VI
Arrival
Gravesend & the Thames
November 1731
But for the slender swaths of purple and yellow along the bottom of the sky, it is nearly full-on night.
Thomas squints to watch La Barbe fasten the boat to the wharf. He hears waves sloshing against the side of the boat. He hasn’t vomited in a few hours, but it takes all his energy to just keep his eyes open. He looks down at Hélène, wrapped in her blanket with her head on his lap. Eyes closed, breathing peacefully.
Thomas turns back to La Barbe. He’s speaking with a skinny little man wearing baggy clothes and a simpleton’s grin. The skinny man quickly drops his grin. He points with repeated jerks of his hand at a cluster of buildings not far from the quay. Oh, how Thomas hopes the talk is about somewhere to stay. An inn with a roaring fire, then a room with a bed. Even a paillasse in a storage room would be good enough. He casts his eyes upward to implore the darkness overhead to make it come true.
“We there?” It’s Hélène. She stirs and sits up.
“We are.”
She shimmies her shoulders to get free of the blankets. Her clothes are a mess, stained in various places. Her hair and her face look like she’s been through a terrible ordeal.
Thomas unwraps his own blanket and confirms that he’s in about the same state. It’ll be no easy chore to get the stains off his clothes. He is the first to get to his feet. His knees and legs are wobbly for not having been stood upon in hours. And then there’s the motion of the boat, even though it’s tied to the wharf. He decides to sit on the rail before he extends his arms to help Hélène stand. She leans on him. He grabs her around the waist to make sure she doesn’t fall.
“We made it.” Hélène gives Thomas a hug. “Thanks.”
Thomas helps her step from the rail of the boat onto the wharf. Then he does the same. He stomps on the wharf boards. How good it is to be back on something solid.
Hélène smiles at his stomping. “Who knew how good this would be. Dear Seigneur,” she crosses herself, “please don’t let me ever again be in any boat.”
“Well, Hélène,” says Thomas, speaking in English, and loud enough for anyone on the shore to hear how well he speaks this second tongue, “we need of a room.”
“Good night,” says Hélène, smiling. “Hello.”
“Par ici,” comes a shout in French from down the wharf.
It’s La Barbe. The expression on his large hairy face is that of someone who will be glad to see the end of a long day.
“That little Englishman,” says La Barbe in French, pointing at the skinny man in baggy clothes, “he says there’s a coaching inn. Over there.” La Barbe points at the cluster of wooden buildings alongside the road that leads up from the wharf. “But first, we have to go to their customs. Sign their papers. It must be done. It’s the same on our side of the Manche.”
Thomas nods.
“Et Londres? How to go there?” asks Hélène, wanting to try out her English.
La Barbe looks at her like she might be thick. He makes no effort to use the language of England. “Like I said in the boat. Coaches leave from the inn or there’s the long ferry. Either way, nothing until tomorrow.”
“The coach it is,” says Hélène, sticking with English.
“No more boats,” Thomas adds.
La Barbe shrugs. “Highwaymen,” is all he says.
Thomas switches back to French. “We do not want to get sick in any more boats.”
La Barbe laughs. “You might. But the long ferry is much bigger than my boat. It carries fifty or more. Besides, from here it’s a river, not the sea.”
Thomas sees Hélène’s shoulders sag. They are both resigned to their fate and too tired to decide what happens next. They just want a bed and sleep.
“Here, La Barbe.” Thomas puts his hand in the right pocket of his greatcoat and comes up with a handful of coins. He holds them out. “The final third. Thank you.”
“Yes, thank you,” Hélène says, though she looks like she might cry.
La Barbe takes the coins from Thomas. He doesn’t count them or even give them a glance. He stuffs them in his pocket. “Any time you need to make that crossing, I’m your boat. Now, let’s get to the inn.”
“Mais....” Hélène is pointing at the large rectangular shape, covered with a canvas tarp, in the middle of the boat below where they stand on the wharf.
La Barbe claps his hands and laughs. “Oui, oui.” He looks at Thomas and gestures for the two of them to get back down in the boat.
