The Lost Apothecary(22)
Like Eliza’s letter, I knew immediately, by the steady curls and even loops of the ink, that the author was well mannered, literate. I drew to mind a woman of my own age: the mistress of her own household, the wife of a merchant. I imagined a warm and loyal friend, but not a socialite, one who fancied pleasure gardens and the theaters, but not in the way of a courtesan. I imagined a full bosom, broad hips. A mother.
But as I set aside my own imagination and proceeded to read the words carefully penned onto the paper, my tongue grew dry. The note was very curious. As though the author were hesitant to state what she wanted and preferred instead subtle intimation. I let the note fall onto the table. I lifted the candle above the parchment and read it yet again:
The footman found them together, in the gatehouse.
We’ve a gathering in two days, and she will be in attendance. Perchance you’ve something to incite lust? I will come to your shop, tomorrow at ten.
Oh, to die in the arms of a lover as I lie alone, waiting, the corridors silent.
I dissected each verse like the entrails of a rat, looking for some clue buried deep within. The woman’s household entailed a footman and a gatehouse, so I presumed her well-off. This concerned me, for I had no interest in meddling in the motives of the wealthy, who I had found over the years to be unpredictable and unstable. And the woman wanted something to incite lust, so that he—presumably her husband—might die in the arms of his lover—presumably his mistress. The arrangement struck me as a bit perverted, and the letter did not sit well with me.
And the preparation must be ready in two days. It was hardly enough time.
But Eliza’s letter had not settled well with me, either, and all had turned out perfectly well. I felt sure that my unease about this letter, too, could be explained by my ailing body and my weary spirit. Perhaps every letter, from this point forward, would raise alarm. I might as well grow used to it, just as I’d grown used to the absence of light inside my shop.
Besides, this woman’s letter implied betrayal, and betrayal was why I began to dispense poisons in the first place—why I began to carry the secrets of these women, to record them in my register, to protect and aid them. The best apothecary was one who knows intimately the despair felt by her patient, whether in body or heart. And though I could not relate to this woman’s place in society—for there were no gatehouses or footmen to be seen in Back Alley—I knew, firsthand, her inner turmoil. Heartache is shared by all, and favors no rank.
So, in spite of myself, I readied my things to leave for the day. I threw on my heaviest coat and packed an extra pair of socks. Although the fields where I meant to go were damp and uninviting, it was the place I would find the blister beetles—the remedy most suited to this woman’s peculiar request.
I made my way quickly, expertly, through the winding alleys of my city, avoiding the sedan chairs and horse dung, pushing against the oppressive mass of bodies moving in and out of shops and homes on my way to the fields near Walworth, in Southwark, where I would find the beetles. I paid visits to the river often and could walk to Blackfriars Bridge with my eyes closed, but on this day the loose stones underfoot posed a hazard. I watched my step, avoiding such nuisances as a mongrel gnawing on something dead, and a half-wrapped parcel of smelly, fly-covered fish.
As I rushed down Water Street, the open river just ahead, women on either side of me brushed the debris and filth from their doorsteps, forming a cloud of ash and dust. I let out a little cough and was seized, all at once, with a hacking fit. I doubled over, placing my hands on my knees.
No one paid me any attention, thank God; the last thing I needed were questions of my destination, my name. No, everyone else was too busy minding their own chores, merchandise and children.
My lungs continued to suck in air until at last I felt the heat in my throat subsiding. I wiped the moisture from my lips, horrified by the plug of greenish mucus that came away on my palm, like I had just plunged my hand into the river and come away with a slither of algae attached to my skin. I flung the mucus onto the ground, stomped it into nothingness with my shoe and straightened my shoulders, moving ahead to the river.
Coming to the steps at the base of Blackfriars Bridge, I noticed a man and woman approaching from across the road. His eyes were narrow and determined as he looked in my direction, and I prayed that he had recognized someone directly behind me. The woman next to him struggled under the weight of an infant slung to her bosom, and from my distance I could just make out the baby’s soft, egg-shaped head. A beautiful, cream-colored blanket was tucked neatly around the child.
I looked to the ground and quickened my pace, but as I reached the bottom step of the bridge, I felt a light hand on my shoulder.
“Miss?” I turned, and there they stood, the three of them in perfect formation: father, mother, child. “Are you quite well?” The man pushed his hat away from his face and pulled down the scarf wrapped around his neck.
“I—I am all right, yes,” I stammered. The handrail was like ice underneath my fingers, but I did not loosen my grip.
He sighed in relief. “My God, we saw you o’er there, coughing. You oughta get off this cold road and get in by a fire.” He looked up the staircase, where I was headed. “Not really thinking of crossing this bridge over to Southwark, are you? The exertion in this cold...”
I tried to keep my eyes off the dimpled, tightly swaddled infant. “It is no issue, I assure you.”