by C. C. Finlay
Lydia pressed against him with excitement. “Look,” she said.
Beyond the building they could see all the way to the river, with the magnificent spires of Paris spearing the cold, crisp sky. “I think I recognize this place from the descriptions I’ve heard,” Proctor said. “But I asked him to take us to the dwelling of Franklin.”
“Perhaps this is on the way,” Lydia said.
Proctor could not argue with her. His knowledge of French geography was limited to its general location—across the ocean—and the parts of it he had seen from their carriage.
The coachman pulled the post up to the terrace where several gentlemen dressed in velvet and lace descended the steps to inquire about the new arrival. Proctor assumed they were diplomats, perhaps members of the nobility like the Marquis de Lafayette, whom he had seen with Washington once. When the coachman came down from the boot and opened the door for them, Proctor gratefully stretched his legs and stepped out.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Je suis désolé. But I wished to be delivered to the house, la maison, of Benjamin Franklin.”
“And this is the house of Doctor Franklin,” the coachman said.
With a sweep of his hand, Proctor indicated the palace, the gardens, the sweeping vista. “It isn’t Versailles?”
The residence of the king. He believed that he had been taken, for some reason, to the king’s palace.
The coachman gave a knowing look to the well-dressed gentlemen, a look of shared suffering. And Proctor realized at once that the men he thought gentlemen were merely servants. He looked at the residence a second time and saw a lightning rod projecting from the roof. One of Franklin’s lightning rods.
This was not the king’s palace. What did the king’s palace look like?
“Doctor Franklin welcomes his American guest,” the head servant said, bowing. He lifted his eyes and caught sight of Lydia in her plain, travel-stained dress. If he had any contempt or disregard for her, he did not let it show. “If you wish, I may show your servant to the rooms in which you’re welcome to stay. Monsieur Franklin regrets that you are too late to join him for dinner today, but he will welcome a visit from you later this evening.”
When Proctor felt a little less embarrassment he said, “Is the post office nearby? I wish to see if I have any letters.”
The servants spoke to the coachman in French, too fast for Proctor to make out any individual words, and then the coachman said, “I will take you there and return with you.”
“It’s all right,” Lydia said. She picked up their small packs in either hand. “I’ll go prepare our quarters.”
“Thank you,” Proctor said, and then wondered if he’d made a mistake to thank his slave. He had no idea what the social rules were in France.
He had asked Deborah to write him care of the American legate in Paris, but he understood that he would have to go claim the letters for himself. The coachman took him on a quick ride through the village to an official-looking building that might have served in America for courts or even the legislature. When he went inside, he was relieved to find someone at the desk whose English was as good as his own. He reached into his pocket and turned his focus—the lock of Deborah’s hair—over and over in his fingers.
“You look familiar,” a voice said behind him.
Proctor turned and saw the round features of John Adams, displaying considerably less strain than they had during the voyage or the trip across Spain. He had been so eager to hear from Deborah that he had forgotten Adams for a moment, and he found himself relieved and happy to see him standing there.
“Proctor Brown,” he said. “We were shipmates on the Sensible and traveled part of the way across Spain together.”
“Ah, yes,” Adams said, though Proctor wasn’t sure how much he remembered. It could be dangerous to do forgetting spells on those you might need to know in the future. Adams waved over one of the clerks. “John Adams, minister for the United States.”
“How are your sons doing?” Proctor asked. “The last I saw of them, they were ill with colds.”
“Yes, the same thing that delayed your journey, if I recall correctly,” Adams said. He looked at Proctor more closely, as if some of the memories were pushing through. “Both Charles and John recovered very well, and they’re now enrolled in Monsieur Le Couer’s boarding school here in town with Mister Franklin’s grandson. Splendid instruction in Latin and French, although they are also attempting to introduce the boys to fencing and dancing.” He shook his head. “Who are you expecting to hear from?”
“My wife, Deborah,” Proctor said.
“My Abigail writes me frequently. Her thoughts and conversation, no matter the distance, make my heart throb like a cannonade.” Adams seemed lost in reverie for a moment, but then he looked up at Proctor earnestly. “You must be very careful what you write your Deborah in reply.”
Proctor was taken aback. “Why?”
“The French read and copy all the mail that is sent through the post, everything that might be of use to them against the English, or in their negotiations with us. Above all, be not too intimate in your expressions.” Proctor’s face must have registered the puzzlement he felt, so Adams continued. “You’ll understand once you have been in the country awhile. The French are a very immodest people. A tender word in a letter is no different from a public display of affection, and who would have prying eyes spying on his most personal moments?”
“Here you are, Monsieur Adams,” said the clerk.
He handed a bundle of letters, neatly tied with a red, white, and blue ribbon, into Adams’s hand. Adams undid the ribbon with a single tug and flipped through the letters. “Ah,” he said, clearly disappointed.
“Nothing from Mrs. Adams?”
“No, mostly newspaper clippings from my agent in London. I should go and peruse them carefully. Good day to you, Mister Brown.”
