Newton's Cannon

by J. Gregory Keyes

  Once the door was closed, Crecy favored her with a small smile. “You understand, of course.”

  “Of course. My lady-in-waiting? How did you manage this?”

  “I did not manage it. Madame de Castries did and at some risk. It was, however, thought to be best.”

  “And why would anyone think that? I have no love for you, Mademoiselle. It was your prophecy—and the unbelievable superstition of our sisterhood—that placed me in these straits.”

  An opalescent fire flickered in Crecy's smoky eyes. “Surely you don't believe that. Certainly you do not think Castries is superstitious.”

  Adrienne slumped into a chair. She pointedly did not invite the redhead to sit, but to her annoyance Crecy did so anyway.

  “She has shown me no formula to explain your supposed prophetic powers. She has offered me no proof or principle. She demands that I accept you on faith, when only God should be accepted so!”

  “And yet you do.”

  “No, Mademoiselle, I do not. I have done what Castries asked of me, only because I have no one. Because I could think of nothing better to do.”

  “And that is why I am here,” Crecy said, her tone softer, less imperious. “Look, I have brought you something.”

  Adrienne reluctantly accepted the package Crecy bore, but once the wrapping was removed, she could not repress her delight.

  “The revised Principia Mathematica,” she gasped. “And the Corrections of Planetary Motions.”

  “I knew that you would have a difficult time obtaining such books,” Crecy explained. “I will bring you new volumes whenever possible. The Korai have opened their libraries to you.”

  “Mademoiselle… thank you,” she finished woodenly.

  After a moment Crecy spoke again, almost shyly. “I have always admired your work, you know,” she said. “Even your first paper, ‘On the Likelihood of a Seventh Planet,’ displayed a rare sort of genius. How old were you when you wrote that?”

  “Fifteen,” Adrienne murmured. “I had to compose it at night, in secret. One of the other girls informed on me, and the matrons thought I must be writing love letters.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. One of the Blacks was a Korai, and she warned me. That night I stayed up writing, but they found me copying devotions. In fact, it was that ‘piety’ that first brought me to the attention of Madame de Maintenon.”

  “This Black—she was the one who introduced you to the order?”

  Adrienne nodded. “Yes.” She frowned. “Now she pretends not to know me.”

  Crecy knelt before Adrienne and took her hand. “I am sorry, Mademoiselle, for your pain. I am here now to try and make amends. I realize that you do not trust my prophecies. But I beg you to forget that and let me be your friend, your confidante. I can deliver your letters—past Torcy—publish your works in the inner circle, bring you scientific correspondence. I can be your link to the Korai, Mademoiselle, if you will only let us back into your heart and life.” She squeezed Adrienne's hand and lowered her head.

  “It is not so simple,” Adrienne said, inexplicably blushing. “I trusted the Korai as I never trusted anyone. I trusted my mentor at Saint Cyr. I thought she loved me, and yet at a word from Castries, that love evaporated.”

  Crecy rose, her expression enigmatic. “Your friend was a weakling, then,” she said. “For it is not in the power of anyone to command love.”

  “I think perhaps I am near to going mad with no friend in the palace. But someone cannot merely proclaim herself my friend,” she said, in a voice so cold it surprised her. “She must prove herself.”

  “Perhaps that is why you have no one,” Crecy remarked. “But I understand you. In the meantime—as you come to realize that I am your friend—I can do things for you. I have spoken to your guard—”

  “Nicolas?”

  “Oh, Nicolas is it?”

  “It is just an arrangement we have,” Adrienne explained, “to call each other by our Christian names. No one does that in Versailles.”

  Crecy shrugged. “So I think you do have at least one friend here. But it is not so much the guard himself who concerns me as what he tells me about you: That you do nothing but mope about your rooms and wait for the king to call or come to you.”

  “What else is there?” Adrienne snapped. “I have my work still. I have been trying to determine what de Duillier is up to.”

  Crecy shrugged. “You have the whole of France at your feet. Make the most of it.”

  Adrienne frowned. “I don't know what you mean.”

