Two Crowns for America

  Simon drew a deep breath and held out his hand for the snuffbox, holding it to the light to read the inscription inside, then closing his hand around it as his eyes closed briefly. Both Ramsay and Justin watched anxiously, until at length Simon opened his eyes and slowly nodded.

  “We have two links,” he said quietly. “The snuffbox itself to Angus and his father, and the gold coin to the gold. It could work.” He let out a heavy sigh. “Very well. I shall make you this proposition, James; Justin, bear witness. The three of us are not sufficient to attempt such an operation, and I cannot delay my return to the General. This war goes on, whether or not some of us engage in exercises that probably are futile.

  “I therefore propose that the two of you take the snuffbox to Andrew and Arabella in Cambridge. Explain what has happened, and what you propose. I shall send my written assessment of what I understand of the procedure and the likelihood of success. I suggest that Prince Lucien be consulted as well; Andrew will know where to find him in Boston.”

  Ramsay scowled heavily. “What has he to do with this,” he demanded, “and what is he doing in Boston?”

  “He is a Stuart and Saint-Germain’s agent—which is what he has to do with this,” Simon said sharply. “As for why he is in Boston, that is not your concern. In any case, I consider Andrew senior in this matter, even if the prince may be more skilled. I bind you both to abide by Andrew’s decision. Is that understood, James?”

  Ramsay breathed a sigh of resignation, then nodded. “I understand.”

  “Very well. Justin, I’ll give you the snuffbox when I’ve written the letter to accompany it. I want you ready to leave tomorrow; I’ll also write orders to cover your absence.”

  “They’ll be burying Angus tomorrow,” Ramsay said quietly. “May we stay until that’s done?”

  “Of course,” Simon replied. “James, I don’t like having to be heavy-handed with you, but I have obligations, as do we all.” He shook his head and slipped the snuffbox into the top drawer of the desk. “Off with both of you. I have letters to write.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Murray’s funeral was held the following day, with Ramsay rendering token Masonic honors to their fallen comrade at the graveside. That evening Justin took the opportunity for one final private conversation with his brother-in-law before he and Ramsay left for Cambridge the following morning. Both of them were concerned about Ramsay’s outburst regarding the gold, for it tended to confirm an instability of which Saint-Germain had warned them, after Ramsay spearheaded the premature offer of a Crown to Charles Edward Stuart.

  But the Master had also hinted at a future role for Ramsay on the Master Tracing Board, which precluded simply writing him out of the equation unless there was very good cause. Justin suspected it had something to do with Washington, though none of his elders had yet been able to pin down anything.

  “Do you think the gold really can be recovered?” he asked as he tucked the snuffbox and Simon’s letter to Andrew into an inner pocket of his uniform.

  “God only knows,” Simon replied. “And if it could, I have no idea how Saint-Germain would want it disposed of. So far as I know, recovering Prince Charlie’s gold was never in the Master Plan—but as you know, he tends not to tell us things until we need to know them.”

  “Well, what if we do manage to find the gold? You don’t think that James would try to take it to the King anyway, do you?”

  “I don’t know what he might do!” Simon retorted. “I didn’t think he’d strike off on his own and send that letter to Charles, either. Just keep an eye on him, Justin. Cultivate his confidence. And maybe be ready to take his side, if it’s a choice of that or letting him go off half-cocked.”

  “You’re joking, surely,” Justin murmured, wide-eyed.

  “I don’t know whether I am or not,” Simon replied. “Just be careful.”

  They arrived in Boston nearly a week later, just at the end of July. Justin let Simon’s letter speak for itself as he and Ramsay tucked into large bowls of Arabella’s chowder with fresh-baked country bread and butter. The elder Wallace read the letter aloud, Arabella listening in astonishment.

  “It’s an appalling notion,” she said when Andrew had finished reading.

  “Perhaps not as appalling as it might seem,” the Chevalier replied. “But the prince will be far more competent to assess the situation than I. I’ll go to him tomorrow.”

