The Brazen Woman

by Anne Groß

  Copyright © 2018 by Anne Gross

  FIRST EDITION

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the publisher, except in cases of a reviewer quoting brief passages in a review.

  The Brazen Woman is a work of fiction. Places, incidents portrayed, and names, while at times based on historical figures, are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual locales, events, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available upon request

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  Beaufort Books

  27 West 20th Street, 11th Floor

  New York, NY 10011

  Published in the United States by Beaufort Books

  www.beaufortbooks.com

  Distributed by Midpoint Trade Books

  www.midpointtrade.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  Gross, Anne

  The Brazen Woman

  ISBN: 9780825307683

  Design by Michael Short

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  ITHE BEST SAUCISSON IN PARIS

  IISINK OR SWIM

  IIIADELAIDE IS HUNGRY

  IVTHOMAS NEEDS A TOKE

  VON YOUR MARKS

  VIPUKING

  VIIENGLISH LESSONS

  VIIIBROADSIDES

  IXWATCH OUT FOR VAPORS

  X A MAN’S A MAN

  XIPEOPLE CAN’T FLY

  XIIENDLESS PILES OF LAUNDRY

  XIIICALÓ FLAMENCO

  XIVTHE ARMY MARCHES

  XVROLIÇA

  XVIHIDING IN THE BUSHES

  XVIITHE NEW MOON

  THE BEST SAUCISSON IN PARIS

  Adelaide Lenormand winced at the mangled vowels of her native French that came from the older English woman’s mouth. It was impossible to look Mrs. Southill in the eyes as she spoke, since her lips worked in curious contortions around the words—extending from the toothless gums, puckering and wrinkling under the nose, and spreading her mouth wide at the corners. Again, Adelaide wished she’d had the foresight to learn English. It would be much more tolerable for her to speak English than to have to listen to the destruction of the delicate tones of her own language.

  It was nearly one full week since she’d set out to retrieve the golem from the Quiet Woman, a public house in one of the seedier corners of London. If all had gone as planned, she and the golem would, just now, be stepping over the threshold of her beloved home in Paris, the emerald scarab would be in the Emperor Napoleon’s hands, and all would have been set to rights. Alas, nothing happened as anticipated, despite having consulted the cards and studied the stars. There is no accounting for the whims of the young no matter what the spread of the cards tells you, and the golem was young, not quite three months old, manifested by Adelaide’s own conjuring.

  A pang of worry overtook her as she thought of the golem all alone in the world, confused and likely terrified. The young should be sheltered and directed, not left to their own devices. And yet, the golem had not exhibited any signs of youthful innocence upon entering the world to stand as Napoleon’s metaphysical assistant in all matters. On the contrary, the first thing it had done was steal the emperor’s emerald and disappear in a cloud of profanity.

  No one but a mother would understand the pain of discovering the squandered talents of a promising child. Adelaide had been languishing in a women’s prison in Paris when she’d learned that the creature was emptying chamber pots and sweeping floors in a pub, and the agony of this information had compelled her to break free and travel to London.

  But instead of finding her progeny, it was her former mentor, Dodeauvie, whom she found waiting for her in the Quiet Woman’s dining hall. She and Dodo had only time for one single dinner—a meal of questionable quality, it should be mentioned—before they were attacked.

  For Adelaide, the bruises she’d received from the filthy ruffians in the pub were few: a black eye from the back of a hand, a ring of blue and green around her upper arm where someone had twisted it, a deep violet and yellow spot on her hip from a swift kick. All of these marks were slowly fading away. But Dodeauvie, poor Dodo, had been beaten unmercifully. He wasn’t recovering as she’d like. Something was wrong, and she hoped Mrs. Southill would be able to help. The old woman might even be able to direct her to the golem, if only Adelaide could understand the woman’s brutally masticated French.

  Yes, the French word for "time" had a “p” on the end of it, but that didn’t give one the right to pronounce it. Having to hear Mrs. Southill’s dreadful hissing with every plural noun made her stop listening altogether. “Pardon?” asked Adelaide.

