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François knew that the letter he was waiting for would arrive around September 13, but he had hoped it might come even just a day earlier so he could quickly return to his family and his estate in Montrouge.
Unfortunately, that was not the case.
The days had passed without distinction, and that day came very quickly. His routine had been so repetitive that he felt as though he were reliving the same events over and over again.
It was beginning to become irritating.
And yet, he showed none of it. He continued to play his role, listening to what was happening in the city and frequenting the Queen's Head Tavern.
Nothing suggested that he would soon be leaving New York.
Saturday, September 15, was in every way identical to the days before it. A long workday was coming to an end at old Seamus Murphy's shop.
The place had changed dramatically in three months. The windows, the shelves, the counter, the floor—everything was clean. Years of neglect had been made up for in that short time, greatly improving the shop's image.
Seamus was very pleased, even if he rarely complimented his employee. The young man had made himself indispensable. Anything that could save Seamus time or effort, he took care of it.
That, too, he never said out loud.
He had no regrets whatsoever about hiring him. Compared to him, all the assistants he had previously employed had been arrogant fools, slow, clumsy, and lacking any real will.
Seamus had been so satisfied with his work that he had begun training him. It was late to do so, but he preferred passing on his knowledge to someone like him rather than to a child who would exhaust him with stupidity.
"Is there anything I can do to help you, Mr. Murphy?"
The old man's voice came from the back of the shop.
"No, that's fine. I'll manage here. You can go, lad."
"Very well, in that case, I'll be off. Have a good evening, a good Sunday, and see you Monday."
"That's right. Monday. Don't forget there's a large order."
"Yes, sir. I'll come in a bit earlier to make sure everything's there."
François picked up his tricorne and left the shop, worn out from the week.
Outside, the weather was still warm and pleasant.
Summer did not seem ready to leave. That was why New Yorkers were still dressed lightly, as if it were July or August.
To his left, a rather short man with a round face stepped out at the same moment. It was the owner of the neighboring shop, a merchant dealing in boxes, chests, and cases—Edward Pierce.
When the merchant noticed François, he greeted him politely.
François had done his best to be appreciated by the people on this street, or at least by those who lived and worked near Seamus's shop. His efforts had not brought him much, but they had made his daily life more pleasant.
To Edward Pierce, as to everyone else here, he was simply Mr. Murphy's friendly clerk, a helpful, polite young man who always said hello.
This time was no exception.
While Mr. Pierce finished closing his shop, they exchanged a few words:
"How was it today?" François asked as he approached.
"A good day. That feels nice, even if it doesn't make up for yesterday. I don't know why, but customers decided to come today instead."
"Well, that's good! We had people coming in too. Though I'm not sure that's something to celebrate, since it means more people are sick or injured."
"Hmm? It's not really the season for illness. The weather is so pleasant right now."
François smiled.
"Yes. It's splendid without being stifling."
He did not linger and made his way to the John Simmons Tavern.
He had not had time to eat at midday and was beginning to feel seriously hungry. He was hoping for a hearty meal with meat and sauce.
Unsurprisingly, every table was occupied. Very few chairs were free. Among the many overlapping smells, one stood out immediately and made his mouth water.
Oh, Roast chicken!
François sat down and placed his order without delay. He ate alone, in silence, at a table shared with three strangers reeking of sweat.
Liam did not appear during the evening.
He assumed he was busy elsewhere with the Sons of Liberty. It might have been interesting to go and observe, but François was too exhausted to remain standing for hours. He had only one desire: to go to bed.
If anything important was said that evening, Liam would tell him tomorrow.
Around him, people talked about soldiers, taxes, harvests, an accident on a construction site, new posters. But for once, François only half-listened.
As soon as he finished his meal, he stood to return to his room. But as he passed by the counter, Mr. Simmons called out to him:
"Ah, Mr. Woods. That reminds me, Joseph went to the post office this morning. There's a letter waiting for you."
François felt something tighten in his chest. His face, however, remained calm.
"I've received mail? From whom?"
"I have no idea. Joseph is instructed to go to the post office regularly and inform me if either I or my tenants have received any mail, nothing more."
"Oh…"
Damn it! If I had taken a break at noon… At this hour, the post office has been closed for a while. And tomorrow is Sunday.
François let out a deep inward sigh.
"Very well. Thank you, Mr. Simmons."
Frustrated, he returned to his room. After a moment of reflection, barely disturbed by the noises coming from the neighboring room, François blew out the candle.
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He was already asleep when Liam returned, but the sound of the door and his footsteps on the wooden floor woke him.