Thomas tenders a slight bow to Hélène. In French he says, “The day ends as it began, Cousin, with La Barbe and I carrying the trunk. A symmetry, I suppose. You’ll carry our two satchels?”
Hélène curtseys back. “Toss them up. I’m not getting back in that boat.”
La Barbe looks back and forth at the two of them. He shrugs, and steps down into the boat. Thomas does not delay.
—
Thomas knocks on Hélène’s door as lightly as he can. He’s not sure who else might be up at such an early hour. He can hear the seabirds shrieking as they whirl above the port, but that’s it. He taps her door once more. This time he hears footfalls within.
The door opens a crack. A narrow slice of Hélène’s face. She opens the door only a little more, just enough for him to slide in, then she closes it right away.
“What is it?” Hélène cocks her head. Like Thomas, she is wearing only a chemise.
“I just thought maybe....” Thomas reaches to pull her close. He presses his stiffness against her thighs. “I woke up thinking of you.”
Hélène grabs his forearms and pushes him back. She’s shaking her head. “That thing doesn’t think. It just is. Especially at this time of day. Away with you.”
Thomas is not deterred. He pulls her in. “We don’t have to make any noise. No one will know what kind of cousins we are or are not.”
She jerks a thumb to the left. “La Barbe’s room is next door. I doubt he thinks we’re cousins at all.”
“He’s heading back to France. Come on, you enjoy it once we start.”
“No. Take your kindling and go.”
“It’s a log.”
“Go.” She steers Thomas to the door. “We have to be at our best.”
Hélène opens the door and pushes Thomas out. He can hear people stirring down the stairs. There’s a hum of distant conversations. “Half of an hour then?” he asks her in English. “We will go down?”
Hélène gives her agreement with a nod.
He reaches out with both hands to fondle the tips of her breasts through her chemise. With a sigh Hélène allows a bit of that. “Suffit,” she says. She pushes Thomas away and closes the door.
Thomas turns round. There at the top of the narrow wooden stairs is La Barbe. The seaman holds Thomas in his gaze.
“Je— nous—” mumbles Thomas.
La Barbe says not a word. He takes the handle of the door to his room then halts. He turns to face Thomas, and says in French, “Careful. This is not France. Things are different here. The English have some strange ways. Half price is all I would charge to take you back to Calais.”
Thomas hopes his face does not betray too much of what he feels. But is this man crazy? Would he and Hélène get right back into that boat after what happened yesterday? “I think not,” he says in French. “But a safe return to you, La Barbe. And thanks again for yesterday. We were in good hands with you.”
“All right. But mark my words: the English are foreigners, they are.”
Thomas cannot hide his laugh. But he makes a point of smiling kindly at the man’s well-intentioned words. “Of course they are. They’re not us, us the French.” Thomas winks at La Barbe.
La Barbe shrugs and goes into his room.
Within his own room, Thomas’s thou
ghts turn to his friend Gallatin. He has not seen him in five years. Will Gallatin not be surprised to have Thomas arrive in London unannounced? He knows the bookseller will do everything he can to ease the transition into his new London life. And Hélène’s as well, of course. He’s a good friend. Is there anything rarer or more valuable in this world than a friend? Thomas thinks not. And he has two, Gallatin and Hélène. He could not be luckier. Well, he supposes he could. He could find in this new English setting a position like the one he gave up with the magistrate judge. It is not at all clear to him how in London he’ll be able to find something that suits his talents and ambitions. He’d like to think his past experience will count for something. But then, as La Barbe said a moment ago, England is not France. What if being French should turn out to be a liability instead of an asset?
Thomas leans against the bed. Relax, he tells himself. This isn’t Persia or China, with a sultan or an emperor and customs strange to behold. The English have a king – a German king at that – and they have a Parliament to keep their monarch at bay. Thomas likes the idea of that. Gallatin has been trumpeting the English way in politics for a very long time. The bookseller voted with his feet to come live in this land.
