I promise.
Elizabeth tightened her jaw. When they were married some six years before, she had been barely nineteen and smitten by Alexander’s ebullient self-assurance, as well as by his handsome figure and easy speech. No matter the difficulties, he was always charmingly confident that everything would work out for the best. I promise, he’d say, and she would believe him.
But her husband’s cocky, never-a-care-in-the-world air had not worn well over the years. Unlike the provident Scots Elizabeth had grown up with in Aberdeen, Alex was financially irresponsible. Whatever he bought had to be the very latest and the very best, and his spendthrift habits were ruinous.
Added to that, he was impulsive. He had first studied botany, then medicine. Then, when a brief venture as a medical doctor had proved unprofitable (Aberdeen was oversupplied with doctors and he had not fully completed his training), they moved to London. There, with the help of Dr. Stuart, a friend of Elizabeth’s family, he had found a place as a corrector—a proof reader—in Mr. Wilkins’ print shop, where he became captivated by the printing trade and sure that it was a ladder to success. It might be, too, for the public’s appetite for books, newspapers, and all kinds of printed material was already enormous and growing every day.
So it was that when Elizabeth’s father had at last paid her dowry, Alex had set himself up as a printer, using all of her money and borrowing the rest. Hoping to ensure their success, Elizabeth had worked energetically beside him, dealing with authors who wanted their manuscripts printed, managing the accounts, and purchasing the paper and ink and other supplies. She had even done some of the work of a printer’s apprentice. And she had enjoyed it all, for she was a tradesman’s daughter and had a sharp entrepreneurial instinct.
Tragically, however, Alex had brought their enterprise to ruin. With his customary arrogance, he had decided to defy the statutory requirement to serve a seven-year apprenticeship before opening a print shop. He was challenged by the powerful printers’ guild, fined, and forced to close. Had he taken a journeyman partner (as Elizabeth had pleaded with him to do), he could easily have avoided the ultimate catastrophe. But no, the shop and all its profits had to be his. The punishment was his, too.
And now she had to think for them—for the children and herself—and not for Alexander. He was still her husband, though, and however much she might rue the marriage, she would meet her obligation.
She managed a smile when she said, as calmly as she could, “Well, then, I shall look for something to tide us over until your stratagems prove out.” She cast an eye around the cell. “I shall come back when I can with more candles and food and your chessboard.” She turned to go.
He put a hand on her shoulder and went with her to the cell door, remembering things he wanted her to do. “Be sure to visit old McCratchen to find out how much he cheated me on the lease of the Strand. And do have a frank talk with Stuart—I’m sure he can suggest the names of others in the London Scots community who might help.”
“I won’t beg for you, Alexander,” she said sharply.
But she knew he was right about the Scots. Since the Union of 1707, nearly thirty years before, Scotland had been a part of Great Britain. England offered many opportunities, and scores of professional men—physicians, lawyers, merchants, scholars—had made their way south, to London. When they became successful, they held out a generous hand to those who came after and were in need. It was only logical that she should turn to them.
“And don’t worry about me,” he said, as if he had not heard her, as perhaps he had not. He did not always listen. “I’m sure I shall be quite comfortable.” He leaned forward and dropped a kiss on her cheek. “I have Dr. Swift’s ‘Modest Proposal’ to read and enough shillings for a few days’ food and ale.” He smiled. “I shall be glad of a nap, too.”
Now, standing outside Newgate, Elizabeth thought of Alex’s nap with a hard jab of resentment. He was treating this humiliating affair as if he were on holiday, while she was left to manage the children as well as raise the funds for his release. No holiday for her.
She gathered her cloak around her and stepped into the crowd jostling each other along Newgate Street. There were bewigged men in tricorne hats, boots, and greatcoats. Women bundled in cloaks and thick woolen shawls, some holding their skirts up out of the dirt, others holding nosegays of rosemary, mint, and lavender under their noses to sweeten the stench. Street children in ragged shirts and trousers, some of them barefoot, even though it was the dead of winter. And beggars of all descriptions, of course, as well as dogs and cats and the occasional escaped chicken or duck or young pig, sure to be snatched up and put in the pot or on the spit before the owner could reclaim it.
