by Sarah Penner
Oh, how I wished I could turn back the hours. And to think I was once merely useless to Nella. At present that seemed a dream; with my mistake, I might have doomed her and all of us within the pages of her book. I thought again of the many names I’d traced in the register a couple of days ago. I had darkened the ink strokes in order to preserve and protect the names of the women, to give them a place in history, just as Nella had explained. Now, I feared I hadn’t preserved and protected anything at all. Instead, my mistake with the canister might expose the countless women in the book. Might ruin them.
I considered any practical ways to repair my wrongdoing but could think of none. Only the reversal of time could fix this, but it seemed a daunting thing to ask, even of magick.
And yet, Nella had not sent me away. Did she mean to kill me? Force me to account for my mistake? The room in which we sat, not speaking to one another, was thick with her frustration. I aimed to be as quiet as possible so as not to further agitate her, and I shrank in shame near the fated cupboard, hunched over myself, only three things before me: the book of household magick from Tom Pepper, lying open in my lap; the book of midwives’ magick from Nella, set aside; and a candle that was nearly spent. I had not the heart to ask Nella for a new candle, and would be forced soon to put away the books and—what? Fall asleep with my head against the stone wall? Wait for Nella to issue her punishment?
I lifted the dying candle above the open page before me. In the dim light, the printed words of Tom Pepper’s magick book seemed to dance and move on the page, and it took great effort for me to focus on a single line of text. This frustrated me greatly; if there was ever a time to rely on magick, what with its ability to give breath to stillborn baby Tom, it was now. I needed to find a spell to fix it all, and it couldn’t happen a moment too soon. Whereas this afternoon I sought a potion to unburden me of a man’s spirit, now I wished to remove the burden I had unwittingly placed upon Nella and myself and many others: the threat of arrest, condemnation and perhaps even execution.
With my finger, I traced each sentence and continued to run through the list of spells within Tom’s book.
Oil of Transparency, vis-à-vis Playing Cards
Effervescence for Extended Spring Crop
Tincture to Reverse Bad Fortune
Amid the clamor of Nella hammering a nail into a wooden crate, my eyes widened. Tincture to Reverse Bad Fortune. Well, I could be sure that no good fortune had found me whatsoever in recent days. My hand began to shake, the flame of the candle with it, as I read the spell, which claimed to be more powerful than “any weapon, any court, any King.” I studied the required ingredients—venom and rosewater, crushed feather and fern root, among others—and I swallowed hard, growing feverish. They were strange things, yes, but Nella’s shop was full of strange things. And I already knew that two of them, the rosewater and fern root, were on her shelves.
But what about the others? There was no way to move about the shop unnoticed; how could I collect the ingredients I needed, much less prepare them as indicated in the book? I would need to reveal my plans to Nella, for there was no other way—
At once, there came another striking noise. I had believed it a moment ago to be Nella’s hammer, but now I saw she had set the hammer down. As understanding came over me, I nearly dropped my candle; someone was at the door.
Nella, toiling by the hearth, looked to the door, her manner calm. She gave no sense of fear, showed no nerves. Did she wish it to be the authorities? Perhaps an end to all of this would be a welcome relief. Meanwhile, I remained frozen in terror. If a constable had come to arrest Nella, what would become of me? Would Nella reveal what I had done to Mr. Amwell? I would never see my mother or my mistress again, never get the chance to tell Tom Pepper of the spell I meant to try...
Or what if the newcomer was something even worse? The thought of Mr. Amwell’s hollow eyes and the idea of his milky, hazy ghost seized me, clutched my very heart. Perhaps he grew tired of waiting and had returned for me at last. “Nella, wait—” I cried.
She ignored me. With no hesitation in her step, Nella approached the door and opened it. I tensed, setting Tom Pepper’s magick book aside, and leaned forward to better see around the door. There was only one person in the shadows. I sighed in relief, for surely a constable would not arrive without his partner.
