Crossings, A Thomas Pichon Novel Read online

  She was seventeen. She and her father had plans to cross the great Atlantic to faraway South Carolina. That was where, others in Geneva assured them, Huguenots were beginning their lives anew. But six weeks before they were to travel to Le Havre for their ocean trip, everything came undone. One moment her father was in the salon reading a book, the next he was dead. His concealed debts came quickly to light, and Élisabeth had no choice. She fled. To London, where her father had often told her she had an uncle in the merchant trade. Yet when Élisabeth showed up at his address, Uncle Léo’s eyes narrowed to slits. He said he didn’t recognize a single Cauvin family feature in her face. He wouldn’t even let her inside the house to warm up. With only pennies to her name and a single sack of clothes, Élisabeth found a position as a parlour maid. To make ends meet sometimes she did the other thing.

  “Hello, dark eyes,” a thin stranger had whispered in her ear one night at The Swan. “Men would pay to be with you.” That was how she met Billy Bing. It was never more than an occasional resort, one that allowed her to buy things no parlour maid could afford, including books. And one such night it presented Thomas. And now, she’s here with him as he warms her back.

  ——

  Thomas can tell his hands are having a good effect. Where Élisabeth was cold and tense, now she is warm and soft. She rolls over to face him. Eye contact, however, is fleeting. She buries her face into his neck. Thomas has not seen her like this. She’s usually direct, clever and independent.

  Women are insightful creatures, so very complex. Yet their very complexity sometimes makes them hard to understand. Thomas cannot fathom what might have happened to turn his lover into something like an upset child.

  “Thomas?” His name arises from his neck.

  “Yes?” He leans back to look at her, but it’s not far enough. He takes Élisabeth by the shoulders and shifts her half an arm’s length farther away. He wants to look into her eyes.

  “That first night—” she says, so quietly he almost can’t hear.

  “You have to speak up.” Thomas feels a tiny smile. “Which first night is that? We’ve had our share.”

  “The first first. Upstairs at the Shakespeare’s Head.”

  “Oh.” Thomas feels the smile disappear from his lips. He props himself up on an elbow. He prefers to be looking down into her questioning eyes.

  “When I was sent to you. By Billy Bing.”

  Thomas exhales and makes a face. “You know that’s over. I paid him off. You’re safely away.”

  “I know, and I thank you again.”

  Thomas says nothing. He waits. Élisabeth glances away. He sees her take a quick breath in through her nose then hold it in.

  “Well?” Thomas says at last. He takes her chin between his thumb and index finger. He brings her face toward him.

  “I don’t know why,” she says, “but there is something I did not earlier recall.”

  “What is that?”

  “What Billy told me … he said the one and only thing you wanted was a French woman, a woman called—”

  Thomas places a hand over her mouth. He briefly closes his eyes. He wills her to do the same. Eyes back open, he sees that she has not done as he wished. Her eyes, with reddish-orange hues showing in the brown, are staring at him. She looks startled, maybe even frightened.

  He removes his hand and fills his chest with air. He swings his gaze to the ottoman, then over to the writing desk in the window between the drapes. He sees the thin stack of folio pages he brought with him from London. And there’s the inkwell with several quills, his knife and the small container of sand. He thought it unlikely he would write anything on this trip, but had brought everything along just in case. In case the change of scene sparked something.

  The candle in the brass holder on the desk has burned low. He wouldn’t mind if it just guttered out. Darkness in the room might bring an end to needless talk.

  “Thomas?”

  He brings his focus back to the voice. “Sorry.”

  “Where were you?”

  He shakes his head. “Nowhere. So you’re thinking back to Billy Bing. Are you reflecting … regretting you used to be a whore?”

  “You know I prefer that word used as a verb, not a noun. But no, that is not it.”

  Thomas lifts his elbow and lowers himself so they lie shoulder to shoulder. Like her, he is now staring straight up at the canopy overhead. “Do we have to talk about this?”

  “We do.”

  “But no one knows us in this town. We are as high and well-born as we dare. This is our chance. Forget what’s past.”

  Élisabeth merely exhales. She does not say a thing.

  So that’s how it’s going to be. Thomas pushes himself to sit all the way up in the bed. He pulls down his chemise to cover his knees down to his mid-calves. “All right, what then?”

  Élisabeth does as he has done. She sits up and adjusts her chemise to down below her knees. Then she reaches out to take hold of Thomas’s chemise.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe not.” Élisabeth lets go. She tilts her head the way she often does, then ventures a half smile.

  “Is that an apology?” Thomas asks.

  Élisabeth’s eyes go wide. “An apology?” She blinks repeatedly.

  “I guess not. Listen, just say what is on your mind.”

  “Billy Bing said you wanted a French woman.”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “A French woman called Hélène.”

  Thomas’s vision blurs an instant.

  “Hélène, Thomas. Hélène.”

  “I hear you.”

  “You honestly don’t recall?”

  “I guess not.”

  Why in the name of all things holy is she asking all this? The speckles of red and orange he’d seen in her eyes before are nowhere to be seen. Only fierce dark brown. He wonders if those eyes of hers can calculate the difference between what is literally true and what might be a harmless twist to save them both.

