The Keepers of the Library (19 page)

“If it were possible t’ accomplish that without compromising what we do ‘ere, I wouldn’t have a problem,” she said.

He turned to face her. They were near a stack with books for the twenty-fourth century.

“But you do have a problem. A big one. Phillip and me. You can’t just make us disappear. We’re not just a father and son off the street, Cacia. Because of my wife, we’re high-profile.”

“Tell me about Mrs. Piper, then,” she said with a toss of her red hair and a trace of a smile.

“She’s a really great lady, a good mother, and for the purposes of this discussion, she’s the number three person at the FBI. She’d be here now if she hadn’t gotten trapped by a big case back home.”

“So, she’s a powerful woman then. Do ya like strong women, Will?”

Will had a good idea what was going to happen next so he wasn’t bowled over when she rose to her toes and kissed him. He kissed her back, briefly enjoying her soft, yielding lips before pulling back.

“I guess I like women, period,” he said. “But I get along fine with strong ones. How does Daniel do with strong women?”

“Ach, don’t talk about me husband,” she said, hands on hips. “You’re the one on me mind at th’ present.”

“You two having an argument?” Will asked, smiling. “It wouldn’t be about what to do with us, would it?”

She nodded.

“He and your brother-in-law want to kill us, don’t they? There’s a problem, they take care of it. I get the psychology. The problem is, we’re BTH. So for whatever reason, it isn’t going to happen before next February 9. That means the only way to keep us quiet is to hold us down here for over a year, which also isn’t going to happen. Because of who my wife is, the British Security Services are already looking for us, and they’ll have a good idea where to find us. This isn’t going to end well for you, Cacia. You’ve got to save yourselves. Keep your own counsel, don’t rely on Daniel and Kheelan.”

She said something under her breath, a personal aside, a thought escaping on a sigh. It sounded like, “I know how this’ll end.”

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Will asked.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. By the way, your wife’s big case. I’ve a notion she’ll solve it.”

Will furrowed his brow at that but said nothing. Instead, he began slowly walking again.

“Are you interested in taking more exercise or do you want to peek into your future? You can browse 2027 if you like,” she said.

He laughed. “I sincerely don’t want to know what’s going to happen to me and my guys. Years ago, I
had
to look. I guess I was relieved we were BTH, but it never sat well with me. I felt I’d crossed a line I wasn’t meant to cross. How about you?”

“I’ve not searched for me own date, if that’s what you’re asking me. Nor the dates for my family. We leave the books alone. Besides, for all I know, our dates aren’t in this Library at all. Maybe they’re in th’ other Library.”

“I sincerely hope that’s not the case.”

She kissed him again, longer this time. As he held her, he dangled the tea mug from his finger trying
not to spill what was left down the back of her dress. When she’d had her fill of kissing, he held her head against his chest with his free hand. She was murmuring again, but he didn’t try to understand what she was saying.

I’m getting somewhere, he thought. This make-love-not-war thing has its merits.

Looking over her shoulder at the nearest stack of books, he noticed something peculiar. All the volumes in the library were a uniform five inches thick, but on one of the middle shelves, the second book from the end was slim, only half an inch wide and devoid of markings on its blue spine.

Driven by an intense curiosity, Will let the tea mug slip from his finger. It shattered on the stone floor.

He apologized profusely, but while Cacia dropped to her knees to gather the ceramic shards, he reached for the slim volume and stuffed it down the front of his trousers, making sure his shirttails covered the evidence.

“We’d better go back now,” she said. “I’ll get a dustpan. I don’t want Daniel or Kheelan findin’ a piece. They don’t need t’ know we’ve taken a stroll if ya know what I mean. Jesus though, I’ll hate to have t’ lock ya up again.”

He smiled at her. “At least you’ve given me something nice to think about,” he said.

He willingly went back to his bunk and allowed her to rechain his wrist. Phillip was still snoring. When she left, he immediately reached into his pants.

