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Five Nights' Advance
The stagecoach arrives in London the following evening, and Monneron secures lodgings with a Mrs. Towe, recommended to him by his brother Louis, who often travels to London on business. The house smells unaccountably of stale cider, but it meets Monneron's most basic requirements—clean bed, convenient location, quiet landlady—and a couple of unusual ones—first, the absence of other lodgers, and second, a windowless storage room to which only he and Mrs. Towe will have a key.
Before going to sleep, he calculates his expenses since landing in Dover: a night's stay and meals at the Ship Hotel, then sixteen shillings and eight pence for the stagecoach, plus the fee for his baggage and a tip for the driver, not to mention a half crown for every meal and one night's lodging en route, and now, five nights paid in advance to Mrs. Towe. He's spent almost all of the English currency the minister gave him before he left. His first task the next day will be to go to the bank. So far he's had few choices about his expenditures, but now that he's in London, he'll be faced with myriad decisions, most of which will involve money. He can't spend too much, of course. But it might be worse to spend too little. He doesn't wish to squander the ministry's faith in him, of course. Above all, he doesn't wish to disappoint Monsieur de Lapérouse, the commander of the expedition. Staring up at Mrs. Towe's water-stained ceiling, Monneron reflects that there's still time to appoint another engineer—and plenty of ambitious young men of good family eager to take his place.
Costume
He wakes early, consumes without enjoyment Mrs. Towe's weak tea and cold toast, then faces the delicate task of getting dressed. For the past three days he's been hidden under an overcoat and top boots, but now he'll be entering establishments and homes, making impressions, gathering information. He doesn't wish to call attention to himself by looking too French, too naval, too fashionable, or not fashionable enough. Louis has advised him to dress more soberly than a gentleman his age in Paris might, but Monneron's not sure what that means. With all his years at sea, he's quite used to dressing himself—in uniform. Civilian clothes are another matter altogether. In the end, he puts on the plainest linen shirt he owns and a pair of ribbed white stockings, and over them a suit he's borrowed from Antoine, another brother who is the same height as he. The waistcoat, breeches, and frock coat are all of the same, dark-blue woven silk—even the buttons are covered. Then he dons wig, shoes, and overcoat, in that order. He hesitates before picking up the thin, tasseled cane that Louis had pressed him to take instead of his sword. "Don't carry a sword or a hat," his brother had told him. "They will mark you as a Frenchman and an effeminate."
On his way out, Monneron appraises himself in the smoky mirror in Mrs. Towe's entrance hall. He looks like a Frenchman who is trying not to look French, he thinks. And he hates the cane. What an absurd country, in which wearing a sword makes one effeminate but carrying a beribboned walking stick does not.
Letters
He steps out into the fetid, fog-drizzled streets and makes his way to the Bank of England, where he exchanges letters of credit for more cash than he's ever seen in one place, much less carried upon his person. He's grateful for Antoine's tailor, who's adopted the innovation of interior pockets in frock coats. It's a place to stow the money. Still, he hurries into a cab, afraid the smell of so many bank bills will attract every pickpocket in London, and asks to be taken to an address on Oxford Street.
Monneron has another letter with him that morning—a letter of introduction to John Webber, a painter who was the official artist on Cook's last voyage. Monneron would have preferred an introduction to officers who'd served with Cook, but according to the minister, most of the officers who aren't dead are at sea, and of the small number who are neither dead nor at sea, two live too far outside London and the others are too highly placed to approach without arousing suspicion. "What about Cook's naturalists?" Monsieur de Lapérouse had asked. "Can't we approach one of them?" No, the minister said. Solander was dead. The Forsters were both in Prussia. Only Sir Joseph Banks, the famous naturalist from the first Cook expedition, was still alive and in London, but he was now president of the Royal Society and close to both the Admiralty and the king. "Don't underestimate the usefulness of an artist as a source," the minister said. Monneron and Lapérouse had exchanged a glance, neither man convinced. What would a draughtsman know of antiscorbutics or appropriate items for exchange?
Excerpted from Landfalls by Naomi J Williams. Copyright © 2015 by Naomi J Williams. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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