“My gracious,” Elizabeth murmured, drawing back her feet. “I shouldn’t be at all surprised to discover a unicorn somewhere in this clutter.”
Dr. Stuart chuckled. “Sir Hans finds himself interested in anything that he has never seen before.” He cast a quizzical glance around the room. “It all rather wants organizing, doesn’t it?”
It did indeed want organizing. It was such an extraordinary jumble of oddities that Elizabeth felt she was in a curiosity-dealer’s shop. But she had always been deeply interested in the natural world, and there was more than enough here to hold her attention. She was studying a page in one of the herbariums when a short, portly gentleman wearing a full brown wig bustled into the room.
“Ah, my dear Stuart,” he said with evident satisfaction. “How good to see you.” In his seventies, he was dressed in brown breeches with a dark brown velvet coat, a lace-trimmed shirt, a ruffled cravat, and a heavy gold watch chain laden with gold seals draped across an embroidered waistcoat. His face was roundish, almost cherubic, and the gold-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of his nose gave him a professorial look.
Elizabeth regarded him with curiosity. His was a face that she would enjoy painting. She hoped he would agree to commission her to do his portrait—which was, after all, the purpose of this visit. She would paint him in the midst of his collection, an object or two in his hands. That African drum perhaps, or the rat skeleton over there. And the stuffed bird perched on his shoulder.
At the sight of Elizabeth, a smile relieved the severity of his face and he bowed over her hand as Dr. Stuart introduced them.
“Ah, yes,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “And this is the Scotswoman you told me about, Stuart.” He bowed again. “I understand, Mrs. Blackwell, that you are an artist. And I see that you have brought something to show me.” He held out his hand for the portfolio she was carrying. “May I? I am most interested.”
“Oh, indeed, sir,” she said. Her heart thudding, she placed the portfolio in his hand.
He took it, gestured at chairs for his guests, and seated himself at a small table. For the next quarter hour, while she fidgeted, he leafed through her drawings. She had arranged her work so that the portraits would be seen first and the landscapes and botanical drawings after. He glanced rapidly through her portfolio, then, having a chatty conversation with himself, went back to examine her drawings of plants.
“Quite nice, quite nice, indeed,” he mused, turning up a drawing of rosemary. “One of my favorite herbs, especially good with a joint of roast lamb. And look here—hemlock! Hemlock, the herb of Socrates and his choice for a noble death. The rest of us should have his courage.” He held out the drawing, admiring it. “Delightfully pictured in all its parts, and very like. So accurately done that one could use this as a guide to instruct the ill-informed to distinguish it from parsley.”
“Ah, yes,” Dr. Stuart said, as if Sir Hans’ remarks were directed at him. “I heard yesterday that another succumbed to hemlock, thinking it parsley.” He shook his head. “’Tis ever thus.”
“And need not be.” Sir Hans put down Elizabeth’s hemlock and turned over another drawing. “What is this? Oh, to be sure. Ladies’ mantle, Alchemilla vulgaris—from the Arabic ‘alkemelych,’ or alchemist—a name bestowed on the plant by old writers for its near-magical properties in the treatment of women’s gynecological problems. We have a specimen in the garden at Chelsea. Tragus describes it in his illustrated Kreuter Buch of 1539, but his woodcut is not nearly so accurate as this drawing.” He looked at Elizabeth. “Where did you find the plant, my dear?”
“On a wild hillside, sir,” Elizabeth said, “outside of Aberdeen. I have always enjoyed botanical excursions. I took my sketchpad with me and drew the plants that interested me most. It helped me to learn their many uses.”
“You are a practicing herbalist, then?”
She laughed a little. “Only an amateur—but a dedicated one, sir.” Early in her life, botany had been her favorite study, and she had imagined passing her days in a quiet cottage somewhere, surrounded by gardens. Marriage to Alexander had spelled the end of that modest dream. It still returned, especially in this last tumultuous year, but with it came the sad understanding that it could never be.
Sir Hans picked up another of her drawings. “And here . . . why, bless my soul, I believe you have drawn—and, yes, labeled—scurvy grass!” He lowered the paper and peered at her over the top of it. “Scurvy grass, Mrs. Blackwell!” he exclaimed. “Cochlearia officinalis, no less!”
Elizabeth nodded, although she was rather at a loss to explain Sir Hans’ evident excitement. The drawing he was looking at was very simple, done on a long-ago day when she and her sisters had tramped through a seashore salt marsh in a drizzle. It was hastily drawn and not at all pretty. Indeed, it couldn’t be pretty, for the plant was such a commonplace little thing, hiding itself among the marsh grasses like a bird with a broken wing.
She cleared her throat. Thinking that she ought to explain herself, she said, “The drawings of scurvy grass and ladies’ mantle are two of a number I made of our native Scottish herbs.” She paused. “I had it in mind to engrave and print a number of drawings, you see. They might have made a small herbal to be sold through the apothecary shops in Aberdeen. I thought it might be helpful to those with an interest in the many uses of our native plants.”
