“I must first catch my breath,” she said, resting her elbows on the table and placing her face in her hands. After resting in this manner for some minutes her composure was eventually restored. “Now I know how the woman of Endor must have felt,” she said, “when she summoned the prophet Samuel from the vasty deep. For the figure of a man stands before me. I see him as plainly as I see you. All my life I’ve heard of his legend, but now my eyes behold him.”
“For the love of heaven, who is it?” cried Wilson, half-rising in his seat. “Do not keep us in suspense!”
“Unless I’m very much mistaken,” said Madame Zoltara, “the man I see before me is — Mr. Benjamin Franklin!”
Several gasps were heard around the table.
“Enough!” cried the Duchess, rising to her full height and pulling her hands from those around her. Her lower lip quivered with rage as she glared indignantly round at all of them. “You may be willing to sit here and listen to these — these seducing spirits, and doctrines of devils, but I will not! I refuse!”
Before anyone could stop her, she turned on her heel and rushed from the room. Nathaniel stood, miserably, feeling a little sick in the stomach as he watched her leave the room. The thing that he had been most afraid would happen, had just happened — Madame Zoltara had inspired his mother’s wrath. He felt sure that this would be the end of the session, that the spirits would refuse to cooperate further. Yet when he looked over at the medium, her face was pursed in concentration.
“Ignore the voices of unbelief,” she said quietly. “Re-join hands and listen to my voice, and my voice alone.”
Feeling a little reassured, Nathaniel sank back down into his seat and reached once again for Beatrice’s hand.
“Never let it be forgotten,” said Madame Zoltara, “that there is ample precedent for what we do here tonight, both in the pages of Scripture and in Church history. Prayers to the saints, prayers on behalf of the dead that their sufferings might be eased — these are no different in substance from what we do, except that here the dead talk back.”
Beatrice shivered slightly. Nathaniel could sense, by the tenseness in her hands, that she was becoming very uncomfortable.
“More recently,” Madame Zoltara went on, “the Swedish philosopher and mystic, Emanuel Swedenborg, was lifted above this terrestrial world, where he conversed with the angels in glory and witnessed them eating, drinking, reading, working, and living in houses much like ours.”
Living in houses? thought Nathaniel with a twinge of scepticism. But then, remembering where he was, he brushed it aside.
“What would Mr. Franklin wish to tell us?” asked Wilson, with a hint of impatience.
“What? Oh, yes,” said Madame Zoltara, having momentarily forgotten she had brought forth the spirit of the American.
While the medium sat writhing and humming to herself, Beatrice pulled her hand away from Nathaniel’s.
“I can’t continue to sit here while your mother is in turmoil elsewhere,” she whispered. “I must go and look after her.”
Nathaniel turned to look at her with a feeling of curiosity and disappointment.
“Do you intend to come back here?”
Beatrice glanced uneasily at Madame Zoltara, who was puckering her lips and puffing out her cheeks. She picked up her reticule.
“I’ve seen enough. If ‘Mr. Franklin’ says anything worth the hearing, you can relate it to me later.”
With a feeling of relief that at least she was not angry with him, Nathaniel watched as her slim silhouette disappeared from the room. At the head of the table, meanwhile, the medium continued to hum as though there had been no interruption.
Madame Zoltara at last began to speak, this time in a voice quite unlike her own — as a plain-spoken older man with an American accent. Everyone assumed that it was the voice of Mr. Franklin himself.
“Remember this, my friend, money never made a man happy yet, nor will it. There is nothing in its nature to produce happiness. The more a man has, the more he wants.”
Wilson groaned in annoyance, for the longer the séance went on, the more trouble he was having keeping his objections private. Nathaniel, however, nodded eagerly.
“It’s not that I desire wealth for its own sake,” he said aloud, addressing Franklin directly. “I only want it for the sake of staving off poverty and the troubles that come with being poor. Only a fool would deny that a man who has money is better off than he who has none.”
“Who is rich?” replied Franklin. “He that rejoices in his portion.”
