Crossings, A Thomas Pichon Novel

by A. J. B. Johnston

  The first time she said it he joked, “I could use a bit of that.” The second time he merely smiled.

  Thomas has to hand it to her. She has clearly gone to a lot of trouble on this surprise gift to him. It has been a half-hour march already and he still has no idea. Each time he glimpses some place ahead that he has heard about but not been in, he thinks that must be it. Coffee houses and private clubs, three different theatres, shops and more shops. Yet each time she keeps him walking on. For a fleeting moment he thought his gift might be a bird, the way Madame made them cross the street to admire all the brightly coloured birds in the cages carried on sticks over the shoulder of a craggy-faced man. But no, it was just to admire them all, especially the ones with the bright yellow chests.

  “Sad, isn’t it?” he said once he knew his gift was not a caged bird.

  “What’s that?”

  “To be imprisoned the way they are.”

  Jeanne-Marie’s eyes went wide. “But they have neither worry nor want.”

  “I suppose,” he said, but that was not how he felt.

  The great dome of St. Paul’s now looms overhead. That must mean the surprise is not going to be in London at all, but farther on, in Westminster. That would make sense. La Beaumont knows he is less familiar with that part of the great megalopolis. He only hopes the gift is worth the time it is taking.

  “Nearly there.” The grin on her face is wide.

  “Are you sure?” he replies with a wink. “I’m guessing it’s another quarter hour, maybe a half.”

  “No,” she says, the grin sliding away. “No, we are here.”

  Thomas stares at her. Surely this is a joke. They are at the door of Gallatin’s bookshop.

  “You don’t mean here?” He gestures at the door. He tilts his head.

  The look of anticipation and surprise are completely gone from La Beaumont’s face. “You know it?” she says. “This shop?” She looks like she could cry. “And it displeases you?”

  Thomas wishes he was not making her sad, but what choice does he have? He is stunned that the mystery destination is the shop owned by his old friend. “I am so sorry, Jeanne-Marie, but yes, I do know this place. The owner and his wife, they are, or used to be, friends. I had no idea this was the shop you were talking about.”

  Madame de Beaumont forces a lift to her disappointed lips. “I am sorry for the failure of my surprise. But I do like this bookshop better than all the rest, yes I do. And I wanted you to know it too.” That comes with an extended shrug. “Which you already did. Oh well, I asked the lady here to hold two new books for you.” Jeanne-Marie leans forward to give him a light kiss on the lips. “Happy unsurprising birthday, my love.”

  Thomas returns the kiss and peeks over Madame’s shoulder. He wonders if Hélène or Gallatin might be looking out, watching his every move.

  “Good morning, Madame de Beaumont, how good it is to—”

  Hélène’s words come to a halt as do her steps toward the entrance of the shop. Her eyes leap off Jeanne-Marie’s face to he who is coming through the door behind her. Hélène’s eyes dart back and forth between the two of them.

  “Thomas?” Hélène recomposes her expression to that of the obliging shopkeeper. She starts again, her focus back on Jeanne-Marie. “It seems we have a friend in common, Madame. Good afternoon, Monsieur Tyrell. It is a pleasure to see you as well.” She offers a slight curtsey.

  “Madame Gallatin.” Thomas touches his right hand to his hat and offers a tight bow. He has to admit the cut of Hélène’s dress, stripes in three shades of blue, fits his old lover’s form very well.

  There is a noise in the back room. It must be Gallatin moving things about. Thomas recalls him often saying the shop was not big enough. Storage was practically non-existent.

  “Yes, Madame Gallatin,” says Jeanne-Marie, smiling as if she is about to share a joke, “it was only as we arrived before your shop door that Thomas explained to me that he knows you and your husband, that you are all old friends.”

  Hélène gives Thomas a searching look. As far as he knows he keeps his face blank.

  “That we were, in childhood,” Hélène says. “Back in France. A while ago, was it not, Thomas?” She raises her eyebrows at him in hopes he will agree.

  Thomas leans toward Jeanne-Marie and makes a loud stage whisper. “Madame Gallatin leaves out a bit. It was me who introduced her to her husband. And who is the godfather to their child.”

