Thomas, A Secret Life

by A. J. B. Johnston

  “Monsieur, can I help you?” she asked with her head tilted to one side. She was clearly puzzled as to why the master would be exiting his wife’s room in the middle of the day.

  “No, why?” he replied in a hurry, avoiding her curious gaze.

  He turned and hurried the other way, and knew instantly that such flight was a mistake. It was an admission of guilt. Yet at the time he felt a surge of heat in his face and chest and felt compelled to turn and walk quickly away.

  But there was no harm done, as far as Thomas knows. Simone did not mention the incident to Marguerite. He still has all the taken objects. They are hidden in the bottom of his own trunk, waiting for the moment for implementation – the transfer to Simone’s room – to be just right.

  —

  “Thomas?” says Marguerite, knocking on the door to his bedroom. “Thomas?”

  Thomas opens the door wide.

  “Yes, my love.”

  He bows like a courtier just for fun. He’s been busy for an hour or more, composing the opening paragraphs of an essay on the need to balance ambition with discretion and tact. He thinks it’s going well. When he is satisfied with it he will send it off to Gallatin to ask for his comments.

  There is no smile on Marguerite’s long face. Her expression is grim, like she may have just learned about the death of a relation or close friend. Or, it suddenly hits Thomas with a sinking feeling, has she discovered that she’s missing certain objects from her room? Oh pray to God not. He has not yet hidden them where they are supposed to turn up.

  “Come with me, husband, will you please?”

  “Of course.”

  His voice is as shaky as he feels. Has he ruined his own plan by leaving it too late? They are off, striding toward Marguerite’s room. Thomas feels his heart race on ahead of the rest of his body, thumping like a drum.

  “There.”

  Marguerite waves a hand at the small dressing table near her mirror. It is the table that holds the inlaid wooden box that contains her jewellery, combs and hairbrushes, makeup, rouges and wig powder. It is the table Thomas has gone to four times already. He makes his face as impassive as he can.

  “What is it?” he asks softly.

  “There.” Marguerite points as if the air coming from her finger were making a visible line to some object. “Can you not see it?”

  “Something, something is missing?”

  “Missing? Can’t you see? The droppings. Right there.” She grabs Thomas by the elbow and bends him over so he can study the floor beneath the dressing table. He sees what looks like grains of rice, only smaller and darker. “We have mice,” Marguerite announces.

  “Mice? Oh mice. Yes, I see.”

  “You see? Honestly. It’s up to you to find someone to look after this. And today.” And with that, Marguerite turns and is gone.

  “Take care of it I will,” mutters Thomas. His lungs send out a gush of air. Yes, take care of it he will. He happens to know an exterminator. Well, he doesn’t know him personally, but he’s heard a clerk in the magistrate’s office speak of just such a man. He’ll ask for his name and address.

  Thomas glances back at Marguerite’s small table as he heads for the door. He looks up to the ceiling and the unseen sky beyond. He understands that what has just happened is a warning, a sign. He’s running out of time. He cannot delay any longer. If the plan is going to work, the stolen objects must be noticed as lost and then found hiding in Simone’s room.

  —

  Hélène scrunches her cheeks. She’s practicing. Practicing in front of Thomas as they sit in the Place Dauphine how her face should look when she knocks on Marguerite’s door the next morning. What she is to say and how she is to look saying it are important, the most important parts of the plan. She has to win over Marguerite with her smile and her pretty face. She must seem to be a trusted servant heaven sent.

  Hélène laughs to hear Thomas put it that way. He waves away her mirth and continues the preparation. She is to be polite. They will exchange meaningless pleasantries. Hélène has to smile sweetly no matter what is said. Marguerite will tell her that she has no opening for any position in her household. “That is understandable,” Thomas instructs Hélène to reply. And then to say: “Nonetheless, here is a letter of reference just in case the situation should change.” The letter is Thomas’s handiwork, written in what he judges to be a woman’s meticulous handwriting and elegantly phrased point of view. The letter is from an imaginary former employer of Hélène’s, a Madame Tyrell. Choosing the name brought Thomas a smile. In any case, the fictitious Madame Tyrell has written a glowing reference letter for Hélène. Hélène is to hand that letter over, curtsey, give another sweet smile and be gone. “From that seed,” Thomas intones like he’s saying something profound, “a future life will grow.”

  Hélène rolls her eyes. She gets up from the bench. “Maybe you’re missing your calling,” she says to Thomas. “Maybe you should be a preacher.” She thinks again. “Or off writing plays.”

  Thomas says nothing. He looks away and exhales a long breath.

  Hélène walks away from him, strolling around the square.

  “Tomorrow then?” says Thomas, approaching Hélène as she stands motionless staring at a line of trees. He leans forward and gives his soon-to-be secret servant lover a kiss on the cheek.

  “Tomorrow it is.”

  —

  “No,” says Thomas, his face filling with mock shock. He has to make sure he hides his relief. “No. Are you sure?”

  “I am, Thomas, I am. I checked and re-checked.”

  Marguerite’s cheeks are flushed to near purple and red. The eyes are astir, flashing this way and that. The voice is hurt and confused.

