Revolution in Time (Out of Time #10)

by Monique Martin

  “That is a good start, is it not?” Victor said, enjoying the impressed look on Austin’s face.

  “It is.” He looked at Victor’s gun. “What sort of gun is that?”

  Victor shoved it, hot barrel and all, into the waist of his pants. “Custom made.”

  He felt Travers’ eyes on him. These were questions he did not want to answer.

  “Make sure Spragg is all right and then we should search for the horses.”

  Austin nodded and moved to attend to Spragg.

  “That’s not what I issued, is it?” Travers asked with a nod toward the gun.

  “I made a few modifications.”

  “That’s not—how long have you been doing that? Modifying things?”

  Victor began to shrug, but a pain shot down his arm. He started toward Austin and Spragg. “It is better you do not know.”

  They found the horses not far down the road and, with the help of a passing carriage driver, managed to right the coach and re-hitch the horses. Mr. Spragg, thankfully, found he was more comfortable in the other coach, and they were happy to be rid of him.

  It was a delicate patch and slow going, but they arrived safely in the outskirts of Paris before dark. Finally, they reached Passy, a suburb of Paris in the 16th Arrondissement on the north side of the Seine.

  Victor drove the coach along the arched drive at the front of Hôtel de Valentinois, an expansive mansion where Austin was to deliver his message. He pulled up in the courtyard, and they climbed out of the coach, ignoring the stablehands’ expressions at its sorry state. They crossed the gravel drive toward Franklin’s private chateau situated in the large garden behind the main house. But before they got to the door it opened and Franklin and several others piled out.

  “What word of Philadelphia?” he asked.

  Next to him, Travers exhaled something that sounded suspiciously like a ‘wow,’ but Victor was unimpressed by the first impression.

  Somehow, he expected more. Franklin was heavy, ruddy-faced and panting for breath as he limped his way toward them. Hardly the god history had made him out to be.

  Austin’s face fell. “Taken, sir.”

  Franklin seemed shaken by the news but gathered himself and nodded his thanks. He started back slowly toward his chateau.

  “But that is not all, sir,” Austin said. “I have greater news than that. General Burgoyne has been defeated at Saratoga.”

  Franklin’s face lit at the news.

  “He and his entire army are prisoners.”

  Franklin barked out a joyful laugh. “How many?”

  “Six thousand men, sir.”

  “Six thousand!” Franklin repeated and clapped one of his fellows on the back. “Did you hear?”

  The men who’d joined Franklin outside were nearly as excited by the news as he was. Several begged leave to go to Paris and spread the news.

  “That’s Bancroft,” Travers whispered quietly. “Franklin’s secretary. And those two are Silas Deane and Arthur Lee.”

  Deane and Lee were the other two members of the American delegation.

  Franklin hobbled over to Austin and waved to his servant. “Champagne for this man who brings such glorious news!”

  He held out his hand. “You are?”

  “Austin, sir. Jonathan Austin, your servant, sir.”

  Franklin grinned. “And your friends?”

  “I would not have made it here without them.”

  Franklin beamed. “Wonderful. Champagne for everyone! This is indeed a night to celebrate.”

  Victor knew that all too well. The news of the American victory at the Battle of Saratoga was a turning point in the war. A cause that seemed lost was now very much in play. The French, who initially resisted officially forming an alliance with the Americans, would be persuaded to do so in just a few days.

  “Come, come inside!” Franklin urged them.

  “Wonderful news, Doctor!” Bancroft said. He put his hand on Franklin’s shoulder as they walked back inside.

  Victor and Travers lingered toward the back of the group.

  “Remarkable, isn’t he?” Travers said.

  Victor hmm’d noncommittally.

  “Come on, Renaud. Even you must be moved by this.”

  Victor stopped at the foot of the steps leading to the front door. “I will be moved when we succeed. Do not forget that there is someone here who will stop at nothing to see this treaty never comes to pass.”

