Crossings, A Thomas Pichon Novel Page 7

  ——

  Sweet, deliciously sweet. Thomas savours the morsel taken in with his first bite. The innkeeper said his buns were good, and Thomas has to agree. Much as he deplores people who eat while they walk, he makes an exception for himself on this day. All his rambling over the past few hours – first in the hills and then up and down the spa town’s twisting streets – have given him an appetite. The bun is half gone by the time he stands in front of the Abbey Church. Yes, there’s the ladder up to Heaven that Cleland told him about. Thomas smiles to the see the angel coming back down to Earth. Well done, little one. Fortunate is he who discovers what he prefers.

  There’s only a small portion of the bun left by the time Thomas comes alongside the stone balustrade that overlooks the King’s Bath. When he was by earlier, there was a horde of bathers down below. The steam rising off the water was a comfort looking on, though the sulphur stink was not. He pops the last bit of the bun into his mouth. The baker called it a Sally Lunn, but it’s a variation on a brioche, is it not? Sometimes he does miss France.

  “Twice in the same day. Hello, Tyrell.”

  It’s Gallatin. He has his back against the stone rail.

  “Hallooo,” Thomas intones, pretending to be an Englishman.

  “Hallooo, you.” Gallatin reluctantly gives up a smile.

  “I apologize again for this morning, Jean. I had a lot on my mind.”

  “Never mind.” Gallatin looks to be himself again.

  “I’ve tramped miles today,” Thomas says. “How about you?”

  “Not as many, I’m sure, but I have explored the town a bit. And now I’m at the bath again. Hélène immersed and did the pump first thing, as I told you. I stay up here. There she is.” Gallatin extends an arm. “With your Élisabeth.”

  “Élisabeth?” Thomas lowers his voice and switches to French. “In the bath? With Hélène?”

  Gallatin replies in French. “Such a worried face. Come see.”

  ——

  “It’s hard to accept …” Hélène glances toward the old niches at the far end of the bath, “to accept that this hot, smelly water is going to …” She swings her gaze back to meet the waiting eyes of Élisabeth.

  Élisabeth nods and stays with English. “It really is. But then ….”

  “It must help to believe,” Hélène says and makes the sign of the cross.

  “I suppose it must.”

  “But you still have to—” Hélène stops when she realizes two women coming through the churning water are near enough to overhear. She leans closer to Élisabeth and switches again to French. “I mean, none of us is the Blessed Virgin, are we now?”

  Élisabeth’s eyes laugh at that. “Well, this place worked for Queen Anne, so.…” She holds up two uncomprehending hands.

  “Except Anne didn’t come here.”

  “But everyone says so. That it was Bath that—”

  “Yes, Bath, but not this hot spring.”

  “There’s another?”

  “There is. The Cross Bath, which is also where the queen of James II went. She had a baby nine months later.”

  “Really? So why are you not in that one?”

  “It’s under repair. Or something. Anyway, it’s closed. Though there’s only a rope. I ducked under to look around.”

  “Is there water?”

  “None.”

  “Well, surely this is as good.” Élisabeth lifts two handfuls of water. “The stinky water must all come from the same source.”

  “That’s what I tell myself.”

  Élisabeth shrugs. “It’ll do the trick.”

  “A trick, yes, that is what I need.”

  “I’m sorry, Hélène, I should have been more careful in my choice of words.”

  Hélène leans forward. “It’s all right. Men have their uses, though I prefer a bed. To this.” She adds a wink.

  Élisabeth does not smile, which surprises Hélène. Is something wrong? As innocently as a child, she asks, “And Thomas? Where is your man today?”

  “He … he’s on a walk.”

  “And taking the waters?”

  “Thomas?”

  Hélène nods.

  “I cannot say.”

  “You cannot say. I see. Well then.”

  “What about Jean?” Élisabeth asks.

  “Oh, he is here.” Hélène turns round to point. “There, at the rail.”

  “The rail?” Élisabeth leans back.