The visitor, covered in loose black fabric, wore a hood over their face. Their shoes were caked in mud—the stench hit me instantly, horse urine and turned-over earth—and from where I sat across the room, the guest appeared little more than a shrouded, trembling shadow.
A pair of black-gloved hands extended forward. Held between them was a jar: the jar I had filled only yesterday with the deadly beetle powder. It took me a moment to fully comprehend what was happening before me. The jar! Nella’s death sentence was no more!
The visitor unwrapped the black fabric around their face, and I gasped in recognition. It was Lady Clarence. Oh, I had never been so relieved to see anyone in all my life.
Nella reached a hand to the wall to steady herself. “You have the jar,” she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper. “Oh, how I feared this would not be the case...” She leaned forward, her other hand on her chest, and I worried she might fall to her knees. I stood at once and moved toward her.
“I came as quickly as I could,” Lady Clarence told us. A hairpin hung loose against her neck, ready to dislodge at any moment. “You must understand the flurry of activity at the estate. I have never seen so many people in one place. It’s as if another dinner party is imminent, though a more somber one at that. And the questions they continue to ask! The attorneys, worst of all. The activity was too much for my lady’s maid—she left me. This morning, before dawn rose, off she went without a word. Told only the coachman that she had resigned and planned to leave the city. I suppose I cannot blame her, given recent events. She did play a part in the whole thing, putting the powder into Miss Berkwell’s glass. Though she has left me greatly inconvenienced.”
“Heavens,” Nella said, but in her voice I heard apathy; she did not care a whit about Lady Clarence’s lady’s maid or lack thereof. She reached for the jar, spun it round in her hands and let out a sigh. “This is the one, yes. This is the exact one. Oh, how you’ve saved me from ruin, Lady Clarence...”
“Yes, yes, well, I told you I would dispose of it, and returning it to you here has been quite a chore, but your look this afternoon gave me such a fright. All is well now, I trust, and I see little reason to stay even a second longer than necessary, as it is growing late and I’ve not had a moment for a proper cry.”
Nella offered her tea before she took leave, but Lady Clarence declined.
“One more thing,” she said, briefly glancing at me and then trailing her eyes across the tiny room, void of the luxuries with which she must have been well accustomed. “I am not entirely sure what arrangement you’ve given the girl, but in the event you’d consider it, please do keep in mind that I’m now seeking a new housemaid.” She motioned to me like I was a piece of furniture. “She’s younger than I’d prefer, but not unreasonably so, and she’s obedient enough, the type to keep her mouth closed, yes? I’d like to fill the vacancy by the end of the week. Please do let me know as soon as possible. As I said, I’m on Carter Lane.”
Nella stammered over her reply. “Th-thank you for letting me know,” she said. “Eliza and I will discuss this. Such a change may be a welcome idea.”
Lady Clarence nodded and made her way out, leaving Nella and me alone.
Nella set the jar on the table and sank into a chair, the necessity of her organizing and packing efforts now removed. I glanced to Tom’s magick book, still on the floor; the candle beside it had expired at last. “Well,” Nella began, “there is no immediate crisis now. You may stay here tonight on account of this fortunate event. In the morning, I do suggest you consider the idea of visiting Lady Clarence. It may
be a good post for you, should you remain fearful of the Amwell house.”
The Amwell house. The very words reminded me that not every curse upon me had vanished with the return of the jar. My error that had put Nella at risk might be gone, but that left me in the same spot I’d been earlier today. And I had no desire for a post with the Lady Clarence; I did not trust her and her manner was cold. I desired only to return to the service of my mistress. This meant returning to the Amwell house, so the importance of the Tincture to Reverse Bad Fortune still existed. Of the hundreds of spells I had read in the book, it was the only one that, with a bit of imagination, seemed able to vanquish Mr. Amwell’s lingering spirit.
Grateful for a place to lay my head, my heart now thumped in hopeful anticipation about the tincture. But if I intended to attempt the spell, then I must either tell Nella of my plans in the hope that she would permit me the use of her vials, or I must think of a way to gather the ingredients without her knowing—like Frederick did, so very long ago.
