challenge, and as we ascended his breathing grew pronounced and ragged. I watched the man hurling himself upward, and I shook my head at the wonder of it all. I was staying in an inn belonging to
Kingsley Franklin
—a man who had dined at my father’s house, whose errands I had run as a child.
The stairs twisted up to a windowless corridor, and Franklin led me through the darkness until we reached a door with the number eight written on it in chalk. He paused and put one hand to the wall while he caught his breath. “Here we are, Mr. Foxx. Not so very bad, I’ll wager.”
It was not so very bad at all. I opened the door and saw a bright room with a view of the river and the Palace in the far distance. It caught a pleasant breeze, and the furnishings were spare but sufficient. In the front room, a writing table and several chairs and a servant’s bed near a fireplace. In the back a clean-looking bed with fresh linens. The room smelled not of sweat or piss, a prospect that seemed all too likely, but of fresh-cut flowers and citrus, sea air and a distant hint of cinnamon and baking bread.
Franklin stood by the threshold, watching me inspect my new lodgings. “My daughter used to help about here until she ran off with a sailor, so I’m a bit shorthanded at the moment. Anything you want, I’ll have it for you—me or one of these Portuguese I pay. They’re cheap as dirt, and almost as useful.”
“I shall keep that in mind.”
“And if it’s some company you desire, you need only give me the nod,” he said with a wink. “I know the best ladies in town, English and natives. Some men, newly arrived, have an inkling to try the blacks, and I know a few places where they are clean and lovely both.”
“Should the need arise,” I said, “I shall inform you anon.”
Franklin held up his hands in protest. “If you’re the puritanical sort, sir, I meant no offense. You need not swive a whore to be estimable in my eyes.”
“Your disposition is most liberal,” I said, making no effort to disguise the weariness in my voice.
Franklin clapped his hands together. “I’ll be off and leave you to your settling in.” He turned to the door, and had gone so far as to set one foot into the hallway before he turned back around. “If I may be bold, Mr. Foxx, I’ll give you a bit of advice—some that I wish was given me. You’ve come to make your fortune, and I’ve no doubt you will. Earn your riches, then, and welcome to them, but return home, quick as you can. Men who stay too long do so at their peril.”
“And what is it they risk?” I asked. English merchants had always appeared privileged when I was a boy. They could come and go as they pleased, and they had no fear of the Inquisition so long as they did nothing foolish, but Kingsley Franklin, once a successful Factory man, now stood behind the counter of a second-rate inn.
“A man who stays too long risks everything he has,” Franklin said, his melancholy undisguised. “A good man was ruined, and I was ruined along with him. I lost all I valued, sir: my fortune; my wife, who left me; and finally my daughter, who’d had her fill of being a poor English girl in a city full of rich Englishmen. Don’t wait until you have more than enough. When it’s merely enough, it is time to leave.”
A great man? Did Franklin’s fortunes decline with my father’s arrest?
“You must tell me your history, Mr. Franklin, but another time, if you please. I fear I am not a fit audience.”
The tremendous sphere of a man had now taken out a handkerchief and was wiping his eyes. “The very devil,” Franklin swore softly. “I don’t often lose myself like that, but I find myself suddenly in a reflective turn of mind.” He started toward the door and then—I could scarcely believe it!—he turned back yet again. Would he never leave the deuced room? “Be mindful to always dress as you are now, in the English manner. Don’t think to don the native clothing, as
Kingsley Franklin
—a man who had dined at my father’s house, whose errands I had run as a child.
The stairs twisted up to a windowless corridor, and Franklin led me through the darkness until we reached a door with the number eight written on it in chalk. He paused and put one hand to the wall while he caught his breath. “Here we are, Mr. Foxx. Not so very bad, I’ll wager.”
It was not so very bad at all. I opened the door and saw a bright room with a view of the river and the Palace in the far distance. It caught a pleasant breeze, and the furnishings were spare but sufficient. In the front room, a writing table and several chairs and a servant’s bed near a fireplace. In the back a clean-looking bed with fresh linens. The room smelled not of sweat or piss, a prospect that seemed all too likely, but of fresh-cut flowers and citrus, sea air and a distant hint of cinnamon and baking bread.
Franklin stood by the threshold, watching me inspect my new lodgings. “My daughter used to help about here until she ran off with a sailor, so I’m a bit shorthanded at the moment. Anything you want, I’ll have it for you—me or one of these Portuguese I pay. They’re cheap as dirt, and almost as useful.”
“I shall keep that in mind.”
“And if it’s some company you desire, you need only give me the nod,” he said with a wink. “I know the best ladies in town, English and natives. Some men, newly arrived, have an inkling to try the blacks, and I know a few places where they are clean and lovely both.”
“Should the need arise,” I said, “I shall inform you anon.”
Franklin held up his hands in protest. “If you’re the puritanical sort, sir, I meant no offense. You need not swive a whore to be estimable in my eyes.”
“Your disposition is most liberal,” I said, making no effort to disguise the weariness in my voice.
Franklin clapped his hands together. “I’ll be off and leave you to your settling in.” He turned to the door, and had gone so far as to set one foot into the hallway before he turned back around. “If I may be bold, Mr. Foxx, I’ll give you a bit of advice—some that I wish was given me. You’ve come to make your fortune, and I’ve no doubt you will. Earn your riches, then, and welcome to them, but return home, quick as you can. Men who stay too long do so at their peril.”
“And what is it they risk?” I asked. English merchants had always appeared privileged when I was a boy. They could come and go as they pleased, and they had no fear of the Inquisition so long as they did nothing foolish, but Kingsley Franklin, once a successful Factory man, now stood behind the counter of a second-rate inn.
“A man who stays too long risks everything he has,” Franklin said, his melancholy undisguised. “A good man was ruined, and I was ruined along with him. I lost all I valued, sir: my fortune; my wife, who left me; and finally my daughter, who’d had her fill of being a poor English girl in a city full of rich Englishmen. Don’t wait until you have more than enough. When it’s merely enough, it is time to leave.”
A great man? Did Franklin’s fortunes decline with my father’s arrest?
“You must tell me your history, Mr. Franklin, but another time, if you please. I fear I am not a fit audience.”
The tremendous sphere of a man had now taken out a handkerchief and was wiping his eyes. “The very devil,” Franklin swore softly. “I don’t often lose myself like that, but I find myself suddenly in a reflective turn of mind.” He started toward the door and then—I could scarcely believe it!—he turned back yet again. Would he never leave the deuced room? “Be mindful to always dress as you are now, in the English manner. Don’t think to don the native clothing, as
Similar Books