The damp, chill air was heavy with sooty smoke from the countless coal fires that warmed the city and cooked its food, and noisy with the shrill cries of costermongers hawking their baskets and buckets and bags of produce. Penny a bunch cabbage! This morning’s mackerel, six a shilling! Fresh nuts, penny a pound, fresh nuts, only a penny! Ahead on a corner stood a stout, jovial baked-potato man, his hot pot on the ground at his feet. Hot baked potato-O. Hot baked potatoes, with butter and salt!
Elizabeth thrust her hand through the slit in her heavy woolen skirt and pulled tuppence out of the pocket hung from a tie around her waist. Not stopping to ask herself whether there were any more coins in that pocket or what she would do if there were not, she pushed her way to the front of the crowd and traded the two silver coins for a smoking-hot baked potato—not so much because she was hungry but because it would warm her hands. The north wind was bitterly cold and it was a good two hours’ walk to Bloomsbury, where the children were in the temporary care of one of the Stuarts’ housemaids. In better days, she would have taken a hackney coach as far as Lincoln’s Inn Fields, but shanks’ pony would do for now. She was strong and not yet thirty, and she had grown up tramping the steep hills and deep dales of northeast Scotland. She didn’t mind the walk.
And perhaps the exercise would clear her head of the stench of Newgate and help her face the irrefutable fact that she must find employment that paid enough for lodging and food with something left to pay toward Alexander’s debt. While both Dr. and Mrs. Stuart seemed pleased to allow her and Blanche and William to stay as long as was necessary, she felt urgently that they must not impose. There were other friends who would be glad to offer temporary beds, but she couldn’t spend the whole term of her husband’s imprisonment—who knew how long that might be?—scuttling from one chimney corner to another like a housecat with kittens in search of a warm place to sleep. She would have to find money somewhere—but where?
Unfortunately, the usual recourse in the event of straitened circumstances was not an option for Elizabeth. It was true that her father, William Blachrie, was a Burgess of Trade for the city of Aberdeen and that he had built up a considerable fortune as a hosiery merchant, selling the handspun, hand-knitted woolen stockings that were produced in vast quantities by the women of the region. But aid from the Blachries was out of the question. Elizabeth’s father had made that clear when, nearly two years after their elopement, he finally paid her dowry to Alexander, whom he knew well. Too well, indeed. The Blachries and the Blackwells were related.
“Your second cousin is a charming rascal,” her father had said with his characteristic Scots bluntness. “You will certainly rue your choice, Elizabeth. He is handsome and glib but fickle, without an ounce of steadiness in him. He is an impulsive young man who has not one idea of what he wants to make of himself. He has no business taking a wife.” Elizabeth’s mother had opposed the marriage too, and when Elizabeth chose to follow her heart, both of her parents cut off all ties with her. She had written when the children were born, but there was no answer.
The Blackwells had gone even farther, not just opposing but forbidding the marriage. Alexander’s father, now deceased, had been a prominent classical scholar and principal of Marischal College in
Aberdeen. His brother, Thomas Blackwell, was well on the way to becoming a published (if dull and verbose) historian. Alexander himself was a brilliant young man who read several languages, studied some botany, and was destined for an outstanding academic career. Marriage before he’d completed his studies—and to a tradesman’s daughter—had been unforgiveable.
Elizabeth knew that there would be no financial help from Aberdeen. But if not from parents or friends, where? Where was she to find the money to provide lodging for herself and her children and try to chip away at the mountain of debt that towered over her husband? As she trudged past the bleak gray hulk of St. Sepulchre Church, she was nearly overwhelmed by the heavy gray enormity of the tasks that lay ahead.
But in just a few moments, when she had crossed the bridge over Fleet Ditch and started for the top of Holbourn Hill, she would encounter something that would paint her future in much brighter colors.
