Crossings, A Thomas Pichon Novel Page 8

  Thomas feels his chest tighten at that. Yes, he wishes the world could be so easily improved, but he has his doubts. Surfaces are just that; faces can be masks. So he feels obligated to take on the task of wandering around the room and listening in. Surely not everyone is as delighted as they pretend to be, watching the contented chat and the dancers go through routine steps.

  “Yes, you’re right, it is my third mill,” says a stocky man with a ruddy face.

  There is great pride in his voice. He’s speaking with a thin chap who is leaning in to catch every word. Thomas supposes it’s envy he sees in the listener’s eyes. Thomas pretends he has to adjust his wig, and halts to catch what comes next in this conversation.

  “Blockley, this time, and no, I can’t complain. The profits allow me to buy whatever I choose. I’m looking for a place here in Bath, as a matter of fact. To spend at least a part of the season here.”

  Thomas cannot hear what the thin man says, but there’s no mistaking the stocky man’s reply: “Yes, I have earned it, you’re right.”

  Thomas begins to move again. What wealthy man does not think exactly that, that he has earned his standing in the world, just as the poor are supposed to grudgingly accept their lot? There is a relationship between the two. For the few to be rich, a great many must be poor. It’s the equation of life. Inequality is nature’s way. Predators and prey.

  “I’d prefer something simpler, wouldn’t you?” Thomas hears an elderly lady whisper to a young woman, clearly her servant. The latter has an arm round the matron to help her stay upright. “There’s too much sound, too much noise in the way they play. It runs together in my ears.”

  The young one curtsies but does not let go. “Yes, Ma’am,” she says.

  Thomas nods approvingly. Though he likes the music, especially how its pattern of notes climb and fall then climb again, he understands the old lady’s complaint. The old of this world are bewildered by too much sight and sound. His wife, Marguerite, had touches of that. He supposes it will happen to him one day, should he live long enough. Long enough? How long is that? Is it not the way of things to want more, especially months and years? He admits he does. He’s had thirty-four so far, and he hopes for a like number to come. Only with more standing, comfort and ease than he’s had so far.

  Thomas veers toward two men whose fierce expressions, now that he spies them, stand out. They are so very serious when everyone else is light.

  “A damnable thing,” says the man dressed in brown.

  Thomas sees it is a coat of finely napped wool. The man is speaking to a fellow who is wearing a less expensive grey coat. The latter has worry lines engraved upon his brow.

  “But clever, just the same.”

  “Clever? What does clever have to do with it? It’s ruining the way things work. There’s not a weaver in Colchester who wants it. Nor any spinner. We’ve petitioned the King to stop Kay from making them. Not that that’ll do any good.”

  The fly-shuttle is Thomas’s guess. He’s heard about it. Yes, the man is right. Change is not welcome, not if you’re on the losing side.

  He glances up ahead, back to where his tour of the room began. He sees John Cleland and Fanny are no longer standing with Élisabeth. She is still there, studying those out on the dance floor, but where the other two might have gone he will not guess. He only hopes Cleland isn’t doing anything that will tarnish his own name because of his association with the Englishman. Thomas is beginning to think Gallatin is right. Cleland has a shady side – maybe slippery is the better word. He needs to be careful about that.

  It is remarkable that Élisabeth can be sufficiently pleased to simply stand and watch the dancers on the floor. Wait. There is no woman anywhere who prefers to watch rather than dance herself. It’s how they’re built. Young or old, thick or thin, they love to measure their steps to the music’s beat. And so, on occasion, does he. Sometimes Marguerite would hum a tune in the salon, and they would prance around as if they were somewhere grand. They’d laugh when the servants came into the salon and caught them dancing, not a musician in sight.

  Thomas’s gaze swings to three girls dressed in pastel shades. They are giggling at something seen or heard. He cannot recall ever being like that, not even when he was a lad.

