Crossings, A Thomas Pichon Novel Page 4

  Thomas extends his right hand like he’s swearing an oath. “What I say is this: Down with everyone who is not with us.”

  Fanny crinkles her nose then turns to John Cleland, who is all smiles.

  “Well put, Tyrell. You’ve summed up the very essence of the Fifth. Now if this damned coach would only get us to Bath, we might begin the fun.”

  III

  Heat

  Bath – November 1734

  The warmth swells up, much greater than Thomas had imagined it could be. It’s like being right beside a fireplace, only he’s nearly a hundred feet away from the bonfire. Yet he can feel sweat trickling in his armpits and inching across the small of his back. The near suffocation is made worse by the flaming torches held aloft on all sides of him. The men, women and children of the pressing crowd are straining to get as close as they can to the conflagration in the centre of the square.

  Thomas looks with envy at Cleland and Fanny. He and Élisabeth chose to put on their warmest winter clothing, a cape for her and a cloak for him. They thought they would have to ward off a chill November night. After all, everyone’s breath was producing puffs and trails by the time the coach rolled to a stop in front of The Bell. Yet here in the square, three-storey stone buildings pressing in on all four sides, the blazing mountain of branches and faggots is throwing out mid-summer heat.

  “Just tough it out,” Cleland says.

  Apparently, to go back to the inn now would mean missing the highlight, quite literally. That is when the effigy will be brought into the square and set afire.

  Thomas sees he is overdressed in a second way as well. He kept on his new outfit and added his best wig and tricorne. The idea was to show the spa town he knows how to dress for the upper circles of the world. Alas, virtually none of the type he was hoping to impress are here in the square. If they are, they came in disguise. The sole exception is an older man with a prune face standing up front, close to the fire. The fellow is wearing an oversized hat, and his expression says he disapproves of everything he sees. Thomas knows how he feels.

  “Well, what do you think?” Cleland roars in his ear.

  Thomas sees the excitement in his friend’s eyes. It’s there on Fanny’s face as well. She’s clutching Cleland’s elbow like it’s a lifeline.

  “Interesting,” Thomas says.

  “Interesting?” Cleland leans back. “That’s damned faint.”

  “It’s better than that,” says Fanny.

  “Sorry, but—” Thomas bites his lip. He looks away from the two disappointed faces. Where is Élisabeth? The Swiss is nowhere to be found.

  “What don’t you like?” Cleland wants to know.

  “Too English, I bet.” Fanny shakes her head.

  Thomas shakes his head in reply. He wonders if Élisabeth has gone back to The Bell. If so, he wishes he were with her, away from this heat.

  “Well, if you must know,” Thomas says looking Cleland in the eyes, “it’s that—”

  “Thomas! Thomas!”

  He turns to the sound of his name pronounced the French way. A waving hand. An arm of light blue. Élisabeth. She’s mouthing something he cannot catch. The roar of the crowd, combined with the bonfire’s lick and spit, fills his ears instead.

  “Excusez.” Thomas nods at Cleland and Fanny as he spins around. He adjusts the shoulders of a wavering man with hot alcoholic breath who stands beside him before he is able to slip past.

  “I bear no grudge,” the fellow says in a slurred voice.

  A few whispered apologies for stepped-on toes and elbowed bellies, and Thomas comes at length face to face with Élisabeth. He hopes she wants to slip away from this horde.

  “Thomas, look who it is.” Élisabeth stretches out her arm.

  He shifts his gaze, and feels his head jerk back. It’s Hélène with those terrible twinkling eyes. Thomas notices Élisabeth has lost her smile and is studying him. He composes. A stiff bow to Hélène is the best he can do in the pressing crowd.

  “Madame Gallatin, comment allez-v—”

  “Shhh.” Élisabeth pinches his forearm. “In English.”

  “How good to see you, Mrs. Gallatin, this night.” Thomas doffs his hat. “A surprise agree-able.”

  “Mister Tyrell.” Hélène gives Thomas the slightest curtsey a woman can make, then leans forward. “Those words are usually reversed,” she whispers.

  “Oh, correct,” Thomas mouths.