  Hélène watches as the Swiss looks for and finds Gallatin at the rail above. The two of them exchange waves. Then there comes a less enthusiastic second wave from the man standing alongside. He removes his hat and makes a stiff bow. Hélène is more than a little surprised to recognize that it is Thomas at Gallatin’s side.

  “Two good friends, are they not?” Hélène hears Élisabeth say.

  “They are, that they are. As are we, my dear Élisabeth.”

  ——

  “Wonderful, are they not?” Gallatin glances at Thomas.

  “Hélène and Élisabeth? Yes, I guess, though those are not the most fetching clothes, those canvas things. They look more like bales ready to be shipped.”

  “True enough, but I mean who they are. Beautiful and smart. I like seeing them together, talking as friends.”

  Thomas knows he is supposed to agree, but words do not arrive. He forces a smile instead. The truth is, Hélène still unsettles him. He’d prefer it if she would not get too close to Élisabeth, or at least not talk about him.

  “Thomas, I have to tell you I am so happy you came to London with Hélène. She is perfect for me. And,” Gallatin leans closer, “if you don’t mind me saying so, Élisabeth is a good match for you.”

  “You’re especially earnest today, Jean, even for you. So close to midday that you’re feeling faint?”

  “Jest is always your escape, isn’t it? But listen, opportunities for happiness are rare. And our lives do not last as long as we might like. You could do much worse than your Swiss.”

  Thomas studies Gallatin’s face. A few signs of aging, creases round the eyes and a few brown spots on the skin, but other than that Jean is still Jean. Where once he was passionately anti-clerical, now he is passionate about other things. Everything is a lesson to pass on or an example to avoid.

  “Is that the best a person can aspire to, to not do worse than everyone else?” says Thomas. He looks again down into the bath. Hélène and Élisabeth are no longer looking up.

  “You know I do not mean it like that.” Gallatin sounds miffed. “Listen, if you do not want to speak plainly of the nature of your attachment to Élisabeth, that’s fair enough.”

  “It’s still early days.”

  “If you say so, then I suppose it is. Tell me, Thomas, what do you think of women?”

  “You mean in general?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I don’t think anything. The general does not exist. Neither for women nor for men. Nor for anything else.”

  “Yes, of course, you’re right. Yet, still, do you not think there is something special about women, something they all share?”

  Thomas stops himself from rolling his eyes. “And what would that be?”

  Gallatin looks around to make sure no one is too close to listen in. “Don’t laugh, but lately I keep having this thought.”

  Thomas holds out a hand. “And …”

  “That they’re eternal. Women.”

  “Eternal?” Thomas winces. Then the two women with parasols he met up on the hillside path come to mind. The recollection makes him smile. “Maybe you’re right, but you must be careful. A woman might think you are saying she’s old.”

  “No, not old.”

  Thomas dares not shift his gaze away from the intensity of his friend’s eyes until he has explained.


  “What I mean is they are closer to nature. Without them— nothing.” Gallatin shrugs. “They are so different.” His voice becomes a mumble, but it sounds to Thomas like he says, “More important than us.”

  Thomas turns to the sound of a cart rolling by. It carries a full load of furniture heading to or from someone’s house. The faces of the two men pushing the cart are streaming sweat. They must wish they had a horse. Thomas swivels back to Gallatin.

  “True, the female form is the subject of countless paintings and poems.”

  “Of course it is. It’s where life begins and is succoured.” Gallatin claps Thomas on the back. “I hoped you’d agree.”

  Thomas decides it does not matter if he does or does not agree. There is never any point splitting hairs with Gallatin. The man’s intensity cannot be matched. “So,” Thomas says, “if women are eternal, what are we?”

  “Men?”

  Thomas nods.

  Gallatin wrinkles his brow. “I … I don’t know. We’re stronger and we govern. We fight the wars.”

  “Which means women have to be careful. More observant. Smarter.”

  Gallatin gives Thomas a firm nod. “That’s the truth, is it not?” His friend sends out two beseeching hands.