“Good day, Mister Adams,” Proctor said, considering whether he ought to follow Adams.
“Here you are, sir,” his clerk said. “We were able to find but this one letter.”
All thoughts of Adams fled from Proctor’s head. A letter from Deborah! He stepped outside in the cold sun and tore it open at once. The script was large and more confident than precise, looking as if it had been completed in a hurry, with lines marked out and written over. In short, it was very like Deborah, and he felt as though he were holding her in his hands. It was dated the first day of December, just weeks after he left.
My dearest Proctor,
I am writing you because I promised to do so, but it goes against everything in my nature to commit words to paper.
That was true. It had been Deborah’s habit, and her mother’s and grandmother’s before her, to commit nothing to paper, so that nothing could be a record against them if the witchcraft trials ever resumed. Deborah’s notes were usually brief and direct.
The letter continued,
If you see Mr. Adams, I hope you will express my very great disappointment that he has stolen my right to vote. When I inherited my parents’ property, I became eligible to vote under the law of Massachusetts, at least until you and I were married. But my point is that the new constitution, written by Mr. Adams before his departure, has stripped women of that right, which we so justly deserve if we meet the same qualifications as the men. Only now it appears that being a man is the necessary qualification.
The writing in this part of the letter was sharp and angry, the letters slashed across the page.
As I know that women have given as much to the cause of liberty, and have suffered as much if not more than the men, I am greatly upset by this news.
Proctor glanced in the direction that Adams had gone. Perhaps Proctor would keep that complaint to himself.
Do you remember the last visit from our dear friend Magdalena, the day after little Maggie was born? I have been thinking about how the distance between us is unbearable. I would like to be able to visit you the same way, just to see how you are doin
g. Do not be surprised if I appear unexpectedly.
The section was much crossed out and written over, but the meaning was clear. He flashed back to the stable in Spain, when he had been carried away. What if he hadn’t been attacked at all? What if that had been Deborah, trying to reach him by means of spirit travel? And he had fought her. He had pushed her away.
Maggie is doing very well, although her appetite is insatiable. I am dependent on Abigail for everything. She sends you her best wishes. I already regret writing this letter, but since it is written, I will send it. But I beg you to burn it when you are done. I may not write again unless I hear from you. It is too much, this feeling that I am casting words to the wind like autumn leaves and hoping they are carried to you. But I shall watch the road for you every day until you return.
She had signed it simply with her name.
He had to rush back to Lydia to ask her opinion. It was possible he had frightened Deborah by pushing her away. Maybe he had even hurt her. He had to find a way to make things right again.
The coachman was patiently standing at the edge of the road with the carriage door held open.
“Back to—” Proctor started to say Versailles and then corrected himself.
“L’hôtel de Valentinois,” offered the coachman. “Doctor Franklin’s residence.”
“Oui,” Proctor said.
He read and reread Deborah’s letter on the ride back. He settled his account with the coachman, thanking him for his service, and then one of the well-dressed servants escorted him to a furnished room in which the bed alone, a large elaborately carved frame with columns supporting a heavy canopy, was likely worth more than all the furniture he had ever owned.
Lydia stood at the ready in an open door. Proctor saw that it was a pair of furnished rooms—Lydia’s chamber, smaller and plainer and without the great windows, adjoined his.
“This is the sort of existence Miss Cecily always wanted,” Lydia said.
“With an empty purse, an uncertain friend, and an enemy wanting her dead?” Proctor asked.
“No,” Lydia said, frowning at him. She made a circuit of the room, running her hand over the carved chair, the finely painted porcelain, the heavy plaster picture frames around singular works of art. “She could have had it too, if she had been willing to marry the right man. Or become the right man’s mistress. But she had to go about it her own way. I’m still afraid of her.”
Proctor saw how quickly Lydia had performed that binding spell on the old woman in Spain, and he knew that she had been practicing in case they met Cecily again. “I fear her too.”
There was a knock at the door. Lydia opened the door before Proctor could reach it. The servant outside proved to be an American as soon as he opened his mouth.
“Doctor Franklin wishes to discover if Mister Brown is available to call upon his parlor,” the servant said, looking firmly into the air past Lydia.
“Mister Brown?” asked Lydia, turning to Proctor. She stared meaningfully at his shirt, which had not been changed nor washed in several days.
“I can go right now,” Proctor said. After weeks in a carriage, he was eager to move, to feel like he was doing something, even if it meant meeting Franklin in a dirty shirt.
The servant ushered them into Franklin’s rooms. They were larger than Proctor’s but appeared smaller because they were crowded with furniture. Tables were lined with cut glass, tools for measurement, small models in wood and metal, and what Proctor could only assume were other scientific apparatuses. Shelves were filled with books and other books stacked sideways in front of those books, old tomes with cracked leather bindings and new volumes that had yet to have their pages cut. A writing desk was placed near windows offering good light and a spectacular view of the gardens. It had numerous drawers, slots, and compartments, and was stacked with papers, some in neat piles and others in various stages of being sorted.