  He disappeared early the next morning with the Wallace pony and trap and did not return that night or all the following day. Ramsay disappeared too—visiting family, he said—but never for more than a few hours at a time, for he feared to miss something once Andrew returned.

  Justin took the opportunity to visit with his sister and renew his relationship with a niece and two nephews who had grown considerably since his last trip home. Young Charles now could be trusted to run errands alone on Justin’s bay mare, and little Sarah easily persuaded her handsome Uncle Justin to escort her into town to buy ribbons for her hair. Little James was discovering the joys of reading and became Justin’s shadow when he discovered that his uncle could be coerced into helping him puzzle out new words in the family Bible.

  Early on the evening of the second day, summoned by the sound of a carriage pulling up outside, Justin twitched back a parlor curtain to see Andrew and the prince alighting from the pony trap, young Charles already at the pony’s head. Ramsay had not yet returned.

  When the children had paid their respects to “Dr. Rohan” and retired to an early supper upstairs, the adults congregated in the kitchen, where guarded discussion ensued over the informal meal that Arabella set out.

  “I tell you this, there will be no middle ground if we attempt this thing,” the prince informed them as he set the snuffbox on the table amid the supper clutter. “I have some little experience in summoning up the dead, but I cannot claim to be an expert. Justin, you were present when this Angus Murray passed on, but it appears that Ramsay knew him best. Where is Dr. Ramsay?”

  “Out,” Arabella said. “It’s just as well, because Justin and I wanted to talk to you before he got back. None of us are certain we trust him anymore, Lucien.”

  The prince nodded. “Andrew has told me of your concerns. But touching on practicalities, what harm could he do without the snuffbox? Or do you think he might attempt to find some other link, procure something else associated with one of the Murrays?”

  “And use that instead of the snuffbox?” Justin asked. “Could that be done?”

  “Not easily,” the prince replied. “And I do not recall having felt that Ramsay was particularly powerful, though I have only Masonic ritual from which to judge. As a physician, he is competent—but no more than that. He has not the spark of a genuine healer.”

  “Are you saying he isn’t a danger?” Andrew asked.

  “No. But we perhaps malign him without cause. He has been long absent from his family, as are we all in time of war. I assume that he will return here to sleep; we shall make plans to work tomorrow night.”

  Ramsay duly returned within the hour, ostensibly from supper with a sister, and submitted to the prince’s questions for an hour after that. Satisfied that Ramsay intended to cooperate, the prince soon released all of them to make an early retirement, for the following night would be both long and arduous.

  He and Andrew remained in seclusion for much of the following day, as did Ramsay. Justin collected the children in the pony trap after school and took them to a cousin’s to spend the night. Not until nearly eleven, when it was full dark outside, did the five repair to the parlor, where Arabella had drawn both the shutters and the curtains and set a small round table in the center of the room. Five straight-backed chairs surrounded the table, and a turkey-work shawl covered it. The room was lit by candles in wall sconces and on the mantel shelf. A handsome grandfather clock ticked out its slow, regular rhythm in a far corner.

  “I hope this will be satisfactory,” she said, glancing around. “I can stop the clock if you
think the sound will be distracting.”

  “Quite the contrary,” the prince replied. “The sound will serve to help us concentrate—though perhaps Justin would be so good as to stop the chimes.”

  While Justin moved to do so, the prince pulled out the chair nearest the door. “Mistress Arabella, I shall ask you to sit here, and Justin to your immediate left. Then the Chevalier and Dr. Ramsay—and I shall take the remaining place.”

  The other four took their places as directed while the prince moved around the room extinguishing all the candles except one on the mantel, which he brought to set in the center of the table. Before sitting down he produced the silver snuffbox from an inner pocket and set it at the base of the candlestick. The candlelight seemed to make it glow as he scooted his chair closer and laid his hands to either side on the table before him, right palm up and left palm down.

  “Now do as I do, and join hands around the table,” he said, observing as they complied. “It is very important that you maintain these links while we work, both for protection and to keep the flow of power constant as we channel it. Have you any questions before we begin?”