  “They’re nowhere to be found. My comb, the miniature and a ring.”

  “Nothing else?”

  He’s wondering about the necklace, which he also removed. This morning, when Simone was busy in the kitchen with a chore, he placed all four items beneath the ribbons in the wicker basket that sits on the shelf in the servant’s tiny room.

  “What do you mean nothing else? That’s enough surely. My ring, my comb and the miniature. They’re gone.” Marguerite stares at her husband, eyes demanding an answer.

  In a few months’ time, at her cousin’s château near Vitré, staring into a crackling fire, Marguerite will recall Thomas saying “nothing else?” That recollection will then cause Thomas some pain. In the heat of this moment, however, Marguerite makes no more of Thomas’s slip of the tongue.

  “Of course it’s enough,” says Thomas. “It’s terrible.”

  Thomas pauses. He leans back to look more closely at his wife. She is even more upset than he imagined she would be. There’s a vein protruding blue on her forehead and another pulsing violet on her neck. He’s not noticed either before. He doesn’t want her to have a chest attack, clutching at a pain that could kill her dead. Still, he holds off for just another moment. The vague incriminating accusation of Simone, it has to wait just a little longer.

  “Let me help you. What do you think we should do? There are so many places to look. You’ve checked your room?”

  “Of course I’ve checked my room.”

  “There’s the salon, the cabinet, the kitchen. Do you,” he hesitates a beat, “I mean do you think we should perhaps check the servants as well?”

  Marguerite tilts her head his way, the eyes narrowing.

  “Search their quarters, I mean,” he explains. “One hears about this sort of thing. It’s the servants after all who have access to all of our things” Thomas leaves it at that. He’s said enough.

  “I suppose,” says Marguerite.

  The two words are said low, so the implicated servants of her household will not hear. All of a sudden her eyes are scanning the hall where she and Thomas are walkin
g. She looks as well to the doors and doorways beyond. Thomas does not know if the scan is because of what he’s suggested or some doubt she has about him saying it. Marguerite’s gaze comes back to her husband. She’s shaking her head.

  “I can’t believe it, I can’t. Simone has been with me forever. It can’t be her, it can’t. Sébastien is still away. And Charles is a terrible cook but other than that he’s loyal. Besides, he has no reason to ever go in my room. And as for dim-witted Marie-Angélique, why she …”

  “Of course.”

  Thomas does not see the point in all the talk, running through the staff one by one. His hand makes contact with Marguerite’s wrist. He is keeping his eyes as calm as he can. He is breathing like there’s nothing wrong.

  “A formality, that’s all. Once we’ve checked the servants’ quarters then we’ll know for sure. Unless you want to call in the authorities right now? It might be best if we handle this ourselves, don’t you think?”

  “Go ahead.” Marguerite looks for a chair. “You do it. The search. I’ll be right here.” She is waving at the wooden hall chair beside the narrow table and the vase with its winter display of dried flowers.

  “No!” The word comes out much louder than Thomas wants. He brings his voice down. “No, please, it’s best if we do the search together. Please, please come along.” Thomas reaches out and tugs at her arm. “They’re your servants after all. You need to … to be there as well.”

  The distraught Marguerite allows her hand and the body attached to it to be pulled up off the chair. She has a terrible sour taste in her mouth, but agrees with her husband that yes, she should be there to check out the servants, to see if one might be a thief. And better that she and Thomas do it by themselves. The last thing she wants is for the authorities to learn of the theft and word of this episode get out.

  Thomas leads Marguerite down the corridor. He is changing the plan as he walks. No longer will there be a false piste, there’s no time for delay. He’s taking her straight to the tiny cabinet where Simone has a bed. They are going to search the room and find the objects he placed there but two hours ago.

  As he puts his hand on the latch he wonders if Marguerite will later wonder how it was that her loving husband knew just where to look. It’s too late now. They are in Simone’s room.

  —

  “Can you believe it?” asks Marguerite of her husband after the sad drama is over.

  “Terrible, to be sure.” Thomas looks around the room to see if there is a decanter containing some wine or spirit to drink.

  Simone, the slightly hunch-backed middle-aged thief has been made to pack up her things, dry her sobbing eyes and be off. Simone surprised Thomas when she didn’t protest more than she did. He feared she might even point a finger in his direction. Instead, the poor woman almost made it easy. She simply looked at her mistress after the objects were found in her things and said there must be some mistake.

  That allowed Thomas to intervene: “Mistake! Theft from your master is no mistake.” It was funny, he recalled later, he didn’t feel a thing speaking that line.

  Simone narrowed her eyes at Thomas when he spoke, but she held her tongue.

  After that, Marguerite had no choice. With a wavering voice she told Simone she’d better pack up and go. She would not call in the officers of justice if the woman left right away. Thomas suggested they give her a reference letter, despite her crime, acknowledging the years of service. There was no need to mention the theft, he added. It was a slip-up he was sure that Simone would not repeat, a lesson having been learned. Simone kept her eyes lowered. Her sniffles were there for all to hear. Marguerite smiled at her husband’s kindness. She sat down and quickly wrote a few words to give to poor Simone.