  “Bath is wonderful,” Hélène says in a loud voice, “is it not? As fine as all say it is.”

  “I suppose,” is Thomas’s reply. How sad that what was warm and passionate between them for so long is now cold and detached. Could she not give him more tender words? A kiss on the cheek, if not on the lips?

  Instead, Thomas sees Hélène send a wink to Élisabeth. It confirms what he suspected. Now that the two women work together they are growing close. Soon, if not already, Hélène will be telling Élisabeth stories about him he wished she did not know. Oh well, what’s done is done.

  Thomas presents an amiable face. “And your husband, Mrs. Gallatin, is he not with you tonight?”

  “Yes, John is here. Though where I cannot say.” Hélène does not make the slightest attempt to scan the crowd. Her eyes stay on Thomas.

  “There he is.” Élisabeth is pointing toward the great bonfire with something like admiration in her voice. “Up front.”

  Thomas sees the bookseller among those milling about close to where the fire blazes so high. He can only imagine the heat. Gallatin seems to be locked in an intense conversation with the same older man Thomas spied before, a well-dressed fellow with a prunish face. The man is wearing a shoulder-length periwig topped off by a large tricorne. Whoever he is, he’s listening intently to Gallatin. The bookseller is gesturing, counting off points on the fingers of his upraised left hand. The sight brings a smile. Gallatin does not change. For him, earnestness will never be out of style.

  “Come on, brighten up that long face.” Cleland’s hand claps Thomas solidly on the shoulder. Fanny is by his side. “The effigy will soon be here. Greetings, ladies.” Cleland doffs his hat.

  “John Cleland.” Hélène’s face is expressionless. She reflects her husband’s dislike of the man.

  “Hello again, John,” says Élisabeth.

  “Let’s hope it lives up,” says Cleland, raising his voice. He is trying to compete with the crowd, a million buzzing bees.

  “There it is!” Fanny has taken hold of Cleland’s upper arm, redirecting his attention.

  “Aye.” Cleland’s rapt expression suggests he is witnessing a holy scene.

  An immense roar lifts from the crowd. It reminds Thomas of events from his childhood. The procession of the young king through the streets of Paris, which his father took him and his sister to see from afar. The sound of the crowd at the public execution of a murderer one time he was in Rouen. But for a fire? The English are a curious bunch.

  A larger-than-life-size effigy, a straw figure of a man with a tall pointed hat, is being held aloft on a long pole. It’s moving slowly above the crowd, moving toward the fire. Who and how many might be holding up the pole Thomas cannot see. No matter. It’s clearly the straw man who counts, with his mitre hat and crozier staff. Thomas knows that to this English crowd the figure represents the pope. He wonders what would happen if he were to shout that the straw-stuffed man was their own top Anglican churchman. Look, it’s the Archbishop of Canterbury! What would they say to that?

  “I detect a little smile.” Cleland is leaning in from Thomas’s right. “Knew you’d enjoy it.” Then in a loud voice to the entire crowd, Cleland yells, “Curse Rome and its pope!”

  All round, other voices call out. “Whore,” “Scarlet” and “Babylon” are words Thomas hears repeated. He’s astonished to see Hélène, standing beside him on his left, cross herself. She is giving herself awa
y. He hopes for her sake that no one else has seen.

  Bells begin to toll in the towers of the nearby abbey church. The ringing – rolling, joyous notes – remind Thomas of a wedding.

  There is a sudden whoosh. A heartbeat later, fireworks burst overhead. Flares of yellow, orange and green light up the black sky. Thomas leans back to take it in.

  “Makes you wish you were one of us, doesn’t it?” Cleland’s breath is warm in his ear.

  Thomas gives a quick nod and keeps his eyes overhead. The last bright flare, a dazzling yellow white, slowly fades. Black ink reclaims the sky, with the stars seeming much duller than they were before. The bells, too, sound their last toll. The final peal echoes fainter and fainter until it’s gone. The crowd goes silent, with only the crackle and roar of the bonfire and the lick of the torches held aloft all round.

  “’E’s gonna burn now, ’e is,” a man shouts from behind.