“This is ridiculous!” cried Wilson, rising and slamming his fist down hard on the table. “You didn’t invite this woman here simply to quote from books that you could have read yourself!”
In response, Nathaniel merely pointed to Madame Zoltara. She had begun rocking back and forth and her thin spectacles, which hung from a velvet ribbon around her neck, had fallen to the table with a loud clatter. At almost the same instant the candle in the centre of the table was again extinguished by a sudden gust of wind, and the temperature in the room seemed to fall by ten degrees. Nathaniel shivered as the hairs on his arms stood up.
“Will someone tell me what the devil is happening?” cried Wilson. Yet no one answered. And when Madame Zoltara spoke again, in the voice attributed to Franklin, it was with exceeding confidence.
“Tell the young man, ‘Hunt for silk.’ You will find your best opportunity there. Very soon you will receive a tangible sign to this end.”
Nathaniel nodded vigorously, struggling to remember each word. Presently, the candle was relit, the chill subsided and warmth returned to the room. Madame Zoltara raised her head with a drowsy expression and glanced curiously around the table, smacking her lips.
“What was all that rubbish there at the end?” asked Wilson. “About hunting for silk?”
“Pardon?” she said with a puzzled look. “Did I mention silk?”
Yet even among those who could remember the words she had just spoken, no one could agree on what they meant. Nathaniel felt that he had been given an extraordinary gift, a personal prophecy from one of the great men of history. Eagerly, and with shaking hands he wrote the words down on a scrap of paper and placed it in his pocket.
Very soon you will receive a tangible sign to that end, he whispered back to himself, as he lay in bed that night, struggling to fall asleep. Whatever that meant, it could only bode well.
But exactly where was he to hunt for silk? And what type of silk?
Chapter Six
The following Tuesday, Nathaniel visited Watier’s, where he recognized Conolly Slade, a childhood friend who also attended Oxford with him.
“Slade!” Nathaniel exclaimed. “Is that you, old boy?”
He was a lanky man with a narrow, angular face, coal-black hair, and a thin moustache which he plucked like a guitar in moments of distress. His eyes had a peculiar habit of watering at times, as if he was crying, an effect he attributed to the dust in the air.
The man was momentarily taken aback, then recognizing Nathaniel, he smiled. “Salborne! I haven’t seen you in ages.”
Nathaniel stood up.
“Please join me.”
After Slade had seated himself at the table, Nathaniel asked his companion what he wished to drink. His response being a whisky, Nathaniel motioned to the waiter and ordered the same.
“How is Baron Grove fairing?” he asked.
“Not so well, I’m afraid,” said Slade. “My father’s health has been failing for some time. I believe that the decline began with the death of my mother, some five years ago.”
“I’m truly sorry to hear that.”
“And you — how are your family?”
“My mother is doing well, but as many are aware, my father has experienced a mental decline these past three years.”
The whisky was served and the conversation continued. Nathaniel mentioned an old friend of their acquaintance, from Oxford, who had recently been arrested for withholding
money from a couple of wine-merchants to whom he was indebted. Slade’s eyes misted over and he said in a choked voice, “Forgive me, it’s just — no one ever cleans in here.” He pulled a handkerchief from his vest pocket and wiped his eyes, then put it back.
Nathaniel could see that he had erred in bringing up the subject of debt. Remembering that Slade had always been a shrewd hand at business, he asked him, “How are you keeping yourself occupied these days?”
Slade reached into the pocket of his trousers, from which he produced a business card. Handing it to Nathaniel, he said with a note of evident pride, “I only just invested in a new merchant business two months ago. London is built on finance and speculation, my friend, and those who aren’t willing or able to placate the gods of finance are slowly going to be pushed out.”
Nathaniel read the card over once and then read it again to confirm that his eyes were not deceiving him—
J.W. Hunt, Silk Merchants
4 Chapman Street, Limehouse
Mr. Conolly Slade, Prop.