  “What?”

  “What did you say?”

  “When?”

  “Never mind.”

  Mrs. Southill gave Adelaide an exasperated look and waddled away to a small campfire to give her steaming cauldron, hung on an iron tripod, a quick stir. The smell from whatever was inside the brew combined with the smell of the suspiciously smoking fire. Adelaide tried not to breathe it in as the fumes swirled around the forest clearing that served as Mrs. Southill’s yard. London’s fetid vapors filtered in through thickly interlaced branches, weakening the sunlight. The old woman had enchanted the forest to keep out the population spread of London, but whatever magic was strengthening the trees could not keep out the stench of the nearby city. To compensate, a low wall of stones encircling the clearing constricted like an overly protective embrace. The entire effect made Adelaide nervous. Sweat beaded between her breasts and dampened the divination cards she kept under her corset.

  She imagined Mrs. Southill spending all her time picking tree bark off sticks, gathering grubs, frogs, and shriveled mushrooms. What an existence. What a travesty. She wished she hadn’t needed to pay the woman a visit. “I trust you’ve been well?” Adelaide politely called across the clearing. Mrs. Southill grunted in response, like the toad she resembled.

  Adelaide tried again. “Have you had any news from la Société?”

  “Non. Pas de nouvelles.” No news. This time Adelaide didn’t have to see the woman’s mouth to visualize her long tongue distastefully rolling over the double “ell”s. The “ess” sound slid into the steam as Mrs. Southill leaned over her cauldron.

  Every topic of conversation Adelaide could think of that was polite and neutral had been broached, although with Mrs. Southill, the list wasn’t long. After enquiring about the health of mutual acquaintances and mentioning the beautiful weather (at which point the old woman looked sardonically at a particularly grim cloud that curled like a veil into the clearing), Adelaide was left with nothing more to talk about. She followed Mrs. Southill as she went about her business of sweeping the hard-packed earth in front of her hovel, gathering herbs into small bundles to hang to dry, and stirring whatever monstrous concoction that was bubbling. For an old crone, the woman moved fast, and Adelaide had to walk lively to keep up. Her prattle took on a breathless quality, as a result, that sounded annoying even to herself. “Please forgive my intrusion. I can see that you’re very busy arranging those rodent bones, so I’ll get straight to my point.”

  “The sooner the better,” said Mrs. Southill as she carefully placed hunks of quartz in the eye sockets of three rat skulls. She then snatched at the air, slowly opened her hand, and shook her head in disappointment.

  “It’s about Dodeauvie, you see. Do you remember my old mentor? He’s been hurt.” Adelaide pictured Dodo lying broken in his room back at the Dancing Bear, and took a bracing breath. She was here for him. S
he would see this through. “I’ve reason to believe he may have suffered internal damage. I’m not sure he can survive much longer if you do not help me.”

  “I cannot help him if I cannot see him, and I won’t see him if he doesn’t come to me. And if he’s too weak to walk, he’s too weak to be helped. So, my advice is to say your goodbyes.”

  “Have you any woundwort? Perhaps a little valerian root and willow bark?”

  “It’s all right there! Go get it yourself.” Mrs. Southill gestured towards the forest. “You didn’t have to come all the way here for your poor mentor. Those plants are common enough anywhere along the Thames. Or is it that you do not deign to pick weeds by the roadside, so you leave it to someone like me?”

  “You know as well as I that one must prepare the herbs before applying them. I’ve no time and none of the equipment to prepare them. You must have tinctures, salves. I’m afraid I cannot pay, but—”

  “La Société was wrong to raise you in its ranks,” Mrs. Southill scoffed. “You have gifts, that is true, but wisdom is not one of them.”

  “Do not talk to me of la Société. You have all underestimated me. Worse. La Société has abandoned me.” Adelaide tried not to glare as the tiny, bent woman smiled derisively. “I’ve begged for their help, but they remain silent. Now I no longer care. I no longer need them. I did their dirty work and they do nothing but sit back and watch. You know, not just anyone can call forth a golem,” she said haughtily. “They would do well to show more appreciation.”