Chapter Two
Mugwort (Artemisia vulgaris). If you’re looking for a magical herb to ease your travels, try mugwort. In medieval Europe, people didn’t set off on a journey without it. Some early beliefs:
If a footman put mugwort in his shoe in the morning, he may go forty miles before noon and not be weary.
If mugwort be placed under the saddle of a horse, it will make him travaile fresh and lustily.
If any propose a journey, then let him take in his hand this wort and then he will not feel much pain.
Minnie Watson Kamm
Old Time Herbs for Northern Gardens, 1938
I was deeply impressed by the chapter Jenna had sent me. Poor Elizabeth Blackwell! A foolish husband in prison, a mountain of debts towering over her head, small children to provide for, and nowhere safe and clean to live—in a city like London!
I closed the file with a knot in my stomach. What could Elizabeth do? And what was the “something” she would encounter at the top of Holbourn Hill that would color her future differently? I was hoping that Jenna would have another chapter or two ready for me by the time I got to North Carolina.
• • •
I wasn’t exactly travailing lustily, and I rather doubt that mugwort in my shoe—even in both shoes—would have gotten me through Austin-Bergstrom International Airport any faster or more comfortably than my Adidas. But there is a very healthy mugwort growing in the apothecaries’ garden at Thyme and Seasons. If I had tucked s sprig or two into my suitcase, maybe its magic would have eased some of the mischance I met before I got back home again. Maybe.
As I’m sure you know from your own experience, setting off on a journey isn’t just a matter of grabbing your car keys and heading out. It’s complicated. At home, I needed to pack Caitie’s clothes before Leatha and Sam (my mother and her husband) drove from South Texas to pick her up—and Spock as well. Caitie had decided that her parrot was begging to go to the ranch.
“Boldly go,” Spock announced. One of his previous owners had been a Trekkie and Spock is fluent in Trekese. “Final frontier. Where no one has gone before. Awk!”
Which settled it, as far as Caitie was concerned. Spock was going with her, which required a surprising amount of extra stuff.
I also had to make sure that the fridge was stocked and that there were heat-and-eat meals in the freezer for McQuaid, who if left to his own devices would subsist on beanie weenies until I got back. And remind him of how and when to feed the chickens and where the dog and cat food can be found. Little details.
At the shop, Ruby assured me that I wouldn’t be missing a thing by taking spring break week off. She and Laurel, our helper, would keep an eye on the shop. Customer traffic would be manageable, there was only one group luncheon (Ruby’s weaving guild), no catering events on the calendar, and no classes. It was a good time to take a few days off. Godspeed, safe travels, bon voyage.
And then she paused, thought for a moment, and said, “But I do have to tell you . . .”
Her voice trailed off and a small frown gathered between her eyes. She was wearing green today: green and purple striped ankle-length yoga pants, loose green scoop-neck tee over a purple tank top, a purple and green bandeau around her frizzy red hair.
“Excuse me a minute,” she said. She tucked her right foot against her left upper thigh in a tree pose and closed her eyes, pressing her palms together in front of her chest. Ruby is tall, over six feet in her sandals. In the tree pose today, she didn’t look like a tree. She looked like a red-crested green stork standing on one green and purple leg.
“Tell me what?” I asked. When I try to stand in a tree pose, I topple over after about ten seconds. Ruby is loose-limbed and limber. What’s more, she has perfect balance. She can stand like a tree for hours, silently checking the messages the Universe has cued up for her.
I waited. Then waited a little longer. Then: “Earth to Ruby. Come in, Ruby.”
Finally, she opened her eyes. “Sorry. I was trying to decipher it.”
“Decipher what?”
“I can’t quite make it out. There’s too much . . . snow. All that’s getting through is a warning message. Be careful.”
“Like snow on an old TV set?” I refrained from rolling my eyes. “Somehow I thought that the Universe was too powerful to be taken down by a little local static. What do I need to be careful of?”
She blinked, dropped her hands, and lowered her foot. “I wish I could be more specific, China, but I can’t. All I know is that something will happen where you’re going, and it won’t be . . . what you expect.”