Turning it over in his hands, he looked at Slade with incredulity. The words of Madame Zoltara rang in his ears and an eerie feeling came over him, as though he was partaking in a meeting that had been foretold long ago.
“I can see that you’re surprised,” said Slade, taking a small pipe out of his vest pocket and lighting it. The air filled with the smoky scent. “I have to admit I’m surprised myself. When the opportunity first presented itself, I feared it was too good to be true — yet after but a few months I can attest that it is very real, and it has already begun to make me a handsome profit.”
“Prophet?” repeated Nathaniel faintly, mistaking his meaning. He had a brief and bewildering vision of Slade hunched over a table in a dark room where a candle flickered ominously.
“Yes, the financial benefits have been enormous. I’m importing expensive silk from India and reselling it at extravagant prices to the finest tailors, dressmakers and milliners in London.” Noting the fascinated look on Nathaniel’s face, Slade added, “Would you like to see the business?”
“I’d be delighted,” said Nathaniel, in an understatement.
They finished their drinks and left Piccadilly, heading in the direction of the river. They soon reached a neighbourhood in East London marked by narrow streets and cramped alleyways which smelled faintly of fish. In the distance Nathaniel glimpsed the towering masts of merchant vessels approaching the docks, while brawny men in filthy smocks unloaded their cargoes of tea, cardamom, coffee, and china.
At the end of a stone street in Limehouse, crowded with breweries and back shops selling herring, they entered a small, crowded office in a two-story building. Two men carrying thick bundles of paper strode briskly past them, while the wind blowing through the open door stirred several bolts of silk cloth samples hanging on the rear wall, on either side of a door. In front of the wall stood four desks in two rows, each with a clerk busily writing orders. Nathaniel took all this in with a feeling of enchantment. He marvelled at Slade’s ability to stay composed when they had just wandered into an exotic setting out of the Arabian Nights’ Entertainment.
“Slade, this is magnificent!” he cried, rubbing his hands together with great glee. “I hope you’ll pardon me for saying, I had no idea you were capable of this.”
Slade shrugged as though to say that it was only a matter of course.
“As with any human enterprise, my friend, great risk may bring either disaster or great reward. I my case it has resulted very much so in the latter.”
“I would like to invest!” Nathaniel gestured at the cloths on the wall, as fine as any even the Duchess had ever worn. “You’re building a fine business here. I want to be part of it.”
Slade retrieved the handkerchief from his vest pocket and dabbed at his eyes, which were watering again.
“My dear friend, you don’t know what you’re saying. Are you always this impulsive?”
“No, but I certainly know a wise investment opportunity when I see it. I feel as though we just stumbled on a river of gold gushing from the heart of a mountain.”
Slade laughed lightly and, taking him by the shoulders, steered him out of the office.
“While I appreciate your enthusiasm, I’m afraid I can’t make you a partner. In any case, I would encourage you to become better acquainted with the business before you make any hasty decisions that might wreck your fortunes.”
But Nathaniel continued to insist passionately on joining the business, for he readily recognized this situation as the confluence of the words “hunt” and “silk” from the prophetic advice of Mr. Franklin. So, before the two men parted for the day, they worked out a compromise. Slade finally agreed to let Nathaniel invest in part of the latest shipment, a small investment of one hundred pounds. Nathaniel accepted the arrangement without hesitation, adding that if it prospered, his father would likely be interested as well.
~~~~~
Three nights later, Nathaniel took a carriage ride with Beatrice through central London, with her brother as chaperone. It was a chilly, damp evening and the street lamps burned dimly through a haze of fog. As they rode together he recounted the story of his visit with Slade to the Limehouse office.
Ever since the séance, the two had been seeing more and more of each other, and he was eager to know her opinion of the investment he had just made.
“Father quite liked the idea,” he said as they rode down Bond Street past a row of brightly coloured shops, “but of course he hasn’t been in his right mind for the last several days. Mother was firmly against it, and refused even to discuss it. She hasn’t been kindly disposed toward me since the Franklin incident.”