  “We the men, on the other hand,” Thomas announces, “we are ephemeral.”

  Gallatin’s eyes go wide. “We are, aren’t we just? Well said, my friend.”

  Thomas shrugs and looks away. The cartful of furniture is nearly out of sight. He’s not sure why he said what he just did. Except that ephemeral is exactly what he personally has become. He wallows in insignificance. He has had not a single accomplishment since coming to England. Unless you count toiling at selling bolts of fabric and teaching French, history and geography to aristocratic boys with thick skulls, which Thomas does not. His advance is not merely checked, he’s completely fallen off the ladder he was once on. And despite his aspirations as a writer, he still has nothing in print for anyone to read. Ephemeral.

  He breathes in the steam that rises in smoky coils. He hopes its vapours are giving his nostrils a good cleanse. If only they could refresh his humours as well.

  Hélène and Élisabeth are still locked in conversation, though there are signs it could be nearing an end. He doubts either woman sees herself as eternal. Each is far too practical for any foolish talk like that. One is racing the clock to be with child while the other … the other…. Thomas peers down into the steaming pool. He has no idea what Élisabeth thinks or wants as it concerns a baby. Does she, like Hélène, want a child? Is he the father she would choose?

  “I should go,” Thomas announces.

  Gallatin blinks at him. “Go? But Élisabeth—”

  “No, the legs must move.”

  “Later at the Assembly Rooms? Hélène and I are going to the lower of the two. We would like to see you there, you and Élisabeth.”

  Thomas is not sure if he smiles or not, but he sends Gallatin a nod. Is it not striking that all those who are married want everyone else to be as well? Is that to raise others up, or to bring them down?

  As he swings away and picks up the pace, Thomas’s thoughts are about his Swiss. Élisabeth Cauvin is a good match, yes she is. Yet he resents Gallatin trying manoeuvre him into a marriage with her. Such a step has many angles to consider, which requires time. For the time being, he prefers being answerable to only himself.

  ——

  “What it is to be a man, I suppose.” Hélène places her large hat upon her head. She folds up the brim so she can see Élisabeth. “Are you and Thomas coming to the Rooms this evening?”

  “I think so, but we are travelling with John Cleland and Fanny, you know.”

  Hélène cannot stop the frown. “Jean does not warm to Monsieur Cleland, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes.” Élisabeth exhales. “I have heard.”

  “Well, the less said. I have to go. The pump awaits.”

  “You are an example, Hélène, you really are.”

  “First brave, now an example. You’ll turn my head.”

  Élisabeth leans forward to meet Hélène half-way. The embrace is quickly done. “I hope you get the result you want,” says Élisabeth.

  Hélène looks into her friend’s hazel eyes. The worry that was there before is gone, replaced by sincerity. “You’re very kind, Élisabeth.”

  As Hélène climbs the steps of the slip, heading for the small room where she will sit with the hottest water streaming down, she turns back to wave one more time at the woman she works with, the woman who works for her and Jean. The Swiss, however, has her eyes closed. She is back down in the water up to her chin, as she was when Hélène came upon her a while ago. The sight of an unseeing Élisabeth brings a flicker of something pul-sing behind Hélène’s eyes. Whatever it is does not take shape. It does not come into words.

  She pads lightly toward the small, subterranean room. It’s time to put on the slippers and the flannel garment with the great sleeves. The pump awaits. Through the doorway into the small room she goes. There is the rack where the large-sleeved garments hang, the slippers placed in pairs on the stone floor below. It is reassuring that there is an order to things. Hélène slides her feet into the slippers and puts on the flannel shift.

  Yes, an order to things. Things wanted and things obtained. Though a child is hardly a thing. It’s a gift, a precious gift her husband wants more than anything. She has ingested red raspberry and red clover for months, and even paid for a packet of chasteberries the herbalist assured her could not fail. Though fail they did. She insists Gallatin do his duty on the days she is supposed to be most fertile, but still, there is no result. Her monthlies keep coming without fail. So, she wonders as she waits for her turn beneath the hot flow, maybe it should be Gallatin, not her, going under the burning pump?