Yet even if I chose the first option, this exact moment did not seem the wisest; we were both tired, Nella so much so that her eyes were pink. For now, we both needed a few hours of sleep.
Tomorrow would come soon enough, and then I would find a way to try my hand at this thing they called magick. I tucked the book beneath my head and used it as a makeshift pillow. And as I fell asleep, I could not help but fall into an easy dream of the boy who’d given it to me.
23
Nella
February 11, 1791
If the poisons I dispensed, and the deaths they subsequently caused, were indeed rotting me from the inside out, then I felt sure the death of Lord Clarence hastened the decay. Was it possible the consequence upon me increased with the renown of the victim?
It was of only some significance that the Lady Clarence returned the damnable jar, for the immediate crisis of the gallows was averted, but the slow rotting within me did not cease. A thick, bloody trickle in my throat had plagued me the last day, and while I would have liked to blame it on the late nights in the beetle field, I feared something worse: that whatever plagued my bones and skull had moved into my lungs.
Oh, how I cursed the day that Lady Clarence dropped her rose-scented letter into the barley bin! And how maddening that none of my own concoctions could resolve this. I hadn’t the name of the disease, much less the remedy for it.
I could not sit in my shop another moment, turning to stone, and I needed a block of lard besides. And although I had not the heart to send Eliza away immediately after Lady Clarence’s visit, the next morning I had no choice. As I prepared to depart for the market, I told Eliza, once and for all, that it was time for her to leave.
She asked me how long I planned to be gone. “No more than an hour,” I said, and she begged me to let her rest another thirty minutes, claiming a deep ache in her head on account of yesterday’s anxieties. Admittedly, I suffered a bad headache myself, and so I gave her an oil of herb prunella to rub into her temples and told her she could rest her eyes just a few minutes more. We said goodbye, and she assured me she would be gone by the time I returned.
I gathered my tendrils of strength and made my way to Fleet Street. I kept my head down, fearing as always that someone might look into my eyes and discern the secrets I kept within, every murder as clear as the crystal glass from which Lord Clarence drank to his death. But no one paid me any mind. Along the avenue, a hawker woman offered lemon confections, and an artist sketched lighthearted caricatures. The sun began to peek out of a cloud, its heat wrapping around my tired, sore neck, and around me floated the safe, relaxed din of conversation. No one seemed interested in me; no one even noticed me. I could not help, therefore, but think it a good day, or at least better than yesterday.
As I passed a newspaper stand, I found myself tangled up with a small boy and his mother. She had just bought a newspaper and now attempted to wrestle him back into his coat as he ran in circles around her, making a game of it. Since my head was down, I could not properly see, much less avoid, the chaos, and I found myself stepping straight into the little boy’s path.
“Oh!” I exclaimed. My market bag flew forward and gave the boy a good knock in the head. Behind him, his mother lifted her newspaper and gave him a firm smack on the bottom.
Under attack from two women, including one stranger, the young boy relented. “Fine, Mama,” he said, and stuck his arms out like a featherless bird, waiting for his coat. The mother, victorious, handed the newspaper to the person nearest her—which happened to be me.
Yesterday’s evening newspaper, headlined The Thursday Bulletin, fell open in my hands. It was thin, unlike the stacks of The Chronicle or The Post, and I glanced down at it with disinterest, expecting to return it to the woman as soon as she had a free hand. But an insert, a hastily printed advertisement, had been stuffed within, and my eye caught several words toward the bottom.
Like black, inky beasts, the words read “Bailiff Searching For Lord Clarence’s Murderer.”
I froze, rereading the words and covering my mouth lest I retch onto the clean pages. My nervous state must be playing tricks on me. Lady Clarence had returned the jar and all was perfectly well—certainly no one was suspected of murder. Why, I must have misread the text. I forced myself to pull my eyes off the page and look at something new—the purple, ribbon-adorned hat sitting atop the lady across the street, or the blinding glimmer of sunshine on the mullioned window of the milliner’s shop behind her—and then I returned my gaze to the page.
