The Lost Apothecary(29)
“Sit, my lady, please,” I said, motioning to the second chair.
She lowered herself delicately into it and let out a long, shaky breath. She removed a small hairpin from the back of her head, adjusted a dangle of curls and re-pinned them into place.
Eliza stepped forward with a mug in her hand, setting it carefully on the table before the woman. “Warm peppermint water, miss,” she said, curtsying.
I looked to Eliza, perplexed, wondering where she’d even found the spare mug, much less the crushed peppermint leaves. There was no chair for her, but I expected her to drop onto the floor or busy herself with the magick book I had given her.
“Thank you for the information in your letter,” I said to the woman.
She raised her brow. “I didn’t know how much to say. I took great lengths to protect myself in the event it was seized.”
Yet another reason I didn’t meddle with the rich: people always wanted what they have, their secrets most of all. “You said just enough, and I believe you will be pleased with the preparation.”
A loud screeching sound interrupted us, and I turned to see Eliza dragging a wooden box across the floor. She pushed the box up to the table, between the woman and myself, and folded her hands in her lap. “I’m Eliza,” she said to the woman. “We are so pleased to have you here.”
“Thank you,” the woman replied, her eyes softening as she took in the girl. “When I made my way over here today, I did not realize there would be two of you.” She looked to me expectantly. “Your daughter?”
Oh, how I wished my daughter were by my side. But then we would not have been doing this at all, dispensing poisons and hiding in shadows. I choked over my response. “She helps me on occasion,” I lied, unwilling to admit that Eliza had arrived without notice at the perfectly wrong time. There were only two chairs at the table for a reason, and I soon felt a cloud of regret in permitting Eliza to stay. I had spent a lifetime valuing discretion, and I saw clearly now the mistake in allowing her to intrude on the secrets exchanged between this woman and myself. “Eliza, perhaps you should take leave of us now.”
“No,” the woman said with the force of someone well accustomed to getting her way. “This peppermint tea is very good,” she continued, “and soon I’d like more. Besides, I find the presence of a child to be...comforting. I don’t have children of my own, you know, as badly as I want them and as much as we’ve—” She paused. “Oh, never mind that. How old are you, little Eliza? And where are you from?”
I could hardly believe it. This woman, surely an heiress to some great estate, shared something in common with me: we both desired the swelling of our bellies, the little kicks in our wombs. And yet, how lucky she was that her time had not yet passed. The skin around her eyes told me she could not be more than thirty years old. It was not too late for her.
“Twelve,” Eliza said softly. “And I’m from Swindon.”
The woman nodded approvingly while I, desperate to conclude the appointment, walked to one of my shelves and withdrew a small sheep horn jar. I motioned for Eliza to help me, and then I directed her to carefully spoon the beetle powder from the bowl on the table into the jar. As I had hoped, her hand was steadier than mine.
Once we finished, I set the uncovered jar before the woman for her to inspect. Inside, a lustrous green powder shimmered back at her, so fine it could run between her fingers like water. “Cantharides,” I whispered.
Her eyes widened. “It is safe to be this close?” she asked. She scooted forward in her chair, her enormous skirts rustling around her legs.
“Yes, so long as you don’t touch it.”
Eliza leaned forward to peek into the jar while the woman nodded, her brows still lifted in surprise. “I have heard of it only once. Something about its use in the Parisian brothels...” She tilted the bowl slightly toward her. “How long did this take?”
The memory of crossing the River Thames—my coughing fit, the woman feeding her baby, Beatrice—seized me at once. “All night and into this morning,” I breathed. “It requires more than just harvesting the beetles. They must be roasted over the fire and ground.” I pointed to the mortar bowl and pestle across the small room; the bowl was as wide across as the woman’s bodice. “I ground them up in that basin over there.”
The lady, whose name I still did not know, lifted the jar of powder and shifted it in the light. “Do I simply drop the powder into a bit of food or drink? Is it really so simple?”
I crossed my ankles and leaned back in my chair. “You asked for something to incite lust. Cantharides are meant, foremost, to arouse. Blood will rush into the loins, and overtake—” I paused, aware that Eliza continued to listen closely. I turned to her. “This is not for your ears. Might you consider stepping into the storage room?”
But the woman placed her hand over mine and shook her head. “It is my powder, is it not? Go on. Let the girl learn.”
Sighing, I continued, “The swelling of the groin is insatiable. This arousal will continue for some time, then will be accompanied by abdominal pain and mouth blisters. I suggest you brew something dark—a molasses liqueur, perhaps—and drop in the powder, then give it a good stir.” I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. “A quarter of the jar, and he will not survive the night. Half of it, and he will not survive the hour.”