  V

  Favour

  Bath – November 1734

  Thomas and John Cleland exchange grins. No sooner have Élisabeth and Fanny entered the outer portion of the Assembly Rooms, in the building overlooking the Parade Gardens, but their excited chatter comes to a halt. Their footsteps too. It is the sight through the wide-open double doors of men and women sauntering in and out, dressed to the hilt and presenting expressions that suggest the eyes of the world deserve to be on them. It can only be the ballroom.

  “What say you, that we forget about this?” Cleland sends Thomas a wink.

  “You are right. We have seen it now. We do not have to go in,” Thomas says, not far from Élisabeth’s ear.

  Fanny sends each man a daggered look. Élisabeth purses her lips. “Only trying to get our goat, Fanny. Ignore them.”

  “Well then.” Thomas places a gentle hand underneath Élisabeth’s elbow. “If we are indeed to go in, would you do me the honour, Madame?”

  Élisabeth raises her chin to look off nobly to some imagined distance. “We shall.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Cleland turns to Fanny and holds up a crooked arm. “And I should like the honour of entering with the prettiest of all. You’ll be the one to bring me luck.”

  Fanny takes the proffered arm, and bestows on Cleland a radiant smile.

  The flicker of candles makes the ballroom tremble with burnished light. The wavering glow comes not only from the four large chandeliers overhead but also from the sconces on the walls. Then the mirrors join in. The gilded light quivers to the rise and fall of the music, and to the hum of what must be a hundred excited conversations.

  Élisabeth glances at the pocket of musicians in the near corner. The four men playing the stringed instruments are working their bows like there is nothing else of importance in the world. Their eyes do not leave their music sheets while their bow hands sweep back and forth. The harpsichordist, however, he who is providing the deep continuo for the rest, is looking anywhere but at the keys. He finds Élisabeth looking his way and gives her a
conspiratorial wink. She returns a smile, but then realizes what she has done. She quickly shifts her gaze. Over to the man she entered the ballroom with a quarter hour ago. Thomas is slowly making his way around the perimeter.

  He is easy to find in his queen’s blue coat and matching breeches. It’s funny that a man who prefers secrecy to almost anything else should chose such a colour for this trip. He must be hoping to be seen, to be noticed by someone who might have the power to change the course of his life. Because Thomas is clearly not content with being a shop clerk, nor a part-time tutor. The higher rungs of the ladder call out to him. She knows him.

  She has to smile at the blank expression Thomas puts upon his face as he strolls around the ballroom. It is his way of pretending he is not paying attention to what he hears as he strolls by, when that’s exactly what he is about.

  Leaving Thomas to his game, Élisabeth scans the rest of the room. Beside the talk and above the music – no, that would be beneath, not above – she distinguishes the tap, slide and scuff of the few dozen pairs of shoes out on the central portion of the ballroom floor. Prancing and weaving, precision in their movements, the dancers move like kings and queens. From two long lines they separate into couples with raised hands. Once around in a pirouette then each peels off, until he or she finds the other again, this time for the promenade. None on the dance floor gives anything away by their facial expressions. No, there are a few couples exchanging sweet words when they come fleetingly into each other’s grasp. Or else they trade knowing glances with smiles upon their lips. Would that she had someone like that with whom she could share a bond.

  To the floor her gaze drops. She cannot imagine Thomas Tyrell, as good as he has been to her, ever taking her out onto this or any other dance floor. Nor ever whispering something in her ear to make her laugh or smile. It is not his way.

  Thomas does not think he has ever seen so much contentment in one room. Everyone standing or moving around the grand hall and the small rooms off it carries a self-satisfied face. It’s as if the Assembly Rooms exist not just as a place to display one’s finest clothes, comportment and gait, which is obvious, but also to show how pleased one is. Keen to be exactly where and who they are. Can it be that the new rules for polite society, for which Gallatin has announced his approval, really do banish anger, disappointment and envy from the world?