To Kingdom Come (25 page)

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 Elysées. 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.

I went to the first establishment in the area telling myself that it would be best to test the waters. After all, I probably wouldn’t like French prisons any more than English ones, possibly even less. I went in, purchased a handful of blasting caps, presented my papers, and that was it. There were no recriminations or problems.

Having completed my duty of the day, I took Maire back to the hotel, where we changed for the evening. Forgoing the dining room, I took her to the Café Le Procope, the oldest restaurant in Paris, if not the world. After dinner I tried a mixture of coffee and chocolate, which the waiter assured me was the favorite of Voltaire, and Maire indulged herself for once, since the café was justly famous for the invention of vanilla and chocolate ice cream.
I wanted to pinch myself. Nothing like this had happened in my first case working for Barker. I had been nearly murdered several times over. If half, or even a quarter, of the work involved squiring beautiful women about Paris, I could see why so many applicants for the position had been there the day I first came to Barker’s door.

We couldn’t decide what to do next. We’d had too much coffee and ice cream to sit through a long opera or ballet. Neither of us was the sort to desire a visit to the notorious Chat Noir to see its cancan dancers, yet it seemed too early to return to the hotel. We ended up simply walking along the boulevards, arm in arm, eventually making our way along the Seine, that gentle queen of rivers.

“What are those people doing over there?” Maire asked, looking at some people in the shadows.

“I believe they are kissing.”

She stared harder. “You are right. There are several couples kissing.”

“That does not surprise me.” And leaning in, I kissed her for the second time. And the third.

She heaved a great sigh. “I still can’t believe I’m here.”

Arm in arm, we continued along the Seine, enjoying the warm night, the pale quarter moon, and the beauty that is Paris. It was one of the most wonderful nights of my life. Had I known how this adventure would turn out, I would have treasured it all the more.

22

THE NEXT DAY WAS A BUSY ONE FOR ME. WHILE
Maire was out shopping, I had primers to buy, glycerin to obtain, and satchels to purchase. My first stop was an industrial supply company where I obtained thirty fuse caps, a large spool of wire, and numerous other articles necessary for the infernal device–building process. Their purchase required identification, and I was glad of the false papers and business cards they had provided me in Liverpool. Afterward, I had everything sent to the Gare du Nord.

There was a chemical supply store in the rue de la Grande Armée, where I explained that I needed supplies for my company, and there was no better place to get them than Paris. I flashed my business cards and talked explosives with the clerk, whose entire life, both waking and sleeping, seemed devoted to the art of destruction. I was able to procure gallons of glycerin, some fulminate of mercury for the detonation process, and all the other chemicals necessary for the making of infernal devices.

So now I was to build bombs for the Irish Republican Brotherhood, though they were not to be functioning ones.
Barker and I had discussed it. Since Niall Garrity was the only one who knew how to build bombs and he would be in Dublin, we could build inert devices, though all the parts would be there.

“Transportez le paquet à la Gare du Nord, s’il vous plaît,”
I told the clerk.

“Oui, Monsieur Beaton.”

I stepped out into the street. All I needed now was thirty satchels and a like number of timepieces. Oh, and the pistols, of course. Thirty of them, to be used to detonate the bombs. That was going to be tricky.

I met Maire back at the hotel. The room showed evidence that I had not been the only one shopping. There were close to a dozen packages on a table by the window. My pretty companion was trying hard not to smile, which resulted in a dimple in each cheek.

“What have you been up to?”

“Why, nothing,” she said, all innocence. “Whatever do you mean?”

“That money was earmarked for the poor,” I said, wagging a finger at her in imitation of Dunleavy.

“If you’d taken a look in my wardrobe lately, you’d have seen who was poor. All these nice traveling dresses I’ve been wearing I’ve borrowed from friends. I promised I’d bring them back some French lace and gloves. You wouldn’t have me be ungrateful, would you? Besides, if I know Mr. Dunleavy, the money would have gone to his tailor or a drink.”

“Did you buy your dress?” I asked.

She couldn’t help herself. She hopped up and down a time or two and clapped her hands. “I did.”

“Excellent. And I suppose you bought some nice shoes and some perfume and powders and such.”

“Well, if you can go to a chemist, I don’t see why I cannot,” she maintained.

“Of course,” I said. “Are you hungry?”

“Famished. Shopping gives me an appetite.”

After lunch, we took in more sights. We visited the cathedral of Notre-Dame, where Maire went in and prayed. Then we shook our heads in wonder at the beauty of the Jardin des Tuileries and strolled about the gardens.

“I know this is all pretend and we’re not really on our honeymoon, Thomas, but I want you to know I’m having the best time of my life.”

“I am, as well,” I told her.

“I haven’t always had an easy life,” she continued. “It hasn’t turned out the way I could have wished, so far. Certainly, I never expected to be strolling in a French garden with a handsome fellow my own age. It would be too much to hope for. Oh, I’ve made you blush again! You’d make a poor spy, Thomas. All your emotions are on your sleeve!”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked. Had I betrayed myself? As far as I knew, there had been nothing in my conduct that had revealed who I really was.

“I mean you’re as open as a book. You need to spend more time in Paris, among all these suave boulevardiers.”