  Looking past and over a hundred heads, Thomas watches the straw man dance. He kicks and writhes atop his skinny pole. He sways and dips, coming ever closer to the flames. Just in the nick, the ragged pope dances away. He is only teasing the bonfire, playing with the swaying heads, who “ooh” and “ah” with every move. Sure enough, back comes the mitred man of straw. This time the crozier staff falls away. The man himself, however, dances on. Suddenly, teased enough, Thomas wants to see him burn. He wants—

  His eyes go wide as he feels a hand cup his ass. It caresses his contours and one finger slides underneath. Then it stops. Thomas swivels toward Élisabeth, slightly behind him on the right. Her face is blank, her eyes revealing only the reflection of the bonfire’s blaze. He turns left, to Hélène. She too is staring straight ahead. No grin, no wink.

  “What is it?” Hélène’s expression is bafflement.

  Thomas shakes his head. He twists completely around to see who is standing directly behind him.

  “You lookin’ at?” demands a scowling, red-faced man.

  Thomas raises his hands. “Nothing.”

  “That’s right,” the man nearly spits.

  There’s a tug on Thomas’s sleeve.

  “Penny for the Guy?” asks a boy dressed in rags, no more than five. He holds out a doll, stuffing sticking out where a head should be.

  Cleland reaches past Élisabeth and taps Thomas on the shoulder. “A penny will suffice. A tradition, it is.”

  Thomas nods. He digs in the pocket of his coat to find a penny. The boy takes it without a word and pushes on, working through the crowd. Could it be the boy who was feeling Thomas’s ass? Thomas shakes his head. But if not Élisabeth or Hélène, then who?

  “Huzzah! Huzzah!” comes from all round. The entire square resounds. Thomas’s eyes turn. The straw pope is in full flame, a licking shape that squirms and twists as he goes from bright yellow to bright grey smoke. Thomas sighs. He missed the moment when the effigy went ablaze. Oh well, maybe now he can get away from this place and its crowd.

  There is a tap on his wrist. It’s Hélène, leaning his way. Her mouth is close enough he can taste its warmth. There is a hint of cinnamon on her breath.

  “Must go,” she says above the murmur of the crowd. “Find Jean. See you again, I hope, Mister Tyrell.” Then she leans closer still, her cheek rubbing his. Her voice drops to a whisper only he hears. “Miss you.”

  Thomas leans back and looks at her, those dark, shining eyes. Did he hear right? She misses him? He can feel a stirring at the touch of his former lover’s skin. “Of course,” he says in a firm voice anyone might hear. “Give Jean my regards.”

  As he watches Hélène wend her way slowly through the crowd, toward where Gallatin is still in conversation with the prune-faced man, Thomas plucks at the front of his breeches. Is Hélène having second thoughts about having married Gallatin? Thomas starts to take in a deep breath, but it is spoiled by the thick tang of smoke. It makes him cough.

  “Where is she off to?” Élisabeth presses close.

  “She? Oh, Hélène?” Thomas shrugs. “She … she was right here.” A tightness in his chest tells him he is overdoing it. “She said she’s joining Gallatin. Her husband.”

  Élisabeth gives Thomas a narrowed look. “Her husband? I work with them, you know.”

  “Of course. They are wed, well wed.”

  Élisabeth’s eyes widen. “You must be tired. Listen, I’m heading back to The Bell. I have more than enough smoke on my hair and clothes. Tell Fanny and Cleland where I have gone, will you?”

  “No.” Thomas casts a quick look Hélène’s way.

  “No? Are you all right? You don’t—”

  “I mean I’d rather come with you.”

  “You would? I thought maybe you would—”

  Thomas offers a bow. “With you, Milady.” He holds up a hand.

  An instant smile sweeps across Élisabeth’s face. “Kind sir.” She takes his hand.

  ——

  Down to her cream-coloured stockings and fine linen chemise, the shift she purchased especially for this trip, Élisabeth glances over to the four-poster. Thomas is already beneath the bedclothes. But where he always likes to watch her unlace and peel away the layers, his gaze tonight is not on her. Hands behind his head, he’s staring at the overhanging panel of green serge. Élisabeth might as well not even be in the room.