‘The Franklin incident’ had become the preferred euphemism for the second séance, which had grown in legend until it was reported in the neighbourhood that Nathaniel had conferred with the devil himself.
“I can’t say that I blame your mother, entirely,” said Beatrice with a shiver. “It was a dreadful night.”
“No one seems to have enjoyed it much,” he admitted sadly. “From now on when I want financial advice, I’m afraid I shall have to consult living persons.”
“There’s no harm in that. I sometimes think that the living have a better sense of the affairs of this world than the dead. As it is said, ‘The children of this world are in their generation wiser than the children of light’.”
“Yes, I suppose,” said Nathaniel with some reluctance. “Yet you must admit that it was uncanny how the prophecy he gave me came true in less than seventy-two hours!”
It was clear from the tone in his voice that Nathaniel had wanted to point this out for some time, perhaps under the illusion that Beatrice had failed to connect the two events.
“It is a remarkable coincidence,” she said, laying stress on the last word, “but it doesn’t signify that you’re to make this investment. Beware of doing something you may come to regret.”
If Nathaniel had not already been so partial to Beatrice, he might have resented this advice. As it was, he struggled to reconcile his belief in his own destiny with his faith in her wisdom and common sense, which he had found to be sound in the past.
“But surely there is some providence at work in this,” he replied. “The Lord God looks after me and marks my steps. He leads me in the paths I should take.”
“Perhaps,” said Beatrice quietly. “Yet even the wisest among us can be mistaken as to the Lord’s will, and thinking that we know what He wants for us is no proof that we really know.”
Nathaniel hunched his shoulders unhappily. He valued her good opinion so much that not having it cast a pall on the whole investment, and he began to wonder if he had really made the right choice. Yet it was clear that they were both set in their opinions and that neither one was going to dissuade the other.
Time would tell which was right. They rode on in silence together until they reached Kensal Green.
Chapter Seven
Nathaniel and Beatrice were seei
ng more and more of each other, always chaperoned by someone, usually her brother. On the damp and misty morning that was November fifth, water dripped from the eaves of the house and the horses’ breath blew out in smoky streams in front of them. On that morning, the three visited a milliner’s house in Oxford Street, where they tried on hats.
Wilson tried his utmost to be as invisible as possible, yet he could not resist trying on a few hats himself. Beatrice had a way of finding the most outrageous hats in the store. These she made Nathaniel wear, and he accepted his fate without much resistance.
“If I had any pretensions to being a fashionable man,” he said with a smirk after she had placed on his head a black chimney-pot hat, such as a magician would wear, “you have ruined them forever.”
“I think that you look handsomer than Wellington,” said Beatrice, stepping forward to adjust the hat. In the process, her hand brushed lightly against his cheek for a moment, and a warmth flooded his whole body. He felt like he could have tucked her under his chin and kissed her at that moment and she wouldn’t have minded.
Something of this feeling must have shown on his face, for Beatrice stepped back a pace and smiled at him shyly, her eyes twinkling.
It was a day to be remembered, a joyful day which they spent shopping and exploring London. It being Guy Fawkes Day, they drove through the Strand, searching for the Duck and Drake Inn, where Fawkes and his fellow conspirators supposedly first met to discuss the Gunpowder Plot. After an hour of searching without success, the trio decided that it likely had never existed. Nightfall came at last, signalling the approaching end of their wonderful day together. The moon was on the wane, and was a mere sliver as it rose over the trees in Regents’ Park.
“Oh! Look!” Beatrice exclaimed as they passed a group of firework rockets.
“And over there — just beyond that carriage ahead — the straw man afire! Those people are burning Guy Fawkes in effigy!”
“You know,” said Wilson, “had it not been for the person who wrote the anonymous letter to Lord Monteagle, revealing the existence of thirty-six barrels of gunpowder set to explode in the cellar beneath the Parliament building, the plot would most likely have succeeded.”
Love in the Moonlight: A Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Collection: 7 Delightful Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Stories (Regency Collections Book 6) Page 38