  Back his regard goes to Élisabeth. She does look very pretty tonight, and it’s not just her clothes. It is the intelligence in her eyes and the lovely features of her face. Maybe Gallatin is right. Maybe Thomas should lock things up with her. She is good for him, good in every way save one. A marriage to her would not bring him any more elevated standing in the world.

  Thomas sways slightly where he stands. He dare not be precipitous. He’ll have to think on this awhile. But in the meantime, Élisabeth deserves better than he has shown her so far this evening. She should be out on the dance floor. He will ask her to join him for the next set.

  “There you are.”

  Thomas swings round. It’s Cleland. He has a frazzled look and is in a state of undress. No, not undressed, but his coat, it is inside out. Fanny is in tow, both hands clutching John’s elbow, a pleading expression on her face.

  “Cleland,” Thomas whispers, “why are you … like that?” He points at the coat.

  The Englishman looks down at his chest and sleeves. “Oh, that,” he says with a shrug.

  “It’s reversed for good luck,” Fanny says. Her expression asks how Thomas could not know that.

  Thomas looks Cleland up and down. “The card room?” He shakes his head.

  Cleland takes hold of Thomas’s elbow. “Things have not begun well, true enough. But—”

  “But they will,” Fanny interrupts. Her eyes dare Thomas to say otherwise. “There was a pasty man who brought bad luck. Smelled like a turnip. But he just left.”

  Thomas controls his breathing. He does not think he shows his weary sigh. “Alors? How much?”

  Cleland increases the pressure on his elbow. “Enough to keep me going until there’s a turn in the tide.”

  “A turn in the tide,” Fanny echoes.

  “You understand we have yet another day here,” Thomas says. He does not regret the disapproval he is likely showing on his tightened lips.

  “Rest easy, Tyrell. I shall bring back double whatever you give me.” Cleland’s hand is out.

  Thomas hears the air issue from his nose. “It is a loan, not a gift.” He makes sure John Cleland sees the seriousness in his eyes. Only then does he reach inside his bright blue coat and pull out his leather pouch.

  Élisabeth watches the exchange with Cleland, but turns away before Thomas might be inclined to glance her way. When Thomas comes to stand by her side a moment later she pretends she is surprised. “Oh, you’re back. How was your stroll around the room?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  She cannot resist. “Someone asked for money perchance?”

  Thomas squints at her then snorts. “You saw him?”

  “I did.”

  Thomas shrugs. Élisabeth does the same, miming him in an attempt to draw a laugh.

  Thomas does yield a smile. “Listen,” he begins, “I was wondering if—” He takes her hand in his.

  “Je t’écoute.” Élisabeth was not expecting this. Is he about to ask her to dance?

  Whatever words Thomas had in mind seem to be suddenly lost to him. His conversation and his attention loft elsewhere. Élisabeth pivots to see what it can be. Two women across the way. One wears a rose-coloured dress and the other a gentle green. Pretty, yes, and with the poise and posture of those comfortably at ease. Élisabeth swings back to study Thomas’s face. He is clearly intrigued by those two, whoever they are.

  “Friends of yours?”

  Thomas returns to meet her gaze. “Those two? No, no. Well, they were up on the hillside this morning.” His eyes go again to the unknown women. His voice becomes a mumble. “Don’t know who
…” Back to Élisabeth he swivels. “They spoke to me in French,” he says with bright eyes.

  “Incroyable,” she says with a straight face.

  Thomas blinks. Then it sinks in and he shows her an embarrassed shrug. Élisabeth accepts it as an apology of sorts. She will not mime him this time.

  While Élisabeth waits for Thomas’s thoughts to gather again – and go back to where they were when it looked like he was about to ask her to dance – she glances toward the entrance to the ballroom. People are still squeezing in, every shape and size. What was Cleland’s quip? Something about “the vulgar and the great” being side by side. Well, she knows on which side of that equation she belongs, in the eyes of the aristocrats. Nonetheless, church mouse though she is, she is enjoying herself. And part of it is seeing the many dresses, shoes and jewels she will never be able to afford or even try on.

