The Lost Apothecary(44)
17
Eliza
February 9, 1791
Just as Nella promised, the coaches began running again at daybreak. We took the first one back into London, empty except for us two ragged, dirty travelers and our filthy linen sacks full of beetles, many of which were still alive and nearing suffocation in their tightly tied bags.
Neither of us said much on the journey. For me, it was due to fatigue—I had hardly slept a minute—but Nella had slept well, I knew, for she’d snored loudly most of the night. Perhaps she remained quiet due to embarrassment at all she had revealed: her love for Frederick, the baby out of wedlock, the terrible loss of it. Was she ashamed she had shared too much with me, who she meant to send away and never see again?
The coach dropped us on Fleet Street, and we made our way to Nella’s shop along the mud-packed street, passing a bookseller, a printing press and a stay-maker. I read a window advertisement for a tooth extraction—three shillings, including a complimentary dram of whiskey. I cringed, averting my gaze to a pair of young women in pastel morning gowns floating past, their pale faces heavily rouged. I caught the edge of their conversation—something about the lacy fringe on a new pair of shoes—and noticed that one of the women held a shopping bag.
I glanced down at my own bag, full of crawling creatures. The importance of our impending task brewed terror inside of me. Purchasing the eggs for Mr. Amwell had not scared me like this; a watchman would not question a young girl with eggs. But now, a quick glance in our linen bags would reveal an odd sight indeed and would surely prompt questioning. I, for one, did not have an explanation prepared, and I resisted the urge to look behind me at the cobbled lane, lest someone followed on our heels. The likelihood of detection must have been a heavy burden; how did Nella carry the weight of it each day?
We continued to walk quickly, stepping around tied-up horses and scurrying chickens, and I had little else to do but fear imminent arrest as I forced my feet forward.
At last we arrived at the shop, and I had never in my life been so grateful for an alley empty of all but shadows and rats. We slipped into the storage room, made our way through the hidden door, and Nella immediately set a fire going. Lady Clarence was to arrive at half one, and we hadn’t a moment to waste.
The room warmed in minutes; I let out a sigh, grateful for the heat on my face. Nella removed turnips and apples and wine from her cupboard and placed them onto the table. “Eat,” she said. While I dug in hungrily, she continued to toil about the room, pulling out pestles and trays and buckets.
I ate so quickly that a terrible stomachache began to spread its way across my belly. I leaned forward, hoping to hide from Nella’s ears the rumbles and growls coming from within me, wondering for a moment if perhaps she had poisoned me. It would, after all, be a convenient way to get rid of me. Panic rose in my chest as the pressure inside grew, but the feeling released with a belch.
Nella threw her head back in laughter, the first time I had seen real cheer in her eyes since the moment we met. “Feel better?” she asked.
I nodded, stifling my own giggle. “What are you doing?” I asked, wiping a bit of apple from my lip. She had taken hold of one of the beetle bags and now shook it forcefully.
“Stunning them,” she said, “or at least those that are still alive. We’ll pour them into this bucket first, and it’s not easy reining them in if a hundred angry beetles try to crawl out at once.”
I grabbed the other bag, mimicking her actions, and shook it with all my might. I could hear the bounce and fall of the insects inside the bag, and in truth, I felt a bit sorry for them.
“Now pour them in here.” She slid the bucket toward me with her foot. I carefully untied the strings at the top of my bag, gritted my teeth and opened it. I had not yet had a clear look inside the bag, and I dreaded what I might find.
I estimated half the beetles to be dead already—they lay there like pebbles, but with eyes and tiny legs—and the other half showed little resistance as I poured them out, their greenish-black bodies tumbling into the tin bucket. Nella poured her bag in next, then lifted the bucket and walked it to the hearth, setting it onto the roasting rack over the fire.
“Now you roast them? It is as simple as that?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Not yet. The heat of the fire will kill the remainder of them, but we cannot roast in this bucket, or we will find ourselves serving up little more than beetle stew.”
I cocked my head, puzzled. “Stew?”
“Their bodies have water inside them, just like you and me. Now, Eliza, you have worked in a kitchen. What would happen if you set a dozen fish into a small pan over the fire? Would the fish on the bottom be crispy and flaky, as your master might have liked?”
I shook my head, finally understanding. “No, it would be soggy and wet.”
“And can you imagine trying to turn a soggy, wet fish into a powder?” At my grimace, she went on. “So it is with these beetles. They will steam if dumped in all at once. We will roast them on a much larger pan, only several at a time, to ensure they are crispy and dry.”
Several at a time, I thought to myself. And more than a hundred beetles? That may take as long, if not longer, than the actual harvesting of the silly things.
“And after they are crispy?”
“Then, one by one, we will grind them up with a pestle, until the powder is so fine, you would not know it from water.”