There were no park benches on Balesworth High Street in 1851, and so Brandon eventually settled down to read his magazine on the slightly damp grass of the village green. The front page story was an excited preview of the forthcoming Great Exhibition, and soon he was absorbed by its glowing descriptions of all the wonderful sights that visitors could expect. But how on earth would he afford the five shillings entrance fee?
When Brandon returned in the late afternoon, hungry and in time for tea, Mr. Veeriswamy informed him that Lady Chatsfield required his presence upstairs, immediately. Great, Brandon thought. Now he was in trouble. But why?
In the drawing room, Lady Chatsfield was seated on a large overstuffed sofa, and she invited Brandon to take a chair across from her. “I trust you are settling in,” she said. He gave a wan smile that he hoped looked enthusiastic. Lady Chatsfield continued, “I am interested in learning of your experience of the evils of slavery.”
Brandon was confused. “But, ma’am…”
“Your Ladyship.”
“Okay, Your Ladyship. I’ve never been a slave.”
If she was disconcerted by this revelation, she didn’t show it. “Then you may tell me about your family’s life in slavery.”
Brandon sighed heavily. “My family aren’t slaves. You have to go a long way back to my ancestors being slaves.”
A look of irritation passed briefly across Lady Chatsfield’s face, and then she said slowly, “Let me make myself clear. I am a patron of the anti-slavery cause, and I frequently entertain other ladies who share my convictions. I employed you as a footman principally because I thought that you might provide edification for the ladies who attend my salons. I’m sure that, as a Negro, you can at the very least imagine the predicament in which slaves find themselves, and that you can describe that predicament to my guests.”
Brandon sighed inwardly. So Lady Chatsfield wanted to use him to impress her friends. He looked at her cynically. “You want me to make stuff up?”
Lady Chatsfield gave him an icy glare. “Certainly not. I was merely seeking your assistance in the fight against slavery. I expect to draw on your knowledge of that profane institution at the next discussion I shall hold. Kindly consider what I have said. That will be all.”
Brandon took his cue, and without another word, stalked furiously from the room. So she had hired him only because he was black? That was almost as bad as not being hired only because he was black.
He was sitting on the grand staircase seething when Sarah Chatsfield came in through the front door, closely followed by Henry. They were both out of breath and laughing. No sooner was he inside, than Henry realized he had left the ball they had been playing with somewhere in the park, and he dashed back out. Sarah, left by herself, walked toward Brandon.
“You’re not supposed to sit there, you know,” she said, not unkindly. “If Mama or Mr. Veeriswamy should catch you, there would be a fearful row. What is troubling you?” To Brandon’s surprise, she sat next to him on the stairs.
“I don’t like to say,” he mumbled, adding belatedly, “Miss Sarah.” He hated being so polite to another kid.
“Very well, it is your business,” Sarah said briskly, taking his answer as a rebuff. “Perhaps you had better return below stairs.”
“Yeah, maybe I had better do that,” Brandon said as he stood. “The company is better down there.”
“What do you mean by that?” Sarah said sharply, rising to her feet.
Brandon considered explaining, but he realized that his remark might jeopardize his job. He thought quickly, and said, “I mean for me, Miss Sarah. I will be with the other servants, and I can relax.”
“How odd that you should say such a thing to me,” Sarah said. Her feelings were hurt, but Brandon thought he had merely offended her.
“Sorry, Miss Sarah,” he said, gritting his teeth at having to apologize.
“You may go,” Sarah said and, with that, she slowly started upstairs.
It did not occur to Brandon for quite some time that she had only been trying to be kind. Even then, he found the encounter frustrating. It was too weird to have to suck up to another kid, or else risk his job and his home. It wasn’t Sarah’s fault that she was rich and he was not, he knew, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to admit it.
