——
Jeanne-Marie has waited six days to tell Monique de Vins the news. Yet when at last she gets the chance, on a bright sunny stroll through Green Park, she is disappointed with her friend’s reaction.
“I see,” Monique replies, inclining her head, the eyebrows arching up.
“I said, we are to wed,” Jeanne-Marie tells her once more, in case she did not fully grasp the gist. Jeanne-Marie can feel her cheeks nearly crack at the width of her smile. “Thomas and I.”
Again Mademoiselle de Vins’s head dips. This time her lips come up with a careful smile. “Yes, it is truly wonderful. I am greatly pleased.”
“It does not seem you are.” Jeanne-Marie feels her cheeks droop and notices her arms and her legs are taut.
“No, of course I am.” Monique extends a hand. She touches Jeanne-Marie lightly on the sleeve. “It’s just that … well, I would have thought … No, no. Congratulations is what I mean.” A quick clasp of hands then a pretend peck close to Jeanne-Marie’s cheek.
Then, without a pause, Monique leans toward the adjacent garden bed to inhale a lilac blossom’s rich scent.
“Lovely, is it not? Here.” She pushes the violet cluster toward Jeanne-Marie, indicating that she too should dip close enough to take in its heavy bouquet.
Madame shakes her head. “I am marrying, Monique, not becoming a botanist.”
“Of course you are, and that …” Monique’s two hands explore the air “… is good, I suppose.”
“You suppose?” Jeanne-Marie prays her face does not look as cross as she feels.
“Well, why do you bother?”
“Bother? Are you asking why I would marry Monsieur Tyrell?”
“Yes? That is it? Why?”
Jeanne-Marie cannot speak.
Monique holds up a hand, clearly wishing to explain. “You are a widow, my friend. Respectable and comfortable. You have everything. Why not leave well enough alone?”
Jeanne-Marie cannot recall ever hearing such views from her friend or seeing such a smug expression on what she used to think was a pretty face. “Because, Monique, because it is not right.”
“Right? What is right? Or for that matter, what is wrong?”
“There must be a marriage for a woman to give herself to a man.”
“Oh, my.”
Jeanne-Marie sees Monique fighting the urge to laugh. “Is that not the way you see it, Mademoiselle de Vins?”
“Jeanne-Marie, it is 1737.”
“Not in God’s eyes, it is not. Right and wrong do not change. They are everlasting.”
Monique halts to take both of Jeanne-Marie’s hands in hers. “Do you really think God cares,” she says, her voice hushed, “whether you are a Madame de Beaumont or a Madame Tyrell? Honestly.” She gives Jeanne-Marie a sorrowful look.
Madame extricates her hands. “Clearly, you do not understand.”
“I guess not.”
——
Thomas needs to work out what is to be done. Sometimes he envies Jeanne-Marie’s certainty about the marriage, mostly he does not. Wisely, he keeps his doubts to himself. To sort out the best course for him, he picks the Strand. He will wander as idly as he can. The movement and the noise of the crowd on the busy street will summon his inner Reason to speak.
A half hour later, maybe more, Thomas’s invisible counsellor has not yet shown up. Truthfully, he cannot recall the last time any inner voice spoke to him at all. When he was a lad in Vire, yes, verses came all the time. Less often were the whispers in Paris. Since coming to England and becoming Tyrell, no muse seems to want to come near.
Is it his advancing age? Like the hint of the gentle paunch that has arrived. And the drowsiness that comes after only two glasses of wine. And the need to find just the right distance from his eyes to hold a pamphlet or book. How he wishes he had back some of his youth. It is enough to make him scuff his feet.
He takes a good deep breath. Can it really be that he would prefer to be unenlightened again, the way he once was? Yes, maybe he would. Innocence – a polite word for stupidity – has its rewards.
For instance, he can recall the comfort he once obtained by confessing his sins to an unseen listening priest on the other side of the screen. It made him feel better to have the imagined slate wiped clean. Though he no longer goes to any church, he would not mind having another fresh start. If only there was another way to have someone listen to him and give counsel in return. It certainly cannot be Jeanne-Marie. She would not smile upon him confessing the perplexity he feels about their impending marriage.
“Enough,” Thomas mutters aloud. He severs the air before him with both hands.
There is a public house across the street. He reasons a tankard of strong English ale might clear his slate. No, he’ll have an even stronger drink just to make sure. He’ll ask for what Cleland calls a dog’s nose, beer laced with gin.
“King’s Head,” reads the tavern sign, though the painted wooden boards show no head at all. There are only the two words painted in red with a golden crown dimly visible in the background. It occurs to Thomas that the owner is smart not to name or show which king he has in mind. An imagined king is always better than a real one. Like an imagined lover or wife, he supposes.
The gin-laced beer makes no difference. Whether he sips or quaffs, it sheds no light on whether Thomas should yield to what Jeanne-Marie wants, which is to pick a date, or to disappear back to France. As of yet there has been no reply from the magistrate judge. Thomas supposes it is too soon, unless the judge has cast the letter aside, having forgotten who Thomas is or was. And used the letter to light a fire in a grate.
