Newton's Cannon (33 page)

Maclaurin tousled Ben's hair and then began searching about for paper and pen. “You've been a great help,” he said. “Why na' go an see if one o' the others has some use for you now?”

“What of these?” he asked of a handful of sheets that had not been spread.

“Och! I forgot! Those need to be run over to Sir Isaac's place right away. I dunno what they are, to tell you the truth. He just sent a message to look at such and such a place in the sky and compose some affinagraphs. Best run those now, Ben. This is the first any of us have heard from him in an age, and 'twould be impertinent to keep him waitin'.”

“But I don't know where Sir Isaac lives.”

“It's on Saint Martin's Lane, near Leicester Fields.”

“Ah … what should I say when I see him?”

“Oh, I don't think you'll
see
him, lad. Just give the papers to his niece, Mrs. Barton.”

“We'll see,” Ben replied.

Ben's first impression was red, and so was his second. The rug was red; the chairs were red; the walls were red.

After red, he noticed the portraits. He counted five paintings: Sir Isaac draped in the gowns of the Trinity Lucasian professor, periwig on his head; Sir Isaac holding a copy of his
Principia
, gazing abstractedly at the universe; Sir Isaac with his own, sparse gray hair, dignified, one fierce dark eye fixed toward the artist … There were busts, too. All of these depicted him
old
. He was vague in some, haughty in others, but in all he bore a frown, ranging from a small puckering between his nose to a full-out glower.

Ben noticed, somewhat abstractedly, that his palms were damp. How many times had he imagined meeting Newton? He had even written out one of the speeches he had hoped to give by way of introducing himself. He realized that he had imagined that the old man would greet him like a soul mate, a long-lost grandson. But no such grandfatherly man gazed down at him.

Mrs. Barton—an attractive, fortyish woman—let him gaze, open-mouthed. She must be used to the reaction.

“You say you come from the Colonies,” she said, offering Ben a chair.

Ben paused, distracted by a sort of pinging noise issuing from behind a heavy wooden door. “Yes, I was born in Boston Town, in Massachusetts.”

“Massachusetts,” she repeated. “What a mouthful, eh? My brother used to write me, and I could never pronounce those American names to my friends. I had to show them the letters.”

“Your brother traveled in America?”

“He died there, unfortunately,” Mrs. Barton replied.

The pinging was getting louder. Mrs. Barton followed Ben's glance to the closed door and sighed. “Well, if you have brought those things for him …”

“I was given to understand,” Ben quickly lied, “that I was to deliver them to him personally.”

Mrs. Barton gazed at him thoughtfully for a moment. “I rather doubt that.”

Ben pursed his lips, and then nodded slightly. “I'm sorry. But won't you see if he will receive me?”

“He won't,” she told him.

“Tell him it is ‘Janus’ calling.”

“Very well. It won't hurt to try. Wait a moment.”

Her skirts whisked briskly as she went to the door and rapped.

The pinging stopped.

“Sir Isaac,” she called through the door, “a young man has brought you something from Colin Maclaurin. He wishes to speak with you, if you have a moment. He says that it is Janus come to call.”

“Send him in.” The voice did not sound old, as Ben had expected, but it did sound like the voice of the portraits. Distracted, as if he could spare only a small part of himself to speak.

The room beyond the door was red, too, but it was dark. In the murk Ben made out books, glassware, a furnace, calipers and other measures, and a thousand things he couldn't recognize, including what looked like a sort of step pyramid built of wire and metal plates.

“I've changed my mind. Leave it on the table.” The speaker was a vague shadow seated in a darkened alcove all the way across the room.

“Sir?”

“Leave it on the end table. And go away.” Ben saw the table he meant and put the papers on it with trembling fingers. He hesitated, trying to think of what to say. “Sir …” he began, with not the slightest notion what his next words would be.

“Wait. Wait.” The shadow seemed to shift. Ben paused obediently.

“What are they saying about me?” the voice demanded.

“Ah … who, sir?”

“Flamsteed. Locke. De Duillier. All of them.”

“Sir, I …
John Locke
?”

“Yes. What has my
‘friend’
Locke been saying about me? He tried to poison me, you know.”

