An Experiment in Treason Read Free Page B

I do, but so few are my opportunities to exercise it that I lear it may eventually be lost.”
    At that he merely chuckled.
    “Did you sleep? ” I asked him.
    “Oh, I dozed, little more than that. Unlike most, the movement of the coach upon the road tends to keep me awake.”
    We were now across the bridge and into the maze of Hghts. The driver swung left into Thames Street, following a line of hackney coaches. It must not have been long past dark, for there were indeed a flood of vehicles in the street. At such a time, in such a season of the year, London was at its most handsome — certainly the best-lit city in all of Europe; visitors came from all over to admire the oil-burning street lamps that gave light even on the darkest, foggiest nights. The blinking lights of the coaches and carriages added their bright pinpoints to this vivid picture, as did the torches that lit the door of each tavern, inn, and eating-house along the way. I was altogether fascinated.
    “Tell me, Jeremy,” said Mr. Donnelly, “are you disappointed in our expedition to Portsmouth?”
    Pulling myself away from the coach window, I gave that a moment’s thought.
    “Disappointed in the failure of the experiment, yet not sorry to have been present.”
    “Nicely put,” said he. “I should say I felt the same. I was, how-ever, disappointed in the behavior of our supposed host — but at this point, the less said about that the better.”
    With that I concurred, and our conversation then drifted aimlessly to Dr. Franklin’s political position, a question much discussed during those days. Was his first loyalty to England, or to those colonies which paid him a salary to represent their interests in London? As an Irishman, Mr. Donnelly knew something of divided loyalties, yet he made no reference to his personal feelings in the matter — that would have been quite unlike him.
    This took us to Number 4 Bow Street, where the driver came to a halt, and we climbed down. Mr. Donnelly paid off the driver down to the last penny and appeared ready to bid me a good night and make his way home.
    “Why not come up? ” I offered. “Though they’ve likely eaten dinner, there’s sure to be enough left over to feed us both. You’ll have the chance to meet our new cook, Molly Sarton.”
    He confessed he had no wish to go home and try potluck for one, nor even less visit one of the rowdy dives surrounding Covent Garden; and so he happily accepted the invitation. We marched up to the top of the stairs and into the kitchen. There at the table sat Molly Sarton and Clarissa Roundtree, who served as Lady Fielding’s secretary.
    We were in luck. Dinner had been eaten, yet I was expected, and the stew left over for me was more than enough for two. So said Molly, in any case, as she poked up the fire to warm the pot. I sensed an immediate spark between the surgeon and the cook when I introduced them. As she stirred the stew, he stood nearby, telling her of our bootless journey to Portsmouth, yet making of it a great long joke, wherein he himself was the butt of the story. It was evident that he was attempting to charm her. She laughed. She smiled. She glanced neither left nor right but gave to him all her attention.
    “Goodness,” whispered Clarissa to me, “they’ve certainly hit it off, haven’t they?”
    A word about Clarissa: She and I had come to Sir John Fielding’s household by way of similar paths. While I was popularly thought to be a “court boy” (one snatched away from a life of crime and put to useful work). Sir John perceived in my appearance as prisoner before him that I stood falsely accused. He opened his home and his heart to me, an orphan, and had treated me ever after more as a son than a servant. For her part, Clarissa was the daughter of one who would sure have been hanged or given transportation had he not been murdered by a criminal far more cruel and ruthless than he. She had escaped from the parish workhouse of Lichfield and would