He takes another sip. With each touch to his lips he likes the dog’s nose less. The gin ruins the taste of what might have been a good ale.
Which brings him back to his unsolved dilemma. Does he marry Jeanne-Marie and spend the rest of his days tutoring thick-headed English boys, while Madame remains an author with more success than he never had? Or does he.… And that’s it, isn’t it? As things stand, he has no alternative.
Thomas looks round the King’s Head. Except for the barkeep, he is the only man alone. All the other customers are tippling with their friends. He too once had some of those, but now, now he is a man apart. Well, so it is. Thomas raises the tankard and drains the last bitter drop.
“Another over there?” cries the small, thin keep from behind the counter across the way.
Thomas nearly says yes, to pretend he is enjoying his drink. But instead he shakes his head. “Maybe later,” he shouts back.
“Certainly, sir.”
Thomas pushes down on the table to get to his feet. He’s tired of this place, of feeling weighed down. And he’s annoyed by all the talk he has had to overhear. The three inkies at the next table are especially loud, nattering on about beards, bodkins and bottle-arses. Thomas knows the terms of the printing trade thanks to Gallatin, back when the two of them were closer than they are now, before his old friend enticed Hélène away.
Out on the Strand again, Thomas looks up at the sign next door. “Parfumerie,” it reads. That makes him smile. Though the English boast they are first and best in everything, fashion and the perfume arts are two areas where they admit defeat. There is not an Englishman, or more importantly an Englishwoman, who would not say that in those areas the French excel. Thomas looks again at the sign. Beneath the word is the painting of a scarlet bottle with a curved form. It is clearly meant to be a woman’s form. The glass stopper is slightly ajar, with wiggly lines indicating the escaping scent.
“More to see inside, sir. Would you like to step in?”
Thomas spins round and brings his gaze to a woman standing in the open doorway of the shop. She is dressed in finery fit for someone attending a ball. She is pretty and smiling at him. He inclines his head. He thinks maybe he’s seen her somewhere before.
“Mademoiselle de Vins?”
She curtseys low. “La même. Bonjour, Monsieur Tyrell.”
Thomas bows and when he rises he too speaks in French. “I’m so sorry, Mademoiselle. This location … your dress and hair … I did not.… Please excuse me, will you?”
“Only if you come into my shop.”
“The Parfumerie is yours?”
“Not yet.” She sends Thomas a wink.
Thomas smiles, an encouragement for her to do whatever she must to make a living in this life. He does like this woman, a playful soul. Now that Thomas and Madame de Beaumont spend their time together at Madame’s place, and not on strolls and promenades in the parks, he has not seen Mademoiselle de Vins in weeks.
“So Madame is letting you run free this afternoon?”
Thomas knows he blinks. Though the teasing comes with a smile, there is something else – it looks like mockery – in the woman’s eyes. Is that what the world thinks, that Thomas is on a leash held by his fiancée?
“Oh, please forgive me,” she says. “I meant it as a joke.”
“I am amused.”
“No, you are not, I can see. But I shall make it up to you. Come in and I’ll show you around my shop.”
Along with a beckoning gesture and a ready smile, Thomas likes the twinkle in her eyes. “How could I refuse?” he says with a half bow.
Inside the shop his nose fills with delight. Thomas forgets for a moment that his fiancée’s friend, Mademoiselle de Vins, is by his side. His focus is only on drinking in the scent. It seems like a long time since he yielded to the pleasures of the moment he is in. Everything in his life has for too long become a routine, a habit.
“I could give you more, Monsieur Tyrell,” she says.
“Excuse me?”
“More scents. I see you are enjoying the air of the shop, but that is merely a jumble, a blend of everything that’s been opened recently. I could present you with some specific scents that I think you will especially like.”
“I do not want to trouble you.”
“It would be no trouble. You can see there is no one about.”
“You’re certain.”
Mademoiselle smiles broadly as she waves at the empty shop, empty but for the two of them. “I think it’s obvious.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
“Here. Come.”
Thomas follows her over to the counter. She goes behind, he stays in front, but leaning in. He has never had anyone explain in any detail the different scents there are.
“We will do a few, enough for you to compare.”
“Lucky me.”
Mademoiselle’s eyes seem to grow larger than he thought possible as she smiles at that.
She removes a glass stopper from a tiny bottle and leans toward Thomas, bringing it beneath his nose. He likes the flowery notes that tease as they pass by. He also likes the tiny expectant grin upon her lips. Then she takes the stopper and touches its tip to the inside of her left wrist. She smells its effect herself then holds the wrist out for Thomas to inhale.
“Notice the difference?” she asks.
“I do. Yet how is that possible? It is the same stopper, mere seconds apart.”
“It is my skin. It adds to and combines with the perfume. Each woman is different, perhaps you have noticed?”
Thomas plays along, matching her coy smile. “I have.”
“Let me present you with another. Take a deep breath or two. It will cleanse the nose’s palate.”