  The old woman’s smile grew broader. “Appreciation? You do not feel la Société has enough regard for your skills?” She moved to a rickety trestle table, grunting again and clutching her wide hip as she bent to sit. The campfire flared up and her stirring stick, of its own accord, rolled around the lip of the iron cauldron before sliding deeper inside, out of view. “Come,” she said, “come and sit with me. Let me show you the extent of my regard.”

  Adelaide sat, but didn’t take her eyes from the woman’s hands—hands that could easily stir up trouble. “Now,” Mrs. Southill said, pushing aside a large basket of acorns waiting to be hulled, “tell me: why do you think la Société doesn’t wish your continued success?”

  “Is it not obvious? They’ve withdrawn their support. I’ve not heard a single thing from them since the conjuring.”

  “The conjuring? What conjuring?”

  “The golem!” Adelaide said, her annoyance increasing.

  “Oh yes. That.”

  Adelaide bristled. “Yes, that. That! It is no small feat to bring forth such a creature. My entire life has been a preparation for such an accomplishment. And you, you have the gall to dismiss this? To wave your hand in the air as though it was nothing? What have you ever done but collect weeds?”

  Mrs. Southill suddenly clapped her hands in the air. “What do you think I’ve caught?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Caught? I have no idea. A fly?” Adelaide felt the skin under her left eye twitch. She hadn’t the time for games.

  Slowly Mrs. Southill opened her hands. “No. There’s nothing. I just don’t understand why it can’t be caught,” she mused sadly.

  “What was it you were hoping for?”

  “I was hoping to catch light.”

  “Light?” Adelaide put up her hand to stop the old woman before she could explain. “Please, Madame. Have you what I’ve asked for? I would like to return to Dodeauvie before nightfall. He is in great need.”

  “What was it he needed? I’ve already forgotten.”

  “Woundwort, and willow bark,” Adelaide said coldly, “and valerian, if you have it.”

  “Right. Herbs then. From a collector of weeds.” The woman’s eyes narrowed, but the smile remained on her face. She made no move to retrieve the tinctures Adelaide asked for.

  “Please, Madame.” Adelaide sighed.

  “Please what?”

  “The herbs.”

  “I’ve told you already, they’re just there in the forest. You are welcome to them, as is everyone in England.” Mrs. Southill leaned towards Adelaide, her stooped shoulders straightened intimidatingly. “Or is it that you value my knowledge far more than you are willing to admit? You’re hoping I might suggest a cure, are you not? Oh, I like that: call me a weed collector one minute, then hold your hand out for a gift the next.” Mrs. Southill took Adelaide’s hands into her own. Her skin was cool and roughened from years of plucking the tough stems of English country flowers. “The very fact that you denigrate my skills says much about the company you keep. You’ve traded your womanhood for a power of a different sort—one that doesn’t suit you very well. Dodeauville, Zenours, these men gave you nothing but the tools to manipulate others. Remember your roots. Take up your creative handiwork again. You used to make such beautiful lace. That is where your power lies.”

  “Lace?” Adelaide drew her shoulders back and sat up tall on the uncomfortable wooden bench, pulling her hands out of Mrs. Southill’s grip. “You must be joking. My power, my knowledge goes beyond embroidering lace violets or assembling a bouquet garni for the soup. How can you ask me to return to lacemaking? It’s absurd.”

  “If you say so,” sighed the crone. She pushed herself up off the bench and winced when her joints audibly popped back into alignment.

  “The golem was here, as your guest. You said so yourself in your letter. Please explain to me why you didn’t capture the golem while you had the chance?”

  “That was not the plan. Miss Elsie Duboysie was doing quite well where she was.”

  “Whose plan?”

  “Whose do you think?”

  “La Société? Then why was I not told?” Adelaide exploded.

