by Eytan Kollin
“Respect the house? That I shall.” Ben studied the outside of the home and the surrounding street intently. “I see that your curtains are sheer, but I can’t see in from here—a nice trick of differing light. I presume you can see out through them from the inside?”
“Indeed, Mr. Franklin, indeed.” There was a slight twitch of one of the shades, and Mrs. Stevenson shook her head. “The effect provides great privacy to the occupants. You can’t even see my daughter, Polly, who is watching us intently this very moment.”
Ben waved to the curtains and they twitched again, exposing the secret watcher.
Mrs. Stevenson laughed. “Oh, you’ll do just fine. Just fine indeed. Mr. Charles was right about you.”
“I do find the apparition you call your daughter a bit unsettling. Will we ever meet her, or shall I simply assume a ghost will always be watching my morning airings?”
Ben spoke with so serious a tone and expression that it took a moment for Mrs. Stevenson to realize he had been joking. “You hear that, Polly?” She called out while ushering her two guests into the house. “You’re an apparition now.”
The narrow main hallway had beautifully polished hardwood floors, and midway down its length there was a stairwell and bannister leading up to the next floor. At the top of the stairs, Mrs. Stevenson turned right and pointed out the sitting room, with its window facing the street. The room’s most prominent feature was a large fireplace. Placed carefully about it, and positioned to receive equal warmth, were three chairs and a divan. Directly opposite the window was a closed door. Ben wondered briefly where it led, but he assumed he would be told later.
Stepping into the room to take a closer look, he was astonished to discover that he could detect, just at the edge of the audible spectrum, a faint and familiar hum. Without thinking he pressed his right hand to his chest.
This, in my offered lodgings? he thought. Either the wildest of coincidences, or no coincidence at all—but in either outcome, my first study for the Royal Society would appear to have announced itself.
“Peter, this is Hannah,” said Mrs. Stevenson, pointing to a plain woman in her early twenties. She stood midway up the stairs to the next higher floor, and wore a simple household uniform and cap. “Hannah will you show you the back ways around the house.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Peter replied, following Hannah up the stairs.
Now Mrs. Stevenson beckoned Ben to follow her in turn. “This way, if you please.”
“Right you are,” he said, allowing himself just the barest glance back. The persistent hum faded only slightly.
“Back here, through the garden, is the portion of the house I stay in. And should you wish a midnight snack, our kitchen is here. I believe you will find it well-appointed,” Mrs. Stevenson said with evident pride.
There was a time that fire and heat had fascinated Franklin as much as electricity. He therefore examined the kitchen with a critical eye. The fireplace, he noted with approval, was complete with swinging iron arms to position cook pots in and out of the flames as needed. The arrangement reminded him of the multi-armed optical lens device he had designed for his experiments back home. He rounded out his review by noting the kitchen’s heavy chopping block, the large, well-arranged pantry, and the big sink with hooks suspending four full-sized buckets over it.
“Very modern, Mrs. Stevenson. I approve. Just inspecting it is whetting my appetite.” He rubbed his belly, “Not that it needs particular help.”
“Thank you. We are going to be one of the first houses in the neighborhood with a water pump right in the kitchen—just as soon as they can connect the pipes to the master well. No more water deliveries for us, then.”
“Will the water circulate throughout the house?” asked Franklin, enticed. He tapped the walls, his inventor’s mind trying to puzzle out how that might work.
“I’m sure it won’t yet,” answered a suddenly wary Mrs. Stevenson, watching her strange new lodger get lost in his own head. “It will pump here to the kitchen only. Is something not to your liking?”
Ben became aware of his unintentional insult and immediately set to correct it. “Mrs. Stevenson, I apologize. I find no fault with your extraordinary kitchen. Indeed, it has inspired me—overtaken as I was by the spirit of inquiry, I found myself looking ahead to a future where London homes shall have running water, rather than water from runners.”
She smiled graciously at this witticism, which pleased Ben. Apparently all was now forgiven.