Chapter 12: Sightseeing
Alex was woken early the next morning by a footman carrying breakfast on a tray. Today was the day, the opening day of the Great Exhibition. Mr. Thornhill had ordered Jupe to remain behind at the hotel, and, after breakfast, he and Alex set off by hackney coach. The cabby and his horse struggled through the crowded streets, jostling among the carriages, horse-drawn buses, and pedestrians all surging toward Hyde Park, the site of the Crystal Palace, the home of the Exhibition. All along the route, food and souvenir stands lined the streets, as did people who had claimed spots to view the journey of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert to the opening ceremony. There was an excited atmosphere throughout London. Alex gasped when he first glimpsed the Crystal Palace. It was the biggest greenhouse he had ever seen. It was cross-shaped, like a massive cathedral made entirely from glass and iron, and the glass sparkled as it caught the sunlight. Even in the twenty-first century, it would have been impressive, but in 1851, it seemed as unlikely as a spaceship landing in Hyde Park.
Stepping out of the taxi, Mr. Thornhill said to Alex, “They say that it has ten thousand windows. I shouldn’t be surprised if that were true, would you?” He paid the cab driver, as Alex gaped at the thousands of people who were milling around outside the Palace. He and Mr. Thornhill had to push their way awkwardly through the crowd to reach the exhibitors’ entrance. There, they stood in line for thirty minutes before the door opened promptly at eight o’clock. Mr. Thornhill showed the doorman a card, and they were in.
The early morning light poured onto the cross-shaped exhibition floor and the second-story balcony that ran around the building. Flags of all nations were strung from the rafters, and the very first that caught Alex’s eye was the Stars and Stripes, which he excitedly pointed out to Mr. Thornhill. A red carpet led from the front entrance to the center of the building, where there was a gently bubbling fountain made from glittering crystal. A platform near the fountain awaited the arrival of speakers. And, unlikely though it seems, there was even a large mature tree at the center of the Palace.
“What’s that?” asked Alex, pointing to a wooden object suspended by wires over the platform. It looked like an enormous ornately-painted lid.
“Oh, that’s the sounding board,” said Mr. Thornhill. “It will amplify Her Majesty’s voice when she declares the Exhibition open.”
“Her Majesty? You mean Queen Victoria is gonna be here?” Alex was excited, and even Mr. Thornhill gave a slight smile.
At first glance, the United States section looked impressive. It was cheerfully decorated with American flags, and the names of all the states that existed in 1851. But on closer examination, it was pretty empty of exhibits, and the staff stood around forlornly. Mr. Thornhill warmly greeted one of the men, Mr. Meredith, and introduced Alex to him.
Mr. Meredith was clearly pleased to see Mr. Thornhill. “Glad you got my telegraph before you left the States, Thornhill,” said the worried-looking American, “But we have something of a problem. Look around you, sir. At least one third of our exhibits haven’t arrived. This is going to reflect badly on the United States.”
Mr. Thornhill gave a small lopsided smile and reached into his jacket pocket. “Meredith, I have something for you to add to the Exhibit. It may help.”
To Alex’s horror, Mr. Thornhill produced the calculator. He switched it on, and demonstrated it.
“I’ll be damned,” said a delighted Mr. Meredith, turning the calculator over in his hands, and pushing at the buttons. “What the devil is this?”
Mr. Thornhill preened. “It’s rather remarkable, is it not? I am glad to present it to you on loan. But I know nothing about it, neither who the manufacturer is, nor where it
was made. However, it ought to be useful in attracting admiration for American manufactures.”
Alex’s stomach was churning at the thought of arguing with Mr. Thornhill, but he had to do it. “I’m sorry, Mr. Thornhill, but that’s mine…”
Mr. Thornhill answered calmly, while giving Alex a keen look. “So it is, so it is,” he said. “I merely intend you to continue the loan of it a little while longer.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Alex said carefully, “but I really would prefer you not put it on display. It might… It might get stolen.”
Mr. Thornhill scrutinized Alex’s face. “Hmm, yes, I suppose it might… Meredith, what say you to the proposal that we only show it discreetly to choice patrons?”
Mr. Meredith shrugged with a smile. “Sure. That makes sense.” He walked over with the calculator to a glass case, and tucked it inside.
Alex still wasn’t happy, but he could tell there was no point in arguing further: His boss was too used to having people do as they were told without question. Instead, he waited until the two men were deep in conversation, reached inside the glass case, and quickly flipped the calculator onto its face, leaving only the back exposed. Hopefully, he thought, it looked so uninteresting that nobody would ask about it.
