To Kingdom Come

21

We left Liverpool two days later, Maire and I. Everyone came to see us off, everyone except for Willie Yeats. The O’Casey house had been a beehive of activity with hours of planning and debates over lashings of tea, but that was nothing new. The odd thing was that amid the flurry of last-minute actions and discussions, Maire and I hardly spoke a word to each other. We had shared one kiss at the ruins of the lighthouse and now we were leaving on a counterfeit honeymoon without even discussing how we would act. I knew she had consented to go, but I reasoned that it may have been out of duty. As far as I knew, she had regretted the impulsiveness of that kiss and wanted nothing more to do with me.

Aboard ship, Dunleavy was shaking my hand vigorously for once, but he was giving me instructions as well. “Don’t forget to purchase new satchels, as many as we will need. And obtain a receipt for them. For everything, in fact.”

“I shall.” I paused, waiting. “You have not given me the money yet, sir.”

With a sigh, Dunleavy reached into his pocket and reluctantly gave up a packet into my care. I stepped back to where Barker stood on the deck, surrounded by the factionists as if it were a football scrimmage. He had insisted upon seeing me off despite the police, who were patrolling the docks.

“You know what to do?” he asked.

“Keep my wits about me and concentrate on my work,” I stated. “Oh, and be a gentleman.”

“Exactly.”

Barker and I had visited the slop shops, purchasing my evening kit, since I was supposed to be on honeymoon, and there was no way to tell who might be scrutinizing us. My employer insisted I go to a tailor with him, and have the suit fitted, mended, and pressed; he also provided new collars and cuffs, all within just two days-at a cost higher than the price of the suit. After a haircut and shave, I really did look like the new groom, off on a Continental honeymoon, a bowler on my head and my new bride’s hand in the crook of my elbow for ornament.

O’Casey kissed his sister, then pumped my hand, giving me a glare to say he still found objections to this whole affair and that I better make sure they remained unfounded. In contrast, after kissing the bride, McKeller tipped me a wink, as if to say take every advantage in life you are given. Whatever remarks he’d made among the lads were enough to make them all give a knowing chuckle.

When the porter gave the call for visitors to depart, the group of men walked down the gangplank as the steamship Hibernia sounded its bass note and slowly pulled away from the dock. Still lost in my private thoughts, I watched the coast slip away until there was nothing left to do but to finally turn and look at Maire. To tell the truth, I was as nervous as a groom on his honeymoon, and a glance told me she was nervous as well.

“Would you like to walk about the ship or perhaps have a cup of tea?” I suggested.

“A cup of tea would be nice,” she murmured.

I escorted her to the lounge. The Hibernia was a trim little steamer running from Liverpool to Calais. The lounge was sumptuous, with gold-rimmed china, starched table linens, and attentive waiters. Maire didn’t speak until our tea and biscuits arrived.

“I feel like a complete imposter, Thomas,” she confessed. “I’m not used to this. I feel as if I should be in the galley, up to my elbows in soap suds.”

“You have as much right to be here as anyone, Maire,” I told her. “Or should I call you Brigid?”

Our passports and papers listed us as Charles and Brigid Beaton. I carried business cards listing me as a chemical engineer for a Liverpool mining firm. Beaton, a very serious young man, would take the opportunity to combine work with pleasure, purchasing supplies for his company while on the Continent.

“No, not Brigid,” she said. “I’m not accustomed to deception. I’m not a bomber or an anarchist, like you, working with the famous Mr. van Rhyn. I just keep house for my brother.”

Despite the words, she looked like anything but an ordinary Irish girl. She wore a beautiful traveling suit of violet linen. Pearl earrings dangled from her ears, and her hair was swept up in an elaborate style with red curls framing her face. The French would have called her ravissante.

“Who’s going to cook for Eamon and the boys, and Mr. van Rhyn, while I am gone?” she wondered.

“They’ll just have to fend for themselves, I suppose. Scavenge off the land.”

“I hope you don’t think-” she said, then stopped.

“Think what?”

A blush grew on her cheeks. “It was very forward of me to kiss you last week. I wish you to know it was unlike me. I don’t really know why I did it.”

“I understand,” I told her. “And in case you didn’t notice, I was kissing you back.”

She smiled behind her teacup. We sat in an awkward silence for a moment. I was fidgeting with my silverware, and she was playing with one of her curls. Finally, she spoke again.

“I suppose you shall be going back to London when this is all over or off with Mr. van Rhyn.”

“I believe Mr. van Rhyn intends to settle in Dublin now. He hopes to open a factory. As for me, I haven’t made any plans.”

“Do you have anyone waiting for you in London? Parents or brothers and sisters, or a sweetheart?”

“A sister, living in Cheapside,” I invented.

“The cause could use a man like you.”

“Just the cause?”

In answer, she cleared her throat daintily, took some more tea, and changed the subject. “I shan’t know what to do with myself in Paris,” she said.

“Oh, there are worlds of things to do: museums, opera, ballet, and cathedrals. There are gardens and cafes, shops of all descriptions, art galleries, and palaces. It is more than one can do in the four days allotted.”

“I’ve never been on holiday before,” she told me. “My life has been all work.” She spread her hands on the table. Though small, they were rough and red from hours of daily toil. I reached over and took them both in my own.

“In Paris, they have creams that will make your hands so soft, one would think you had never lifted anything but a hand mirror in your life. And there are silk gloves to cover them, while it works its magic.”

“How you do talk, sir,” she said.

I squeezed her hands. “Relax, Maire. Really. We have no idea what the future may hold. Enjoy the present, these few days. Forget about the cause. Forget about me, if you wish. Think about yourself. What do you want?”

“I hardly know,” she answered ingenuously.

“I know exactly what I want,” I said, lowering my voice.

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.

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 Cafe 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 cafe 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.