The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [110]
Franklin was familiar with the grand halls of royalty, had been entertained in some of Europe’s most imposing mansions, but as he studied the ornate gilded carvings that framed one of the enormous mirrors, he could not help but be impressed. The French do have a way, he thought. Dwarf the man by engulfing him in splendor. It is a statement, I suppose, a lesson for the little people, the very notion of a monarch who so towers above us all. He backed away from the mirror, felt his sore feet cushioned by a soft Persian rug that spread across the width of the room.
To one side, Deane was studying a part of the oak floor not covered by the rug, an intricate design of diamonds and detailed parquet. He put his hand down, feeling the wood, said to Franklin, “Marvelous, I must say. Not merely a floor, but a work of art!”
Deane’s secretary, Edward Bancroft, stood close by, seemed amused by Deane’s sense of wonder.
Franklin had thought it appropriate for at least one secretary to be present, that anything said in these meetings must surely be recorded. Bancroft was the obvious choice, a Massachusetts man who had worked with several of the colonial representatives in London. Franklin had known him for years, a pleasant and sociable man, and he had been pleased to hear that Deane had secured Bancroft’s services. Franklin was still determined to groom his grandson Temple as his own secretary, but the position was too new to the seventeen-year-old to bring him to such an important meeting. Bancroft could certainly fill the role for all three of them.
Arthur Lee had moved to the far end of the room, as detached from the others as he could be and still be in the same space. Lee was staring at a mirror, and Franklin caught the man looking at him in the reflection.
“Rather lovely place, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Lee?”
He put as much pleasantness in the words as he could, some means of breaking through the shroud of gloom that enveloped Lee. Lee did not turn, said, “Lovely, yes.”
There was nothing pleasant in Lee’s words. Deane glanced at Franklin, a brief shake of his head, and Franklin said quietly, “We must strive for appearances, Mr. Deane. I have done this sort of thing before. United front is most important.”
Lee turned now, said, “Yes, Dr. Franklin, you have done all of this before. Mr. Deane, we must be certain to watch and learn.”
There was hard sarcasm in Lee’s voice, and Franklin felt frustration, didn’t know what else to say. He turned again to the mirror, could see Lee’s back in the reflection, the man doing everything he could to create a gulf between them. Lee was somewhat younger than Deane, both men in their late thirties. Deane’s face was adorned with a pleasant openness, a soft roundness given easily to a smile. It was a sharp contrast to Lee’s stern glare, a tight aristocratic handsomeness that made him seem much older than Deane.
Franklin saw Deane again studying the intricate woodwork of the floor, busying himself with a mindless distraction. Franklin thought, We cannot demonstrate this sort of conflict to the French. Mr. Lee must surely know that.
Franklin had always known Lee to be a man who placed great value on his own abilities, but he thought, Does he truly believe this job is for him alone? Clearly I cannot counsel him. He assumes anything I say to be a show of vanity, as though we must go about these negotiations by my instruction only. If he is excluded from anything here, it is by his own doing.
He realized that they had been waiting for several minutes, felt a nervous twinge, thought, Is that their plan? Are we to be kept waiting as a show of our unimportance? It was a familiar annoying experience from his days in London. British officials delighted in making