  She cannot help but wonder how long it will be before the ballroom begins to stink, no matter that all the scents people have used to douse their skin and clothes. Were everyone in front of her dressed in rags, like the poor, the ballroom would be said to contain a mob. But with everyone in finery, no shouts or fists, no anger in any eyes, it’s called an assembly of quality. It makes her shake her head.

  Women seem to outnumber men, but that’s only because their dresses shimmer and tremble to catch the eye. The men’s outfits take up less volume and cover a smaller spectrum of the colour band. Besides, all that matters to most men – all except her beloved father – is that the world take notice of their success, nothing more than that. They dress more to impress than to enjoy.

  Most women in the room appear to be wives, or aspiring to join that privileged club. A few, of course, a lucky few, could be widows. But you have to go through a marriage to get to that blissful state. Some women are clearly mothers. Well, maybe not. Perhaps they are chaperones with their girls in tow, girls they are eager – it shows on their faces – to present. Do the girls not look wonderful, so nervously expectant in their pastel stripes and flower designs?

  “Still here?” Thomas’s eyes are much amused.

  Élisabeth feels her cheeks go warm. “De grâce, Monsieur.” She curtseys to the man.

  “Tiens, are you not sweet?” Thomas says. “The sweetest in this vast, crowded room.”

  “I doubt that,” Élisabeth sighs. “For you know not what I truly think.”

  “No, of course, but I—”

  Before Thomas can find another word he glances at a large woman passing behind Élisabeth. She commands attention because of her billowing, flame-coloured gown. Then, over her shoulder, thirty feet away and coming toward them, is Hélène, with Gallatin trailing behind. Hélène has a most determined look on her face.

  “What’s wrong?” Élisabeth asks.

  “Nothing,” Thomas says, but he knows he says it wrong. He apologizes with his eyes then raises a pointing hand. “Here come your bookshop friends.”

  Hélène slows her advance, waits for Gallatin to catch up. She wants him by her side as is correct. She had worried Thomas and Élisabeth might have gone to the other Assembly Room, the one higher up on the hill. But no, here they are, standing together like friends or lovers beneath a flickering candelabra.

  “Hello and bonsoir.” She embraces Élisabeth.

  “You must be tired.” Élisabeth’s eyes display concern. “Such a long day you’ve had. The hot water will have worn you down.”

  Hélène waves that concern away. “Thank you. You are kind, but it’s all done. I’ll not go again.”

  “No?” asks Gallatin, surprised.

  Hélène shows him a quick shake of her head, then turns to acknowledge Thomas with a shallow curtsey, nothing more than that. Then it’s back to Élisabeth.

  “We are here for gaiety, are we not? And look at you, my good friend, you are very pretty in lime and cream.”

  “Do you think?” asks Élisabeth. She looks down skeptically at what she has on.

  “To be sure,” reassures Hélène, though the truth is the Swiss’s dress is only linen after all, and not a perfect fit. And her stomacher has no embroidery on it.

  And so conversation begins. The two couples take turns smiling at wit or kind words, or else looking grave when there is a remark that merits such attentiveness. Hélène enjoys bantering with Élisabeth – about the ballroom, the many gowns and the overall circus before their eyes – but she is disappointed she cannot at the same time catch what it is Gallatin and Thomas are talking about. All she can take in is the rhythm of the male voices as they interrupt each other with teasing and the occasional laugh. Rarely do the two separate conversations overlap, though every once in a while, Hélène makes passing eye contact with the men, just to remind them that she is nearby.

  A surge of joy suddenly fills Élisabeth’s chest as she hears the music rise to match the swell of conversation circling round her head. She can only blink and smile. It must be how the religious feel when they experience what they call rapture. She supposes it comes to them in prayer, while for her all it took was to stand and talk with friends. It feels so very good. Where a moment ago she was half wishing herself a widow, now she is filled with the lightness and warmth that comes from having friends.

