Revolution in Time (Out of Time #10) (18 page)

“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,” Travers 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.

S
EPTEMBER
27, 1774 - L
ONDON
, 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.”

Paine narrowed his eyes, not wanting to give too much away if this turned out to be some sort of set-up. “Yes.”

“There are changes coming,” Simon continued. “I should like to help the wind blow in the right direction. And from what I hear, you would as well.”

“My politics are no secret. I speak freely in public quite frequently. Too frequently, if you ask some.”

“Here your ideas are seeds cast upon stone,” Elizabeth said. “They can’t take root.”

Paine looked between Simon and Elizabeth. “What are you suggesting?”

“A more fertile soil, perhaps?”

“America? Working for you?” Paine might have little formal advanced education, but he was no rube.
 

“Possibly. I would, of course, like to become better acquainted before any formal offer was tendered.”

Paine nodded but then frowned. “Why?”

Simon was confused. “Why you?”

Paine shook his head. “Why
you?”

She and Simon had discussed this many times in preparation for just this moment.
 

“I am not by birth, or even by marriage, an American, but by choice. What is coercive here is intolerable there. And the inequities go far beyond a tax on tea.”

Paine looked moderately impressed, but he wasn’t yet convinced.
 

“You can continue to speak here at meetings and dinners,” Simon went on, “and reach a dozen minds, if they are open enough to hear you. But through a newspaper, in America, you could reach tens of thousands and help shape what is to come.”

Paine almost smiled. “Are you sure you don’t write?”

Simon laughed and then sobered. “If you would just give us a few days of your time. I will happily pay you for them. We can talk. See if there is an amenable arrangement to be made.”

They knew Paine had virtually no money.
 
He was not only without a job or prospects but recently bankrupt. Passing up an offer like this would be nearly impossible. It played to both his vanity and his stomach.

“An advance, perhaps?” Simon took out a twenty-pound note. He held it between them. “We can meet tomorrow. Talk.”

Paine eyed the bill hungrily, but warily.
 

“If you ultimately do not accept, the money is yours either way.”

Paine nodded and took the bill, quickly folding it into his pocket. “Tomorrow then. Noble’s. Half-past ten?”

“Very good.”

Paine was still clearly skeptical, but also curious. Hopefully, he was curious enough to show up.