  Hélène's expression shows relief. “It is true,” she says, soft as wool.

  “You are godfather?” Jeanne-Marie says with blinking eyes. “Thomas, I am pleased. That means you must watch out for the dear child as she grows up in her Catholic faith.”

  “It is a boy,” Thomas says.

  “No matter, the obligation is the same. This is good, Thomas, very good. You pretend to me … he pretends to me, Madame Gallatin, that he does not practice his faith, that he has put it aside.”

  Hélène gives her head a disapproving shake.

  Jeanne-Marie turns back to Thomas. “Yet I see now he has not been telling me the whole truth. Shame on you.” There is now a hint of newfound admiration in her voice.

  “I am shamed,” Thomas says. He bows to hide the annoyance he is sure must be making an appearance on his face.

  There is a thud in the back room, then a whimpering.

  Hélène hurries toward the open door to that back room. “Tommy,” she calls out. “Viens, mon petit.” Her face is nothing but concern.

  “He is here, Hélène?” Thomas asks. “The boy?”

  Hélène does not reply, but disappears into the back room.

  “His name is Tommy?” Madame de Beaumont asks.

  Thomas nods.

  “Of course, I see. The parents named him after you, his godfather.” Jeanne-Marie looks as if she might cry.

  Hélène swishes through the doorway. “He is not hurt.” It looks to be more annoyance than relief on her face. “Come,” she says sternly, beckoning the unseen boy to come out of the back room.

  A lad peeks round the doorframe, large brown eyes and dark brown hair. Thomas has not seen him in six months. He looks much taller today, no longer a mere toddling child.

  “All the way,” says the impatient mother. “Quickly now. I want you to meet Madame de Beaumont. Your godfather, Monsieur Tyrell, is here as well.”

  Thomas gives Hélène a look. He does not want to be Monsieur Tyrell to this boy. For some reason, he wants the lad to know him as he really is, which is Thomas Pichon. He can only bite his lip at the London corner he has painted himself into.

  Tommy takes a cautious step, into the doorframe, one hand hiding something behind his back. Thomas is impressed to see how well the boy’s clothes, the breeches and chemise, have been tailored to his small size. The only thing missing is a tricorne upon his head.

  “What did I say?” Hélène asks, a hand upon her hip.

  The boy tilts his head, then seems to recall, because he nods. He takes the required steps to stand before Madame de Beaumont and offers a deep bow. Then with an impish grin he turns to Thomas and whips the hidden arm into view. It brandishes a wooden sword mere inches from the godfather’s face.

  Hélène is aghast. “Tommy, not so—”

  Thomas does not flinch, but holds out a hand. “There, there, little man. May I?”

  Tommy swings his head side to side but then changes his mind. With a pronounced nod he passes the sword by its handle to his godfather.

  Thomas pretends to thrust and parry against an invisible opponent until he hears Hélène say to Jeanne-Marie, “The sword was a gift from Thomas to my son. At first, Tommy was too young. Now he takes it everywhere.”

  Thomas swings round to see what La Beaumont thinks of that. She must think the boy is sweet, because her eyes look wet as she presses a hand to her chest.

&n
bsp; “Here, lad,” Thomas says as he kneels down. The deep voice that comes out of him is a surprise. Is he trying to impress the boy or the two women looking on? Little Tommy, he decides. For he wants to be nice to Gallatin’s child. His old friend is lucky, he thinks. He, Thomas, now thirty-seven, may well leave nothing behind in this world. It’s not altogether too late, but the candle that is paternity is burning lower with each passing year. He has never given much thought to being a father – he could not see the point – but at this instant, with this boy in front of him, he can see how a child of one’s own might make a man glad.

  “Here,” he says to petit Thomas, “you take your sword back. Someday you’ll be a knight. Or a viscount perhaps.”

  Tommy grasps the toy and with a grin flails the air. “Roarrrr!” he shouts at a shelf filled with books. “Roar, I say,” he says to the counter. “You had best flee.” And then he spins and runs as fast as his little legs can carry him into the back room.