“May I look at our rooms? If they are as satisfactory as all that I’ve seen so far, I’m sure we will have no difficulty coming to equitable financial arrangements.”
“The rooms are on the second floor, sir, which is actually third up from the street. There’s a box of books waiting for you already.”
“I’m sorry—books?”
“Your friend Mr. Collinson sent them. The accompanying note said it was to get your library started. It also said something very strange, after. ‘Tell him this will give him a good start, and he’ll have to work hard to catch up.’ Beautiful penmanship. No idea what he meant, of course, but I’m sure you do.”
“Nothing too serious,” Ben assured her. “From the beginning of our communication, Collinson and I have enjoyed setting each other challenges. I imagine he shall pester me horribly, and I him, now that there isn’t an ocean between us to mitigate these impulses.”
As they walked back toward the stairs Mrs. Stevenson noticed his slight limp, even though today his cane was more affectation than crutch. Concerned, she made inquiry. “Will the steps be a problem for your legs, Mr. Franklin? I should have asked sooner.”
“Not at all, not at all! A healthy diet and plenty of exercise are the true secrets to a long life. As you will be providing delicious, healthy fare, it will fall to me to walk these stairs and the streets each day, providing the physical exertion.”
Mrs. Stevenson paused at the banister. She raised her eyebrows at him quizzically, then continued up. It was plain as day that she found him odd, but charming regardless.
He followed, focusing on placing one foot correctly in front of the other on the steps. The exertion was not enough to overcome him, but with his bad knees and hip, plus his weight, it wasn’t the easiest climb; and coming from street level to the first floor had already strained him. “You know,” he called up to Mrs. Stevenson, “when I was younger, I had every opportunity to be physically active, and was quite the fit man. Maybe it’s the air here that is giving me such pause.”
“It’s just London, Mr. Franklin. You’ll get used to it. We all do.”
At the top of the stairs Ben was short of breath, though not completely winded. Mrs. Stevenson kindly pretended to not notice. He resisted the temptation to draw strength from the Key, knowing how the counterbalance of hunger and exhaustion would swing against him later; there was nothing for it but to wait until he recovered naturally and accept that all the pleasantries in the world couldn’t make him one day younger.
His brow furrowed as he closed his eyes and leaned his head back. The faint humming that was so like the Key—and the Bell too, he remembered—was stronger here.
“Thank you for your patience, madam. I believe I am ready.”
Still breathing a bit hard, Ben followed Mrs. Stevenson into the simple room that was being offered for use as his library. It was filled wall to wall with empty bookshelves, and a comfortable desk and chair were set to one side of the small fireplace that was connected to the main chimney.
Sitting at the desk was an eighteen-year-old woman in a simple yet elegantly fashionable dress. On hearing them enter she looked up from the open book on the desk, and her eyes locked with Franklin’s, clearly taking his measure. Ben, in turn, saw within her gaze both profound intelligence and a considerable gift for mischief. In spirit, she reminded him deeply of his own daughter Sally. So strong was this reaction that it took him a further moment to see the small brooch she wore as a pin. It was a miniature metal scorpion in a jad
e setting, and there could be no question—it, and it alone, was the source of the humming.
Ben sought to control his features. He hoped the girl had seen nothing in them, but doubted his success.
“Mr. Franklin,” said Mrs. Stevenson, “may I introduce your apparition, my daughter, Polly.” Polly stood and curtsied prettily.
Ben sketched a bow in keeping with their respective ages. “My pleasure, Miss Polly. I see you are reading the newest work of Mr. David Hume. I have not yet had the opportunity to consider it.”
“Mr. Franklin,” Polly beamed. “I am honored to meet you. Please say you will choose to lodge here, and that you will fill these shelves with even more books to read. They have been empty for a very long time, and bear occupancy. I’ve taken the liberty of unpacking the crate of books your Mr. Collinson sent over earlier, so you would be able to examine them without delay, and then I saw that Four Dissertations was amongst them. I have been simply desperate to read this book, and could not resist, though I know it was rude of me to do so without asking first. May I ask you now?” She spoke quickly, one hand fidgeting with the edges of the book all the while.
