“Dinner is ready, Father!” the woman from before calls down. “The children await you in the garden.”
“My favorite part of the day!” Franklin cries. “Especially when the weather is fine and we can all spend it together in the garden. Marcus, give me your arm. Help me up the stairs.”
He loops his through mine and clutches tightly. He’s heavy and we have to go slowly. I watch out carefully, so as not to trip over my clumsy feet.
“Now, I think we’ll stick with the story I began for James Wilson: you have arrived from Paris—
“Why not Spain? That’s where my Dad’s folks are from.”
“No, that won’t do. First, because we need to have worked together before and I was never our representative to Spain. And second, because the Spanish are not very popular right now, having closed off our access to the Mississippi. No, it must be Paris, where you assisted me—doing what, we’ll have to determine. Also, you cannot speak because of an injury to your throat. That will be temporary, of course, just until you learn how to talk as we do, and won’t apply with family here inside the house. We shall tell everyone your purpose here is to … to … Ah, well done!” he says as we reach the top step. “Sally? SALLY?”
A solid looking woman in a long dress and apron bustles into the hallway. Curly blonde hair springs from under a mob cap. Her eyes take me in, then widen.
“Sally, I want you to meet—”
“Marcus!” she says, stopping still.
“You know this fellow?”
“Yes.” Her cream-white skin turns pink at the cheeks.
“I don’t understand,” Franklin says. “I have no recollection of you two meeting. Sally, the last time Marcus was here, you, husband Richard, and the children were in New Jersey, looking after son William’s farm while he languished in a Connecticut jail for his loyalty to the King.
“When Marcus and I met, you had left on your diplomatic mission to Paris, Father.” She looks at me. “But how is it that so much time has passed and you seem … younger?”
Behind us, the front door slams. A thin young man with a high forehead and delicate features hurries down the hall, his silver-buckled shoes clacking angrily on the wood floor.
“Grandfather! Have you heard? The convention has rejected me.”
“Yes, Temple,” Franklin says wearily. “Do you not have the courtesy to greet your Aunt?”
“Aunt Sally.” He makes an elaborate bow to her from the waist. “I am sorry. I did not mean to be rude. But that vote has me so distracted!”
Temple’s green-velvet coat, pink-satin vest, buff-colored britches, and white stockings fit perfectly. A silk cravat swirls at his throat like a cloud. He gives me a glance, arches an eyebrow, and sniffs.
Stuck-up ass! I think.
“I am sorry, Temple,” Franklin says. “I tried.”
Two bright spots of red spread over the points of Temple’s cheekbones.
“I cannot believe they selected Jackson! Jackson over me!” he says haughtily. “What am I to do now?”
“Well, you might remain here, as my secretary. There’s plenty of work: my duties as President of Pennsylvania’s Supreme Executive Council, my notes on the convention, correspondence, several scientific papers, the autobiography everyone wants me to finish. My wrist being what it is, writing is … difficult. We worked well together when you served as secretary to our diplomatic mission in France. I would enjoy working with you again.”
“Oh, Grandfather, I couldn’t possibly!” Temple waves dismissively “It would be so humiliating! Poor Temple, everyone will say, the only work he can get is clerking for his grandfather. No, it just won’t do. I think I shall have to go to the farm and look after things there. Thank God you wrested it from Father, our erstwhile and exiled Royal Governor, wot? Yes, I think the farm is just the thing. Have cousin Benjy do your work.”
“Your cousin is just beginning as a printer. I cannot distract him.”
“Ah yes. ‘Keep thy shop and thy shop will keep thee,’ wot? Well, I’m sure you’ll find someone. Plenty out there dying to work for the great Benjamin Franklin, wot?”
“Yes, dying,” a sad-faced Franklin whispers; and I feel for him. Temple looks like he couldn’t care less.
“That settles it. To the farm I go. I’ll just pack a few things and be off, out of everyone’s way. Aunt Sally? Of course, you and the children are welcome any time, should you like to escape the sicks and stinks of summer. Ha, ha! I say, Grandfather? I need cash. Say fifty pounds? To get me through until fall when rents are paid and crops go to market.”
“Stop by my library before you go. I’ll do what I can,” Franklin says, resigned.
“Thank you very much, kind sir. Now, must dash.”
He bows again and then just about runs back down the hall and upstairs.
“You know where that money will be spent,” Sally says. “In the taverns of New York.”
“What else can I do?” Franklin says. “I promised him that job, and I failed him. He has no one else to rely on—not with son William in England and likely never to return.”
“And whose fault is that?” Sally asks. “William Franklin may be my half-brother, and I may love him like a full one, but even I can see he betrayed you. After you and Mama rescued him from whatever woman it was you consorted with—and I still want to hear that little secret—”
“Now, Sally—”
“And after you fed, clothed, and educated him and had him made Royal Governor of New Jersey, what does he do? Sides with the King and Parliament instead of you. Probably would have jailed you if he’d had the chance.”
“Still, Temple is my grandson. I’ll not forsake him for his father’s sins.”
As I listen, I’m embarrassed. This is private family business, like the arguments Mom and Pop sometimes have over money or how much “excellence” to demand from Gus, me, and Penny.
Sally changes the subject.
“What will you do for a clerk, Father? Ask Benjamin?”
“Absolutely not!” Franklin says, shaking his head so that his long, white hair brushes the shoulders of his linen shirt. “Benjy wants to be a printer and publisher, like his grandpapa. I’ve given him charge of the shop next door. He must have the chance to succeed. I will do for myself. Now, on to the garden. I want to see my grandchildren.”