  There were none.

  “Then I ask you now to gaze into the candle and let your thoughts still. We must strive for perfect harmony if the spirits are to attend. Breathe deeply once … and out.… And again.…

  “Now listen to the ticking of the clock, just on the rhythm of the human heartbeat, and let your own heart take its rhythm. Close your eyes if you wish and let yourselves drift, in perfect harmony with one another.…”

  He fell silent for a long moment, letting each of the participants find a balance point. Andrew had closed his eyes, as had Arabella; Justin and Ramsay continued to gaze at the candle.

  “Very quiet,” the prince finally continued softly, “and very balanced, ready to reach out now and summon that one whom we have come to seek. As we turn our thoughts to the snuffbox, we may hope to discern some faint flickering of him who owned the box before. The name was Angus Murray in this life, and all of you knew him. Before that his father owned the box—a man called Charles Stuart Murray. Reach out to what you know of either man and ask in the silence of your mind that he make his presence known. Call to him.…”

  Only for Andrew did an answer come, and it was not from the one whom he sought. Behind closed eyelids he seemed to see the familiar image of Joseph Warren take form, this time wearing the apron of Freemasonry over his festive attire and the jewel of his rank as Provincial Grand Master around his neck. He appeared to be standing directly across the table, between the chairs where Andrew knew the prince and Arabella to be sitting. Neither they nor the others seemed aware of the manifestation, Andrew realized as he cautiously opened his eyes.

  “Joseph?” he whispered softly.

  The others looked up sharply at his word, but Warren’s image did not waver, though it seemed somewhat less substantial than at his previous appearances.

  I greet you as a brother, the figure replied, raising a hand in the sign of a Master Mason.

  “I greet you as well, though I dare not break the circle,” Andrew said aloud. “Can the others not see you?”

  Warren glanced down at Arabella and the prince, then at Justin and Ramsay, all of whom were peering at where Andrew was looking, searching for some trace of what he obviously saw.

  Apparently they cannot. He glanced wistfully at Arabella. This dear lady could learn to be my voice—and could speak for him they hope to see. But the one you seek has not heard your call.

  “Can you not summon him?” Andrew asked.

  Alas, I cannot. However, this man knows of one who can. Warren nodded toward the prince. His ears cannot hear me, but I sense a capacity of spirit which may permit a prompting of his memory in another fashion.

  So saying, he stretched out a translucent hand and passed it gently through the upper part of the prince’s upturned head. Though the touch seemed to cause no harm, a flicker of bewilderment registered briefly in the prince’s searching eyes—which glazed and then rolled upward in their sockets as Warren bent to whisper in the prince’s left ear. As Warren drew back, the prince’s head lolled onto one shoulder, his body going limp.

  “Lucien?” Arabella whispered, clutching hard at his hand, her eyes darting to Andrew’s in alarm.

  “Do not break the circle!” Andrew ordered, holding more tightly to Justin’s and Ramsay’s hands, for Warren still was visible. “You haven’t harmed him, have you?”

  Of course not, Warren replied. I have helped him—and you. I can do none any harm. But take care that he makes good use of what I have given him, for returning to this plane becomes increasingly difficult. Perhaps once more may I come. Until then, adieu, dear friend.

  “No, wait!”

  But Warren was already fading, one graceful surgeon’s hand lifting in farewell. When no trace of him remained, Andrew drew a slow, careful breath and looked around. Arabella was still staring at him in alarm, her glance flitting between him and the unconscious prince. Both Justin and Ramsay were grimacing from the strength of his grip on their hands. He relaxed his hands enough to relieve the pain, but not enough for them to withdraw, drawing a deep, sobering breath to address them.

  “Our conductor being temporarily incapable, I shall assume guidance of this working,” he said carefully. “No one has been harmed. I shall explain in a moment. So that we may bring this working to a proper close, I ask that you all close your eyes and focus for a moment. On my backward count from five to one, return in spirit to this time and place, no longer open to whatever forces have been at large in this room. If you close your eyes, I will assume that you agree.”