At nine o’clock, the Great Exhibition opened, and the crowds began to pour through the entrance. Ladies in their finery claimed the straight-backed chairs that lined the red carpet leading to the central platform, and their husbands took places standing behind them. Alex looked in vain for kids, but none had come to the opening ceremonies. It was another hour before there was a great stir of excitement around the platform. Alex couldn’t see what was going on, but he certainly heard the great round of applause and cheers. At that moment, a young man ran up to the American exhibitors, and cried, “It’s the Duke! He’s here!”
“Which duke?” called out Mr. Meredith.
The young Englishman stopped in his tracks, astonished by the question. “Wellington, of course. If you hurry, you may catch sight of him.”
Mr. Meredith turned to Mr. Thornhill and joked, “You British have so many dukes and earls and whatnot, I can’t tell them apart.”
But Mr. Thornhill ignored his comment, put a hand on Alex’s shoulder and said, “Come, Alexander, and let us lay our eyes upon the mighty victor of Waterloo, Napoleon’s nemesis. Let us judge for ourselves whether Madame Tussaud’s did him justice.” Alex followed his boss, who was now walking briskly toward the center of the Crystal Palace.
When they caught sight of him, the elderly Duke, escorted by his daughter, was already halfway up the aisle toward the platform. He was easy to spot: Tall, with white hair and a huge nose, he was dressed in a bright red army uniform hung with medals. Alex and Mr. Thornhill watched in awe as the Duke acknowledged the cheers and applause of the crowd. He found his seat, and then, catching sight of an old friend in one of the balconies, he waved and said something to his daughter, before slowly making his way alone toward the staircase.
Before he could reach the stairs, Alex had dashed up to him. The Duke looked slightly annoyed at the interruption, and snapped, “Yes, boy, what is it?”
Alex was breathless with excitement. “Sir, I saw you in Madame Tussauds, I mean I saw the wax you, and it so looks like you. Mr. Thornhill, my boss, told me all about you in the Napoleon Room, and I’m a huge fan. Can I have your autograph?”
The Duke looked down imperiously at a hopeful Alex. “My autograph? Don’t know what you’re talking about, boy.”
With that, he brushed past Alex, just before Mr. Thornhill caught up with him. “What are you doing?” Mr. Thornhill growled, jerking Alex backward by the collar. “One does not approach the Duke of Wellington unbidden!”
But the Duke, on hearing the commotion, slowly turned to look at Alex. “Must say, they did a fine job of Napoleon. Quite lifelike. Just like old times.” He gave a short laugh at his own joke, and began to climb the stairs.
Mr. Thornhill tipped his hat to the Duke, and then, after waiting respectfully for the old man to reach the balcony, he quietly ushered Alex up the stairs. There, the two of them staked out spots to await the arrival of the Royal Family.
Massive explosions silenced the chattering in the Palace an hour later, and Alex panicked. “What was that?” he stammered. “Cannon fire,” said Mr. Thornhill, “to welcome Her Majesty and His Royal Highness.”
Alex sighed with relief.
As Queen Victoria and Prince Albert walked slowly into the Crystal Palace, Alex couldn’t help thinking that the Queen was a funny-looking little thing, just like her wax model. She was tiny and had a small head and a weak chin. But she certainly walked like a Queen, barely acknowledging the cheers of her subjects, except with a faint smile. Prince Albert walked stiffly upright, and Alex remarked to Mr. Thornhill that he looked very proud.
“And so he should,” Mr. Thornhill replied. “The Exhibition was his idea. Anyhow, it is time for us to return to the American area.”
“Now? Already?” exclaimed a dismayed Alex. “But they’re just about to start the ceremony!”
“We must prepare for the arrival of the visitors,” Mr. Thornhill said simply, as he led the way to the staircase. “Come along.”
Back at the American section, workmen were installing a new exhibit in one of the empty spaces: It was a statue of a Native American man and woman, and unlike all the other statues in the building, which were made of white marble, it was brightly painted, and decorated with feathers and furs.
