Traitor to the Crown (17 page)

“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.”

“Paul?”

“Yes.”

“Ah,” Franklin said, clapping his hands on his knees, as if this explained much to him. “But you were not initiated?”

“No,” Proctor said. “It wasn’t clear that I could travel regularly to the meetings, nor that I could afford the dues. I didn’t want to start something that I couldn’t finish.” And then there was the fact that he carried a secret. It was a bad idea for a man with so many secrets to join a brotherhood that was supposed to be without.

“It would make things easier here. I belong to the Nine Sisters Lodge here in Paris and have a position such that you might be initiated again if you wish to pick up where you left off.”

Proctor wasn’t sure that would be the best use of his time. He had no desire to settle in for a long stay in Paris. He wanted a quick solution, and a ship home. “Your invitation is very gracious. May I reflect on it before I answer?”

“Indeed, I hope you will. Clearly you have reason to be circumspect. But we must consider ways to introduce you to the groups where you’re most likely to meet those you are seeking.” He tapped the desk thoughtfully and looked at Proctor from the corner of his eye. “It might be better to introduce you to the Egyptian Rites Lodge and the followers of Count Cagliostro. But in that case, it would be best if you were already at least a magus.”

Franklin watched him closely, but Proctor didn’t twitch. He knew already that
magus
was the word for one of the intermediate levels of Mason. When Proctor sat there perfectly still, offering no reaction at all, Franklin
responded with a very small smile. “May I offer one additional piece of advice?”

“I am eager to hear what ever you have to say,” Proctor replied.

“Be forthright and direct in any letters you may write,” Franklin said.

That surprised Proctor. “But Mister Adams just advised me to say nothing. He said that any letters I write will be read and copied before they’re sent on through the post.”

“I suggest that you consider his reasons rather than his reasoning,” Franklin said. “He is quite correct about one thing, and that is you must assume that anything and everything you write and send through the mail will be copied and read.”

Proctor was confused for a moment, and then he thought about the idea of hiding something in plain sight. “So if I’m known to be looking for someone, that someone may come looking for me.”

“If I were you, I would express a serious interest in the Egyptian Rites, as practiced by the Order of the Strict Observance,” Franklin said. He stood and offered Proctor his hand. “It was a plea sure to meet you, Mister Brown. I will consider what else we may do to help you.”

His grip was confident and strong, despite his age. Proctor held his hand for an extra second, probing to see if Franklin had any spark. He didn’t feel one and finally released his hand. “You’ve already done more than I expected.”

Days later, Proctor sat at the desk in his room and sharpened the end of his quill. One shredded feather already lay in a pile by the inkwell. Every day the post came in, he went to check for another letter from Deborah. So far, she had kept to her promise not to write again until she heard from him.

He held the sharpened quill above the inkwell. He had put off writing the letter to Deborah for as long as he could.

First, he had dithered over the problem of delivery. He dared not send it by way of Tallmadge or any of his agents connected with the army, for fear of drawing attention to either the spies or Deborah. Best keep those two apart. He also did not feel he could send it care of Paul Revere, who actively served in the war. Ultimately he decided to send it by way of a friend on the Quaker Highway, the secret route that had moved accused witches from Massachusetts to places like The Farm where they could be trained to safely use and hide their talents.

He dipped the quill in the ink and tapped his thumb on the rim of the bottle. The extra ink coalesced in a drop and fell back inside.

Intending to write still did not give him something to write. Neither Adams’s advice to reveal nothing nor Franklin’s advice to be direct seemed helpful. Every day he left behind wads of crumpled paper from his failed
attempts. He pressed the tip to the paper and began with the easiest part.

A drop of sweat beaded on his forehead and fell, smearing the ink in
finish
where it splashed. Why did this have to be so hard? He wiped his forehead on his sleeve and continued with the part he knew he had to write.

If Deborah was as drained by the visit as he had been, still assuming that it had been her attempting to draw him back, then she would just be recovering her full strength. If—no,
when
—the Covenant attacked again, they would both need their full strength. As much as he wanted to see her, he did not want to put either of them in any danger. Any additional danger.

This is where he usually broke down and wadded up the paper. He picked up his knife, intending to resharpen
the point of his quill yet again. The knife slipped and he cut the quill in half. He pushed it over to the pile with the other and picked up a third.

Lydia was always teasing Abigail about forgetting to wash her hands, and even as he wrote it he could imagine Abigail just in from getting the eggs, with a straw in her hair and dirt on her fingers.