  “That’s always your preference, isn’t it?” Her tone is disappointment itself, like a parent with a child. “To keep everything to yourself.”

  Thomas offers a humble smile. “Discretion, I suppose.”

  “Discretion? Discretion has nothing to do with it. You fear the truth.” Élisabeth’s eyes are a taunt. “What to do with you?” Thomas hears her mumble as she puts a hand to her brow.

  He reaches out to place a hand on her shoulder. She does not bat or shrug it away. Instead, Élisabeth tilts her head to rub her cheek upon his hand. The fierceness in the eyes is gone. What an expressive face she has. And what a great mouth. Thomas would like to kiss those lips and pull off her chemise. He’d like to be with her, the two as one.

  “You’re not listening to me, are you?”

  Thomas blinks. Élisabeth’s head is no longer inclined. Her cheek no longer touching his hand. Did he imagine that?

  “Of course I am. Listening.”

  Élisabeth rolls her eyes up to the green serge panel overhead. When her gaze comes back down, she lifts his hand off her shoulder as if it might be something soiled, and lets it drop.

  Thomas sighs. He supposes she must have noticed something about how he reacted when he saw Hélène at the bonfire. But she cannot have heard what his old lover whispered in his ear.

  “This is about Hélène, isn’t it?” Thomas says.

  Élisabeth’s mouth falls open. “Is that not what I said?”

  “Yes, yes, all right, maybe I did ask Billy for Hélène. But it was an Hélène not the Hélène.”

  Élisabeth’s head swivels left and right, like a teacher with an errant child. The smile on her lips is not one of happy amusement. It is one of triumph. “Th
ere it is,” she says, “the Hélène.”

  “It’s a name I like,” he tries, adding a shrug. “That’s all, my beautiful Swiss.”

  “Really, my French?” she asks with mocking lips. “I want the truth. Were you and Hélène lovers? No, I can see that. So the question is, was it before or after she chose Jean Gallatin?”

  Thomas feels his eyes go wide. “I— I can’t get into this.”

  “You can and you will.”

  “It would take too long.”

  Élisabeth glances over to the table, which is providing the room’s only light. “There’s another candle in the drawer.”

  Thomas fills his chest with air. “From the beginning?”

  “That’s why it’s called what it is.”

  Thomas smiles, then reaches out with both hands to cup and caress Élisabeth’s breasts.

  “Not now.”

  “Later?”

  “Tell me first about you and Hélène. Later looks after itself.”

  IV

  Discovery

  Bath – November 1734

  Thomas’s legs do not feel right. Nor his chest, nor his eyes. Everything is out of sorts. He’ll have to be careful on the cobbles until he shakes off this fatigue. He would like to have stayed in bed, but he simply could not remain any longer in the room with Élisabeth.

  Hearing himself sigh, Thomas picks up the pace. Once more he will look to his legs to put him right.

  The dark shine on the cobbles says it rained overnight. But no, that’s not right. He can see from the rooftops still in shadow that the sheen on the stones in front of him is a thin frost that has melted away. It’s simply a slow November morn. The sun is taking its time climbing the sky.

  Most people still have their shutters closed. As Thomas makes the turn at the corner he reaches out to touch the line of mortar between the sunlit stones of the two-storey house. He hears someone a floor above opening the faded blue shutters. How could they not? The light this morning is the colour of butter and so filled with promise.

  To shake off the torpor Thomas decides to follow the streets of Bath on a gradual upward tack, taking in some of the sights. It was dark when the coach arrived and then they had had to hurry, but only as far as the square. With the sun on its climb, and feeling restless, he will walk about.

  Walking along the narrow streets with the houses yawning upwards, Thomas is reminded of the town where he was born. Vire too is a town resting upon a hill with a river running through the bottom of the vale. It too has gates and is surrounded by walls, as are all the old towns built across Europe in long ago and darker times. So how is it this place is supposed to be new, which is what Gallatin and many others boast? Where is its innovative, striking architecture? All Thomas has so far seen of Bath looks old.

  The stone and half-timber construction on this street rises to about the same three-storey height and the same twelve or so pieds across one finds in all small towns. The gate the coach passed under last night looked ancient, though Thomas has to admit the statues adorning it were interesting. The innkeeper says there are four gates in total, linked by connecting walls, which follow an old Roman trace. By that account, Bath is simply one more old, outdated place. Yet that is not what everyone is saying, so Thomas is keen to discover what it is they are all talking about. There must be another, newer Bath somewhere away from this confining street.

  The air has taklen on a sooty grit, which makes Thomas look up. Yes, people are beginning to warm their hearths as they start their day. Alas, as in London, he can taste that Bath burns coal. How much Thomas would prefer to take in a whiff of wood smoke instead of the sulphurous bite that comes from coal. He hopes that as he moves to higher ground he will leave the haze and smoke behind. As well as fresher air, the prospect of the town and its river should be pleasant from the hills above.

  “Well, look who it is.”

  Thomas feels the clasp of a hand on his shoulder and spins round.

  “Gallatin. You caught me by surprise.”

  “So I see. Sorry, friend. I too am out for an early stroll.”