“Oh, I like that,” I protested. “Thank you very much. And to think I bought you lunch. I wonder how you dare be seen in Paris with an oaf like me.”

She laughed and took my hand. “You’re not an oaf, Thomas. You are a dear. And I shall always cherish this time in Paris with you.”

She kissed me then. For a moment, I felt as if all subterfuge was gone. Names and affiliations did not matter. It was just the two of us.

“Shall we go to the opera tonight?” I queried.

“Oh, yes, let’s!”

I wasn’t prepared for the sight of Maire in her new evening
dress. It was a masterpiece of gold and silver with a bustle, but it showed far more of her neck and bosom than I was comfortable with. She was brave to put it on, but balked at the last minute.

“Is it too much?” she asked, closing a matching mantle over it. “Or rather, too little? The seamstress assured me it was
la mode
this year. Everyone shall be dressing this way.”

“Very well,” I said. “But you must hide that dress from your brother, or he will kill me.”

“Oh, don’t mind Eamon. I’ve got the boy wrapped around my finger.”

“Really? And which finger have you got reserved for me?” I wondered aloud.

I found out after the opera. The performance was
Manon,
a very tragic story. Our eyes were glued to the stage throughout the entire production. She wept openly at the end, and even I had a lump in my throat. We were rather subdued in the carriage ride back to the hotel.

I began preparing the chaise longue for the night while she changed.

“I feel dreadful, your sleeping on this chaise here,” she said.

“I’m used to it.”

She came out from behind the screen, wearing only her nightdress. It was unbuttoned. I saw the gap, the long, thin gap of ivory-colored flesh, all the way to the floor.

“It is very cold in a marriage bed, all alone,” she murmured, her hand stroking my cheek. She pulled me over onto the bed. She was wearing a new French perfume that made my head spin. Her soft lips pressed urgently against my own. I was intoxicated. I could feel my own passion begin to ignite. However, I had been training for months in the production of explosives, and I knew what kind of chemical reaction would happen if things went too far.

“No!” I said, pulling myself away, off the bed.

“What is wrong?” she asked in a low voice. “Have I displeased
you? I only wished to show you how I feel about you.” The latter came out almost petulantly. She pulled the corner of a blanket over her bare limbs.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. My shirt was suddenly damp; my heart was pounding. “I care for you, as well,” I said. “More than you know. But I cannot accept what you … offer. It is not mine to take. It belongs to your future husband.”

“But what if you are my future husband?” she countered, looking me in the eyes.

“Then I should have it after we are married. Not now.”

She slowly pulled the blanket up over her head. I heard her sniff back a tear.

“I’ve been a fool,” she said from inside her makeshift cave. “You must think me terribly wanton. I’ve never done anything like this before in my life.”

“I believe you,” I said. “And I’d never think you a fool.”

“I don’t know what it is about you, Thomas Penrith,” she continued. “You’ve got me thinking the maddest thoughts and doing the wildest things. I’m not like this, you know. I’m a sensible girl.”

“I know. I’ve been thinking the same thoughts about you, Maire.” I brought her hand to my lips and kissed it. She came out from beneath the blanket, which had disheveled her beautiful auburn hair.

“I’ve been seduced by Paris and the pretty clothes and the opera,” she said. “And by you, or at least the thought of you. You aren’t like anyone I’ve ever met.”

“I was worried that Willie might have had a prior claim on you,” I told her.

“Willie,” she said with a sad smile. “Willie is wonderful and handsome and a man of great talent, but he is not a—a lover. You are a lover, Thomas. You smolder.”

Smolder, eh? She said I smoldered. I had the absurd desire to go down to the street and inform passersby that I smoldered. Me,
Thomas Llewelyn. Or was it Thomas Penrith? Or Charles Beaton? No matter. No woman had ever told me that before.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered. “I care for you too much to allow this to happen. Part of me is mad for it, but another part will not allow it. I cannot stay here. I need some fresh air.”

I threw on a jacket and was about to quit the room.

“Stay,” she demanded, seizing my wrist.

“I cannot. I must clear my head.”

“No, I mean come to stay in Dublin when this is all over. Stay with me.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know what I’ll be doing.”

“Stay, or take me with you.”

My head was suddenly swollen with millions of thoughts. They were far too heavy for my weary shoulders.

“Perhaps,” I said, as I dashed out into the hall. Having escaped the scene, I leaned my shoulders on the other side of the door and breathed in cooler, less electrically charged air. I heard a sob, almost a wail in the room behind me. My hand reached toward the knob, but I mastered myself. I ran through the hallway and down the stairs.

In the street, a sound escaped my throat, a more masculine version of Maire’s wail. I could feel my heart thumping, shooting blood too quickly through my limbs and head. I lurched like a drunkard until I found a bench, where I collapsed and buried my head in my arms. When I’d taken this case, I hadn’t meant to fall in love.

Was it love? Barker told me once that women were my weakness, and I tended to agree with him. I had not known Maire for more than a few weeks, but how long did a man need to know a woman before falling in love? There is such a thing as love at first sight. Certainly, Maire was a woman any man could fall for. I could picture going home to her after a day’s work, her fussing over me, looking at her by the fire. What had Thomas Hardy said, in
Far from the Madding Crowd?
“Whenever you look up,
there I shall be—and whenever I look up, there will be you.”