"How was your evening?" he murmured without turning over in bed.
Liam didn't answer immediately.
"Sorry. Did I wake you?"
"Hmm. It's alright."
The young Irishman took off his shoes and sat on the edge of his bed.
"It went well. Mr. Lamb told us in detail about his meeting with the governor, and then we talked about all sorts of things. Oh! I learned something very interesting!"
François turned his head slightly, intrigued, but remained silent.
"Guess what—Mr. Benjamin Franklin is coming to New York next month! He'll probably speak at the Queen's Head Tavern. Ah, I've heard so much about him! I'll finally get to meet him!"
His excitement was impossible to hide. One didn't need to see his face to know it.
François was curious as well. He had heard Franklin's name several times since arriving in the city. He was as respected, if not more so, than Samuel Adams.
He vaguely remembered the character from Assassin's Creed III: a friendly NPC who looked a bit like a teacher. But that was of no real use.
All he knew was that the man would play an important role in the War of Independence. As for the rest, he knew nothing. He assumed Franklin would one day become a governor, a minister, or perhaps even President of the United States.
That was assuming the colonies actually became a country.
"I hope I'll get the chance to speak with him," Liam said as he undressed, "even if it's just a few words. You absolutely have to meet him too!"
"Of course," François murmured, as if already drifting back to sleep. "He sounds very interesting."
Naturally, he said nothing about the letter.
On Monday, he would have to feign surprise and sadness at the idea of leaving.
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François devoted his Sunday to visiting his agents, the two in New York, and the two near Brookland.
Almost naturally, he had spent more time with Arthur Morton and the former pirate, William Dalton. More than the second network, it was this one he relied on to inform France about what was happening in the city.
And as always, the day passed very quickly, too quickly for him to truly rest.
On Monday morning, he did not go immediately to the post office. His schedule did not align with its opening hours. He would have to go during his break, around noon.
He intended to open the letter in front of Liam.
So he changed nothing in his routine and went to Seamus Murphy's shop while listening to what people were saying that morning.
He did his best to show nothing in front of the old apothecary, but inwardly, all he could think about was the letter waiting for him.
Eventually, Seamus noticed.
"And this?" he said, holding out a small black jar, turned so the label could not be seen. "Hey, are you listening, boy?"
"Oh, sorry," François murmured. "My mind wandered for a moment."
He leaned over the jar and sniffed the strange dark mixture inside. Immediately, a powerful scent rose to his nose and filled his lungs.
"Uh… Canada balsam?"
"No."
"Uh… guaiac?"
"Are you going to name them all? Focus a little."
"Copaiba balsam."
"Better. And where does it come from? Don't tell me 'Copaiba,'" Seamus warned sternly.
François held back a smile.
"It's made from a resin from a tree found in Brazil. But it's also found in the West Indies."
"Very good. Its use?"
François searched his memory for what the old man had begun to teach him. He frowned.
"Uh… it treats… stomach aches?"
He watched the apothecary's expression, and seeing no anger, assumed he hadn't confused it with another similar balm.
"It's for stomach disorders, laxity, intestinal atony, and… flatulence. It's also used against calculous affections, also called stones or gravel."
"What else?" Seamus insisted, seeing that his assistant had only given a partial answer.
"Copaiba balsam is also used for neph… uh… nephretic colic?"
"Nephritic," the man corrected, closing the jar. "It's also useful for urinary tract ulcers, gonorrhea, or purulent discharges. It can also help women during their menstrual period."
François nodded slowly.
"Not bad," Seamus finally said, handing him the jar to put away. "But you seem distracted. What's the matter?"
Despite his gruff tone and appearance, Seamus was not someone you couldn't talk to.
"Ah, it's nothing serious. I was told Saturday evening that I had a letter waiting at the post office, and I have no idea what it contains."
"You didn't go pick it up?"
"Not yet. I don't even know who sent it. Few people know that I emigrated to the Uni—uh, the colonies. And not knowing… it worries me a bit. Probably for nothing."
François played his role perfectly. In a few hours, he would announce bad news that would justify his departure.
Now, the groundwork was laid.
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He went to the post office around noon and paid the sum of two pence to retrieve his mail. As expected, it was indicated on the back that it had come from Providence.
The handwriting was fine and straight, rather neat.
François slipped it into a pocket without opening it and headed to the John Simmons Tavern, naturally much livelier than the day before. Monday brought its usual crowd of regulars along with a few passing customers.
The constant hubbub—blended conversations, tankards set down a little too hard, and tired laughter—had something strangely comforting about it.