Franklin was seated at this desk. He rose when the servant announced Proctor and Lydia. He did not have the appearance of a man in his eighth decade. On the contrary, his cheeks had good color, he looked fit, and his hands were steady, even as he tilted his head to peer over the tops of his spectacles.
“Welcome to Paris,” he said. “You’ll not find a more amiable city anywhere. I am to understand that you have letters?”
“Thank you, I’m pleased to meet you, and yes, I do, here they are.” Proctor hoped that he had responded to everything.
Franklin smiled, accepted the letters, and then pushed the spectacles back on his nose as he started to read them carefully.
Proctor formed a quick impression of Franklin while he was reading. On the surface, he was dressed much like Proctor—a chestnut coat, a simple linen shirt, his natural hair. But on closer examination, he resembled the Frenchmen just as nearly. Although his jacket was of American fabric and cut, the craftsmanship was of a different quality: every seam was flawlessly sewn, it hung on Franklin’s frame without a bunch or wrinkle, and neither cuff nor collar showed a sign of shine or fray. The shirt was of linen like Proctor’s, but fashioned as carefully as the jacket from the highest-quality fabric Proctor had ever seen, unmarred by a single slub or knot. It was ironed smooth and still crisp, even this late in the day, and held an odor of soap and spices. And though Franklin wore his hair unpowdered, the long tresses were neatly and precisely combed, arranged down his back. Proctor ran his fingers through his hair, tucked in the threads at his cuffs, and smoothed the wrinkles in his shirt.
“You may leave us,” Franklin told his servant. He moved a stack of papers off the extra chair and indicated to Proctor that he should sit. Handing the letters back to Proctor, he said, “I deduce, from everything these don’t say, that you are one of Tallmadge’s boys.”
In other words, a spy. “I’m not here on orders from Colonel Tallmadge.”
Franklin looked over the tops of his glasses and tapped the side of his nose. “And yet you know which Tallmadge I mean and his rank in the army, and you speak of orders even though you are clearly, according to these letters, a private citizen.” Proctor winced and opened his mouth to explain, but Franklin silenced him with a shake of his head. “May I offer you some advice?”
“I would be most grateful,” Proctor said.
“You will do best outside the safe bounds of our own nation, and better within, if you assume that everything you do is spied upon.” Franklin leaned back in his chair and rested one arm casually on his desk. “For example, I assume that the French allow me to stay here because it’s easier to observe me. I assume that some of my friends are spies for the English and that someone on my own staff copies every word I write and sends it to our enemies.”
“I don’t understand,” Proctor said.
“If I assume that everything I do will be scrutinized, then I don’t have to attempt to conceal anything. Take, for example, the matter of visiting Americans. I invite every one of my countrymen in France, friend and stranger, well-born and apprentice alike, to come visit me here and bring me news of home. Because all of them come, and I give all of them an audience, there is nothing remarkable to report. It is impossible for either our allies or our enemies to keep track of all of you. A visitor from Colonel Tallmadge might thus be hidden in plain sight by not being hidden at all.”
Proctor saw the sense of it at once. It was like Deborah’s insistence on using Bible verses for spells and calling them prayers. That way they could be hidden right out in the open, like everyone else’s prayers, and it became impossible to make accusations of witchcraft.
Franklin, perhaps seeing comprehension dawn in Proctor’s face, leaned forward, warming up to his topic. “Similarly, I dine out with friends six nights a week and invite as many friends as I am able to dine with me on the seventh, and these friends come from all walks and classes of life. As a result, any guest whom I share a meal with becomes unremarkable, part of the ordinary routine, and it is impossible to distinguish any degree of importance between one guest and another. Do you
begin to see?”
“With surprising clarity,” Proctor replied.
“If you will allow me to make a suggestion then, it will behoove your labors here to develop habits that will dull the scrutiny of those who observe you. A young man such as yourself, without a fortune to spare, might choose to avail himself of the delightful public gardens that abound throughout this part of France. If you walk in them daily, no matter what the weather, and make a point of conversing with strangers whenever your paths cross, then those types of conversation become unremarkable.”
“Does the Covenant mean anything to you?”
Franklin reacted as though he’d been asked for a scientific treatise. “A covenant is a contract or agreement. It can be constituted among a group of men, it can be reached by agreement between two men, or it can be used to describe the sacred relationship that exists between man and his Creator. But you’re a bright young man, and from Massachusetts—surely you’re familiar with the word in all these contexts, so …”
“I am,” Proctor said, not sure how much more to add.
Franklin pushed his glasses back up and reached for Proctor’s letters again. “I’m going to wear the skin off my nose if I continue this habit. I’ve asked Mister Sykes to cut another set of doubles lenses for me, so that I can make do with a single set of spectacles. But until they arrive …” He reread Proctor’s letters, but what he was looking for, he did not say. He handed them back to Proctor again when he was done. “Are you a member of any lodge?”
The Masons. Somehow, Proctor was never surprised when it came back to the Masons. “I was introduced at St. Andrew’s Lodge in Boston by Mister Paul Revere.”