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"Ah, but 'e knows of you, Monsieur Adams," Monneron says, exaggerating his accent.
The combination of flattery and Frenchness prevails, and Adams is persuaded to part with two azimuth compasses. They're beautiful in their simplicity, each hand-painted compass face with its durable steel needle seated in a glass-covered brass housing suspended from an outer brass ring, which in turn is affixed to a wooden box, all of it designed to withstand the motions at sea. Unfortunately, Mr. Adams has no dipping needles—used to adjust compass readings, essential on a long voyage into unknown parts. Monsieur de Lapérouse has especially requested them—two, in fact, one for each of the expedition's ships.
"I've had no orders for them in nearly a year," Adams says, peering at Monneron with renewed suspicion.
"Do you know anyone else who—?"
"No," Adams says, apparently not given to recommending his competitors even when he cannot meet a customer's needs himself.
The other instrument makers Monneron meets that afternoon are friendlier and less inquisitive. Not far from Adams, in their workshop behind the Sign of the Orrery, he meets the elfin Troughton brothers, who cheerfully sell him a sextant and a pantograph for the expedition's cartographers. At Nairne and Blunt's in Cornhill, he buys two of the most beautiful and expensive barometers he's ever seen; they will please the expedition's savants. Next door he finds hourglasses and magnetic bars. And at the famed Ramsden's in Piccadilly, he leaves behind what feels like a king's ransom and walks out with the promised delivery of two theodolites, two night telescopes, four thermometers, one large sextant, one small one, and four handheld compasses suitable for land exploration. But alas, no dipping needles. "You'll want to see Mr. Adams for that," they all say.
It's seven o'clock before Monneron returns, exhausted, cold, and hungry, to Mrs. Towe's. The fire has gone out in his room, and supper consists of watery boiled partridge and buttered potatoes so cold the butter has recongealed. But he makes his own fire and shrugs his way through the meal. He's eaten much worse in far greater discomfort. And he has every reason to be satisfied with his first day in London: he's made contact with a knowledgeable and forthcoming member of the Cook expedition and procured nearly everything on Monsieur de Lapérouse's list. There's even satisfaction in the knowledge that he's reduced the crown's coffers, in one day, by more than three thousand louis. He's understood all along that the expedition will be unlike any other that France has undertaken, its scientific mission paramount, no reasonable expense to be spared. Today he's done his part to make it so.
He tosses a cold, butter-coated potato into the fire to watch it hiss and burn. If he could only find some dipping needles, he thinks, then throws in another potato.
A Treatise on the Scurvy
In the morning, the breakfast tray surprises by including a note from Sir Joseph Banks, the naturalist the minister said was too close to Admiralty and king to approach. It's a breathless, unpunctuated missive written in a hand more sure than legible:
Sir
having just learned of your presence in London to assist Don Inigo Alvarez in preparations for his upcoming voyage I take the liberty of proffering my assistance as Don Inigo and I are acquainted he having as you are no doubt aware a great interest in natural history and was once good enough to send me two Blepharopsis mendica for my collection
would be honored if you would call at 11 o'clock for conversation of mutual interest and benefit
JB
Monneron stares for several minutes together at the letter. He cannot decide which is stranger—that Banks knows of him at all, or that he claims acquaintance with the fictional Don Inigo. Banks must know on whose behalf Monneron is really here. But how? Adams, Monneron thinks, remembering the young instrument maker's disdainful, persistent curiosity. It must be. But what does Banks want? Does he mean to expose Monneron and embarrass the French government? And what is a Blepharopsis mendica?
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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