  Thomas hears Jeanne-Marie sigh as the boy runs from sight, to which Hélène mutters, “We do think he is a dear child. Most of the time.”

  “He is, he truly is,” says Madame de Beaumont. “Oh Thomas, will you come here?”

  Thomas blinks at that, but he does as he is asked. He comes to stand beside Jeanne-Marie. She immediately clasps his hand.

  “Madame Gallatin,” she says with a broad smile, with a quick, unseeing glance Thomas’s way, “you shall be the first to hear. This man … Thomas and I.…” She pauses to take in a shallow breath.

  Thomas tilts his head. He is more than a little curious to hear what might come next. He notices Hélène’s interest is similarly piqued. Her eyes are waiting for whatever pronouncement the customer in her shop is about to make.

  “We are getting married!”

  Jeanne-Marie looks as if she could burst. She raises Thomas’s clutched hand and brings it to her lips. Thomas regrets it as soon as he does it, but he shows Hélène a shrug, then the slightest possible shake of his head. Luckily, Jeanne-Marie does not see.

  “Really?” Hélène takes a moment to tame her startled face. “Why, that is news, good news. Congratulations, Madame de Beaumont. Yes, of course. And to you, Monsieur Tyrell. I will be sure to tell Jean. He will be pleased. As I am.”

  “Got you!” yells Tommy, rushing from the back room. He jabs his toy sword into Thomas’s back.

  “Not now,” Thomas utters through tight lips. “Not now,” he repeats, gentler, trying to present a contented face.

  Two minutes become five, then longer still. Jeanne-Marie keeps waiting, but there is so far not a word from the tight-lipped man walking beside her. It is all she can do to match his pace as they beat a retreat away from St. Paul’s.

  “Thomas, please,” she says, taking hold of his wrist. “You have to talk. And we have to slow down.”

  He does slow his pace. But talk? No, he does not.

  “I am sorry,” she says, “you must believe that. It just slipped.”

  He halts. They are in front of a narrow passage that leads into a darkened impasse.

  “Just slipped? You announced it.”

  “I know, but I was touched by the way you were playing with the boy and I felt a surge of emotion. I spoke from my heart. Even though I will not have children, I saw what a good father you would be. Which means a good husband. Thomas, you must believe that. It slipped.”

  Thomas hunches his shoulders. “I did not like the way you did it. It is a big step, Jeanne-Marie. I … should … should have been part of it. Not surprised the way I was.”

  “I know,” she says as soothingly as she can, “and you will. Can we forget about what happened and speak civilly?”

  “I shall do my best.”

  “That’s a good start.”

  ——

  There is water.

  No, not water that can be seen, but he can clearly hear its distant sound. It is water running and running fast. It has to be a river, a rapids or a falls. It is louder now, roaring.

  Yet where is it, where is this roar? It is nowhere he can see. All that is before him are trees, a forest dark. Tall and slender they are, but they are growing by nature’s whim, not in planted rows. On a branch there hangs a cage. The roar of the water dims and Thomas can hear the song of the tiny yellow bird. It is a call for help.

  And he is in the air, taken to flight like he is the bird. He is flying through the dense, dark woods. Then the forest thins.

  A pack of dogs, cousins to the wolf, are panting in his ear. They run hard, their footsteps drumming the ground. Coming near, coming for him. Thomas must be running too. Because the dogs have not leapt and taken him.

  And suddenly the ground ends. It is water, roaring water beneath his feet. His legs churn the air. His hands go to clutch the long grass on the bank.

  Then he pushes up and off.

  A breath gasped, Thomas finds himself sitting upright in his bed, the bedclothes kicked to the floor.

  He is up on his feet and over to the window. It is too dark to see the familiar rooflines and chimney pots, but he hardly cares. There are a few stars among the clouds and a half moon. It is enough to reassure himself that he is back in the world.

  Then he is aware that he is chilled. His chemise is damp from the dream. It made him sweat, all that running through the woods.

  Back to his bed he goes, to get under the covers. Head upon the bolster and warming up, he feels as awake as he ever has. It is as if his very skin is alive. Nonetheless, he forces his eyes closed. He wants to recall the dream. Step by step he brings it back. When he reaches the last scene he understands the message that the muse of dreams has sent him. The tiny yellow bird in the cage is the key.