The book had a fancy binding of ample royal blue leather with red corners.

He opened it and stared at disbelief at the cover page. He scanned it once, then a second time to make sure he fathomed the floridly confident, hand-drawn script.

Being the Personal Journal of My Visitations to the Extraordinary Libraries of Vectis and Pinn

Benjamin Franklin

1775

Then, with an unsteady hand, he slowly turned the page and began to read.

“Benjamin, a gentleman is here to see you.”

Benjamin Franklin opened the door to his bedchamber and looked over the top of his glasses at his landlady and companion, Margaret Stevenson. She peered at his unfinished tray of victuals and clucked at him.

“I’ve been too busy to eat,” he mumbled, showing her his ink-stained fingers. “Who is it?”

“His name is Francis Dashwood. Polly is in the sitting room keeping him company, but I don’t want to leave her alone with him too long.” She rolled her eyes. “He seems a lively one.”

“Very well, you go and rescue the dear girl. I shall be down presently.”

Franklin had lived as a lodger on Craven Street since his arrival in London in 1757. It was a four-story house owned by the widow Stevenson, situated near Whitehall between the Strand and the Thames. He had found the lodgings quite by accident shortly after his arrival on a packet boat from Philadelphia.

He had come to England in the official capacity as Agent of Pennsylvania, representing the colony’s interests before the powers that be. While unrest
and dissatisfaction existed up and down the American colonies, Pennsylvania had a particularly vexing set of problems, which Franklin was tasked to solve. Pennsylvania was owned and governed not by the crown but by the descendants of William Penn, who had been granted a proprietorship of the territory in 1681 by King Charles II. There were some Pennsylvanians, Franklin included, who believed they would do better answering to Parliament than the capricious Penn heirs. Franklin’s remit was to lobby Parliament to release the colony from the Penn yoke.

Franklin had been the overwhelming choice of Pennsylvania’s political class to represent them in England as he was far and away their most accomplished citizen. He had risen from a humble boyhood in Boston to become a colonial printer and the publisher of the most respected newspaper in America,
The Pennsylvania Gazette
. He had given himself over to public service and had a long-standing seat in the Pennsylvania Provincial Assembly. He more than dabbled in the natural sciences, becoming a world-renowned inventor, scientist, and philosopher. By the time of his appointment as Pennsylvania’s agent, he had amassed a trove of political and academic honors.

He had also amassed the trappings of an unconventional lifestyle. His marriage to Deborah Read of Philadelphia had been of a common-law nature due to bigamy laws. Her first husband had absconded to Barbados with her dowry and was never heard from again. His eldest child, William, was all-but-openly acknowledged as the illegitimate product of Franklin’s union with a lady of disrepute. But rather than banish his son to a life on the edges of society, Franklin embraced the boy and warmly tucked him into his household. Deborah, a plain and simple woman,
seemed to tolerate Franklin’s skirt chasing and settled into a marriage where her husband was away for years at a time. Their first son, Francis, died of the pox at a young age, but their second child, Sarah, was a healthy fourteen-year-old when her father departed for his assignment to London.

Franklin enjoyed domesticity every bit as much as he did ribaldry, and in London he quickly settled into a surrogate family life with his landlady and her teenage daughter Polly, tutoring, mentoring and flirting with the pretty lass. He even brought his son, William, to England to expose him to politics and diplomacy and had tried his hardest to push him and Polly together to no avail. But outside the Craven Street household, Franklin prowled the bars, coffee shops, and salons of London, sporting his fancy suits and glittering reputation, his owlish eyes searching for all the amusements a teeming city of 750,000 could offer.

When Franklin entered the sitting room, Polly Stevenson, a pretty twenty-two-year-old, looked as relieved as if the warder in the Tower of London had come to release her from captivity. She smiled sweetly at Franklin and scurried away.

