Traitor to the Crown (16 page)

“You’ve done everything you can do,” Lydia said.

“If by
everything
you mean fall down sick, let Adams get away from us while I recover, and then spend a month crossing France in a post carriage that is supposed to be the quickest transportation available, then yes, I’ve done everything I can. Forgive me if it doesn’t feel like enough.”

Lydia was too schooled in hiding her feelings to register any reaction, but Proctor knew as soon as the words were out of his mouth that he’d spoken too harshly.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She shook her head. “There’s no reason to go sorrying me. You see your wife and child in danger, someone or something attacks you and you barely escape, and the man you’re trying to protect goes off without you because he doesn’t even know you’ve been protecting him.”

“We,” Proctor said. “We were protecting him.”

Lydia shifted uncomfortably, perhaps because she had never been permitted to take credit for her work, especially her witchcraft. Or perhaps because the seats were hard, the roads were bumpy, and she was as tired of being confined inside a carriage as Proctor was. “It’s a full plate of unhappiness, sitting on the table in front of you. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I’ve got no appetite,” Proctor said.

Lydia stared out the window. “I know you’re worried about Deborah.”

“When I saw her, at first I thought she was dead,” Proctor said. They had talked about it before, but hour after hour, day after day of riding left him with nothing else to do but play the whole scene in his head over and over again. It had left him as weak as a newborn, and he didn’t know whether that was a reaction to the magic or to the thought of Deborah dead. He still had not fully recovered his strength.

“You know it’s not real,” Lydia said.

“Do I? It felt real, it looked real. Who am I to say what is and isn’t possible?”

“The Covenant plays upon our fears. You saw it with that old woman, you know it’s true. There’s nothing you fear more than something happening to your wife and child, and that’s a natural way for a man to feel. But don’t let our enemies go using it against you.”

“Adams was supposed to lead me to them,” Proctor said. “What if something’s happened since he left us?” At least Adams had been easy to follow. Once they reached Bilbao and the bigger cities, there were stories about him in every newspaper.
El Caballero Juan Adams miembro del Congreso Americano y Su Ministro Plenipotenciario la Corte de Paris.
The echoes of the thirteen-gun salutes still sounded in the trail of gossip that he left behind.

Lydia shrugged. “Then we’ll find them another way. Don’t your letters introduce us to someone in Paris—”

“Benjamin Franklin?”

“Yes, Doctor Franklin. He’ll find some way to help you.”

He hoped Lydia was right. He’d find some way to pick up where they left off. Part of the problem was that he had been so weakened by the attack. The constant riding, the lack of exercise and work, left him little means
of recovery. He felt like he was growing weaker instead of stronger.

“It’s already been more than three months. I promised Deborah I’d try to be home in three months.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Lydia said. “She said it, ’cause that’s what’s in her heart. But she knows that what you’re planning to do might take a might bit longer.”

“Maybe,” Proctor said, propping his elbow on the arm rest and leaning on his hand. “But
I
wanted to be home that soon. That’s why I promised it.”

Although the coachman had given the same answer—“Yes, we are very near to Paris”—many times over the past few days, this time his answer proved correct. After a short stop for lunch, they arrived in the village of Passy. Amid the quaint cottages and smaller houses rose a building as large as any of the great churches they had visited in Spain or many of the castles and châteaux they had glimpsed from a distance on their journey across France. As they came closer, Proctor saw that smaller pavilions surrounded the main building, which had wings that framed a beautiful courtyard. It was an edifice of gray stone, elegantly proportioned and delicately cut, with windows larger than any he had ever seen. The whole building was encompassed by a terrace and formal gardens with hedges cut in geometric forms surrounding fountains and beds for flowers.

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.

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,

The writing in this part of the letter was sharp and angry, the letters slashed across the page.

Proctor glanced in the direction that Adams had gone. Perhaps Proctor would keep that complaint to himself.

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.

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.