“So then, friend,” Thomas says aloud in English to the empty room. He has to smile at how much better he feels today compared to yesterday. He goes over to the trunk containing his and Hélène’s things, except for what she took out last evening. Thomas makes the day’s first decision. He’ll wear the same suit of clothes he wore leaving Paris a few days ago. What could be more appropriate, more symmetrical, than to arrive in the new city dressed as he was when left the old one behind? Yes, London, a world of new opportunity, is but a short distance away.
—
Thomas smells oranges as Hélène leads the way down the narrow stairwell, one creaking step at a time. She must have dabbed on an especially heavy amount of the orange-scented water before leaving her room. Clearly, she wants to start off her life in England in a strong, feminine way. It reminds him to apply some rose water on his own chemise before they leave the inn. His scent is likely sour after all the travel, especially after the bouts of sickness yesterday.
As they turn the corner at the bottom of the stairs Thomas loses Hélène’s orange scent. The new smell is smoke. There’s a haze in the room. Thomas looks first at the fire blazing in the rough stone hearth on the far wall. But the wispy haze is not from there, it’s from the dozen or so men smoking clay pipes. Mariners and merchants is Thomas’s guess, judging by their faces and clothes.
Every head turns their way, though not to Thomas but to Hélène. Aside from the wide-hipped serving woman bringing food to the tables, Hélène is the only woman in sight. And she is certainly not dressed like any servant. In her luxuriant blue dress, Hélène could be a lady entering a salon. Thomas smiles to see her stride just a half step ahead, not so much as glancing around.
“Over there, milady and gentleman.” The large-hipped woman points across the room. “The painters’ table. All there is I’m afraid.”
Hélène looks quizzically at Thomas. He’s sure his face shows the same doubt. A table for painters?
“Go on, go on,” insists the serving woman. “They won’t mind. Cheery types, in fact. The rest of them must still be sleeping it off upstairs. There’s two open chairs.”
Thomas inclines his head at the woman. Though he has not understood every word, he grasps where she wants him and Hélène to sit.
“French I’ll bet,” Thomas hears a gruff voice say as he and Hélène walk by a noisy table.
Thomas takes it as a compliment and makes sure his shoulders are back. He and Hélène thread their way toward two men wearing what Thomas recognizes as floppy painters’ caps. Beyond their table is a window that looks out to the port. Thomas can see gulls wheeling in the air, but he cannot hear the cries over the roar of conversation in the inn.
“Hello. Good morning. Good day.” He’s not sure which greeting is used in the morning so he’s saying all the ones he knows.
The pudgy painter stands up. He looks to be about Thomas’s age. He nods at Thomas, and to Hélène he offers a slight bow.
“Bonjour yourself.” He smiles as if there is a private joke. “I take it you are French. Your accent.”
“You have guessed.” Thomas controls his smile. Learning to speak English may not take too long at all. “You call me Tyrell. Thomas Tyrell.”
He sees Hélène’s eyes go wide. He has not told her he’s decided to go by Tyrell in England. It will protect his real name for when he returns to France. There is no advantage in giving away anything about oneself.
“I am here to master your langage,” Thomas continues.
He sees the painters share a look, then a grin. The standing man turns to Thomas. “Well done so far, Tyrell. I am Hogarth. William Hogarth.”
The painter extends his hand, which Thomas grasps. The two men heartily try to shake the living daylights out of each other’s hand.
“It makes me a pleasure. Thank you.” Thomas withdraws his hand and gestures at Hélène. “Voici ma cousine. She calls herself Hélène. Elle est une veuve. Me, I am veuf. Man with dead wife.”
Hogarth’s expression shifts from amusement to concern as he follows Thomas’s words. “Ah, a widow and a widower. Heavens. So sorry. And both so young.”
He pauses to make a gesture toward his seated friend, the other painter. “May I present my colleague, Samuel Scott.”
Samuel Scott puts down the half slab of bread in his hand and wipes his lips with a handkerchief from his lap. He climbs slowly to his feet. It takes a moment for him to produce something like a smile.