  Mrs. Southill smiled sympathetically and changed the subject. “I have no cures for those who may be slowly bleeding to death on the inside. Perhaps the woundwort will help. I’ll get it for you, but only if you’ll have a cup of tea with me. It is not every day that I see an esteemed member of la Société in the flesh.” She shuffled back to the little campfire and ladled the contents of the iron cauldron into two pewter mugs. “I’m dreadfully sorry,” she said, returning to the table. “I’ve no sugar to sweeten the brew.”

  Despite the warm weather, Adelaide wrapped both her hands around her mug, which she recognized as a mug from the Quiet Woman. The steam smelled pleasantly spiced yet she peered into the swirling liquid with suspicion. In her letter, Mrs. Southill had mentioned that the golem had been brought to her by a dangerous young man. Could it be that the shriveled Mrs. Southill was friendly with the same barman who had so unmercifully attacked Dodo? She must patronize the pub if she kept the mugs, Adelaide reasoned. She stole a glance at the crone and saw that the silly woman was enraptured by her own brew, licking the corners of her wide mouth. No, it seemed unlikely that the man with the blue wolf-eyes and terrifying scars would align himself with such a toad.

  The scented steam that rose made Adelaide think of grain mash in ale and the sour flavor of yeast, of root cellars, and the black loam of a freshly tilled field. Hints of anise and lavender caused her to sigh and sink her shoulders. The pain of the difficult summer began to melt away with the aromatic odor. “Thank you,” she said for the first time since entering Mrs. Southill’s clearing.

  They sat in silence while they sipped the brew. Adelaide had to admit, tea was one thing she could appreciate about the English. It wasn’t bracing, like coffee. It was cleansing. She closed her eyes and began to feel her anxieties melt away. As the hot brew cooled, the sensitive areas of her tongue, behind her molars and down the length of her throat, long unused to that particular herbal tang, were suddenly aroused. Adelaide looked up in surprise as her ears warmed and her eyesight narrowed. “Valerian? So you do have valerian root?”

  “Of course I do. I added only a little to your tea. You seem so anxious.”

  “And wormwood? Did you put wormwood in my tea?”

  “A little more,” she smiled devilishly. “It’s a mere weed collector’s concoction. Ther
e’s no need for alarm.” She fixed Adelaide with her gaze, and her pruned gray eyes began to grow larger while her irises grew wider and blacker. Slowly, the crone’s orbs merged into one great eye which loomed over her greasy nose. Adelaide, knowing what was about to come next, consciously slowed her breathing, in through her nose, out through pursed lips, feeling the air as it entered and exited, attempting to control the visions. Valerian, wormwood, and, quite likely, ergot—she didn’t have time for this, she thought irritably.

  “Don’t fight it; enjoy it,” Mrs. Southill said. Her one eye blinked. “Come now, when was the last time you’ve danced with the stars?”

  It had been a long time, thought Adelaide. In the days before the Revolution in the small French town of Alençon where she’d been apprenticed to a milliner, everything had been different. The world had been simpler. In the evenings when the town quieted after dinner and curtains were drawn, the women gathered, daughters and mothers, sisters all, would set aside their needlework to brew the tea. She thought wistfully of her old friends. They’d become her family when the convent school turned her out.

  She’d been forced to leave Alençon when the fever of the Revolution spread through town. Many of the artisans who made their living making and selling lace had been guillotined for their part in elevating the noble classes with the finery, and she herself had barely escaped the slaughter. Adelaide had left with nothing but the clothes on her back, and a letter of introduction tucked within the pages of her grimoire. In Paris, she’d offered the letter to Zenours with youthful confidence. It had been Zenours who had introduced her to Dodo, and all the other adepts in his circle of influence at his atelier. Zenours educated her, honed her skills, but he never believed in the power of a skillfully prepared herbal brew. He preferred to fill her head with books rather than fill her stomach with potions.

  “I find it is so much easier to slip sideways out of my old body with a little tea,” Mrs. Southill was saying with a faraway smile. “Let us go speak with the others, shall we? Take my hand.”

  “I won’t.”