  Élisabeth takes a seat upon the upholstered ottoman. Off comes the first stocking, rolled down then gently pulled. She folds it carefully to make sure the edges are square before placing it beside her on the stool. She sets it down as if it might come apart if she is any less careful.

  She turns toward the bed and sees her lover still lost in another world. Where and with whom? She swings back around and a long ago conversation rises up, unbidden, from somewhere deep. Élisabeth yanks the remaining stocking and balls it up in her hand then casts it to the floor. She feels a surge in her chest. She swivels to face Thomas again. Yes, he’s still there, still under the covers staring up above his head. Complicit by his silence, complicit by his absent gaze. She feels the weight of her head, how badly it wants fall forward. How did she not see this – nay, hear this before? The evidence was there from the start.

  Thomas senses movement to his left. It interrupts his imagining of what Bath’s famous Assembly Room will be like. Rooms, that is, for there are two, in rival parts of town. He has been rehearsing various witty things he might say about the place – a miniature London in some ways – should he get a chance to impress someone who matters. Appearance and wit are the crucial first steps.

  He has also been mulling over his fleeting encounter with Hélène. Thomas rolls onto his side. What should he, what can he—? There’s a white shape standing next to him. Élisabeth. Stiff as a sentry and staring hard.

  “What’s wrong?”

  A serious-faced woman shakes her head. Disapproval, if ever he saw it, directed his way. Thomas does not recall ever having seen such a cast on the Swiss’s usually good-natured face.

  “Here.” He lifts the covers to invite her into bed. “Come. I’ll warm you up.”

  Élisabeth keeps her bare feet planted where they are. She turns her head toward the room’s only door. Thomas watches as she curls her toes. He watches her shoulders hunch. He sees that her hands seem to wring the air.

  “Can’t be so bad as that.” He tries a light-hearted tone. “Whatever it is.”

  Élisabeth swings back to face him. Her expression is still troubled, but this time she nods. She steps on the stool and climbs onto the bed. Thomas casts the covers over her as she stretches out. His right hand makes wary contact with her right hip.

  “You’re cold.”

  “I know.”

  “What— Has something happened? You look so … I don’t know. Are you sad?”

  “Just warm me up.”

  Thomas pulls her close then rolls her so that her back is to him. Her entir
e body is chilled. The cold is even in the linen chemise itself. His first instinct is to get right down to business, starting with little kisses on her neck and soft touches on her breasts. But no, he thinks not. At least not yet. He keeps his hands on her back, making long, caressing strokes.

  Élisabeth has to think this through. Almost certain is not certain, is it? No, it is suspicion, not proof. Nothing more than that. So she has to proceed in a way that is both careful and just. One thing at a time. She owes Thomas Tyrell that.

  The sometimes secretive man has been good to her. It is because of him that she now works with her brain and not just her body. True, it is only a job in a bookshop. But it’s a lot better than emptying out chamber pots, cleaning rooms and occasionally letting men fondle and rut. More than that, Thomas brings affection along with his lust. In fact, she thought she detected a genuine attachment deepening on his part. Not from anything he has said, but rather in the way he sometimes looks at her, with appreciation and trust. Still, it’s hard to tell with a man who mostly keeps his thoughts and feelings to himself. Where she shared her life story with him, a true tale of which she’s proud, what he told her in return could best be described as a thin sketch. That he grew up in Normandy and moved to Paris as a lad. When asked how he came to be in London, he shrugged the question off with “It’s complicated.” In any case, Élisabeth wants to be fair to him, like Justice with her scale.

  On the negative side of the ledger, she needs to remember that she continues to repay Thomas for what he has given her. She contributes to the betterment of his life. Not just by allowing him to know her intimately, but by holding her own in discussions of books, ideas and the rest. He is never bored, nor does she let him get too cocky for his own good. She gives him attentive ears when he tells her about the various writing projects he intends to undertake, a sympathetic face when he goes on about how tricky it is to find subjects the world wants to hear about. She still does not fully understand why he is so convinced he deserves better than what fate sends his way, but she does not make fun of him.

  But this, this deceit – or apparent deceit, for it is not confirmed – she is astounded she missed. It makes her feel taken in. Yet she must not let disappointment bring her down. She has dealt with worse than this.