  Crecy's smile suddenly had something of the cat about it. “Then you do need my counsel, Mademoiselle. I can help you find out what secret experiment Fatio de Duillier is engaged in,” Crecy said, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Listen to me, and in two days' time we shall know all.”

  “Through your sorcery?” Adrienne asked sarcastically, unwilling to admit how intrigued she was by the offer.

  “Not mine alone,” she replied, strolling toward the window, blinking against the sunlight. “No, we shall need a bit of your sorcery, too, Mademoiselle.” She turned back. For an instant, Adrienne thought a small red spark flashed in her eyes.

  “Tell me more,” Adrienne said.

  3.

  Coffeehouse

  “Will y' be needin' more coffee, sir?” a young woman asked. Ben looked up from his paper into a wide, warm pair of brown eyes and honey yellow hair. If he allowed his eyes to stray again he would notice her dangerously low-cut bodice, the spray of freckles below her throat. He concentrated instead on her smile, which seemed lavish considering that she was only offering to refill his coffee bowl.

  “Um … yes, please,” he said.

  “I've not seen y' in here before,” she murmured, tipping the pot so that its aromatic contents gurgled into his empty cup.

  “I've never been here,” he admitted. “I'm waiting for a friend of mine.”

  “A him?” she mused. Ben glanced up at her, startled.

  “Um, yes,” he replied stupidly.

  “Y' know,” she said, confidentially, “I pride myself on bein' capable of placin' a man's home by his speech. Those that's from Islington talks in one way, them from Cotswald another. But your tongue baffles me. You are an Englishman, and yet …”

  “I'm … I'm from the Colonies,” Ben explained, wondering exactly what he had done to draw her attention and hoping he could do more of it. Around him, the clinking of china, the low mutter of men discussing politics or reading their papers aloud to one another receded. The air—fragrant with smoke from half a dozen long-stemmed pipes and the fire in the poorly vented hearth—suddenly seemed rather rarefied.

  “The Colonies!” she exclaimed. “Are they's full of wild Indians as they say?”

  This had gone beyond passing comment, Ben realized. This young woman actually wanted to talk to him.

  “You see Indians in Boston now and then,” he replied. “And those as ally with the French are wild enough, I suppose.” He sipped the coffee and wondered where Robert was; he was very late.

  “I see,” she said. “And what brings such a likely lad across the deep to the city, 'f I may ask?”

  How would Robert reply to that? How would he fan this little flame of interest? “I … well, I can't say,” he managed at last. “It's a secret sort of thing.”

  “More an' more fascinatin',” she said. “Mr. …?”

  “Oh!” Ben stood so quickly he nearly upset his coffee. “My apologies. My name is Benjamin Franklin.” He gave an awkward little bow.

  She curtsied, giving him a good view of her abundant assets. “Sarah Elizabeth Chant at y'r service.”

  Ben felt his face glowing as brightly as a beacon, but he reached for her hand in an attempt to be gallant. When she saw that he meant to kiss it, however, she gently disengaged.

  “Sir,” she protested, her eyes dancing merrily, “ 'tis clear that y've not been in London fer very long, or y' would know how t' greet a lady.” And with tha
t she took a single step, and planted a warm, quick kiss on his lips that sent a rush of sparks dancing down his chest. Then she winked at him, picked up the silver decanter, and moved on.

  Ben quickly sat back on his bench, staring furiously at his copy of the Mercury—unable to read a single word.

  Of course, he did know by now that kissing on the lips was as common as a handshake in London. He had always supposed that it would be pleasant to kiss a woman, but the reality was powerfully better than imagining.

  Which was why, he mused, experimental philosophy was superior to mere conceptual philosophy. Actually doing something almost always produced unexpected results.

  In this case, the result was that he could not bring himself to think of a single other thing than Sarah Elizabeth Chant without intense effort.

  Which was too bad, because he had much to think about. In the ten days since he had arrived in London, he had addressed no fewer than three letters to Sir Isaac Newton but had gotten no answer, though his last letter had been quite candid about his concern over a French conspiracy of some sort.

  Perhaps Newton was out of town or ill. Perhaps Ben's letters were being intercepted by the like of Bracewell, whatever the hell Bracewell's like was.