“Of course and by all means. Why don’t you join us, our new French friends?” Scott waves at the empty chairs. “We are travelling with three others, but last night’s excesses are keeping them in their beds.”
Hélène curtseys twice, once to Scott and once to Hogarth.
Hogarth pulls out the empty chair beside his own. He offers it to Hélène. As she sits, Hogarth slides her chair in. “Je vous en prie, Madame.” Hogarth offers a courtier’s bow.
“Un très gentil gentleman,” says Hélène, fluttering her lashes.
Thomas tries not to roll his eyes. He takes his seat between Hélène and the painter called Scott. “You appreciate our need. Thank you.”
But once more he spies the two English painters exchanging a look. Again they wear tiny grins.
“I say mistakes?” Thomas holds out a hand.
“No, no.” William Hogarth’s face is now one of regret. “Your English is far better than our French would ever be. Is that not so, Samuel?”
Samuel Scott is back in his chair, applying with a spoon an orange coloured paste to a slab of bread. “Mais oui,” Scott says.
“My friend is a man of few words at this time of day.”
“Hogarth,” Thomas says softly to himself. “William Hogarth,” he repeats, loud enough for all at the table to hear.
“Oui, Monsieur,” says Hogarth, leaning in, “à votre service.”
“I know your name.” Thomas looks at Hélène to confirm. She hunches her shoulders in return.
“An engraver and a painter of note.” Hogarth winks at Samuel Scott. “Known across the water in France, it seems. That’s something, Samuel, is it not?”
“It is indeed.” Samuel Scott’s brow wrinkles, then he adjusts his floppy hat. “If it’s true, then my name should be known as well. My specialty, sir, Monsieur Tyrell, is maritime scenes. Ships in calm seas, for storms have been overdone. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
“Peut-être,” Thomas says to Scott, but he turns at once to William Hogarth. “But it is your name a friend of mine wrote in his letter. Do you know a Frenchman in London?”
“Many dozen,” Hogarth laughs. “Maybe more. London is filled with the French. More than any other stra
nger group. They say there are forty or fifty thousand. Your friend is one of the Huguenots?”
“Jean Gallatin, un Huguenot? Un croyant et un hérétique? Non.”
“Huguenots are not heretics in this land.” Hogarth stiffens.
“Bien sûr, I am wrong. This is England.” Thomas waves a hand in front of his face. “But you know him? Jean Gallatin? I am confident he write of you.”
“Gallatin? Oh, John Gallatin. A bookshop near St. Paul’s. Of course, I know him. I did a trade card for him not that long ago. Fielding introduced the two of us. Earnest John we call him.”
“Earnest?” Thomas asks.
“A nickname. It means serious, sincere.”
“Ah, sincère. That is him, toujours sincère. He had a store of books back in Paris. Before he London came. To come. Went.” Thomas shakes his head.
Hogarth’s eyebrows go up and down as he tries to follow Thomas’s words. “In any case, yes, I know the fellow. He’s thinking of buying a press to print pamphlets and engravings. To go along with the book selling. Doing all right, he is. But how about that? We’ve just met, Tyrell, and already we have a friend in common.”
“Petit monde, we say in French,” Hélène says to Hogarth. “Small world maybe you say in English?”
“That we do, Madame, we most certainly do.” Hogarth raises his eyebrows at Hélène. Not once but twice. “You came over from Calais?”
Hélène’s expression says it takes her an instant to grasp what the painter has asked. Then she nods. “Yes, it was Calais.” She makes an undulating motion with one hand and with the other pats her belly, while her face presents a grim look.
Hogarth laughs before he offers a sympathetic face. “All depends on the weather, does it not? My wife Jane made that crossing and has sworn ever since she’ll never do it again.”
Thomas sees Hélène’s shoulders slump and her lips go flat at Hogarth’s mention of a wife.
“I think I did not give cousin her entire name.” Thomas speaks first to Scott then looks at Hogarth. “Hélène’s marriage was to dead man Kharlamov. He was Russia.”
The Maze Page 15
