release long delayed. When it comes, it escapes through pursed lips.
“I do not want to give up on you,” she says.
“I hope not, Madame, for we are ... close. We are both friends and lovers.”
“You think me weak, don’t you?”
“Not I.” Thomas snaps to attention. He makes sure his lips and eyes are grim. “I do not. I understand the hold a religion can have.”
“It is not a religion, Thomas. It is the … well, it is my faith.”
“I have an open mind.”
Jeanne-Marie studies him. Her eyes do not blink. “Do you, Thomas? Do you really?”
“I do. Of course I do.”
He steps toward her and takes her in his arms. He feels her embrace him back, her hands pulling with force upon his waist. “I hope so,” he hears. It’s a muffled whisper spoken against his chest.
“Is there anything I could do?” Thomas asks, softly, close to her ear. “To make things better, between us, my dear Beaumont?”
Jeanne-Marie releases her grip and steps back. She takes him in, head to toe. What was a forlorn face becomes a hopeful one before his gaze. While Thomas waits for her to speak, he hears the mantle’s ticking clock. From somewhere out on Woodstock Street, below the open window, there are shouting voices and a barking dog.
La Beaumont is swaying slightly. Her eyes are wet.
“Tell me,” Thomas says, taking hold of both her hands. “Just let me know what it is I can do.”
“I....” She bites her lip.
“De grâce, go on.”
“I ... I have to be married.”
——
That evening, pacing round his sober apartment after the long trudge home, Thomas finds he is still mumbling to himself. His relationship with Madame has taken an unexpected turn. So it’s marriage she wants. Why did he not see that coming before she said the words? He must have a blind spot about these things, because that’s how it turned out with Hélène as well, which he found out too late, after she’d opted for Gallatin instead. Thomas wonders if that is also not what Élisabeth desired. He never got to have such a conversation with the Swiss, not before she disappeared. What complicates the matter is that he recalls all too well the one marriage he has had. The union with well-placed Marguerite had much to recommend it. Well, in the beginning at least. Not much after it was underway, and then it slowly petered out.
True enough, a marriage with Jeanne-Marie would not be with someone overly aged, as wa
s the case with Marguerite. In fact, La Beaumont is younger than him and will outlive him in all likelihood. Moreover, she is a person with whom he truly does like to spend his time. They share a bond, a deep affection. It must be what women call love. He enjoys all they have in common, and yes, the physical dimension too. But still? Does he want to be tied, in an official document, to a single woman? Is not marriage by its very nature an entanglement, a fancy word for a trap?
——
“But where?” he asks.
Jeanne-Marie can see that he does not like to be in the dark. No matter, it is good for him. He will be pleased once they arrive. It is her treat to him, a week late, but a birthday gift nonetheless.
“You know, Thomas, I am beginning to think you want always to be in control.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? Well, I am heartened to hear that.”
Thomas shrugs, as if to forgive her for her wrongful allegation.
“So then?” she says, offering him an outstretched arm. It appears to be with some reluctance that he takes her hand.
“So then what?” he asks, immediately letting go.
“You will just have to come along,” she says. “It will be a surprise.”
Jeanne-Marie hears a mumble from Monsieur as they turn the corner. It makes her want to laugh. She supposes a grudging acquiescence is better than a refusal to go along.
The route is familiar, but then what part of London is not well known to him? Over the years he has come to explore just about every square, street, passage and dead end in the city, and a fair part of Westminster as well. Where La Beaumont is leading him Thomas has no idea, but he will be very surprised if it is not some place he already knows. The trick will be to pretend to Madame that it is new to him.
“Something for the head,” is all she will say, twice so far. Her mood appears to match the dress she wears, it of the cheery tangerine hue.
Crossings, A Thomas Pichon Novel Page 12