The Lost Apothecary(38)

She shook her head. “Almost never. The wild, uncultivated earth provides most of what I need, and she disguises well her poisons. You have seen a belladonna bloom, yes? It opens like a cocoon. It seduces, almost. It may seem rare and unusual, but the truth is that this sort of thing may be found everywhere. The earth knows the secret to disguise, and many would not believe that the low fields they tend, or the trellis vines under which they kiss, hold poison within their stems. One only need know where to look.”

I glanced at the hay bales against which we sat, wondering if Nella had some trick, possibly, to extract poison from something as innocent as dried grass. “Did you learn all this from books?” In her shop, I had seen the stacks of dozens of books, some appearing worn and well used, and I began now to feel foolish for broaching the idea of a short apprenticeship. It must have taken her years to learn everything she knew.

Nella took a bite of cheese, chewing slowly. “No. My mother.”

Her words were sharp and uninviting, but this only served to pique my curiosity. “Your mother who did not have the wall or poisons.”

“That’s right. As I’ve said, a woman does not need to hide behind a wall if she has no secrets and does no wrong.”

I thought of my mistress and myself, sitting in the drawing room behind a closed door, pretending to write letters, while Mr. Amwell suffered upstairs.

“My mother was a good woman,” Nella added, letting out a shaky breath. “She did not dispense a single poison in her lifetime. You may have noticed it while looking through the older entries in my book tonight. The older remedies are helpful, curative. All of them.”

I sat up straighter, wondering if Nella might finally share her story with me. Bravely, I ventured the question. “If she did not dispense poisons, how did she teach you about them?”

Nella looked hard at me. “Many good remedies are poisonous in great quantities or when prepared a certain way. She taught me these quantities and preparations for my own safety, and for the safety of our patrons. Besides, just because my mother did not use poisons against anyone does not mean she did not know how.” She nestled farther into the hay bale. “I suppose this made her even more admirable. Like a dog with a mouthful of sharp teeth who never once attacks, my mother’s knowledge was a weapon she never once used.”

“But you—” The words tumbled out of me, and I snapped my mouth shut before I finished. It was clear that Nella had decided to use her own knowledge as a weapon. Why?

“Yes, me.” She folded her hands in her lap and met my gaze directly. “Eliza, let me ask you something. When you set the plate in front of Mr. Amwell—the one with the larger eggs, which you knew would kill him that very day—what did you feel inside?”

I thought carefully, remembering that morning as though it had happened only moments ago: his hot gaze as I stepped into the dining room; my mistress’s soft eyes, in quiet alliance with me; and the sensation of oily fingers trailing up the back of my knee and along the skin of my thigh. I thought, too, of the day Mr. Amwell, my once-trusted master, gave me the brandy while my mistress was at the winter gardens—and what might have happened if the footman had not called for him to come downstairs.

“I felt like I was protecting myself,” I said. “Because he meant to do me harm.”

Nella nodded eagerly, as she might if she were leading me down a path in the forest, encouraging me to follow. “And what were you protecting yourself from?”

I swallowed, nervous to share the truth; I had never told Nella why Mrs. Amwell wanted to kill her husband, and why I helped her do it. But I was the first to ask the prying question, so I owed her my own story, too. “He had begun to touch me in ways that I did not like.”

Again, a slow nod. “Yes, but look deeper than that. His unwelcome touch, as much as it repulsed you... Why was it different than, say, a stranger on the street? I suspect you would not resort to murder if a stranger let his hand stray?”

“I do not trust most strangers on the street,” I said. “But I trusted Mr. Amwell. Until recently, he gave me no reason not to.” I paused, slowing my breath, and thought of Johanna. “I learned there are secrets in his house. Things he has destroyed, things he has kept hidden. I feared I was to be one of them.”

Satisfied, Nella leaned forward and patted my foot. “First, there was trust. Then, there was betrayal. You cannot have one without the other. You cannot be betrayed by someone you do not trust.” I nodded, and she leaned back again. “Eliza, what you have just described is the same heart-wrenching journey of every woman to whom I have sold a poison. And it is, indeed, the same path for me.”

She frowned as if thinking of a long-buried memory. “I did not set out to brew poisons. It is not as though I came from the womb a born killer. Something happened to me, long ago. I was in love once, you see. His name was Frederick.” She stopped suddenly, in spite of herself, and I thought she might cease her story. But she cleared her throat and went on. “I expected a proposal. He had promised it to me. Alas, he was a fantastic actor and liar, and I soon learned that I was not the only recipient of his affection.”

I gasped and placed my hand over my mouth. “How did you find out?” I asked, feeling privy to the scandal and secrets typically reserved for girls much older than myself.

“It is a sad story, Eliza,” she said. She nudged my foot with her own. “And you must listen very carefully to me. After we prepare the beetle powder together in the morning, I do not want to see you at my shop again. This is my work, my grief to bottle up and dispense.” Disappointment and enthrallment tugged equally at me, but I nodded so she would go on.