The socrates, p.1
The Socrates, page 1
The
Socrates
Mary E Jung
Books by Mary E Jung
The Etrucian Royals Series
Queen of Light and Ashes
The Libra Witch Series
Blossom and Bone
Other Works
The Socrates
Anthologies
Sanctuary
For the Love of Gettysburg
Copyright © Mary E Jung, 2022
Cover Design by Victoria Miller
Formatting by Beth Martin
All right reserved. All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher are illegal and punishable by law. This includes electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, information storage, or retrieval system. Your Support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
For my sister,
a beautiful scientist
and defender of women.
Author’s Note
This is a work of fiction that I adapted from the time period of 1850 Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The world I built is not what actually happened but a fictional version of what could have happened. The facts used in this novel were placed to give the book a real feeling but were not meant to portray a factual historical novel. The man Peter Duval was a real printer from France who perfected chromolithography and was the president of the Philadelphia Lithograph Society. He was a real person, but as there is not much information on him (and a mystery around his wife), I felt he would make a great addition to my story. Please, do not mistake the story for his true character, as we do not know what that might have been. You can find information about him in the link that I used for my research. The QWERTY typewriter was invented in 1870. I wanted to get Briar’s Hermes invention as close to that device as possible. Mostly because we really don’t know if women invented a typing device, and it was never recorded. Or, if they didn’t invent anything similar, to show why that was probably the case. A lot of women were environmental scientists, but it is not to say that women did not contribute to the engineering industry. Robert and Briar are not real people, nor are their friends or the society I built. Society Hill and the famous Ritten House Square were the most influential neighborhoods. Who is to say there wasn’t drama among the rich even back in 1850? The weather, the city structure, and the environment were kept as close to factual history as possible. Thank you for reading, and any questions can be found in the sources I provided or can, in fact, be easily researched.
One.
April 12th, 1850
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
MORNING SMOG DRAPED OVER industrial Philadelphia as factory workers, mariners, and merchants gathered around Walnut Street Wharf. Fishermen readied their nets on small sailboats to later sell their catch on Market Street. Businessmen scurried into the counting house to tally their inventory and prepare for daily commerce. Briar Jones galloped down North Front Street on her chestnut Morgan mare, late for her appointment with Robert Socrates Abbott at his printing press. She had spent a good thirty minutes debating whether or not she should bring her invention or just the draft. In the end, it was more sensible to leave the device at home.
Briar halted her horse in front of the Socrates’ slate-gray gothic revival storefront at 33 Front and Chestnut streets along the Delaware River. Her destination reached, a small thrill bubbled up from her throat as she anticipated her meeting. Briar’s vision glistened in admiration as she dismounted Sunny and straightened her cotton black-and-white-checked gown. Gold letters scrolled across the signboard panel, heralding an elegant and sophisticated business. The Socrates’ name flaunted the magnitude of the architecture’s brilliance in the spotlight of the sun’s rays. Most publishing houses and bookshops were in the same building. Manuscripts were printed in the factory in the back, then sold to readers at the front of the store.
Briar hitched Sunny to a post and then drew her draftsman’s model from the saddlebag. She gave Sunny one last stroke across her neck before crossing the cobblestone sidewalk. She pulled open the shop door and swished across the threshold. A tiny bell tinkled as the door clicked shut. She untied her day bonnet, and her mahogany curls rustled as she rearranged her coif.
White bookshelves lined two walls containing variegated volumes edged in gold foil lettering. A sign pointed customers to a patchwork of tables displaying the newest and most popular books. The fragrance of crisp paper infused her nose, and with every inhalation, she vowed the taste of refined wood pulp brushed over her tongue.
Mr. Abbott’s bookshop catered to Philadelphian writers, including George Lippard, who wrote a shocking book called The Killers. The dynamic story exposed readers to a famous Philadelphian gang called the Killers and the troubles in the Myomessing neighborhood. Most of the residents in the Society Hill area did not like the book, because it also brought to light the troubles of the elite.
Robert also published writers like Elizabeth Harding and her non-fiction stories titled Railroads and other Travels in Philadelphia. Maps of the city were rolled in neat tubes at the front of the store for tourists, along with black-and-white lithographic postcards.
In the center of the room, an elderly woman managed a cash register. Briar watched her interact with a shopper while waiting to announce her meeting with Mr. Abbott. The matron calculated the price for a book and then cranked the lever on the side of the till to insert four silver coins. She closed the register drawer, wrapped the book in brown paper, and then strolled around the counter to speak with Briar.
“What brings you into the Socrates today?” The woman had a sweet tone that garnered instant charm and companionable reciprocation.
“I am Briar Jones. I’m here to meet with Mr. Abbott. He wrote to me yesterday and suggested I ask for him through the storefront when I arrived.”
“Oh yes, Miss Jones. Mr. Abbott left me a note regarding your appointment. One moment, please.” She headed for a green door in the back right corner of the shop.