  “It seems we have the streets to ourselves.” Thomas points at a grey cat slinking along the edge of the street. “Or near enough.”

  Gallatin smiles. “Too early in the day to wear your new royal blue?”

  Thomas gives him a narrowed look. “You saw me at the fire last night?”

  “No, but I bumped into Cleland in the square. I asked where you were, and he said you had scampered off. Then he told me to tease you about your new blue clothes. According to him, you are sensitive about the hue.”

  Thomas hunches his shoulders. “Not really.”

  “Good to hear it, Pichon. I wondered if Cleland was putting me on.”

  “Remember Jean, in England I’m Tyrell. Pichon was for France.”

  Gallatin’s eyes roll. “You know, Thomas, you’re not that— Oh, never mind.”

  “Not that important?” Thomas halts and reaches out to stop Gallatin from taking another step.

  “I didn’t say that … but it is the truth. You’re a tutor and a seller of cloth. No one cares what name you use.”

  “Am I not good enough to walk beside a bookseller and an inkie?”

  Thomas locks onto Gallatin’s gaze as if he is cross. But then he is not sure which of them smiles first. Laughter spreads from their eyes across their cheeks.

  “Oh, Jean, I am more than a little tired. I did not have a good night.” Because I was kept awake answering endless questions about my previous relationship with your wife, he does not say.

  “I’m going up into the hills to stretch my legs. Take in the prospect of the town. Will you come along?”

  “An ambitious climb. No, Hélène and I are going to take the waters. She wants to get there between six and seven, before the full crowd descends.”

  Thomas gives his friend an understanding face. “Hot and sulphurous, I hear. Like what the priests used to warn us about Hell.”

  “That’s true, isn’t it? Oh well, it’s all the rage. Bath’s waters simply must be taken. We’re hoping that for Hélène it does what’s needed.”

  “Well, good luck.” Thomas examines the earnestness on his friend’s face and recalls what Hélène whispered in his ear. No, he decides, he does not wish to take her away from this man. Their lives, as they are, are complicated enough. “I mean that. Good luck to you both.”

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  Have Jean’s eyes become wet? Thomas looks away. He spins round, arms out. “I don’t know exactly where the Roman bath is located, but I imagine you’re looking forward to dipping in the same pool the ancients used.”

  “I am, you know.” Gallatin looks embarrassed to admit it. “Aquae Sulis.”

  “I recall.”

  “Look, Thomas, I still have a bit of time. I could show you the new Bath if you like.”

  “I do like.”

  “It’s called Queen Square. After the late Queen Anne, who—”

  “Yes, I know. Lead on, Cicero.”

  Gallatin gives Thomas a broad smile. “I was there last evening and saw it under torchlight. Beau Nash took a few of us on a tour and—”

  “Was that the famous man himself speaking to you beside the fire last night? Large hat, equally large wrinkled face?”

  Gallatin winces. “Nash is transforming the place, you know.”

  “The man with all the rules. Politeness reigns.”

  “Mock if you wish, but his rules are having their effect. Polite society is— Well, it’s becoming just that.”

  “Who knew it was so easy to change the world?”

  “Listen, rules are what people need. Some among us are not by our nature good. A society needs controls. They lift us up.”

  Thomas keeps from smiling, but he knows his eyes are aglow. “Does that mean there is
a role for religion too?”

  Gallatin raises his gaze momentarily to the sky. “I know what I used to say. I was young. Some faiths, it turns out, are not all bad. Truth be told, a few do good.”

  Thomas’s smile can no longer be contained.

  “All right, I’ve mellowed, I admit. Blame it on Hélène, if you want. She is an influence.”

  Thomas turns away as he clenches his lips. Is that not succinct? Thomas knows first-hand how influential Hélène can be. Yet to turn the anti-religionist Gallatin into an apologist for churches – that is no mean accomplishment even for her.

  “We’re in prime Bath season, did you know?” Gallatin gives Thomas a quizzical look.

  “I did not.”

  “From October until June.”

  “I’ll have to write that down.”

  Gallatin does not react to Thomas’s sarcasm. Instead, he waves a hand up the hill. “Queen Square is up ahead.” His eyes are as cheerful as his voice. “They’re doing quite a job with this town, aren’t they?”

  “So everyone says. Who might they be?” Thomas asks.

  “Nash, of course, and on the building side, John Wood and Ralph Allen.”

  “I don’t know the latter names.”

  “The architect and the builder of the new projects.”

  Thomas cranes to take in the buildings as they walk past. The look of the buildings on the street where Gallatin is taking him is nothing like the old medieval structures where The Bell is situated. The houses are newly built and all of stone, a golden-coloured stone that seems to glow in the morning light. How much more appealing Thomas finds it than the older part of town, or for that matter the bricks that are used in construction all over London.

  “Run-down, sooty, dowdy, that’s how Bath was before,” Gallatin continues on. “Hélène was very impressed last night.”

  “Was she?” Thomas is careful not to smirk.

  All at once he finds himself not thinking about what his friend is imparting about the spa town and how people are choosing to finish their interiors, but rather on how much he gave away last night to Élisabeth about his previous relationship with Hélène.