  Travers nodded soberly. “And they’re not alone.” He nodded toward Bancroft, the secretary. “Franklin’s closest confidante is a British spy.”

  ~~~

  December 4, 1777 - Passy, France

  Travers admired himself in the floor-length mirror and then turned to look at his best side over his shoulder.

  “Do you think these stockings make my calves look big?”

  Victor rolled his eyes and squinted to read by the candlelight. “Do you not have your own room?”

  Travers ignored him and flexed his leg muscle once more in the mirror before shrugging and turning away from it. “I do. And it’s lovely.”

  “Then please go enjoy it.” Victor put down the paper he was reading and worked his sore shoulder.

  Travers pursed his lips and frowned.

  Victor was tired and his body ached. He had no patience for this. “What?”

  Travers clasped his hands in front of him and fiddled with his fingers. “I realize that I was not much help earlier today.”

  Victor grunted and moved to the sofa where he’d laid out their guns for cleaning and reloading before going to bed.

  Travers moved with him and sat down, uninvited. Even Victor’s best glare did nothing to dissuade him.

  “And I apologize for that, but I can help. If you’ll let me.”

  Victor picked up the larger gun and began to punch out the retaining pins along the barrel.

  “Not everything we do here will require one of those,” Travers continued. “Hopefully.”

  Despite his fatigue and general annoyance, he knew Travers was right. And while he had read the dossier for the mission, Travers wrote it.

  Victor continued to disassemble the gun in silence before lifting his heavy eyes toward Travers.

  “Go on.”

  Travers blossomed and sat up a little straighter. “It’s all quite fascinating really. Nearly everyone is a spy.”

  “Including our nemesis.”

  “Yes, but surely Quincy won’t be able to get into Franklin’s inner circle easily.”

  Victor arched an eyebrow. “We did.”

  Any trained operative could and Quincy was no exception.

  “Oh. True.” Travers’ face fell for a moment before it bounced back like a trampoline. “But, we have something she doesn’t. Me.”

  Victor opened his mouth to say something cutting, but Travers held up a hand to stop him. “I know. I know. But I am an expert on this particular part of history. I know all the players. Every moment that was recorded.”

  Victor gave him a deferential nod. This was a part of French history he knew little about. The French Revolution? That he was familiar with. But America’s fight for independence was a chapter in a history book to him.

  “You say Bancroft is a spy?”

  “Yes! Although, Franklin doesn’t know yet. He suspects someone is feeding private information to the British but he doesn’t know who, and we mustn’t give it away.”

  Victor nodded and cleaned the barrel of the gun.

  Travers squinted in thought. “He is, however, the sort of person Quincy might use to her own end. The British would love nothing more than to see these negotiations fail.”

  Victor frowned. If Quincy enlisted the help of British sympathizers here, their task was exponentially more difficult. If that were possible. They not only had to protect Franklin’s fragile talks for the next three days, but they had to do so against someone who had no compunction whatsoever about changing history.

  “And of course,” Trav
ers said, adding salt to the wound, “there are plenty of French who are also not in favor of an alliance. All of them could be pawns of Quincy.”

  “Merveilleux.”

  Travers sighed. “There are so many possibilities.” He stood and walked toward the long silk sash by the door to ring for a servant. “Maybe I should see if we can have some tea sent up?”

  “Do not be absurd.”

  Travers stopped abruptly. “I was just—”

  “We are in Paris,” Victor said. “Order café.”

  Travers grinned and pulled the cord.

  Chapter Sixteen

  SEPTEMBER 27, 1774 - LONDON, England

  As they walked down the steps to the small boat, the usual stink of London was joined by a new pungent odor—dead fish. Elizabeth started to gag but managed to turn it into what sounded like a small cough. Of course, Simon looked at her and cleared his throat.

  “Indeed,” he agreed.

  But his attention was diverted by a waterman as he urged them to come aboard. He held out his hand for Elizabeth, who took it and managed, barely, to get into the thing without going for an untimely dip in the Thames. She sat at the back on the only cushioned seat available. Simon joined her and a few others climbed aboard, taking their places on the wooden seats of the long narrow rowboat. It was a little like a bigger version of the skiff they’d used to go up the Cam River when they were following Niels Bohr.

  Was that really only a few months ago? It felt like years now.

  The waterman got in, and they were pushed off from the dock beneath Westminster to start their way across the Thames. She could just make out the gas lamps flickering on the south shore at the entrance to Vauxhall Gardens, which Simon assured her was nothing like the misnomered Covent Garden.

  It was colder on the water, and she scooted as close to Simon as her dang pannier would let her. He put his arm around her shoulder.

  “Cold?”

  “A little, but it’s nice out.”

  It was an unseasonably warm evening for late September which explained why the Gardens were still open.

  The waterman rowed them easily across, other boats coming and going as hundreds of people made their way to the final night of the season. After tonight, the Gardens would close, and the long wait for spring would begin.

  They reached the shore and climbed the stairs to the entrance where they paid their one shilling fee. The garden was much more than just a garden, it was a series of beautiful pavilions, broad expanses of lawn and winding, tree-lined pathways.

  It was a revelation after the city. Grass and trees. The air was almost fresh. What must have been thousands of people strolled along a variety of pathways.

  Elizabeth and Simon wandered along the main path. A young man and woman walked ahead of them before ducking quickly off to the right down a dark lane. She saw the man steal a kiss before clasping the woman’s hand and taking her, literally, down the garden path.

  Another couple followed not far behind, but they were clearly not young lovers sneaking off for a tryst, but rather something of a more professional variety. It was the perfect place for prostitutes to do a brisk business. Elizabeth suddenly worried about the young couple.

  “Should we—”

  Simon shook his head. “We have enough on our plate.”