Thomas withholds his scepticism and does as he is told. And so begins his first lesson in the perfume arts. He had no idea of the craft and subtlety required. How oils are distilled from blossoms and how long it takes. And how the musky scents are obtained, from land and sea, sources it might be better to know nothing about. Where previously the floral scents were what Thomas preferred to freshen his own skin and clothes, and those of the women he was with, he can feel the appeal of the earthier notes. He especially likes what Mademoiselle says is called Aqua Mellis.
“Honey water?”
“Very good,” she says. “We call it King’s honey-water. That helps with sales.”
“Of course. Who does not want to wear what the King wears?”
“Exactly. The truth, Monsieur Tyrell—”
“Thomas, please.”
“Only if you call me Monqiue.”
“I shall then, Monqiue. Please continue.”
“The truth, Thomas, is that there is not a drop of honey in it, though it wafts like there is.” For a second time, she lifts her wrist and brings it to his nose. He can see the veins in her wrist through her skin. And as she turns her arm slightly, he notices the tiny hairs on her forearm.
“That it does,” he says.
“We compose it with two dozen ingredients and more than a dozen steps. Sandalwood, cinnamon, cloves, coriander and more. What binds it all and gives richness to that particular perfume is the spirit of musk and ambergris.”
“Might I inhale the scent once more, Mademoiselle?”
“Monique. Of course you may, Thomas.”
But this time she does not hold up her wrist. Instead, she walks around the counter and comes up close to him. Closer than any shop clerk or casual friend. He can feel the warmth coming off her neck. It is an appealing neck, made all the more attractive by the slender choker of pearls.
“Thomas?”
“Yes?”
“I have a confidence to share.” She brushes her lips on his.
“What confidence is that?”
Monique brings him a second kiss, longer, fuller than the first. “I could give you an even muskier smell.”
“I am not sure.”
“Muskier than what any flask in this shop contains.”
Thomas feels the air leave his chest. This kind of thing has its risks. He should not do anything that could be misconstrued. This woman is La Beaumont’s closest friend. Or maybe not.
“It’s getting late,” he says. They are words, it occurs to him as he says them aloud, that he may one day be able to use in his defence.
“No, it’s not,” she whispers in his ear. “And I shall not tell, if that’s all that holds you back.”
Thomas looks up to the ceiling of the shop, and finds the answer he was hoping for. He would be a fool not to smile at fortune when fortune smiles on him. “Here?” he asks.
“No, I have to lock the shop. My rooms are not far away.”
——
Thomas is no sooner through the door than Jeanne-Marie wonders if something is amiss. His smile is thin and he turns quickly round, as if studying how best to hang his justaucorps upon the peg. Then how to place his hat on top of the coat. What seems to be most important to him is that he keeps his back to her.
“Thomas,” she asks softly, “is something wrong?”
He turns round right away. “No, why?” he replies with jumpy eyes. He makes to place a quick kiss upon her right cheek, but his lips do not touch her skin. They make a tiny noise in the air.
“Are you certain?” she asks. With both hands she takes hold of his chin. She peers into his dark brown eyes. They are pools, as always, but this evening they look to be especially wet.
“I did not sleep well last night,” he says with a wistful smile.
Jeanne-Marie cannot recall ever seeing quite that expression on him before. He leans forward and kisses her lightly on the lips. He could be a butterfly.
Back to a safe distance he says, “It must be fatigue.”
“Of course,” she says, not wanting to say too much. Yet she is not certain that it is fatigue showing on his face. It could be something else.
——
Thomas fluffs the pat
ch of dark curly hair then gives the area a light tap. “Do you know what this is called?” he asks.
“I have heard a few names.” There’s disappointment in her voice and in her eyes. “None I care to repeat.”
“The Venus mound, with its humble smile,” Thomas says. He asks with his eyes what she thinks of that.
“Really?” she says. “I think I like that. Tell me, are you a poet, Monsieur Tyrell?”
“Would that please you, Mademoiselle de Vins?”
“It would, if I am the muse.”
“You are doing a good job so far.”
“I am pleased to hear it. But do tell me more about my charms, if you please.”
“Well, this mound of yours, camouflaged as it is, is worthy of Venus herself.”
“Do you like it more than Jeanne-Marie’s?”
“Shh.” Thomas makes a stern face. “You know what we said.”
“I do, but I am still curious.”
“Then I suggest you take a bath with her. I am keeping my silent pledge.”
“A veritable pretend gentleman. I am impressed. But tell me, do you think she suspects?”
“No.”
“But then you’d never know, would you, being a man?”
“Are we so thick?”
“I’m afraid you are. But that’s enough talk. Come here. I am ready for a little poetry, Thomas Tyrell.”
——
Looking back on how it began with Monique, Thomas reasons it was not wrong, at least not at the start. It was not planned on either side. Indiscretions and liaisons that are the result of scheming are by their very nature dishonest. They are sins, in the language of the Church. But something that happens by chance, that is different. It follows Nature’s call. And bringing pleasure to each other, as he and Mademoiselle de Vins do once a week, is innocent in that sense. As long, of course, as the third does not find out. The third? Thomas glances skyward, beyond the top floors of the red brick buildings as he walks along. That is not a pretty way to refer to the woman who is, well maybe, going to be his wife.
Crossings, A Thomas Pichon Novel Page 14