  He quelled a growing feeling of desperation. The French— or whoever had already had months to perfect whatever weapon he had helped them to create—did not need more time while he waited to be noticed by Newton. To make matters worse, Blackbeard's two hundred pounds were spending themselves pretty quickly, and though he and Robert had managed to find a cheap place to stay, neither had a job.

  An hour later, Robert had still not put in his appearance, and Ben was beginning to feel ridiculous when Sarah came by with more coffee.

  “Y'r friend is very late,” she said softly.

  “Yes. I suppose he has been held up.” Probably in some sort of trouble, knowing Robert, he privately reflected.

  “Well, p'raps I can impose a favor upon you, Benjamin Franklin of Boston.”

  “Of course,” he replied.

  “My job is done this hour, an' a girl on the streets alone is a sure target for scoundrels. I was wonderin' if you might not care to escort me to my apartment.”

  Ben's mouth felt very dry. “Of course,” he said.

  “And your friend?”

  Ben shrugged. “I've waited for him often enough. He can wait for me.”

  “Good man,” she replied.

  Outside, Ben drew in a deep breath of the night air as Sarah took his arm.

  “Such a beautiful city,” he mumbled. The coffeehouse was just off of Fleet Piazza, a beautiful, spacious yard paved in gray stone. In the center a trio of alabaster mermaids conspired to raise a jet of water high into the air. Streetlights illumined red brick buildings framing the square.

  “Which way?” he said, stupidly, a brew of fear, hope, and desire churning in his belly.

  “Not far,” Sarah said, cinching her arm more tightly into his own. “I live above Corbie Lane, just outside of the city.”

  “Oh. Shall we go, then?” He tried to keep the anxious tone from his voice, but his words had an unnatural ring. He was grateful that she seemed to be ignoring his unease as they followed Fleet Street west from the piazza and in a few moments reached the edge of the city of London.

  When James and others in Boston had spoken of the oldest section of London as “the city” he had believed it to be a sort of pretension, the way North- and Southenders in Boston referred to their own respective parts of the town as the “real” Boston. But the city of London was another lesson in the truth produced by experience, for it proved itself very real when one encountered its border. Where the city ended, so did reason and order. The broad, straight-paved streets and radial piazzas, the mathematical gridwork of neat, clean, orderly ways, suddenly twisted into a mass of tangled, narrow, dark tracks, as cryptic as the labyrinth of a minotaur—and often as dangerous.

  Fleet Street itself narrowed dramatically, from ninety feet wide to less than half that. They turned up Corbie Lane, and their footfalls became the dominant sound, accompanied, Ben fancied, by the thumping of his heart.

  All of a sudden Sarah was pressed against him, her mouth covering his, her hand guiding his to her bodice, and he was abruptly in the heart of sweetness and mystery, of hunger and delight. His other hand was somehow directed to push up under Sarah's skirt, to the warm flesh above her stockings.

  It was agony when she suddenly pushed him back, but he went, distantly ashamed of panting like an old dog.

  “Come along,” she whispered, tugging at his hand.

  “Wait,” he said. “I … are you …”

  “A whore? Of course, silly. Do y' care?”

  “I …” Truth to tell, he didn't, his tongue still tasting the sweetness of hers, his hands still tingling.

  “I serve coffee at the Arabian Coffeehouse,” Sarah said, a hint of pique in her voice. “What did you expect that I was?”

  “I … look here, we have coffeehouses in Boston, and the servers there are not …”

  “Y' really didn't know, did you?” Sarah said. “What a babe y' are, Benjamin Franklin! Next time,” she advised, “look at the sign. If it has upon't a woman's arm or hand, y' can be sure to be served more th'n coffee if y' desire it.”

  “At … at what price?”

  Sarah smiled sardonically and pressed back against him. Beneath her dress she was solid, warm. “Well, y' do want me then. Are y' virgin, my American gentleman?” And she kissed him again. Then she moved her lips up to his ear and whispered, “F'r a virgin, I charge but ten shillings.”