“Sir Francis,” Franklin said with a polite bow. “I am honored to be in your esteemed presence.”

“You know of me?” Dashwood asked, his fleshy, moist lips curled in delight.

“Indeed I do,” Franklin said, straightening the jacket of his blue velvet ensemble. “Member of Parliament for New Romney, Treasurer of the Chamber, tipped to be the next Chancellor of the Exchequer, heir apparent as the Baron Le Despencer, the premier barony of England.”

Dashwood, though fifty-two years old, nearly the same age as Franklin, was so delighted by this recitation of his particulars that he jumped up and down in
glee like a little boy, spilling some of the brandy Polly had given him. He had a round, full face with small, dark eyes and a corpulence commensurate with his affluence.

“I was told you were a clever one, and indeed you are! But how is it you know my
curriculum vitae
?”

“It is my business to know the inner workings of His Majesty’s Government. The good people of Pennsylvania are paying me to know these things, for how else can I effectively represent their interests in England?”

“Well, it’s all very logical,” Dashwood said. “But beyond the dry bones of my political life, what else have you heard of me? Pray tell!”

Franklin gestured for Dashwood to sit and did so himself. “Well,” he said, “I ask for forgiveness in advance if this story is untrue, but I was told that as a young man on your grand tour of Europe you once observed the worshippers in the Sistine Chapel pretending to whip themselves for their sins in a most perfunctory and ineffective way. Thereupon, the next day, you returned with a large horsewhip concealed under your cape and at the appropriate moment, produced the instrument and had at yourself with great drama and vengeance.”

Dashwood roared. “Indeed it is true! And for my impudence, the Swiss Guards escorted me to the gates of the Eternal City and bade me not to return. I’m afraid my views on Catholicism have not much changed with advancing age though my powers of discretion have marginally improved. Marginally.”

“I would enjoy having a conversation about religion with you, Sir Francis, preferably over a good bottle of claret. I myself am a Christian, to be sure, but I’m a picker and a chooser. I take what I want of it and discard the rest.”

Dashwood giggled at this and told Franklin he was sorry he’d been remiss in not reaching out earlier. He was certain, he said, that the two of them shared a great many views on a great many subjects. “I wonder,” Dashwood said, “if I might entice you to come to my country house in Buckinghamshire for an extended visit. In a fortnight’s time, a number of gentlemen will be joining me there for social activities.”

The loaded way he said “social activities” piqued Franklin’s interest. “And who might these gentlemen be?” Franklin asked.

“Ah, the likes of Sandwich, Wilkes, Bute, White-head, Selwyn, Lloyd. That lot.”

That lot included some of the most influential men in England, fellows whom Franklin had been courting and lobbying for years with varying degrees of success.

“You have my complete attention,” Franklin said.

“Yes, I thought as much. We need to include an American gentleman in our circle. That’s what’s been said, and who better than the esteemed Dr. Franklin?”

“I would be honored,” Franklin said, removing an errant strand of flowing gray hair from his face. “Might I know more of the social activities you mentioned?”

“I do not wish to spoil the fun. Suffice it to say that we call ourselves the Friars of St. Francis of Wycombe. But you need not bring your Bible. Our worship is directed toward wholly more earthly realms.”

“I see,” Franklin said, his eyes twinkling.

Dashwood finished his brandy. “And wait till you see our nuns!”

F
ranklin had a notion he was going to enjoy his sojourn at West Wycombe the moment he arrived at Sir Dashwood’s country estate. The footman was dressed in some sort of flowing Arabic robe, and the butler looked something like a sultan. All manner of libations were laid out on a tray in his sunny room—gin, port, and decanters of vin rouge and blanc. A choice selection of fruits and cheeses was also on hand. Before departing, the butler advised him that the protocol for the evening involved donning the garments in the wardrobe.

