The Lost Apothecary(35)

But Nella had shown me her register, and I knew the entries consisted of names and dates and remedies. Worse than this, I knew that Mr. Amwell’s name, and my own, were listed within. Which meant that if Nella did not remake the powder and Lady Clarence sought revenge, I would be exposed.

All of us in the book, exposed.

I pointed my finger at her book. “You may find a way to avoid writing Miss Berkwell’s name in there, but what about me? What about the others written in those pages?”

Nella looked down at the book and frowned, like she had not even considered this idea. Like she did not really believe that Lady Clarence would make good on her threat. She slowly read the last few rows.

“I haven’t the strength,” she whispered at last. “I spent all of last night in the field gathering the beetles, and until sunrise I roasted and ground them. When she comes back, I’ll tell her such. I’ll show her the swelling underneath my gown, the places I am unwell, if she insists on seeing them. I could not remake the powder, even if I wished to do so.”

An opportunity now stood before me, if I could be smart about it. My fears about Mr. Amwell’s spirit had not lessened, and now I was burdened with yet another misfortune: the bailiffs uncovering Nella’s shop and register.

I retrieved the empty mugs on the table and took them to the washbasin, rinsing them out. “I will do it, then. I will gather the beetles, if you tell me how, and I will roast and grind them.” After all, I was well accustomed to doing another person’s dishonorable work. Whether it meant writing lies in letters for Mrs. Amwell or crushing poisonous beetles for Nella, I was no tattle. I could be trusted.

Nella did not answer for some time, so I continued to rinse the mugs long after they were clean. Her nerves seemed to have quieted for the moment, though I could not tell if it was because she felt hopeful at my offer to assist her or because she had resigned to her fate.

“The field is across the river,” she said at last, leaning forward in her chair as though exhausted by the mere idea of returning. “It will be a long walk, but you cannot do it alone. I’ll gather the strength. We will go after the sun falls. The beetles are easier to catch at night, when they rest.” She coughed several times and wiped her hand on her skirts. “Until then, we may as well make use of our time. Earlier, you mentioned helping me with the labels on my vials.” She gave me a sidelong glance. “It’s not needed. I know them by heart, with a label or no.”

“What if they get mixed up? Put out of order?”

She pointed first at her nose, then her eyes. “Scent, then sight.” She motioned to the register at the center of the table. “But there’s something else. I’ll have you fix a few of the faded entries in my book. I’ve not the steadiness of hand to do it myself.”

I frowned, pulling the broad book toward me, wondering how the names and dates in the register could possibly be more important than the vials on her shelves. In fact, I’d expect the opposite; this book held the names of everyone who had purchased Nella’s poisons. It seemed to me the pages should be burned, not repaired.

“Why is it so important to fix the faded entries?” I asked.

Nella leaned forward and turned to a page riddled with entries from 1763. She ran her hand over the bottom left corner; at one time, a liquid had doused the parchment, leaving many of the entries unreadable. She pushed a quill and inkwell toward me. At her direction, I lifted the pen and began to copy the faint strokes in the book with fresh ink, tracing the remedies—sorrel, balsam, safflower—as carefully as I traced the names of the customers.

“For many of these women,” Nella whispered, “this may be the only place their names are recorded. The only place they will be remembered. It is a promise I made to my mother, to preserve the existence of these women whose names would otherwise be erased from history. The world is not kind to us... There are few places for a woman to leave an indelible mark.” I finished tracing an entry, moving on to the next one. “But this register preserves them—their names, their memories, their worth.”

It was a harder task than I imagined, this tracing and darkening. Copying words was not the same as writing words; it required me to move very slowly with the curves of someone else’s hand, and I did not feel as proud of my work as I’d hoped. Yet Nella did not seem to mind, and I let my shoulders relax, which made the task go quicker.

Nella turned to a more recent page of entries made just a few months ago. At some point, the pages must have stuck together, damaging several lines of text. I began to trace the first one, reading as I went. 7 Dec 1790, Mr. Bechem, black hellebore, 12 gr. on behalf of his sister, Ms. Allie Bechem.

I gasped, pointing at the word sister.

“I remember that one well,” Nella said as I darkened the letters. “Ms. Bechem’s brother was a greedy man. She discovered a letter—he meant to kill their father in a week’s time, to inherit a great estate.”

“She killed her brother, so he would not kill their father?”

“Precisely. You understand, Eliza, that no good comes of greed. Certainly, no good came of this... Ms. Bechem felt someone would end up dead. The question, then, was who.”

I traced Ms. Bechem’s first name, Allie, making long downward strokes. The quill moved easily over the rough parchment, as though the pen itself knew the importance of this effort, the importance of preserving Ms. Allie Bechem’s name and what she’d done.