  Ben had begun to change his mind, but with her melted against him, ten shillings seemed more than a bargain. “You'll have to show me what to do,” Ben murmured.

  “So ten shillings it is,” Sarah replied. “That'll be no chore at all, sir,” and once more tugged at his hand. “It's just up this flight of steps where my bed is.”

  He followed along, the humming of his blood in his ears obliterating the sound of footsteps coming behind.

  4.

  Masque

  Adrienne critically regarded the three gentlemen facing her. On her left stood one as straight and tall as an Italian cedar, somewhat slender, one hand rakishly on the hilt of his smallsword, the other straightening his bronze-embroidered waistcoat. Beneath a beaver tricorn and periwig, a black mask with a hooked nose covered all but his sardonic smile.

  The gentleman on the right was almost as tall as the first, though his shoulders were broader. He seemed ill at ease in his vermilion coat and chocolate waistcoat. His mask was small, with a buffoonish round nose picked in silver scale.

  But the fellow between them commanded most of Adri-enne's attention. A head shorter than the other two, he wore an old-fashioned felt hat with an enormous ostrich plume, brim cocked at the side like a musketeer's of the last century. A gold waistcoat overlapped indigo knee breeches, and his greatcoat was a deep brown faced with blue and gold. His little mustache and beard looked, to her, ridiculous beneath the huge-nosed scarlet mask he had affected.

  “This will never work,” she groaned at the mirror. “I will never pass for a man.”

  “Nonsense,” said the first gentleman—who was, of course, Mademoiselle Crecy. “You look the true image of a chevalier.”

  Nicolas nodded his head.

  “Besides,” Crecy went on, “it does not matter if from your voice and mannerisms someone guesses you are a woman. It is not so important that we disguise what you are as who you are. And I assure you, you do not resemble Adrienne de Mornay de Montchevreuil in the slightest.”

  “There is truth in that.” Nicolas sighed. “But if we are found out, if the king should discover my part in this—”

  “How ungallant,” Crecy interrupted. “Since when do the Hundred Swiss care for personal safety?”

  Adrienne could see Nicolas blushing furiously below his mask, and found herself confused. She wanted Nicolas to push his point—that this masquer
ade was bound to end in disaster for them. But now that Crecy mentioned it, it did seem ungallant for her guardian to balk at accompanying her.

  “How much worse for you if we had eluded you rather than asking you to accompany us,” Adrienne said, and understood that, almost without meaning to, she had now committed herself to Crecy's plan. Yes, the devil with it. If this silly costume could help her get the secret of Fatio's experiments, it was worth the risk.

  “I hope no one challenges me to a duel,” Adrienne remarked, patting the hilt of her mostly ornamental sword. “I have not the faintest idea how to use this.”

  “Nor do most who wear them,” Crecy replied.

  Nicolas sighed heavily. “I know who shall do the dueling when it comes to it.”

  Adrienne felt a brief flare of anger. Maintenon was right; men promised much but little could be expected of them. After all, had Nicolas not sworn to her that no man would ever touch her again if she did not desire it? And yet one man did. Should it matter that it was the king? Of course she had never actually told Nicolas that she did not desire the king's embrace …

  But he should know.

  “Well,” Crecy said, “shall we go? Our carriage awaits us.”

  “Where did you tell the king we were going?” Adrienne asked.

  “I did not, of course, speak to the king,” Crecy told her, “but his valet gave him to understand that you were not feeling well. The word is that you are visiting Montchevreuil for a breath of country air. And so you shall.” She winked.

  Adrienne plucked thoughtfully at her glued-on beard. They had ridden from Versailles as if heading out into the country, stopping covertly here at Triannon to don their garb. Were there any flaws in their story? Probably, but it was not important.

  Adrienne wondered if she would enjoy being a man for a night. To her surprise she realized that despite her misgivings she felt a certain excitement, a kind of devilish joy. She recalled how Ninon de Lenclos had once dressed as an officer, complete to guns and sword, to pursue on horseback her lover of the month. She was playing such a scene, something that would have provoked disdain from Maintenon but that made her feel—for the first time in months—young, hopeful. Alive.