“An herbal, you say? A book of Scottish herbs?” Sir Hans broke into a wide smile. “And of course it should include scurvy grass, certainly, certainly!” He cocked his head. “The Roman naturalist Pliny the Elder wrote about a scurvy-like disease which afflicted Roman soldiers in Germany. He recommended what he called Herba britannica, which I believe to be scurvy grass. Also called spoonwort, as I’m sure you know, from the shape of its leaves—not at all grass-like.” He held up Elizabeth’s drawing and waved it triumphantly in the air.
“And you have drawn it to the life! What a talented eye you have! And what a boon a picture like this would be, say, for seafaring ship captains who send sailors ashore to gather this plant so that it may be added to their shipboard diets!” His sentences were studded with exclamation points.
“I am glad you approve,” Elizabeth murmured, allowing herself only the barest ironical tartness. She had hoped that Dr. Stuart’s great friend might commission her to paint himself or members of his household and—much to be hoped—would recommend her to his wide circle of friends. But the man wanted to carry on about scurvy grass. How disappointing!
“Approve? Approve? Why, certainly I approve,” Sir Hans exclaimed with a renewed enthusiasm. “Most certainly!” He turned to glance around him. “Somewhere here, although at the moment I can’t think where, I have a formula sent to me by an old lady who lives in the West Country, in Cornwall, I believe. Yes, yes, in Cornwall. It consists of various plants—water cress, if I recall correctly, as well as scurvy grass, betony, wormwood, and brooklime—pounded together and mixed with white wine, beer, or orange juice. It is said to be an excellent medicine for preventing scurvy. If I can locate it, I will have it copied out for you. I am sure you will find it interesting. Most interesting—especially the use of scurvy grass.”
“I’m sure I shall,” Elizabeth said. By now, she had given up all hope of any help from this man. Perhaps she should set up shop as a street artist right here in Bloomsbury Square, where those who came and went would at least have a few coins in their pockets. She would be as likely to get work from them as she was from Sir Hans.
That gentleman was now leafing quickly through the rest of her drawings of plants, muttering under his breath, holding up first one and then another for a closer look. At last, he satisfied himself, and closed the portfolio. He took off his spectacles, polished them with his cravat, and put them back on again, peering at her.
“When you spoke a moment ago of compiling an herbal, I believe you said that you had it in mind to engrave and print your drawin
gs.” He looked at Dr. Stuart over the tops of his glasses. “May I take it, Stuart, that Mrs. Blackwell is also an engraver?”
“So I understand,” began Dr. Stuart, but Elizabeth, by now quite impatient with both men, spoke up for herself.
“I am, sir. I studied engraving as a girl in Aberdeen. And until my husband was required to close his print shop, I provided engravings for books in his press, which I was most glad to do.” She felt herself flushing and looked down. It was perhaps not wise to tell Sir Hans of the many duties she performed in Alex’s shop—not just engraving, but dealing with customers and suppliers, managing the accounts, and marketing the books. He might think she was part of the reason it failed.
But he appeared to ignore the unfortunate reference and fastened instead on her experience.
“Engraving is a most useful skill for an artist. On one of these shelves, I have the Metamorphosis of Frau Maria Sibylla Merian, a delightful book which includes sixty of her life-size drawings of insects—engraved and also colored by herself. I should be glad to lend it to you, if I can find it. It would serve as an excellent model.”
A model for what? Elizabeth wondered, but she didn’t want to reveal her ignorance. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“I speak of Frau Merian’s work because it seems to me that you have a comparable skill,” Sir Hans said, once again picking up her picture of hemlock. “The gift of close observation and the ability to draw what you see.” He studied it for a moment, pursing his lips. “Dr. Stuart has informed me that you are in search of an undertaking—that is to say, a project by which you might earn some money. This is true?”
“Yes, sir. It is, sir.” She took a deep breath, not certain what Dr. Stuart might have said but wanting to be sure that the full story, however shameful, was told.
“Perhaps you know that my husband is in Newgate gaol for nonpayment of a substantial business debt. Dr. Stuart and his wife have been generous, but my two children and I cannot continue to impose on their hospitality. He has offered the opportunity to train as a midwife. I am grateful and would be glad to do so if there were compensation during the training period.” She drew in her breath and said what she had come to say. “I must support my children and myself and satisfy my husband’s creditors. I was hoping most urgently that—”
“An honorable profession, midwifery.” Sir Hans took out his handkerchief and noisily blew his nose. “I commend it to you. But it is not likely in the near term to provide the funds that you require.” He tucked his handkerchief into his ruffled sleeve and folded his hands across his waistcoat, regarding her. “Therefore, I have a proposal to make. Will you consider it?”
Consider it? She was confused, but she could say only “Yes, of course, sir.”
“Good. Allow me, then, if you please.”
And she listened with a growing amazement while the celebrated Dr. Sloane told her what he had in mind.
And yes, it included scurvy grass.
Chapter Five
Scurvy Grass. Cochlearia officinalis. Abundant on the shores in Scotland, growing inland along some of its rivers and Highland mountains and not uncommon in stony, muddy and sandy soils in England and Ireland . . . The fresh herb was greatly used on sea-voyages as a preventative of scurvy. The essential oil is of benefit in paralytic and rheumatic cases; scurvy-grass ale was a popular tonic drink.
