Will Thomas - To Kingdom Come

She looked up at me sharply. “And what is that, I’d like to know, Thomas Penrith?”

“To buy you the prettiest dress in all Paris.”

We whiled away our hours aboard ship promenading on the deck and staring out over the ocean at the English coast. Maire had never seen the sea from aboard ship before. Luckily, neither of us suffered from seasickness. I demonstrated my utter lack of skill at deck games, and she beat me three games in a row. In one of the salons, we wrote cards to everyone back home, which would be posted on arrival in Calais. The real van Rhyn would have called us bourgeois or the idle rich. Rich we were, and none of it ours. I’d had a peep into the envelope. There was enough to show the girl a holiday she would never forget.

After dinner, a band played in the dining room, and I convinced her to dance. There was no impropriety in our dancing, being newlyweds, of course. In fact, the crew and passengers insisted. Everyone was quite sentimental over the handsome young couple, their futures ahead of them. One could have fit Barker into the space between us-or Willie, at least-but I still felt her hand in mine and the whalebone corset around her slender waist. We were both thinking the same thing. There was a key to our cabin in my pocket, and that cabin had but one bed.

When we finally left, there was a cunning look on the faces of everyone turned our way. It was our first night as a married couple. Everyone knew what was expected of us. But there’d been no wedding and I had promised several people, including my employer, that what was expected of us would not come to pass.

Once back in our room, I changed quickly into my nightshirt and set up a rude pallet on the floor, while Maire changed discreetly behind a screen. While she was going to sleep in a soft bed with Irish lace and linens and a gold-encrusted headboard, I would spend the night on the floor, with nothing but a blanket and pillow to keep me company. It reminded me in no small way of Barker’s Persian rug and his heavy volume of Shakespeare.

Maire came out wearing a white, frothy new nightgown, of which no Catholic sister in Dublin could accuse of impropriety. It came up to her throat and down to her wrists and ankles. There were yards and yards of it, in folds, in pleats. It was in two layers, an outer, lacy mantle with a large ribbon and an inner confection made of silk. She was completely covered, so why was my heart racing?

She looked at me as if I were a Bengal tiger, and she a goat which had just been brought out and tethered. I heard her naked little feet pad across to the bed, and she climbed under the sheets, covering herself quickly. There was at least a year’s output of Irish linen and lace in this one bed, all as white and virginal as a bride’s wedding gown.

“Good night,” she murmured.

“Good night,” I responded, turning down the gas. With a sigh, I sank down onto that hard floor to spend the night listening to her breathing and idly tracing the pattern on the ceiling with my eyes.

The next morning, I awoke as if the memory of every wound, bruise, scrape, and cut I’d ever incurred had all come back to haunt me. I loosed my limbs from the fetal position and rose to my feet, every bone and tissue protesting. My eyes strayed to the bed. It was empty. Where had she gone?

Maire stepped from behind the screen. She was dressed in an outfit of many shades of green. It set off the russet of her hair. Until yesterday, I had seen her in nothing but black and white, like a maidservant. I couldn’t help but pull my blanket up about me and to bow, formally, in my nightclothes.

“I trust you slept well, Mrs. Beaton,” I said.

She bobbed a curtsy to me gravely. “Mr. Beaton.”

“If you wish, you may go to the dining room. I shall be down directly.”

“Indeed, I must not,” she said, looking uncomfortable. “I shall wait for you, if I may.”

What was that about? I wondered. I needed a cup of coffee before my mind could cogitate. I nodded agreement and went behind the screen myself. Choosing a suit, I dressed rather self-consciously, knowing she was in the room. What had happened? Did I snore or thrash about in my sleep? On further reflection, had she believed it all a mistake? I finished tying my four-in-hand and stepped out from behind the screen. Maire O’Casey was reclining on the edge of the bed, which I noted she had made. A hand was across her brow, and I thought I saw a frown upon her features. Perhaps she had awoken with a headache.

“Shall we go and break our fast?” I asked.

“Thomas, I would prefer to spend the rest of the journey in our cabin.”

“Of course. Are you unwell?”

“No, I feel fine. I simply can’t face the horrid people in the dining room.”

“Horrid?” I asked. “I don’t know what you mean. They seemed agreeable enough.”

“Yes, but can you not see? Today, if I sat with them, they would know.”

It took me a few moments to puzzle it out. Presumably, she had left their company the evening before an innocent maiden but was now numbered the newest of married women. She would not sit at table, knowing that all the passengers’ thoughts would be on the night before, noticing and interpreting her every word and expression.

“Oh, I see,” I said solemnly, though I was inclined to laugh at her sensitivity. “Shall I go down, then, and see that something is brought up for us both?”

“Good heavens, no!” she cried. “They will think us the worst of libertines. No, you must go and eat and offer my apologies. Have a servant send food to the cabin. Just anything will do.”

I did as she requested, and found she was correct. After I sat down, all asked after my new bride. My statement that she was under the weather elicited smiles from most of the table, and a few women offered to see to her, which, of course, I declined. I saw that food was taken up to her and tried to enjoy my meal in peace. Some even commented on my haggard appearance. Honestly, I had no idea the fun others had at a new couple’s expense.

We arrived safely in port at Calais around noon and transferred to the Paris train. Finding no empty compartments, we deliberately joined one full of people we hadn’t met on the Hibernia. Secure in our anonymity, we made our way into the heart of France.

Late that afternoon, our train arrived in the Gare du Nord. On the cabman’s recommendation, we stayed at the Hotel Beaurivage in the rue Mozart. The staff treated us well, recognizing by our awkwardness that we were newlyweds. In the dining room, after we were settled in, we were presented with a complimentary bottle of Dom Perignon with our meal. It was Maire’s first taste of champagne. She liked it but would only permit herself a few sips.

Aside from the bed, our room boasted a fine chaise longue. Thankful to have it instead of the floor, I turned it into a temporary bed. We performed our necessary ablutions with less nervousness than the night before. Exhausted by travel, we fell into our respective beds and slumbered heavily.

The next day, I was awakened by the sounds of Paris, as if it were right in my room. Swallows twittered, vehicles bowled by, people cried out greetings in their Gallic way. I put up my head. Maire was already dressed and was on the balcony. She was looking at the sights before her with an air of suppressed excitement. It was her first morning in Paris and she didn’t wish to waste a minute of it.

I made a show of reluctance getting out of bed, but I wanted to indulge her. We had coffee and fresh rolls in the dining room, then I hired a fiacre to give us a tour. Over the next hour or so we made a wide circle around the city, getting our first glimpses of places I’d only read about in novels: the Palais Royal, the cathedral of Notre-Dame, and the Champs Elysees. Afterward, we went to the Louvre, where we spent several hours admiring paintings and statuary from ancient Greek times and the latest French masterpieces. So absorbed were we that for the afternoon, I forgot we were there to do anything but sightsee. It was difficult for me to stop indulging the girl, but I finally pushed her into a dress shop on the boulevard de le Madeleine and retrieved my list. Barker, whom I believe knew Paris almost as well as London, had given me the names of several manufacturers and merchants of explosive materials.