Walking through the house, we pass through a large room of dark blue walls and white trim and wainscoting. A brass chandelier of wax candles hangs from the ceiling. A polished mahogany table glows at the center. Twelve matching chairs line the walls.
“Our dining room, where we entertain company,” Franklin says to me.
“Who’s she?” I ask, pointing to the portrait of a proud woman above the fireplace.
“My dear wife Deborah, lost to me some twelve years ago. As fine a life partner as any man could ask for. She made this room.”
His voice is soft when he says this, but then it strengthens.
“Sally, we will put it to good use this summer. I am opening our home to the delegates. I know it will create more work for everyone, especially you. But I think it essential they have a place to meet and come to know one another away from the State House. Your mother would be proud that a room she created is being used to help build our nation.”
“As will I be proud to help in any way I can,” Sally answers.
Franklin leads us into a small, sunny room with tall windows at the back of the house. A copper tub, shaped kind of like a shoe sits in the middle.
“My bathing closet, where I take the air and the water. Hot water does wonders for my stone and gout.”
“Yeah, did wonders for me too,” I say.
That draws a look and a small smile from Franklin. “Touché!” he says.
He goes to a small table where a bowl and pitcher sit. Pouring water into the bowl, he washes his hands.
“So … this is where everyone takes a bath?” I ask doubtfully. It’s just dawning on me that indoor plumbing, as I know it, is a thing of the future.
“Certainly not!” Franklin says. “Only I use this. Otherwise, we’d be all day boiling and hauling water up the stairs. Everyone else uses the pump downstairs or outside and a bucket. There’s also the river. Know how to swim?”
“Uh … yeah?” I say, not knowing whether he means the Delaware or Schuylkill, where, in my Philadelphia, few people swim because of dangerous currents and pollution.
“Good. I swam the Delaware religiously in my youth. Most refreshing!”
“Oh boy! Can’t wait!
“You know, Marcus, you really are quite strong. All the time I leaned on you, I never felt unsteady.”
Which makes me feel kind of good.
He takes a folding knife from his apron pocket and begins scraping the dirt from under his nails.
“Quite novel, actually,” he says. “Sally here keeps me perpetually off-balance.”
“I do not!”
“Especially if I’m tight with the purse strings.” His eyes twinkle again.
“You’ll watch your tales, if you know what’s good for you,” she says. “And if you want any of the cobbler Elise and I have been making.”
“Apple or peach?”
“Neither, both, one or t’other. Wait and see.”
“I shall look forward to it, daughter. Of all the things I missed in France, I missed your cobbler most.”
He rinses his hands one last time. After drying them, he unties his apron and holds it out to me, saying, “Marcus, please be so kind as to exchange this for my weskit hanging on that coat tree by the door.”
“That’s what you call this?” I say, taking the long vest that matches his brown britches from the tree. “A weskit?”
“Indeed,” he says.
I help him slip it on. He buttons it and then leads us outside.
We’re in a big garden surrounded by a high, red-brick wall and filled with bright-flowered plants and bushes. Gravel paths cross each other. A large mulberry tree stands in the middle, offering cool shade in the hot sunshine. Underneath it, a teenaged boy and girl play chess.
“Welcome to my Eden,” Franklin says. “We once grew our vegetables here. But with the market so close and abundant, I decided to make this into a formal garden, as I had in Passy. Not as large, but it is peaceful.”
Peaceful? There’s nothing peaceful about the children leapfrogging each other down the gravel paths. As soon as one of them sees us, they run for the old man, mobbing him.
“Careful of Grandpapa!” Sally warns. “You know not to jostle him.”
“None of that, Sally!” Franklin is smiling, but his teeth are gritted and his next words hoarse. “I’m not so decrepit I can’t play with my grandchildren. Who would like a peppermint?”
He digs into his weskit pocket and produces a small tin filled with crystal candies. “Remember your manners. One at a time. Louis, let your sister go first.”
“Who are you?” a little girl asks me.
“A friend,” Sally answers, surprising me.
“His name is Marcus,” Franklin says. “He has come to us on a ship, all the way from France. Marcus, this is my granddaughter Deborah. She is six.”
“Hi,” I say, and get a curtsy and a sunny smile. She’s missing her two front teeth and kind of reminds me of Penny at that age.
“And that’s Eliza,” Franklin continues. “She is ten. And Louis, who is eight. And this tyke is Richard. He is three.”
“Hi,” I say again.
“And those two over there at the chess board are William, who is fourteen, and Sarah who is twelve.”
“Hey,” I say, giving a brief wave.
Neither look over. Their eyes are glued to the board.
“Ah, the joys of chess,” Franklin says. “My favorite pastime. So demanding of one’s concentration. Do you play?”
“No.”
“Pity,” he says sadly, but then brightens. “Perhaps you will allow me to teach you?”
Elise comes through the door carrying a tray loaded with a soup tureen, bowls, and spoons. It is so heavy the muscles of her forearms stand out in cords.
“Here, let me help,” I say, trying to get back on her good side.
She shakes her head curtly. “There are more trays downstairs with the chicken and other foods. Bring them, if you are so eager to help.”
I hesitate. Who is she to refuse my help so rudely? And I’m damned if I’m going to let her keep ordering me around.
“Remember, Marcus,” Franklin says softly. “Here, everyone helps. Everyone contributes what they can.”
I look at Sally. She nods encouragingly.
I go downstairs and bring up the food.