On his own, Franklin swung open the wardrobe doors and laughed at the contents: the coarse brown habit of a monk, a hemp sash, and a pair of leather sandals. He heard carriage wheels on the gravel. From his window he saw another visitor arrive and in the distance, two more carriages were coming down the drive.

That evening, any self-consciousness Franklin might have possessed over his garb was cleansed when he saw that every one of the forty gentlemen assembling in Dashwood’s great hall was similarly attired. A servant promptly thrust a flute of champagne into his hand and he was warmly greeted by men he had previously met in the corridors of power at Whitehall. And in short order he was introduced to other “friars” he didn’t know, including John Montagu, the fourth Earl of Sandwich, a haughty and imperious man, the only one who doused Franklin with condescension.

“Philadelphia, you say,” the tall man said down his narrow nose. “I rather imagine they would have to drag you back to a place such as that kicking and screaming.”

“Hardly,” Franklin replied. “I believe Your Lordship would find it most satisfactory in all respects though you would be hard-pressed to find a congregation of monks drinking champagne on Market Street. Perhaps I could visit Your Lordship at Parliament to inform you about the recent activities in our fair colony.”

Franklin received a dismissive, “Perhaps.”

Then, to the sound of an unseen gong, Dashwood emerged from behind a curtain. He was decked out in a bishop’s robe with a red mitre perched upon his large head.

“Welcome, Brothers! Welcome! It’s been too long since our last congregation, has it not? As always, I offer a special welcome to our twelve superior monks, who have already met this afternoon to discuss the Order’s business.”

Franklin looked around and realized that a dozen men wore red sashes around their habits instead of hemp. One of them was Sandwich.

Dashwood continued, “We have decided to install a new inferior monk tonight to add to our distinguished order. I give you Brother Benjamin Franklin, our esteemed guest from Philadelphia.”

Franklin bowed humbly and said to the portly man beside him, “I have no idea what I’ve gotten into.”

The man replied, with a leer, “You will not be disappointed, Brother.”

“Come, Brothers!” Dashwood shouted. “Our evening begins!”

With that, he led the group outside and through a grove decorated with classical statues in indecent poses. Franklin stopped in front of Hermes, the god of lust, who was holding a red-tipped phallus as a staff. He peered over his glasses and chortled at the
inscription on the base:
peni tente non penitenti
—a stiff penis is better than repentance.

Beyond the grove, Franklin could see in the fading evening light the facade of a mock Gothic church constructed of flint with chalk mortar. Above the main arch was carved the motto of the Order,
FAY CE QUE VOUDRAS
, do what you wish, which Franklin took as confirmation that an interesting time awaited.

The facade was in fact the entranceway to a series of natural caves and tunnels, which Dashwood had elaborately embellished over the years. The labyrinthine chalk walls were shaped into archways. Grand halls were chiseled out. A channel of natural still water was widened and dubbed the River Styx.

Their way was illuminated by candles, but Franklin could have scarcely gotten lost as all he had to do was follow the friar directly in front of him. Upon entry into an enormous chamber blazing with sooty torches and adorned with whimsical and weird faces carved into the chalk, Franklin saw a long banqueting table groaning under an abundance of roasted meats, pies, and sundry delicacies. Looking up, he was astonished to see a large, painted fresco, which aped classical themes but was surely the most pornographic group of images he had ever seen.

Dashwood took the place of honor, surrounded on each side by his superior monks. Then the inferiors were bade to take their seats.

“Bring in the nuns!” Dashwood declared.

Franklin had been fixed on a splendid, steaming leg of lamb, but he was persuaded to turn away from it at the sight of some three dozen young women flooding the chamber with their presence. All were dressed in the black habits of nuns, but their hair
flowed freely, and their habits had long slits allowing creamy thighs to flash into view. The nuns proceeded to pour wine and whisper provocative things into monks’ ears, generally involving their need to be punished for their wickedness. Franklin reckoned these were local girls pressed into service but one of his table mates told him that many were imported from London for the occasion.