The words had not changed.
“Miss,” came a soft voice. “Miss.” I looked up to see the mother, holding the hand of her now-obedient son, resplendent in his thick coat, waiting for me to return the paper to her.
“Y-yes,” I stammered. “Yes, here you are.” I handed it over, the paper trembling as it passed from my fingers to hers. She thanked me and stepped away, after which I rushed immediately to the newsboy at the stand. “The Thursday Bulletin,” I said. “You have more copies?”
“A few.” He gave me one of two remaining copies on his table.
I dropped him a coin, shoved the paper into my bag and rushed away from him lest the terror on my face betray me. But as I fled to Ludgate Hill, forcing one foot in front of the other with as much speed as I could muster, I finally began to fear the worst. What if the authorities were at my shop right that moment? Little Eliza, she was there alone! I crouched between two rubbish bins at the side of a building, opened the paper and read it as quickly as I could. It was printed overnight; the ink was fresh.
At first, I found the article so impossible to believe, I wondered if I’d been given a prop in some performance, one in which I acted the unwitting performer. And perhaps I could have been convinced it was mere theatrics if the details did not tie together so well.
The lady’s maid, I learned, did abruptly resign from her post, just as Lady Clarence said—but she must have put two and two together about Lord Clarence’s sudden death, for she went to the authorities with a wax impression of my mother’s engraved jar. At this revelation, I nearly cried out; it was of no consequence that the jar now rested safely in my shop, for the maid took a damned impression of it! She must have done it before Lady Clarence seized the canister from the cellar. Perhaps the maid was fearful of taking the jar itself on account of being found out and labeled a thief.
According to the article, the wax impression revealed a partially legible set of letters—B ley—and a single, thumbprint-size drawing, which appeared to authorities to be that of a bear on all fours. The lady’s maid told authorities that her mistress, the Lady Clarence, instructed her to put the contents of the canister into the dessert liqueur that was ultimately ingested by Lord Clarence. The maid presumed it a sweetener; only later did she realize it was poison.
I continued reading and clasped my hand over my throat. The authorities went to Lady Clarence’s home late last even
ing—it must have been soon after she had returned the jar, which would explain the hours-old ink on the hastily printed insert—but Lady Clarence vehemently denied the maid’s claim, insisting no knowledge of any poison or canister whatsoever.
Upon turning the page, I learned that the identification of the origin of the poison was now of utmost importance, as the “dispenser” (at this, I let out another small cry) might serve to resolve the conflicting stories of Lady Clarence and her maid. The bailiff hoped that, in exchange for a reasonable amount of clemency, the dispenser would identify who actually purchased the poison that was used to kill Lord Clarence.
And yet, the utter peculiarity of it! Lord Clarence was not meant to suffer a sure and sudden death at all. Miss Berkwell was the one who was meant to drink the cantharides, and yet she escaped the entire thing unscathed—she was not so much as a suspect in her lover’s death, her name not even mentioned in the article. I had mourned the possibility of her death all along, but by God, how things had swung in her favor!
At the end was a crude image: a hand-drawn copy of the wax impression provided by the lady’s maid. If the canister itself was hardly legible, this drawing-of-a-drawing certainly wasn’t any better. That, if nothing else, gave me a moment of ease.
I tore my eyes from the page. My damp, hot fingers had smudged the ink in several places, and the flesh of my inner arms and my groin was damp. I stood in the narrow alley between the two bins of rubbish, breathing deep, sucking in the odor of decay.
As I saw it, there were two possibilities: I could return to my shop and blow out every candle, lest the authorities locate 3 Back Alley and I must rely on my final disguise—the cupboard wall—to protect me and the secrets housed within. But even if it did protect me, for how long would I subsist under the relentless grasp of my illness? Only days, I feared. And oh, how I did not want to die while trapped inside of my mother’s shop! I had spoiled it enough with my killing; need I ruin it further with the decay of my body?