Briar’s gaze was attracted to a poetry book on the stand near her elbow titled The Leaves of Springtime. She wasn’t enamored by most poetry, except Edgar Allen Poe’s prose. She enjoyed his devotion to love just as much as his ponderings on the dark and supernatural. Perhaps, a lady shouldn’t enjoy art that guided the mind through disturbing pathways, but Briar was not an ordinary socialite.
She turned around and ran her hand over a display case. Coveting a first-in-print signed edition of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, Briar almost forgot why she was in The Socrates. It was so easy to lose herself in the world of literature. The prospect of more books in her humble library at home thrilled her almost as much as having the private consultation with the great Robert Socrates Abbott.
The shamrock green door swung out, and the woman from the shop entered with Mr. Abbott. His sable hair was combed away from his forehead and tucked around his ears. Rectangular brows lifted over a steady gaze. One brow had a slightly crooked angle that made him appear inquisitive. His brown irises matched his smooth oiled hair and defined royale beard, giving his overall appearance a unified attractiveness.
He extended a hand in greeting. “Miss Jones. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
She let the delight of his introduction overspread her features and removed her hand when the appropriate social etiquette passed. “Mr. Abbott. I’m very pleased to meet you. Thank you for your time this morning.”
The lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. He clasped his hands behind his back and stated, “I am happy to speak with you today about your invention. I have an office we can adjourn to for our appointment.” He turned to the side and addressed the shopkeeper, “We’ll be in the back if you need us, Mrs. Scholtz.”
Mr. Abbott gestured with his arm outstretched and made a slight bow at his waist for Briar to proceed. She maneuvered her starched underskirts around a stack of new release books titled The Scarlet Letter. After a cursory glance, she marked the novel in her memory to purchase later.
The clacking of the printing presses dispensing manuscripts for covetous readers pricked at her hearing as she traveled past the shut rear door. To her right was an office with Mr. Abbott’s name painted in the same gold lettering that appeared on the signboard.
Mr. Abbott reached around her shoulder and twisted the knob of the oak door so she could enter. He followed her into the room as she listened to the sound of paper shifting off the printing presses on the other side of the wall. Mr. Abbott propped the door open with an iron doorstop in the shape of an owl. The semblance of propriety was met, and they settled to discuss Briar’s reason for seeking mechanical expertise.
It was a small space; two armchairs were positioned at a pinewood desk. Mr. Abbott took his seat in a high-backed chair. The mushroom cap arm ends indicated it was a Quaker design. Shaker furniture dominated the room, a testament to Mr. Abbott’s affinity for local culture and history. Paper stacks were organized in wooden crates upon his desk, and an ornate crystal inkwell caught her notice on top of a writing pad. Mounted on the wall behind Mr. Abbott was a framed certificate for the highest level of mechanical achievement. A Franklin Institute Silver Medal Award for his design in remodeling Hoe’s rotary printing press. Mr. Abbott also had patents framed, one for his redesign of Frick and Bowman’s steam engine, one for his rotary press engineered to specific modifications for the Socrates printing presses, and one for his redesign of
Those coveted papers struck Briar with deep impression.
A Connecticut wall clock chimed ten o’clock in the morning as Briar reclined into a chair. Mr. Abbott double-checked the clock’s time with his pocket watch. When satisfied the times matched, he returned the gold-embossed watch to the little sleeve inside his waistcoat.
After a pause, Mr. Abbott asked, “What can I do for you, Miss Jones? Your letter outlined a vague description of your device, but I can understand the need for secrecy in the inventing field.” He steepled his fingers and placed them on his lap.
“It is unfortunate, but a colleague tried to steal my plans in the beginning stages. I wanted to preserve my originality while seeking your advice. I hope you do not mind.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that occurred. You need not worry about my curiosity taking on any nefarious intentions.”
She studied his features, solemn and truthful, as if he’d provide any proof necessary to help ease her discomfiture. Briar knew Mr. Abbott by reputation around the Franklin Institute and gossiping engineers. His steady scrutiny intensified her belief he meant her no harm, and Briar responded with even measure. “I would not have called upon you if I believed you were that type of person. It is reassuring to hear such a declaration nonetheless.”
His lips twitched a bit, and he appeared agreeable to her summation of his character. “Having been on the receiving end of snatched dreams, I would never do the same to another person.”
“It is unpleasant indeed and has made me a bit feisty with a few members of the institute.”
“No need to worry about hurting my feelings. I took the letter in stride, and I’m amiable to help any young inventor who has a mind to seek my advice.”
“Excellent.” Briar set her bonnet aside and then passed Mr. Abbott her diagram. “I designed a device that allows an individual to type a manuscript or copy their handwritten pages. It’s intended to speed up the production of personal documents by dispensing with handwriting and sanding each page. It will be easier for compositors to read and editors to follow when writers submit for publication. I’m having difficulty designing the keyboard alphabet and figuring out how to make the lines on the page readable. The letters are all smashed together, and an alphabetical keyboard display is impractical when typing. I found I have to search for the letters instead of allowing my fingers to naturally fall as I type. It takes too much time. I was hoping you may be able to advise me on how to get out of this dilemma.”