Ben wasn't certain, but he thought that John Locke had been dead for at least a decade now. He couldn't say that, could he? What
could
he say?

Fortunately, Newton rushed on. “Well,
I
have heard from de Duillier. Tell him I am not pleased, not at all.”

“Yes, sir.”

There was a long pause, then Sir Isaac spoke again, in quite another tone. “You're that boy from America? The one who improved the aetherschreiber? Janus?”

“Yes, sir. Benjamin Franklin, sir,” he replied, shocked. He started forward, more or less without thinking. “And if I might say so, a great admirer—”

“No!” Newton snapped. “No, stay there. Come no closer.” Ben froze in place as Newton continued. “I am stalking the Green Lyon again,” Newton explained in a harsh whisper. “It would be unwise of you to approach. Tell Maclaurin that I thank him. Come back in … three days, do you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” Ben acknowledged.

“And tell that lecher Voltaire to stay away from my niece!”

Ben nodded.

“Very well. Leave now.”

His mouth dry, Ben backed through and closed the door.

Mrs. Barton lay a hand on his shoulder. “Would you care for a dram of brandy, Mr. Franklin?” she asked sweetly.

“I … I think so,” he answered weakly. “That would be much appreciated.”

For perhaps ten heartbeats Adrienne stared at the eye, frozen by the same instinct that took hold when one saw a snake: to stay still lest it strike. The thing did not resemble a serpent, of course, at least not overtly, but its sheer alienness—coupled with the overwhelming sensation that it was a
living
thing—created a snakelike impression.

The only sound in the room was her own ragged breathing.

And then a key scraping into the outside lock jarred her from her paralysis, and she darted out the window and onto the ledge. She inched along, her skirts hissing against the stone, wondering if she could survive a two-story fall. Casting a fearful glance over her shoulder, she saw the thing drift languidly out the window. It seemed in no apparent hurry to catch her, but skeleton fingers spidered up her spine. She walked faster, but her feet tripped over themselves.

Suddenly there was nothing supporting her, and her arms were beating crazily against air. Then she felt scratched by a thousand daggers, her skirts and bodice tearing.

The ground caught her like the blow of a fist, stole her breath and would not give it back. Stunned, with bright spots dancing before her eyes, she felt suddenly lifted by a strong pair of arms. Whoever it was began to run, cradling her against a muscular torso. She saw Versailles receding and looked toward the open window of Fatio's laboratory. The red thing hovered in the window, limning a human form:
Gustavus.

And in that same moment, she realized who was carrying her.

“Nicolas!” she gasped.

“Shh. Just a few moments more.”

“I can run.”

He loped across the grounds, bearing her as if she were weightless. He ran where night had spilled her dark milk, avoiding the lanterns that illumined the pathways, the colonnades, the monuments to himself Louis might wish to see when he gazed from his window. Nicolas shifted her somewhat, and she reached around his shoulders, gripping tight. Above, the horns of the crescent moon reached out to embrace Jupiter, all the argenteyed gods of heaven looking on.

Which of those bright points above was the ammunition for the cannon? Which was the chariot of death?

Suddenly hedges enclosed them in walls high and dark; Nicolas brushed against them. At last his breath was beginning to sound labored.

“Please,” she said. “I'm not hurt.”

“It was a long fall,” he whispered.

“I'm not hurt,” she insisted. “I must have landed in a bush.”

He came to a stop and slowly, carefully set her on her feet. Her arms seemed welded around his neck and came away sluggishly.

“Sit,” he whispered, and suddenly there was a pistol in his hand. He jogged back a few feet, made a satisfied noise, and returned to her.

“If you can walk, we should move a little farther. I know the way through.”

“Is this the labyrinth?”Adrienne asked.

“Yes. We should stay here a bit, until the dogs stop barking and the guards relax. What in the world were you doing?” His eyes blazed with concern.

“Nicolas, you're alive,” she said.

“Why, yes,” he replied.

“I … Crecy and I believed you dead.”

“I had to make a longer detour than I would have liked,” he explained. “I was out of ammunition, my sword was broken, and one of them still had a
kraftpistole
. I led him a merry chase before he got careless. What about the two of you?”