“Polly,” Mrs. Stevenson interrupted. “Please allow Mr. Franklin a moment around your words.” She glanced at Ben somewhat ruefully. “Forgive my daughter, sir. She can, at times, be overly helpful, especially when there are books concerned.”
Ben forced himself not to stare at the brooch, however much it now dominated his thoughts. “No offense taken, Mrs. Stevenson. Your daughter’s intelligence, education, and thoughtfulness have certified my decision, and Mr. Charles’ recommendation of this house. You both make me feel as though this is my home, and I am coming back to a warm family. Young Polly, you must let me initiate correspondences between you and my own daughter Sally, who also has a great love of books.”
“That is most kind of you to say,” Mrs. Stevenson said, with a small sigh of relief. “I’m sure Polly would love to correspond with your family in the Colonies. I am not a great letter writer, myself.”
“Then it is settled. Peter and I will go fetch the rest of our party and arrange for our belongings to be delivered, so tonight we can eat our first meal together in our new English home. And perhaps after dinner”—he favored Polly with the most challenging look he could muster—“there will be time for chess. Tell me, O Ghostly Spirit: do you play?”
The
Stevenson Home
Craven Street
London, England
August 10th
17
Letter to Mother
Benjamin Franklin, Esq., commander, general, and strategist, studied the battlefield in the parlor of his Craven Street lodgings with exquisite care from inside his cocoon of warm blankets. He was certain of victory, for his troops had fought well, but it was not the victory he wanted. The brooch that his opponent wore had proven an impenetrable mystery. It still tugged unceasingly at his attention and sounded in his ears, but over time he had begun to grow used to the feeling. Resigned to it, more accurately. Neither Polly nor her mother admitted knowing anything of the brooch’s origin—a trinket purchased at a street fair, the girl had claimed, with a face so guileless that Franklin suspected her all the more.
“You should study the chessboard more than you study me,” he said softly, seeking to avoid overtaxing the raw throat and hurting chest that accompanied his current mild malaise. He had forgotten how much he had disliked the summer colds he always suffered in England.
“I completely disagree, Mr. Franklin. The more you carry of knowledge of your opponent, the more you control their moves.” Polly looked at the battlefield between them and bit her lip. The board was from a traveler’s set, about the length of a hand from side to side, and the tiny pieces were red and white in the current vogue, as opposed to the more traditional black and white. “Or is it too forward for me to control your movements, sirrah?”
William choked on his beer and coughed, inadvertently spitting on the pages of the law book he had been studying. His cheeks flushed as both players turned to stare at him. “I wouldn’t move the queen if I were you,” he said to Polly, seeking to recover his dignity. “He does that a lot, you know—threatens a piece he has no intention of trading for just to gain some positional advantage.”
“Give away my secrets, would you?” Ben cried in mock outrage.
“Oh, I don’t know that he is giving away anything, Mr. Franklin. At least not anything that hadn’t already been clearly exposed to one who is looking.” Polly tucked her chin and hid her mouth with one hand, as though embarrassed at court by a suitor. But her eyes twinkled.
“I approach this sport of the mind with a singular focus,” Ben complained, this time a shade more seriously. “The bon-vivanterie that you both display is very distracting.”
“Don’t let him fool you,” William shot back. “He could have won three moves ago. He’s more interested in improving your game than in maintaining his. I cannot tell you the number of times I wanted to throw the board into the fire because I knew he was playing with me and not, as a true opponent should, against me.”
Ben addressed his son. “You learned, did you not?”
“I am not sure. I still lose more games against you than I win.”
“Just like everyone else, as it should be,” Ben replied off-handedly.
“Such overwhelming confidence,” Polly said, sliding one of her rooks forward. “Check.”
William and Ben stared at each other for the briefest of moments. The girl was, in ways, schooling them both in the art of conversational warfare over the board.
Polly blew an errant hair from her forehead. “Your move, I believe.”