Maud Grieve
A Modern Herbal, 1931
I stared at Jenna’s last sentence for a few minutes, then closed my tablet with a strong sense of exasperation. What did Sir Hans tell Elizabeth? How did he propose to help her? What did he want in return for whatever he was willing to give? What would she have to do? How much would she have to risk? Why, oh why, did I have to wait to find these things out?
I knew how the story ultimately ended, of course. That is, with an amazingly successful book that allowed Elizabeth to pay off her husband’s massive debt and, two years later, bail him out of jail. I also knew that, in gratitude to Sir Hans, she had given him a custom-made copy—the very one that had been stolen from the Hemlock House library. Had given it to him with her own hands, most likely.
But when I finished reading, I had more questions than answers. I still couldn’t guess how Elizabeth might have gotten from this moment in Sir Hans Sloane’s library to the creation of the stolen book—and I very much wanted to know. If Jenna’s email had included more pages. I would have kept on reading, straight to the end. Until daylight, if that’s what it took.
But it didn’t. I had never had the opportunity to read an actual work in progress—a novel that was still in the making—and it felt like a special privilege. In the morning, I’d have to ask Jenna when I could read more. I was hoping she wouldn’t leave me dangling for long, not knowing where the story was going next and just how Elizabeth had managed to do something no woman had done before.
I glanced at the bedside clock, remembering that North Carolina was an hour ahead of Texas, and that McQuaid was still up. I reached for my phone and called him to say goodnight. It was good to hear his voice, warm and intimate, like his touch. He’d spent the day in San Antonio, interviewing witnesses in the investigation he was working on for attorney Charlie Lipman. Caitie and Spock had arrived safely at her grandmother’s ranch and she had called home to tell her dad, with great excitement, that they were going horseback riding tomorrow—Spock, too. Wearing his parrot harness and leash, of course, which he had to put on whenever he went outdoors. (You learn all sorts of new things when a parrot comes into your life.)
I also filled McQuaid in on what I had learned about Hemlock House and Elizabeth’s Herbal and the situation here—that is, what little there was to tell. Tomorrow would be more productive, I hoped. But we didn’t talk long, for the bed was a cozy nest, the room was quiet, and I’d had a long trip and a longer day. When I said “I love you” and turned out the light, I fell asleep almost immediately.
Sleep pulled me back into Jenna’s vivid story. I dreamed I was walking up Holbourn Hill to St. Andrews, where a street artist hawked his drawings. I bought a hot potato from the hot-potato man to keep my hands warm under my woolen cloak and when it cooled off, I ate it. But the hulking shadow of Newgate Prison darkened the London sky behind me, and I felt something of what Elizabeth must have felt that day: the bleak impossibility of redeeming herself and her children from her husband’s reckless and costly mistakes.
And when I woke in the first pale light of dawn, I was startled. I wasn’t in England in the eighteenth century or at home in my own bed, with McQuaid’s body warm beside me and Winchester sprawled paws-in-the-air across our feet. I was in a strange bed in an elegant room in a faux French castle in the Appalachian Mountains. A new day in a strange place—and I had awakened with a plan.
The morning air was chilly, so my trip to the bathroom was as quick as I could make it. Back in my room, I hurried into jeans, a sweatshirt over a blue plaid flannel shirt, and blue wool socks with my leather sandals. Forget fashion. I was going to be warm.
It was too early to go downstairs, so I took out my pocket-sized notebook and began jotting down what I had learned since my arrival: general impressions of people and place, summaries of conversation, random observations, questions, concerns, names, and the inevitable to-dos. I didn’t try to impose any organization on my haphazard notes—there would be time for that later, when it came to connecting the dots. I was operating on a theory I had built up in my years as a defense attorney: the more dots I could come up with now, the more connections I could make and the more conclusions I could draw later. All this notational urgency was probably premature, but the process gave me the feeling—a deceptive feeling, no doubt—that I had things under control.
I also glanced through the list of names Jenna had given me the night before and circled several. I intended to talk to people—at least three people today, if they could be located.
And I needed to come up w
ith a cover story, a plausible explanation to account for the nosey questions I intended to ask. Who was I when I talked to these people? What did I want to know? How was I going to use their information?
After a few moments of putting my mind to it, I contrived a plan I thought would work. Then I folded the list into my notebook, tucked it into the back pocket of my jeans, and ran a quick comb through my hair. Dorothea had said that they usually ate breakfast around seven-thirty. It was nearly that now, and I was ready—more than ready—for coffee.
• • •
One of the people whose names I had circled was in the kitchen, frying bacon.
She was thin, narrow-shouldered, and almost gaunt, with high cheekbones and watchful eyes in a long, narrow face. Her graying hair was twisted into an untidy coil at the back of her head, and she was dressed in a dark sweater, baggy black slacks, and black sneakers, with a white bib apron tied at neck and waist. Bacon sizzled in a frying pan on the stove.
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