The Lost Apothecary(30)

There was a long pause as the lady considered this, and the only noise came from the clock ticking by the door and the snapping of the fire. I remained still, my previous unease of the woman’s visit returning with a vengeance. She mindlessly touched the thin wedding band adorning her hand, her gaze locked on the low flame behind me, fire dancing in her eyes.

She lifted her chin. “I cannot kill him. I cannot have a child if I kill him.”

At once, I feared I had not properly explained the danger of the powder. My voice began to shake. “I assure you, this is a deadly poison. You cannot safely administer a nonfatal amount—”

She raised her hand to stop me. “You misunderstand me. I do, indeed, seek a deadly poison. I only mean to say, it is not him I want to kill. It is her.”

Her. I flinched at this final word; there was nothing more I needed to know.

It was not the first request of its kind. Over the preceding two decades, I had been asked several times to dispense a poison that would be administered to another woman, but I had refused these customers without question. No matter the underlying betrayal, no woman would suffer at my hands. My mother founded the apothecary shop at 3 Back Alley to heal and nurture women, and I would preserve this until the day I died.

It was possible, of course, that some of my customers told me lies—that they kept their true intentions from me and meant to slip my tinctures to sisters or courtesans. And how could I stop them? It would have been impossible. But as far as I knew, my poisons had never been used against a woman. Never. And so long as I lived, I would not knowingly agree to it.

I considered how I might say this now—how I might tell this woman no—but her eyes were dark and I felt sure she sensed my desire to refuse her. She seized the moment of silence, my weakness, like I was a rabbit and she a fox. She squared her shoulders toward me. “You do not seem pleased by this.”

I had regained some of my senses, and words no longer resisted. “I appreciate your efforts in seeking me out, but I cannot agree to this. I cannot send you away with this powder, if you mean to kill a woman. This shop is meant to help and heal women, not harm them. That remains the cornerstone. I won’t dislodge it.”

“And yet you’re a murderer,” she accused. “How can you talk about helping and healing anything, man or woman?” She glanced at the open jar of beetle powder. “Do you even care to know who she is, this insect? She is his mistress, his whore—”

The woman continued to explain, but her words deteriorated into a faint hum as I blinked slowly, the room growing dark around me. An old, shameful memory closed in: I had been a mistress once, too, though I hadn’t known it at the time. An insect, a whore, according to this woman. I was the secret kept in the shadows—not someone to be loved, but a form of amusement. And no matter how I adored him, I would never forget the moment that I learned of Frederick’s masquerade—his web of lies. It was a bitter thing to swallow, the realization that I’d been little more than an empty vessel for Frederick’s lust.

If only this had been the worst of his transgressions. The worst of what he had done to me. Instinctively, I grazed my fingers across my belly.

This merciless woman was not worth another moment of my time; I would not tell her about my story, about the coward who sowed the first seed of the tainted legacy that brought her to my door. As the room continued to whirl about me, her chatter finally ceased. My unsteady hands sought the flat, hard safety of the table.

Unsure of how many seconds or minutes went by, I eventually became aware of Eliza shaking me by the shoulders. “Nella,” she whispered, “Nella, are you well?”

My vision cleared and I saw the two of them, sitting across from me with troubled looks on their faces. Eliza, leaning forward to touch me, appeared concerned for my well-being. The woman, however, resembled a petulant child, fearful that she might not be given what she wanted.

Comforted by Eliza’s touch, I forced a small nod, shaking loose the memories. “I am well, yes,” I assured her. Then I turned to the lady. “It is my business only who I choose to help and who I choose to hurt. I will not sell you this powder.”

She looked at me in disbelief, her eyes narrow, as though it was the first time she had been told no. She let out a single barking laugh. “I am Lady Clarence of Carter Lane. My husband—” She paused, looking at the jar of beetle powder. “My husband is Lord Clarence.” She watched me closely, waiting for my surprised reaction, but I gave her no such satisfaction. “You cannot understand the urgency of this, clearly,” she continued. “As I said in my letter, we are to have a party tomorrow eve. Miss Berkwell, my husband’s cousin and mistress, will attend.” Lady Clarence tugged at the hem of her bodice, rubbing her lips together. “She’s in love with my husband, and he with her. It cannot continue. Month after month, I am sure that I am not with child because he has nothing left for me, having spent it all in her. I will take this powder,” she said, reaching into a pocket sewn into her skirts near her waist. “How much do you want, anyhow? I’ll give you twice what you want for it.”

I shook my head, caring little for her money. I would not have it, just like I would not have a woman—mistress or not—dead on my account. “No,” I said, standing from the chair and rooting my feet to the ground. “The answer is no. You may leave now.”

Lady Clarence stood from her own chair, our eyes level.