This was a game two could play. Ben put his hand on hers, gently but commandingly. “Are you sure that is the move you should make?” he asked, sliding a bishop three angled squares, but keeping his fingers on the piece.
“Father, really,” William said condescendingly. “She has made her move, let her suffer the consequences. Don’t seek to intimidate her by showing what you might do. I always hated that!”
“Silence, my boy,” Ben replied. “Red’s Brigadier is still thinking. She has not answered.”
William rose from the divan. “Nor have you taken your hand from hers, Father. I guess you like moving her as a player too. You two enjoy yourselves, I think I’ll go write a letter home to Mother and Sally, and my dearest Betsy. I promise to include quips about knights moving by night, just for you.”
Ben moved his hand back to his blanket covering and frowned. “What a dutiful son you are, my William. Shall I see you tomorrow to accompany me to the Royal College?”
“I will, Father. Enjoy your games.” William took his book and mug with him as he left.
Ben frowned, “Sometimes I wonder about that boy.”
Polly looked over at the door through which he had departed, then turned back to Ben. “I don’t. He would have been tricked by the forced-attack trap I laid. You saw right through it. Unfortunately, he seems a bad chess player who thinks he is good. And no, I do not withdraw my rook, nor do I fear your bishop.” She grinned at him ferociously. “Now attend the board, please, and do try to learn, or I shall have to charge you for the lesson.”
“Ha. Such overwhelming confidence indeed,” Ben said sternly, but his eyes twinkled.
The Home
of Thomas Penn
At Hitcham,
near Maidenhead Bridge, Bucks
August 20th
18
A Lifetime of Favors
Heads of Complaint; to be known to the Penns
1. That the reasonable and necessary Power given to Deputy Governors of Pennsylvania by the Royal Charter, Section 4th. and 5th. of making Laws with the Advice and Consent of the Assembly, for Raising Money for the Safety of the Country and other Publick Uses, “according to their best Discretion,” is taken away by Proprietary Instructions enforced by penal Bonds, and restraining the Deputy from the Use of his best Discretion; tho�
� being on the Spot, he can better judge of the Emergency State and Necessity of Affairs, than Proprietaries residing at a great Distance; by Means of which Restraints sundry Sums of Money granted by the Assembly for the Defence of the Province, have been rejected by the Deputy, to the great Injury of His Majesty’s Service in Time of War, and Danger of the Loss of the Colony.
2. That the indubitable Right of the Assembly, to judge of the Mode, Measure and Time of Granting Supplies, is infringed by Instructions that injoin the Deputy to refuse his Assent to any Bill for Raising Money, unless certain Modes, Measures, and Times in such Instructions directed, make a Part of the Bill; whereby the Assembly, in Time of War, are reduced to the Necessity of either losing the Country to the Enemy, or giving up the Liberties of the People, and receiving Law from the Proprietary; and if they should do the latter in the present Case, it will not prevent the former; the restricting Instructions being such, as that, if comply’d with, it is impossible to raise a Sum sufficient to defend the Country.
3. That the Proprietaries have injoined their Deputy, by such Instructions, to refuse his Assent to any Law for raising Money by a Tax, tho’ ever so necessary for the Defence of the Country, unless the greatest Part of their Estate is exempted from such Tax. This, to the Assembly and People of Pennsylvania, appears both unjust and cruel.
The Proprietaries are now requested seriously to consider these Complaints, and redress the Aggrievances complain’d of, in the most speedy and effectual Manner; that Harmony may be restored between the several Branches of the Legislature, and the Publick Service be hereafter readily and fully provided for.
~B Franklin,
Agent for the Province
of Pensilva.
Ben was grateful to be approaching this home so soon. From the way Peter Collinson had spoken on Franklin’s arrival, Ben had thought that a private meeting with Thomas Penn would take him at least a year of effort, bribery, and subtle pressure to achieve. Instead, all it appeared to require was the right word from certain mutual acquaintances. It was a result Collinson had found no less surprising than Ben himself.