Mr. Abbott accepted her draft and opened the leather covering to examine her design. He was a handsome and dignified man with an artistic mouth. The lower lip plumped out, while the upper portion remained thin. She had seen him from afar several months before at a Franklin Institute event, but up close, Briar felt immersed in his presence.
His gaze met hers over the edge of her draft model; his chin remained dipped to his chest. Surprise impressed his features as he stroked his royale beard before delivering his reflections. “This is remarkable, Miss Jones. I remember from the letter you mentioned you were a member of the Franklin Institute. The institute wouldn’t endorse this project?”
“It was more like they were too busy to glance at it and too dismissive when I tried to explain the technology. As I said before, the last person of interest tried to steal my work. I felt seeking an outside opinion might be a better resource.”
He regarded her a moment before returning her diagram and aligning his back against the chair. “I think you have a mind for tinkering. As for the keyboard, it may take trial and error to get the correct feel. There’s no easy answer to that. Eventually, the design clicks into place. The spacing could be fixed with a measurement at the end of each line with a separate lever.”
She drew back at his swift assessment of her model. It took Mr. Abbott minutes to discover a way around the spacing issue. Briar hadn’t expected him to come up with a solution that easily. Her pride was a bit bruised, and it showcased the differences in their mechanical expertise. Briar admired Mr. Abbott, but she had a mind to believe she understood typing technology best. Now, she was utterly embarrassed, and the gap in their experience and age became tangible. Her legs wiggled and the uncomfortable queasiness caused by her deflated ego bubbled inside her stomach.
It was one thing to gush over a celebrity but quite another matter when she was upstaged. She stared at Robert a moment, wondering if she overestimated herself. Briar spent most of her days proving her worth to the other inventors and instructors at the Franklin Institute. It was a constant struggle to be seen as more than a pretty face. Now, she wasn’t so sure their comments weren’t warranted.
“Is something the matter, Miss Jones?”
Briar had fallen silent for too long, the room filling with social awkwardness. She blinked past her ponderings and said, “No. I’m quite well. I was reevaluating my work.”
Mr. Abbott’s brows drew together in confusion. “The design is well made. I think you have the device well in hand. Minor adjustments are all you need to perfect it.”
“I’ve been toiling for months and couldn’t work out the spacing issue.”
Mr. Abbott’s features softened as if he understood her pitiful mood. “Ah, well, that particular concern comes up a lot in the printing field. It takes printers at least twenty years to be able to naturally glance at a device and know why the spacing is wrong and how to fix it.”
“I’ve got fifteen years to go then.” Her confidence shrunk with each remark, but she managed to find courage from Mr. Abbott’s compliment on her device.
He rubbed at the bottom of his stubbled chin and responded, “Don’t worry too much about how long it takes to acquire skills, just take each day at a time. Every mistake leads to a solution. Remember to always give yourself credit because it doesn’t matter what others believe. The invention is about how you and the machine connect to create something the world desperately needs.”
Her spirits rose again, inspired by his declaration. “Yes, and I absolutely delight in tinkering gears.”
“Me too,” Mr. Abbott smiled, and she felt as if the room illuminated from the gesture.
“I only wish I had a way to study the spacing lever and where it should be placed.”
Mr. Abbott leaned to the side and rested an elbow against the arm of the chair. “Your professors didn’t make any suggestions? Surely, there are people in the Franklin Institute who can guide you to improving your design.”
Briar set her draft on her lap, under her bonnet, and fidgeted with the flowers sewn into the blue ribbon. “You are also a member, so you must be aware it is not a true school. It is a place of knowledge and resources, but every member is dedicated to their research. The professors are there to guide us and provide experience in their field of expertise. However, they are not obligated to ensure our education. Most of my knowledge has come from books and lectures at the Franklin Institute. It might help to study a press in operation. I wonder if you would permit me to look at one of your printing presses?”
“I see no reason why I cannot extend my courtesy to your request. An operating machine cannot compare to the illustrations of a book. Imagination is only the beginning of production.”
“Thank you. I have been a member of the institute’s mechanical arts division for four years, but I became inspired after your guest lecture last year. Your words ‘invention is the soul of engineering and production is the heart that makes it beat’ burned through my discouragement. I wasn’t getting anywhere with actualizing what was on the paper until that moment.”
“I know that spark of invention well. I watched my father take his fishing rod apart and put it back together. As I stared at all the metallic pieces, I discovered my passion for gears and engineering. I was seven years old and determined to build my rod from scratch. You can’t imagine the tears that labor produced, but my father gave patient instructions. We all need a bit of encouragement to pursue our dreams.”