  The eyes come back open to stare into the gloom. So, what should he do about the warning he has been sent? The waking world is not as simple as a dream.

  The marital state has to be seen from all sides. Yes, it is a comfort and a pleasure, but it is also a risk. Madame says Thomas needs control, and maybe he does. But if that is how Nature made him, should he not respect her choice? Or is he supposed to adapt and bend to Jeanne-Marie? He does not have the certain answer to either question.

  What is fair to say is that he never wants to live without a woman as part of his life. They are, or rather can be, kinder, more succouring than men. Alas, they are more complicated as well, with layers and sentiments no man will ever completely fathom. Jeanne-Marie is a case in point. Hélène too. Élisabeth. Marguerite. Thomas purses his lips.

  He kicks off the covers. He is sufficiently warmed up. He will put on his robe and his slippers and walk about his rooms. It is his way. It never fails to surprise him, how many possible escapes from a dilemma there can be. It is always wise to have more than one arrow in the quiver, because the first may miss the mark.

  As he begins to pace he notices the darkness is less than it was. Day will soon be here.

  Sure enough, a quarter hour later, the trunk pushed up against the wall is catching the first glow. It is the trunk that held everything he owned when he came to England, with Hélène, what seems like a lifetime ago. It could likely still contain all he would care to take away with him, should he grow weary of London Town.

  Thomas comes to a halt in front of the window where the honeyed warmth is streaming in.

  Is the trunk an arrow in his quiver? Of course it is.

  Thomas recalls the phrase John Cleland used to spout. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” Cleland meant laying wagers at some table, but Thomas thinks it is more wisely applied to life itself. He strides to his writing table and takes three fresh sheets from the drawer. Half of the first sheet must of necessity remain blank. It is a mark of respect for the position of the man to whom he is going to write. After that Thomas estimates it will take but two pages to broach as diplomatically as he can his cautious ambition, his fair arrow. To write such a let
ter does not mean this will necessarily be his course. It is simply to give himself an alternative just in case he should want one later on.

  He picks up the stick of red sealing wax and rolls it between his hands while he considers how to begin. Should he call the addressee Monseigneur or use his title of Magistrate Judge? The latter, he decides. After that the first line will of course be politesse. It’s what comes after the formality that counts. He has to ask not for a favour but a consideration. It must not seem to be beseeching in any way. Ideally, it will not be a request at all, just an opportunity the judge might entertain, should he wish to bring the previously much-valued Thomas back into the fold. Though he must not be so bold as that.

  Thomas gives the bottle of ink a good, long shake. As he does, the words to his letter start to form.

  Most Honoured Magistrate Judge,

  I hope and trust you will Remember me, for I showed capacity and subservience to you for three years, six months. I am sending you this Missive because I Recall with strong affection my time serving as your Trusted senior first clerk. I held you then, as I hold you now in the greatest Regard and Respect.

  Thomas lifts the quill and studies his opening words. Yes, it is fawning, excessively so, yet so it must be. The man to whom he writes demands deference before all else. And so such obsequiousness is requisite for another line or two. Thomas puts the quill into its slot and lifts the freed hand to his brow. He cannot help but wonder if the reason he has never risen as highly as he should is precisely because he finds flattery so easy to compose. How much better to be one of those on the higher rungs who do not deign for anyone.

  Quill again in hand, Thomas knows he has to be careful with what comes next. He cannot be seen to be a supplicant, though that is what he is. The magistrate judge does not respect those who ask for anything in unseemly ways. So the hint of a request, an inquiry prompted by gentle curiosity must be slyly done. And then at the end, as a casual afterthought, Thomas Pichon, for that is who is writing this letter, will have to deftly explain that he is on an information-gathering sojourn in Londres, staying with an acquaintance by the name of Thomas Tyrell. That is to whom the magistrate judge should reply, should he choose to reply. Luckily, Thomas still has his old TP signet to sink in the molten red wax when it comes time to seal the letter and send it on its way to France.