by Mark J Rose
“What else do they make at this Ferguson factory?” Matt asked.
“I don’t know all the machines,” the driver said. “Most are on display at the manor. I’ve never been lucky enough to receive an invitation to the citizen’s ball.” They watched another bicycle pass. “He makes clocks too,” the driver said. “Like masterpieces, they are.” The driver was excited to have remembered something new. “And the manor, the manor they say, is lit by stars.”
“Candles?” Matt asked.
“Something else, entire,” the driver replied. “No smoke. Imported from America. I am surprised you’re not familiar.”
“I have some idea,” Matt said. Matt was sure that Ferguson Manor was lit by electric lights. The drove the wagon in silence until they found themselves in front of a four-story brick row home about three blocks away from the Thames. “This is it,” the driver said. Matt shook his hand and climbed to the cobblestone street. He opened the door of the cab and looked in on Sutton. “Hey,” Matt said. “Time to wake up.”
Sutton sat up in haste, looking lost. “Oh,” he finally said.
Matt reached in, slid his bag out of the cab and put the leather strap on his shoulder. Sutton grabbed his own bag by the handle and hopped onto the street. Matt knocked on the side of the carriage and gave the driver a thumbs-up. They stood there in front of Franklin’s house and watched the carriage drive away.
Chapter 24
Reunion
The London streets were crowded with well-dressed Englishmen, rushing on foot and in the carriages that sped by, and of course, on Ferguson two-wheelers. Matt waited for a gap in the traffic and then jogged across to Franklin’s row house. He stepped up to the white door and used the cast iron gargoyle-shaped knocker to give three solid taps. A woman in her early thirties opened the door. “Yes, sir?”
“Matt Miller to see Dr. Franklin,” Matt said. He motioned to Sutton. “This is my secretary, David Sutton.”
“Mr. Miller and Mr. Sutton?” she said surprised. “I’m Polly Stevenson, Daughter of Margaret, the owner of this house. Dr. Franklin was not expecting you for another week.”
“Pleased to meet you, Polly. He’s mentioned you often in his letters,” Matt said. “He here?”
“He’s in a poor temper,” she replied. “Something about throwing himself into the Thames. He’s distracted as of late.”
Matt laughed. “He can throw himself into the river after we’ve had a few drinks.”
She waved them in, and they followed her into a spacious and well-furnished apartment, lit brightly by expansive windows. They walked out a door to a porch and then down steps into a shaded garden. Franklin was sitting at a weathered wooden desk that faced into the yard. The old desk in the grass reminded Matt when the guys in his college fraternity decided to move the living room furniture outside for parties.
“You’re too young to be working on your last will and testament,” Matt called. “Or, is it some scheme to change your portion?” Franklin motioned to acknowledge Matt’s presence, looked sideways at Sutton and then continued writing. “I must finish these last few paragraphs,” he said. “You’re betimes, anyway.”
Matt glanced at Sutton and rolled his eyes. Sutton got impatient after the first few minutes. He tapped Matt on the shoulder and said, “Mr. Miller, I have relations down by the docks. If it’s fine with you, I’ll come back in a few days. You can settle yourself.”
Matt shrugged. “That’s fine. Make sure you check back. I’ll ask Franklin about employment.” Sutton shook Matt’s hand, walked to the garden gate that led to the alley, and let himself out. Franklin glared up in irritation at the sound of the gate slamming shut, but then returned to his writing. Matt walked patiently around the garden in silence for fifteen minutes while the older man completed his paragraphs, and signed the letter.
Eventually, Franklin pulled himself from his document and gave Matt a frown. “With all the long-winded nonsense you felt license to speak during our time in Philadelphia, could you not have mentioned a banking disaster such as the civilized world has never seen?”
Matt looked at him puzzled at first, but then he impressed himself by connecting the dots. “It’s the debt, isn’t it?”
“Isn’t it still?”
“I mean the colonies,” Matt replied. “Virginia and the Carolinas. Debt is practically their business model. How do they even keep track of all the creditors? It would drive me nuts.” He contemplated Franklin for a moment. “You didn’t get caught up in it, did you?”
“Ah!” Franklin sighed. “A few hastily made investments.”
“I can lend you the money,” Matt said, smiling. He wasn’t joking, but he also knew Franklin’s moods. It was extremely doubtful that the man had lost his entire fortune.
Franklin chirped and waved his hand in the air. “I got out before most. It’s going to sting…for a while.”
“I thought you needed the internet to create a bubble.”
“Still speaking nonsense?” Franklin said. He stood and reached for Matt’s hand, clasping it hard, and then he pulled him close in a big bear hug while patting him hardily. He stepped away to inspect Matt’s face. “Now what befell you?”
“Pirates,” Matt said.
“Did you fight?”
Matt pointed to his head. “We outsmarted them.”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“What news do you have? My driver could do nothing, but talk about the magic inventions of a fellow called Ferguson.”
“I wanted you here earlier,” Franklin explained. “Since I contacted you last, Sir William Maynard, one of Parliament’s strongest opponents of American representation, has disappeared. Many believe it to be foul play committed by pro-American groups either here or abroad.”