He quickly spotted Liam, seated at a table and enjoying a generous omelet. He looked up as François approached.
"Ah, James. You finished late, didn't you? I've almost finished my meal."
"I was at the post office," he said, pulling out his folded letter.
"Ah. You haven't opened it yet?"
François took a short breath.
"No, not yet."
Liam read the name on the back and narrowed his eyes.
"Providence? Do you know someone there?"
"Not personally. Someone who used to do business with my uncle lives there."
The young doctor nodded and took another bite of his omelet while his roommate slowly, almost ceremoniously, unfolded the letter. He studied his expressions and stopped eating when he saw his friend tense up. The sorrow was clearly visible in his eyes.
But he didn't ask the question burning on his lips. He waited.
Good. Now a slight tremor. A bitten lip, a sigh.
Perhaps he was overdoing it a little, but Liam didn't doubt for a second that his grief was real.
Finally, he asked:
"Bad news?"
François let a few more seconds pass, as if absorbing a shock.
One, two, three. Perfect.
He lowered the paper slightly, still gripping it tightly between his fingers, and kept his eyes down.
"My uncle… is dead."
Liam blinked.
"Your uncle," he repeated. "The one you worked for when you were young?"
"Yes."
He looked up at Liam and deployed all his acting skills. His eyes grew red and watery.
François dropped the letter and quickly brushed away the tears threatening to fall down his cheeks. At the sight, Liam felt his chest tighten and looked away.
After a moment of silence, François spoke in a strained voice:
"I learned so much from him. He was a good man, and an excellent merchant. It wasn't always easy, but he was there for me. He was my mother's brother."
"He was in Hanover, right?"
François nodded, then picked up the letter again. Liam watched him, then frowned.
"But… how come the letter telling you this comes from Providence?"
"Maybe the first letter got lost along the way…"
He fell silent for a moment, then continued:
"The man who wrote to me offers his sincerest condolences… and says that, even if it's late, he's willing to repay the debt he owed my uncle."
Liam glanced at the letter without daring to touch it, then frowned more deeply.
"You… um, are you the sole heir?"
François shrugged slightly.
"I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. I know he knew many women in his life. I wouldn't be surprised if he had several illegitimate children."
Then, more slowly:
"But if he thought of me when writing his will…"
A thought suddenly struck Liam, sending a chill down his spine. He stiffened in his chair.
"Wait a second… What if… what if it was intentional?"
"What do you mean?" François asked, raising an eyebrow.
"The fact that no one informed you of your uncle's death… What if someone didn't want you to know?"
He brought a trembling hand to his mouth, imagining a vile plot to deprive his friend of what was rightfully his. Perhaps one of the uncle's illegitimate children? A supposed friend? A rival?
Liam's expression gradually darkened as he imagined the worst. Then he looked at François, very serious.
"What are you going to do?"
The question was simple, direct.
The answer had to be as well.
"Leave."
No hesitation.
Liam silently approved, even though it saddened him. They had only known each other for three months, and yet he felt very close to his roommate, like old childhood friends.
"I don't really have a choice," François murmured, staring at the few lines written on the letter. "If there's an estate, matters to settle… I have to be there."
His gaze drifted to his hands, broad and worn. Some veins stood out as if they were about to burst.
"Unfortunately, it's too late for the funeral. But I'd like to be able to visit his grave. He's family."
Liam didn't try to dissuade him.
It would be a long and difficult journey, and not without danger, but he would probably have done the same. And if it meant restoring justice by preventing the wrong people from taking what rightfully belonged to him, then he had all the more reason to go.
He ran a hand through his hair, then took a long drink of beer.
"When are you leaving?"
François let a second pass.
"As soon as possible. A few days at most. Just enough time to settle a few things here."
"A few days…"
They exchanged a look.
"Will you... come back?"
François could feel Liam's hope and fear.
It wasn't planned, but James Woods couldn't answer like that. He looked away.
"Honestly? I don't know."
That was probably the best answer.
"I have no idea what will happen. First, I'll go to Providence to try to find out more about what happened, and to recover the money he owed my uncle. If I can… I'll write to you."
Liam nodded and tried to imagine his daily life without his friend. The room would feel very empty.
"You'll have to tell Seamus. And… the others."
He didn't need to specify who he meant.
"Yes," François simply replied.
He put the letter away.
"I'll take care of it later today, or tomorrow."
François signaled to a young man to order food. His break was almost over, and he still hadn't eaten.
"Seamus will be disappointed," Liam murmured, finishing his beer. "And very sad to lose such a good assistant."
"Yes… probably."
A sad, sincere smile formed on his lips.