“I had to use the gun you gave me. What kind of gun was that? It killed my horse. And then Crecy killed a man with her
sword, and we thought you were dead …” She felt very stupid. Her voice seemed to be talking entirely without her.

“I should have warned you about the gun. It shoots a spray of molten silver …”

He said something else, but she wasn't listening. The blood was roaring in her ears as she screwed up her courage.

She meant it to be a long, passionate kiss, but at the last moment her courage failed, and it was a quick one. His mouth tasted cool and salty, and he grunted in surprise. Just as she was feeling foolish, his lips came back to her, and she got the kiss she had meant to give.

“None of it is random,” she told him a little later. They lay on their backs, she in the crook of his arm, watching the stars. She felt a contentment that she knew could not last.

“It looks that way,” he said. “My grandmama used to say that two angels once argued over a strand of jewels and broke the thread that held them. But I've heard philosophers speak of the harmony of the spheres. I never really knew what it meant.”

“Should I explain?” She sighed.

“I might not understand.”

“You would, but I won't bore you—”

“You could never bore me.”

“—bore you with the dry details. What do you see when you look up into the night sky?”

“The same as what I see when I look at you,” he replied. “Beauty. God's beautiful universe.”

“Me, too. And every way I look at it—with a telescope or through a mathematical lens or like this beside you—each prospect only adds new sorts of beauty. The same laws of nature that produce the music of a flute or a harp govern the motions of the stars. It makes my heart sing to think about it.”

He was silent for a moment and then said, “I love you, Adrienne de Mornay de Montchevreuil.”

She kissed his cheek. “I'm glad you are alive, Nicolas.” She wanted to say much more. She wanted to tell him how he had changed her from dead to living in only a few moments, but she
kissed him instead, delighting in the roughness of his jaw, the warmth of his breath.

When they parted again, he sat up and spoke seriously, gripping her by the shoulders. “Adrienne, we should leave here tonight.”

“Where would we go?”

“Anywhere. Austria, Acadia, Louisiana. We cannot stay here.”

Adrienne closed her eyes. “If only you had said this two months ago, Nicolas.”

“Why not now? I know you don't love the king.”

Adrienne almost choked. “Love him?” she said, hearing her voice flatten. “No. But I cannot leave yet, Nicolas.”

“Do you love
me
, Adrienne? You did not say so.”

“I think I do, Nicolas,” she replied softly. “My lips like the touch of yours. My body likes your hands upon it. I think one day I would like … to make love to a man I
did
love. I think that is you. But I cannot be certain until some important things have ceased to demand my attention.”

“Adrienne, if you stay here … You are engaged to the king.”

“I may have to marry him. I don't want to, Nicolas, but things have gone beyond allowing me to choose what I want. Millions of lives are at stake.”

“I don't understand.”

“I will explain it to you later, Nicolas. Now I want you to kiss me again; hold me some more. Give me some of your courage. And later …”

“I cannot cuckold the king,” Nicolas breathed. “If you marry him, I will—”

At that moment came the faint sound of feet upon the grass, and a tall shadow moved against the stars.

“How lovely to see you alive, Nicolas,” Crecy's voice said. “I see you have Mademoiselle well in hand. But if the two of you don't mind, I think it would be best for us all if we returned to our rooms before dawn.”

Nicolas reluctantly slipped off to where the Hundred Swiss had their lodging while Crecy and Adrienne entered by one of the
few unguarded ways. Adrienne hid most of her torn gown with Crecy's shawl.

The guard at Adrienne's door started when he saw the two of them. “Miladies,” he gasped, “I did not—”

“You did not see us go out because we
did
not go out, Alexander,” Crecy finished for him.

The guard's face waxed scarlet. “Whatever you wish,” he mumbled.

“How gallant. I hope you were as thoughtful of Marie's needs.”

The guard's expression promised that she had made her point clear.

Helen was asleep in a chair in the antechamber and roused muzzily when the door opened.

“Mademoiselle,” she murmured.

“Helen, go to your chamber and sleep properly. My presence was again requested by the king.”

“Yes, Mademoiselle.”

When they were alone, Crecy helped her undress.

“I am so
tired
.” She sighed.

“The devil!” Crecy said, examining Adrienne's stockings. “No grass stains! Now there's a trick I've never learned.”