  A glance around him confirmed three pairs of closed eyes besides those of the prince.

  “A deep breath now, in … and out.… And five … four … three … two … one! This working is ended.”

  He paid no attention to their stirrings as he released hands with Justin and Ramsay and lurched to his feet to go to the prince. Arabella still retained one hand, but Ramsay had released the other and drawn back in his chair, staring at the prince in alarm. As Andrew stepped between them, he took the prince’s face between his hands and tipped it back so that he could look at the closed eyes.

  “Lucien?” he murmured. “Lucien, look at me. Open your eyes and—”

  The prince’s eyelids fluttered and opened and he raised his free hand to his forehead. “I am unharmed,” he murmured. “What an extraordinary experience. Whoever you saw, Andrew, he whispered in my ear. I could not see him, nor could I exactly hear him, but—”

  “What did he say?”

  “I don’t know. Something.…” The prince freed his other hand from Arabella’s and scrubbed both hands over his face and eyes, obviously still seeking to regain his equilibrium. “I have thought of something that may be useful, though.”

  “Did Warren tell you?”

  “Warren who?”

  “Dr. Joseph Warren. That’s who was present. He died at Breed’s Hill. Don’t you remember? You sent back information that helped us locate his body. He was a very dear friend. He’s appeared to me twice before.”

  “Ah.” The prince nodded, still looking a little dazed. “Well, I could not say yea or nay to that, but something certainly jogged my memory. An acquaintance of mine has spoken of a man who may just be able to help us.”

  “Who is he?” Ramsay demanded.

  “I cannot recall his true name—I have only heard of him—but he is known as the Ba’al Shem of London. ‘Ba’al Shem’ means Master of the Name—in this instance, Tetragrammaton, the Divine Name. A Ba’al Shem is a Jew of particular sanctity of knowledge, able to make use of the power of that Name in the writing of amulets and in prescribing cures for various ailments.

  “What makes this particular man of interest to us is that he is said to be an expert at locating lost treasure—which, in this instance, may be less of a problem than it might appear, since we have a coin to use as a link. That may be considerably e
asier than trying to call back either of the Murrays, based on tonight’s experience.”

  “That may still be necessary,” Andrew murmured. “Warren indicated that Arabella could learn to function as a medium. His exact words were, ‘This dear lady could learn to be my voice—and his’—presumably referring to Murray. I can’t imagine why he should tell me that unless he felt that it would be necessary for her to do so.”

  “That may present additional problems,” the prince said, before Arabella could comment.

  “How so?”

  “I assure you, I mean no slight upon our Arabella and her abilities,” the prince replied, with a reassuring glance in her direction. “Rather, I am concerned with how our Ba’al Shem may receive the notion of working with a woman, however gifted she may be. It is a question of propriety, of ritual purity. Though a Ba’al Shem may command extraordinary powers and abilities, he yet functions at least within the periphery of orthodox Judaism, which places women in a position that is both exalted and restricted. In short, he may refuse to work with you.”

  Arabella gave a wry smile. “Such resistance would hardly be new in my experience,” she said drolly. “Outside our own Lodge, I would not be accepted in the Craft.”

  “No, you would not,” the prince said after a beat. “Yet opposition was overcome, at least within that group.” He glanced at the others and seemed to make a decision.

  “We shall set that aside for the moment,” he said. “Our first concern must be to gain access to the Ba’al Shem. The man who can give us an introduction is here in Boston—a man called Eli Levi. I shall meet with him as soon as possible.”

  “You seem very confident,” Ramsay said. “Suppose he won’t help you.”

  “Oh, he will help us,” the prince replied. “ ’Tis the Ba’al Shem who is the unknown quantity. What I think and hope will open the necessary doors is that both he and Eli are Initiates of Freemasonry. Eli, at least, will not refuse to help a poor widow’s son.”