As you probably know if you’ve spent any time with her, Ruby is psychic. This gift is not something she’s exactly comfortable with, and she often tries to pretend that she’s . . . well, normal. As normal as the rest of us, I mean. In a good sort of way, the Crystal Cave (still the only New Age shop in Pecan Springs) is a refuge for her, because it’s a place where she can be just a little bit psychic, just for fun.
For example, when she uses the tarot cards and rune stones and the Ouija board, she can pretend that whatever she’s telling you comes through them. I’ve heard her say it and maybe you have, too: “I’m only reading the cards.” Or “That’s what Ouija says. That’s the message I’m getting.”
The truth is more simple—and much more convoluted—than that. She doesn’t need cards or a pendulum to tell her what she already knows. She just knows it. Which can weird you out, especially if (like me) you’re not a believer in the strange and spooky. But I am a believer in Ruby. I’ve seen her get it right often enough to know that it’s a good idea to pay attention when she has something to tell me.
I was paying attention now, wondering if she was going to say anything about the ghost who was reputed to haunt Hemlock House. But if she knew about that, she wasn’t going to mention it. For which I cannot blame her, after her frightening scrimmage with Rachel Blackwood’s ghost a couple of years ago.*
“So, okay,” I said. “So this is an adventure. So I need to expect the unexpected. When the static clears and you get a better sneak preview on your psychic TV, please let me know. If something exceptionally bizarre is going to happen, I’d like to have some advance warning.”
“Of course I will,” Ruby murmured. She put both hands on my shoulders and pecked my cheek. “Just go and have a good time, okay? I’m sure it will be fine.” She paused, and there was that little frown again. “But you might want to take a heavy coat and some woolies. Boots could come in handy, too.”
“Boots?” I scoffed. “But the dogwoods and redbuds are all out. It’s April, you know.”
“I know.” Ruby pursed her lips. “Just the same . . .”
I would wish I had listened.
• • •
As it turned out, the only really bad thing about flying east was the predawn start.
I was up at four on Sunday morning for the forty-minute drive to the airport just south of Austin. I caught a six a.m. flight to Charlotte, t
hen a commuter flight to Asheville, arriving in the afternoon. My first stop: the rental car desk to pick up the car I’d reserved, a white Mitsubishi Mirage.
The guy behind the counter, a tall, skinny kid with a dark buzz cut and John Lennon glasses, asked where I was going. When I told him, he puckered his mouth and said, “Maybe you’d rather take a four-by-four?” He smiled. “Could be some weather in the mountains.”
I hesitated. A four-by-four might be fun to drive, but the foundation was picking up the tab and they might not feel the extra cost was justified. “I’m good with the Mirage,” I said.
He gave me his best salesman’s you’ll-be-sorry look and checked me out. Fifteen minutes later, I was heading out of the airport complex. The car took some getting used to. It had something called a variable transmission that continuously shifted for itself—silently, so I didn’t know what gear it was in. Nothing like my old stick-shift Toyota back home.
My route took me north on I-26, in the direction of the famous Biltmore mansion, that huge, elaborate “mountain escape” built as a summer getaway by George Washington Vanderbilt. The Asheville area, I understood, had been the summer retreat for a number of East Coast bluebloods in the early part of the twentieth century. I was tempted to stop and visit the gardens—I’ve heard that the early azaleas are spectacular—but I had another sixty-plus miles to drive, and Dorothea was expecting me. Biltmore could wait.
So I drove west, marveling at the ever-varying, always-spectacular landscape. Fluid gray mists ebbed and flowed around green summits, cloud shadows constantly changed the apparent shapes of the valleys, and as I drove deeper into the mountains, the bright afternoon was darkened by drifting fog and finally by rain. I turned the windshield wipers on as I swung off the main highway and into a small, mist-cloaked town. Bethany (population 4,500) was nestled between two mountain ranges, on the bank of a boisterous mountain river. Picturesque and prosperous, it looked familiar, perhaps because it was an anywhere-America small town, with the usual antique shops, an art gallery, a bookstore (the Open Book), a couple of cafés, and a wide main street, washed clean by the rain and lined with pink-flowering crabapple trees.
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