  “I can still barely take it in,” says Marguerite after the door is closed. Simone is now ten minutes out the door and off to who knows where.

  Thomas shakes his head and shrugs. It’s the best he can do. He does not want to take the lead in damning Simone, and he thinks it best to let his wife sputter on. While Marguerite says more about the betrayal from the servant, Thomas heads over to the sideboard intent on finding a bottle of something to fill a glass. He finds a burgundy. Yes, this is what he needs. He holds up the squat bottle in his wife’s direction. He’s hoping that if she joins him in a drink it might make the day go by better than it is at present. A shake of the head is Marguerite’s only reply.

  “I wonder if there’s more.” Marguerite puts a hand to her brow. “If she’s taken other things over the years.”

  Thomas takes a sip. “We’ll never know, I suppose.”

  “Do you think her wages were too low? Did that make her steal?”

  “Good God, no.” Thomas puts down his glass and goes over to where Marguerite is seated. He places himself beside her and takes her hand. “Thieves are born not made.” It’s a comment he heard the magistrate make in the office the other day.

  Marguerite is startled. She looks at Thomas like she’s never seen him before. “Born not made?”

  “What I mean is,” says Thomas, seeing he may have taken a wrong path, “our little Simone was well treated. You looked after her very well. But she betrayed you. You would never have guessed that she would … well, she didn’t seem the type. But don’t blame yourself, my dear wife. Such things happen.”

  He hasn’t answered her query at all about “born not made,” but he thinks he’d better leave his remarks as they are. There’s no sense in overdoing it by saying too much.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a glass of red? Perhaps only a half?”

  Marguerite nods that she has changed her mind. She holds up her thumb and finger to indicate just how much.

  “Here you go.”

  Thomas hands his wife a small goblet of red wine. He does not retake his seat beside her but goes to stand by the fireplace. In the turmoil of the morning, it’s not yet been lit. It is usually Simone’s job to start the fires in whatever room he and Marguerite are to be in. Thomas could do it easily enough himself, but that’s not the point. One of the benefits of climbing the ladder is to not have to perform the tasks of those on the rungs below. He’ll have to get one of the other servants to look after it. But that can wait. He turns to his wife, who is staring vaguely into some distant place above her goblet of wine.

  “My dear,” he says as offhandedly as he can, “do you think you’ll be able to find someone … someone to replace the one we’ve dismissed?” Thomas thinks it best not to use Simone’s name anymore.

  Marguerite closes her eyes as if that might lessen some pain. As she re-opens them the voice that comes out of her is exhausted.

  “The city is filled with servants. It’s not the finding one that’s difficult, it’s finding one you like and can trust.” Her gaze swivels to her husband. She seems to be asking Thomas if he wants to add anything to that.

  “Exactly,” he intones. He extends an arm to run his fingers along the line of mortar that runs between the course of limestone that makes up the front of the fireplace.

  “They can be saucy.” Marguerite begins a long list of servant weaknesses. “Spread gossip. Break things. Lazy. Crude. Unkempt. Ill-trained. And as we have seen, even steal from you.” She covers her eyes with her free hand.

  Thomas goes to his wife. “You should go lie down, Marguerite.”

  For an instant, an instant that comes and goes between two ticks of a clock, he wonders if maybe he should not have done what he has done. Was there another way to help Hélène that didn’t require getting rid of Simone? No, he decides not.

  “You can think about finding a new servant later on. I’m sure that someone suitable will come to mind.”

  “Yes, I should get some rest.”

  And with those words of quiet resignation, Marguerite pushes to her feet. Thomas accompanies her out of the room, lending so
othing words all along the way to her room. He cannot help but think that the little incident has aged the woman in front of his eyes. The hurt of Simone’s betrayal is carving fresh lines on her face. She now looks every bit twice his age.

  —

  It’s not until the evening of the fifth day that Thomas hears what he wants to hear. That’s when Marguerite tells him that she has engaged a new domestic, a lovely young woman named Hélène. She’ll be taking the place of the disgraced Simone. Thomas’s eyes sparkle when he hears the news. He and Marguerite are at table. He celebrates by taking a brioche from the basket and cracking it like he’s not cracked any roll or pastry since he was a child. The crumbs scatter and fall where they will.

  “Sounds good, my dear,” he says, taking a small bite.

  It is all he can do not to stand up and shout. The plan has worked exactly as intended, which is surely a first. He does find it a little odd that Hélène has not reached him somehow and let him know the news first rather than hearing it from Marguerite. He supposes his soon-to-be lover didn’t want to risk any contact that could put the arrangement in doubt. That was smart on Hélène’s part, he decides. It also explains why Hélène did not show up two days ago at the usual rendezvous at the Place Dauphine. She’s being careful. Not risking them being seen together. Thomas cannot fault her for that.

  So he is about to get what he wants: his cake and eat it too. A secret young lover under the same roof as his wife, whose roof he duly acknowledges is really all hers. Thomas will continue to respect Marguerite. She remains a lady he holds close and dear, who gave him a marriage that advanced his standing and career. It’s just that Thomas needs someone closer his age, someone lithe, with smaller breasts and a waist that is still firm. Hélène. Now, it’s worked out.