“What the devil is that?” laughed Mr. Thornhill.
“It is the best the commissioners could do,” said Mr. Meredith stiffly. “We had to do something until the rest of the exhibits arrive.”
“But that…that thing,” Mr. Thornhill sputtered, “will only confirm the prejudices of Britons who think America is a savage land. That is hardly how we…”
“Indians aren’t savages,” interrupted Alex.
“I beg your pardon?” said Mr. Thornhill, in a tone that told Alex to shut up. Alex shut up.
Mr. Meredith said slyly, “It must be a while since you were last here, Thornhill. Nobody has asked me about the Indians since I landed in England. All they want to talk about is slavery. I’m from New York, I tell them, but they don’t know the difference. They’re quite insistent on taking up the matter with me, and some of them even tell me I should protest slavery to the President.”
“How very awkward,” said Mr. Thornhill, tutting.
Just then, they all turned at the sound of cheers echoing through the Crystal Palace. “Here comes the royal procession,” said Mr. Meredith. “With luck, the Queen and Prince Albert should be here presently.”
The American exhibitors straightened their ties. The two workmen installing the statue rubbed their hands on their aprons, and headed for the balcony. Mr. Thornhill and Alex took their places behind one of the glass display cases. It wasn’t long before the Royal couple and their entourage approached, and the exhibitors in the American section listened excitedly as the cheers grew closer and closer. To Alex’s amazement, two men in fancy outfits were at the head of the procession, walking backward while facing Victoria and Albert. Even more astounding, they were walking quickly, and Alex wondered how on earth they didn’t trip. He tried to make himself as tall as possible, hoping that the Queen would speak with him, but the Royals did not stop. However, he caught Victoria’s eye, and she gave him a warm smile.
At one o’clock, trumpets sounded to announce that the Queen had declared the Exhibition open, and the Royals left the building. Now the flood of guests began: Women in huge dresses and men in top hats began arriving in the American section, eager to see the exhibits. And then an elderly gentleman with slightly messy hair introduced himself to Mr. Meredith. “My name is Babbage,” he said in a pompous voice. “You may have heard of me? I am the inventor of the Difference Engine, and I am currently devising an even more advanced machine for computation, which I have named the Analytical Engine. For some reason, poli
tical I fear, the Exhibition Committee declined to display my plans for the Difference Engine, but I would very much like to bring it to your attention, for I believe that Americans would appreciate the benefits of my work….”
The more Alex overheard, the more he became excited. It was Charles Babbage! The man who had invented the computer! The man whose pickled brain was in the Science Museum!
Alex couldn’t help himself. “Sir, you gotta check this out!” he cried, leading the man to the display case, and pulling out the calculator. He began to punch the buttons. Wouldn’t Babbage be thrilled, he thought, to find out that his inventions would lead to calculators and computers? But Babbage was looking at the calculator with a conflicted mix of wonder and horror across his face. By the time Alex had finished his impromptu demonstration, the inventor looked pale-faced and shaken.
“What is this contraption?” he managed to say. “Who is the inventor?”
Alex shrugged. “I don’t know. We have loads of calculators like this in America. But you…”
Before he could say another word, a stunned Babbage had melted back into the crowd.
Seconds later, it occurred to Alex that there might be a reason why Charles Babbage had never gotten round to building his inventions.
By the afternoon, Alex was bored to death. There wasn’t anything at all for him to do except to guard the calculator, and even that didn’t seem important, because Mr. Thornhill and Mr. Meredith had shown no interest in showing it: They had found plenty to occupy them in talking business with visitors. Alex put his hands in his jacket pocket, his fingers wrapping around the original calculator cover. He pulled it out, and slipped it underneath the calculator in the glass case: He figured it was best to keep everything together.
Just then, Mr. Meredith greeted him cheerfully. “Come, Alex, let me explain the exhibits to you. Then you will be prepared to answer questions from the ladies and the old clergymen, while Mr. Thornhill and I attend to the gentlemen of business.” He smiled pleasantly at Alex, who gamely agreed to help by chatting with the unimportant visitors.
A Different Day, A Different Destiny (The Snipesville Chronicles) Page 27