“It’s a powder keg in the colonies. Do they suspect anyone specific?”
“They point fingers at anyone who has a stake in America, which is about half of London, including Ferguson,” Franklin explained. “Feels like he came from nowhere. One day I heard his name from some cabbie and the next I knew he’s speaking in front of Parliament. He’s been knighted.”
“He did kind of come from nowhere,” Matt replied. “Can you buy a knighthood?”
“These days? You can buy whatsoever you like.”
“Have you met him?”
“No, but that will change.”
Matt looked back expectantly for some explanation.
Franklin shrugged. “I’ve been invited to a party.” Franklin motioned that Matt should follow him inside and they wound up in the study on the second floor. Franklin pointed to the sofa for Matt to sit while he went to a big roll-top desk to retrieve a packet. Franklin walked back and sat in the padded chair opposite Matt. They were separated by a marble coffee table with a decorative vase contained daisies and wildflowers. Franklin held up a folded note. “This is my invitation,” he said, and then he tossed a second on the table between them. Matt followed it with his eyes as it slapped onto the table and slid toward him. “And that, my good fellow, is yours.”
“Mine?” Matt said, leaning forward to pick up the parchment. The calligraphy across the front said, “Mr. Matthew Miller.” Wax sealed the back. “I thought we had agreed to keep my visit between us.”
“I told no one,” Franklin replied.
“Only my family and business associates knew,” Matt said, “and then in the strictest confidence, and only right before I left.”
“How, then, did he know you were coming to London?”
Matt flicked at the wax seal with his fingernail and then opened the letter. “A masquerade party?”
“Seems.”
“I guess we’re going then?”
“There are some reputable costume shops in town.”
“I have an aversion to costume parties.”
“Londoners love them.”
“The only way Ferguson could have predicted that I was coming was either a network of spies, or he has the information already in his
head.”
“He has enough gold to hire anyone he wants for anything that he chooses,” Franklin said. “A network of spies is probable. Only you can decide whether he has additional abilities.”
“Let’s assume he does.”
Chapter 25
Masquerade
The driver stopped the carriage in front of an enormous and majestic mansion along the River Thames. Franklin was the first to step from the carriage, and then he waited as Matt joined him on the stone entryway. Matt had trouble seeing from behind the mask, so he tripped as he stepped from the vehicle. “Careful,” Franklin said, sticking his arm out to brace him and help him keep his feet.
Once he had regained his balance, Matt adjusted his mask trying to line it up with his eyes, and he smoothed the silver cape that he wore back over his shoulders. He wondered if he looked anything like a superhero. The mask covered the top half of his face, almost down to his nose. It was made of black felt, adorned with metallic decorations that matched the cape, and was attractive as far as masks went. Matt wished now, though, that he had joined Franklin when he had gone to select the costumes so that he could have gotten a mask with bigger eyeholes. “I can’t see a damn thing in this,” Matt complained.
“It’s a fine looking mask, though.” Franklin had no sympathy.
“You want to trade?” Matt asked.
“You won’t even notice it after a while.”
“Do we wear them the whole time?” Matt held his mask by the nose as he and Franklin inspected the gigantic pillars that framed the entry. They turned in unison to look back at the London socialites who were stepping out of cabs behind them, making oohs, ahs, and excited noises as they began their walk up the carpeted stairway.
“He built this?” Matt asked the older man. Matt was checking for signs of weathering in the marble, but the structure appeared new.
“It was finished a few years ago by some East India fellow,” Franklin said. “It takes a long time to complete a structure like this, even with all the resources of London at your disposal—longer than Ferguson’s been here at any rate.”
“Can’t imagine what this cost,” Matt said now inspecting the whole of the front facade.
“Ferguson’s aroused some envy, even among the old families.”
“Affluence is hard to imagine until you see it.”
“These people may be insulted by your pretense,” Franklin cautioned. “Some here will know that you’re no beggar.”
“My brother-in-law,” Matt replied.
“The breeder of kings?”
“Will started that. I had nothing to do with it.”
“Don’t expect to hide in a corner.”
Their conversation ended as they reached the door of the mansion. Two well-dressed men greeted guests, while a third sat behind a desk to cross names from a list. The attendants recognized Franklin even before he lifted his mask.
“Welcome Dr. Franklin,” one said. There was an exchange of nods and smiles before the greeter turned to Matt. “Mr. Miller, I presume?”
Matt lifted his mask with one hand and reached out to shake with the other. “Mr. Matthew Miller,” he confirmed. Another attendant, who had stepped in beside them, touched Matt’s back and guided him along the red-carpeted walkway. It was hard not to look around at the paintings and statues that lined the passage. The splendor of the place was overwhelming.
Franklin was correct in his assessment of Matt’s own situation. His businesses were prominent across Virginia and bordering colonies. The Miller’s money came from the apothecary supplies he sold in the thirteen colonies and Europe, as well as their thoroughbred horses. His brother-in-law’s position as a managing partner in Martin Enterprises had exaggerated their horse trade.
