A Pair of Gloves and a Few Ancestors

I learned this morning that Jean Louis Lavocat has just taken over a hosiery and glove shop at 29 Grand-Rue. His wife, Rose Deseille, also appears in Catherine’s family tree. The omnibus leaves in less than an hour; I hastily throw a change of clothes into my travelling bag, with that familiar feeling of stepping into an era to which I do not belong.

In this month of April 1861, the still chilly wind slips between the houses of Boulogne-sur-Mer. It tosses the fabrics hanging outside the shops, lifts petticoats, and makes the newly emerged leaves tremble. They whisper softly, as though their birth already carried within it the weariness of the world.

The shop is narrow but full of life. Gloves are carefully arranged, fabrics neatly folded, and the air is filled with the mingled scent of leather and dressing agents. Jean Louis Lavocat busies himself behind his counter while a few customers examine the merchandise. I remain in the background, a simple observer. Then a child enters, quick as a breath — Louis, barely nine years old. He crosses the shop, pushes open the door, and calls out a light “Pardon!” to no one in particular before disappearing into the street. I watch him go without saying a word, though a discreet smile lingers on my lips.

To avoid arousing suspicion, I choose a pair of soft leather gloves. The gesture is simple, almost ordinary. I pay, offer my thanks, and leave in turn, carrying away this modest purchase.

As I walk away, a door opens in the shadow of the building. A lady descends with calm assurance. Her bearing is upright, almost aristocratic. I recognise her immediately: Mary Wint. Without drawing attention to myself, I follow her. She walks with a confident step, guided by long-established habits, and heads towards her parents’ home. I keep my distance.

A maid opens the door before she even has time to knock. Mary hands over her coat, hat, and gloves. Every movement is precise, without unnecessary words. Then the door closes, leaving me alone on the invisible threshold of their world.

The light is already fading. I feel the fatigue of travel and of centuries mingling together. I dislike travelling at night. I shall find a room at a nearby hotel, somewhere not far away, where I can leave my thoughts and my silences before resuming my investigation.

The following morning, I return to 29 Grand-Rue.

The Lavocat shop has only just opened its shutters. A few servants are already leaving the building carrying baskets. Others move up and down the staircase.

I settle at the terrace of a nearby café.

Information comes slowly. One conversation leads to another. A shopkeeper tells me about the English tenants. A neighbour mentions the Hill family. Later, a servant speaks of the Wints.

These names are often mentioned together. I raise my eyes towards the second-floor windows. Behind those walls live people whose destinies have been intertwined for generations. Some have known Jamaica, others London or Kent. All seem to have found refuge in this town that looks so naturally towards England.

I smile.

Only yesterday, I believed I was following the trail of Rose Deseille and the Lavocat family. Today, an entire network of English relatives unfolds before me.

I have plenty to write about. It is nearly noon, and I make my way towards the harbour and its small restaurants. I enter one of them and enjoy a serving of cod enhanced by a sublime sauce, accompanied by potatoes and a glass of wine. I have settled by the window and can enjoy the view of the fishing boats. They sway gently with the swell. The fishermen’s wives call out loudly to praise the freshness of their catch. It becomes a contest to see who can shout — no, who can bellow — the loudest, all accompanied by that northern accent that I love and dislike in equal measure. From time to time, one of them, more fiery than the others, uses language capable of making a Lady faint.

I finish with a final coffee and leave.

A few yards away stands the omnibus station. I buy a ticket and take my seat. A few minutes later, I hear the driver cry, “Gee up!” and the coach lurches into motion. We follow the coastline. The sun honours us with its presence and enhances the beauty of the landscape.

Once home again, I shall write down everything I have learned.