  “We should dance,” Élisabeth blurts out.

  Three sets of eyes turn her way.

  Hélène places a finger to her lips. “Hmm, dance?” she says, but there is something like laughter in her eyes.

  Élisabeth grins at her. Thomas looks bemused and Gallatin covers his mouth with his hand. Clearly, he has not heard or seen a better joke than the one his wife is acting out.

  Hélène releases a broad grin. “Yes, of course we dance.”

  “Let’s,” says Thomas, taking Élisabeth by the hand.

  It’s a hand she gladly accepts. But then it occurs to her that she pushed Thomas to the limit the other night questioning him about his past relationship with Hélène. It is history, and so time to move on. Élisabeth lets go of Thomas’s hand and directs him toward Hélène. “You two, you start us off,” she says.

  Thomas’s expression is stunned surprise. “Hélène et moi?”

  “Yes. If you show you can dance well enough with Hélène then you get to dance with me.”

  Thomas’s eyes go wider still.

  “A joke.” Élisabeth gives his sleeve a tender tug.

  “So it shall be.” Hélène reaches out and takes Thomas’s hand. “Come on, sir, let’s see if you measure up.” She jerks a joking thumb toward Élisabeth. “And Jean,” she commands Gallatin, “the Swiss will teach you a few steps.”

  Hélène winks at Élisabeth. “We have our work cut out, do we not? Hurry, let’s join the fresh set.”

  Hélène knows crossing herself would be too much, especially in a crowd of Protestants. So she merely glances up to the candelabra burning bright. Thank you, God. She had wanted a quiet word with Thomas, but was uncertain how that could be done. Yet here is her opportunity, a gift from none other than Élisabeth. The woman’s suspicions have clearly passed. It has to be a sign that what Hélène is going to say to Thomas is Heaven-blessed.

  Thomas does not try to figure out how it is that he is out on the ballroom floor with Hélène and not Élisabeth. There are some things women do that defy the logic that is inside his head. It is what makes them so intriguing.

  As he begins to follow the routine steps, with Hélène’s upraised right hand held lightly in his left, he makes a point to try and catch swirling Élisabeth’s gaze. She is partnered with Gallatin in the adjacent circle of dancers. She is not, however, looking his way. All he can see is the flash of her smile as she promenades and twirls.

  And so Thomas turns to face Hélène. Their hands go up, their hands go down, all in concert with the music and the movements of everyone else. As stately as can be, they move through the steps, coming together only fleetingly. The firs
t encounter comes and goes. Hélène says not a word, yet it seems to Thomas that she is holding something back. Not until the promenade does she speak.

  “Thomas.”

  “Yes.”

  “I need a favour.”

  “A favour?”

  “That’s right.”

  Then the steps of the dance send each of them in a different direction. They make and hold eye contact as they move around the circle. If he is not mistaken, there is apprehension in her eyes. Why would that be? There is no favour he can give. He has no money to lend, nor any position to grant. He is in need of both for himself.

  As the next promenade begins Thomas is sure he picks up a ginger scent. It must be a fragrance Hélène is wearing, wafting to him as she leans close.

  He does not catch what she whispers this time. “Say again,” he says.

  “Cross Bath,” she says, barely louder than before.

  “Cross Bath?”

  “Shhh.”

  His ears fill with the movement and music, the scuff and tap of feet. Whatever does she mean? He does know where it is. He walked by it earlier in the day. But does she not know that it is closed?

  The next promenade he seeks to know what she is talking about. “Hélène, I—”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow what?”

  “At the peep.” Her look is threatening, her do you not understand?

  Thomas wants to stand and demand, yet he cannot. He has to move along. There is the rest of the dance. All he can do is nod that he has heard and understood: Hélène wants him at the Cross Bath at the break of day.

  The bouquet with the ginger notes is strong. If that is a new perfume, Thomas likes it very much.