Martin Enterprises was a vast British import-export business. To Will Taylor’s credit, he had created a stir for Taylor-Miller horses among his most prominent trading partners. People from both sides of the Atlantic were on a waiting list for their animals, and the richer ones paid exorbitant sums to jump to the top of the list. Small chests of gold coins frequently arrived on the farm requiring Jonathan, the youngest Taylor son, to make secretive trips to a locking facility they had built in one of the barns. No one besides Jonathan and Matt knew how much gold was stored there, but it was a more significant fortune than his family could spend in a lifetime.
Discernable from the works of art around them in Ferguson Manor, success had a new definition in a place like London where buying luxuries could become a full-time pursuit. Franklin pushed Matt along again, responding to the gesturing of another attendant at the end of the hallway who urged them to make their way into the Great Hall. There, too, Matt had to hold back a gasp when they entered. The room was brilliantly lit by the mid-afternoon sun streaming through ten-foot windows that reached from the edge of the arched ceiling and then nearly to the floor.
Shining gold chandeliers were spaced along the length of the room hanging from a light-blue, arched ceiling. The top of a massive unlit fireplace was visible over a crowd that had gathered in between the dining tables. Elaborately embossed white tablecloths covered each of these tables under intricate purple and white floral centerpieces. Thick burning candles were spaced between the centerpieces. The smell of bayberry permeated the air and Matt could feel a light breeze moving through the room. Even Franklin seemed humbled by the opulence. Matt tilted his head to inspect the stone statue of Hercules in the center of the room. Hercules was about fifteen feet tall with his arms held up parallel and holding two glistening metal swords.
“Seems you are not alone in your industry,” Franklin said with his head tilted up to the statue.
“Guess not,” Matt replied. He stopped himself midway through the comparison between his and Ferguson’s success. Like Matt, the owner of this brilliant mansion had achieved his status using his knowledge of the future. Comparing each man’s ability to game the system hardly seemed legitimate. Seeing this opulence did make Matt curious as to exactly how Ferguson had built his fortune. Ferguson would fill his story with half-truths if his explanation was anything like Matt’s, but Matt thought he could still manage to piece it together. Money like this didn’t come from making bikes and carriages.
Sarah Morris had painted Ferguson in the worst possible light, but it was hard for Matt not to share some kinship with a man who had found himself in a similar circumstance and who had managed to prosper. Matt considered the challenges that Ferguson had overcome once he had crossed the sea and taken up residence in London. He had heard only favorable things about the man since his ship had landed in London.
Franklin edged Matt forward again, now between the tables and then into the crowd of powdered wigs. Matt’s wig was beginning to itch, so he reached up and gave it the casual twist that was a familiar gesture among the men of the day. Matt and Grace had an active social life, and so Matt was familiar with grand formal gatherings. While he was able to move about this fine English hall with some degree of comfort, he still needed to put on his “game face” and remind himself to smile and be overly polite. Franklin, as a contrast, fed off the crowd and his energy increased with every interaction.
“Benjamin!” a man in front of them called out as he turned toward them and waved. The man was standing with a younger woman. Franklin responded in kind and Matt hurried behind as they walked to greet the couple.
“How does it, old fellow?” Franklin said, shaking his hand.
“Quite well,” the man replied. “And you?”
“No city in the world like London. I cherish each day.”
“How you flatter us,” the man exclaimed. “There’s no question why your popularity abounds in my city.”
Franklin turned toward Matt. “This is Mr. Matthew Miller of the Virginia Colony.”
“Mr. Miller, welcome to our fine city,” the man said. “I’m George Wellington, and this is my daughter Elisabeth.” Matt turned to the young woman as she held out her hand. Matt raised it higher in the air.
&
nbsp; “Pleased to meet you, Miss Wellington,” Matt said.
“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Miller,” she replied. She stared deep into Matt’s eyes through his mask. Matt looked away when it seemed appropriate. “I do love your bubbling tablets,” Elizabeth proclaimed. “My father keeps a supply still at our convenience.”
“It pleases me that you should enjoy them,” Matt said. “I sometimes forget that Dr. Franklin had created a market for our products in England.”
“An astute businessman before he was a partisan,” her father proclaimed. “I’ve seen the tablets as far away as New Castle.” Matt glanced at Franklin and Franklin returned his look with a shrug. The satisfaction Matt felt promptly melted with the thought that perhaps Patrick Ferguson was also a consumer of Miller Head and Stomach Tablets. This could result in some probing questions should the opportunity present itself.
George Wellington turned to Franklin. “Any success in the back rooms?” he asked.
“I pray I have swayed one or two,” Franklin replied. “Americans want only the rights shared by every Englishman.”
“You know I agree. I’ll do what I can and so will Sir Ferguson.”
“Sir Ferguson?” The words came out of Matt’s mouth without him thinking.
“Recent, but quite deserving,” Wellington said. “He’s done much for the city and England. His efforts alone have raised the coffers some ten percent from this time last year. His enterprise may rival even yours, Mr. Miller.”
“I thought knighthood was something gained through battle,” Matt said.
“Not necessarily,” Wellington replied, “but Sir Ferguson has served as an adjunct to the Royal army for the last couple of years.”