  He was right. She tried not to think about them, instead focusing on the matter at hand—finding Thomas Paine.

  And, as her stomach wiggled, maybe something to eat.

  “Speaking of plates,” she said. “I’m a little famished.”

  “A little?”

  “Not full-on famished, but getting there.”

  “I think the supper boxes are back this way,” Simon said. “We’ll get one, if we can, and wait for Paine.”

  They continued down the grand path lined with gas lamps. A small group of musicians played some classically adjacent tune as people danced and ate picnics on the lawn. Vendors sold various wares and foods and people of all classes intermingled and enjoyed a respite from the realities of city life.

  Finally, they reached the center of the park. It was dark, but there was still enough light to see by.

  There were several covered piazzas and rotundas where people engaged in polite conversation and simply enjoyed being out. That was, she realized, a luxury in itself for so many here. Especially women. Their earlier trips to the coffeehouse and tavern had been object lessons in the role of women in this day’s society. Stay at home mom wasn’t just an appellation, but the real thing. They didn’t go out for coffee, or to lunch, or anything recreational except maybe the theater. Their lives revolved completely around the home. There was little to do outside of the home and even fewer places where they were allowed.

  Women’s lib could not come soon enough. And it wouldn’t, not for a hundred and fifty years.

  “Over here, I think,” Simon said and led them toward a long row of open-faced alcoves where people were dining.

  It took a little doing and a lot of money, but Simon managed to wrangle them a booth. It was a little like eating in a shop window. The diners were on display for the public. Another attraction.

  They ordered some overpriced and overcooked ham and hot tea along with some other cold meats and something called a cheese custard that Simon wouldn’t let her eat. They were also served something called Salmagundi that ended up being basically a chef’s salad.

  Just as Elizabeth was debating whether she wanted a tart or a different pudding or both, someone blew a whistle. Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned toward the darkness. Then, one by one, hundreds of gas lamps were lit across the garden. The effect was magical, like a fairyland coming to life.

  Elizabeth turned to say as much to Simon when she saw Paine. She recognized him immediately. He was the spitting image, although a little younger, than his most famous portrait. His long nose and high forehead were unmistakable. He was walking along with an older, tall, heavy-set man.

  She grabbed Simon’s arm and urged him silently to look where she did.

  “Has madam decided what she desires?” the waiter asked.

  “Nothing,” Simon said as he stood and moved to help Elizabeth from her chair. “Thank you.”

  He pushed a few bills into the waiter’s hand, and they hurried out of the box.

  They caught up with Paine and his companion as they were walking back along the grand path toward the boats. They lingered just behind, but close enough to eavesdrop.

  “I am sorry, Tom, but the answer is no.”

  Paine’s shoulders lifted and dropped with a humph. “I will be forced to return to Lewes. There’s nothing for me there now, Mr. Scott.”

  Scott stopped walking and Paine with him. “I am sorry, but after your … petition to the excise office, I simply cannot help you.”

  Simon and Elizabeth walked slightly past them, then pretended to be admiring some random feature of the park as they continued to listen. Elizabeth knew from the dossier that Paine had worked as an excise officer, a sort of tax official, for several years. When he’d rubbed a few higher-ups the wrong way with his very public and published demands for better wages for other officers, he’d been fired.

  “What am I to do?” Paine demanded.

  The older man put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “God will show you the way.”

  Paine clearly wasn’t so sure. But Elizabeth was. This Scott had to be the man that recommended Paine to Franklin. The file had described him perfectly. All they had to do was keep Paine alive long enough for it to happen.

  “We are all troubled, my dear friend. These are troubling times.”

  Paine nodded. “Yes. Thank you for supper.”

  “Not at all. I’ll see you at the debate next Friday?”

  Paine frowned but nodded.

  “Good night to you, Tom.”

  “And the like to you, sir.”

  Scott turned around as he walked. “Thomas Paine has too much to offer the world for it to ignore him for long
.”

  Paine humphed again but gave a small nod of acknowledgment.

  Simon arched an eyebrow and took Elizabeth by the elbow.

  “Forgive me, sir, but you are Thomas Paine?”

  Paine looked him up and down, calculating and judging his clothes, his demeanor, his everything in a moment. He seemed almost displeased by what he found and responded warily. “I am.”

  Simon smiled broadly. “It is providence indeed.”

  “I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir.”

  “Forgive me. I am Simon Cross, and this is my wife, Elizabeth.”

  Paine’s expression shifted from sour to slightly more sour as he glanced at her. He gave a brief, almost painfully-given nod of acknowledgment. In turn, she gave him one of her most winning smiles. He was thoroughly unmoved by it and shifted his attention back to Simon as though she weren’t even there.

  “We’ve just come over from America,” Simon said, and that definitely caught Paine’s interest. “And plan to return shortly after I attend to some business here. Upon our return, I am quite interested in starting a new venture—a newspaper. In America.”

  Paine nodded but was clearly confused. “You’ll forgive me, but I fail to see—”

  “Yes, of course. A friend of mine from Oxford has been advising me and, well, through mutual friends, your name came up.”

  “I have never worked for a newspaper.”

  “That makes two of us, but you do write, don’t you?”

  Paine squared his shoulders. “I do. But I have no interest writing frippery to sell advertisements for the latest ladies’ fashions or cure for the French Disease.”

  His eyes shifted uneasily to Elizabeth as he realized what he had said, but no apology was forthcoming. He was as blunt and direct as Franklin was sly and charming.

  “Nor do I,” Simon said. “My motivations are selfish, I admit. I am not interested in a commercial venture, but in something much more valuable. Ideas. Right now, they are dandelions in the wind. They can spread like a disease or a cure. Currently, the colonies are afflicted by both.”