“A preventative? There is no such a thing for fevers as this.”
“Edward Jenner had much success with his cowpox inoculation—”
“That, sir, is a different thing all together.”
“We shall see, shall we not?”
“Indeed. And how long, pray tell, sir? To recover once treated?”
“Less than an hour.”
Bell sat, his head in his hands.
“You do not believe me, then?”
“I find it so contrary to what I know in my head, yet . . . Such magic does not exist in medicine. I would think you know this, sir. Even as an apothecary. Yet, I cannot argue with your success. Your brilliant diagnosis of the sweating sickness, beyond all comprehension.”
“I quite assure you, sir—” It would be of no use to further explain, and Gaelan felt no need to offer more. “It works. And well. I am willing to part with a vial of each for your use. To test it, I have crafted an inoculating device for you, hoping you might return. Knowing that your medical society cures would not be effective. Not against this scourge.”
“In every corner there are your brother apothecaries hawking their wares. Promising to cure this . . . thing. This fever. All it does is prevent good people from good medical care. Do you not agree, sir?”
“I heartily do, Dr. Bell. It sore grieves me to know of too many so-called apothecaries who would do nothing but take money and hide in the next town, knowing the damage they’ve done. It does nothing for either my reputation or those who grace the great Apothecaries Hall, members of the society. All reputable, and all maligned by your brother physicians quite too often, I think. Have you told them of my theory . . . now, as you see, borne out?”
Bell picked up the inoculator and examined it. “Of whom do you speak?”
“Your brother physicians. You see, Dr. Bell, the needle is quite sharp, but hollow. It makes an exceedingly small, quite shallow puncture through the skin and the medicine is installed just beneath the surface until a small bubble is formed—a pouch, as it were—to hold the medicine whilst it becomes absorbed into the blood of the patient.”
“It is ingenious. No, I have not. How can I?”
Gaelan bowed. “I did not invent the technique, but the design of this device is of my own hand.”
“I should be laughed out of the Royal Society if I . . . What does it matter its name? Whether it is simply a novel fever come to call on us in London—or an old enemy rearing its head. It kills just the same, and I cannot risk . . . Yet this device is pure genius. I thank you for it. The medicines as well.”
“You shall save Hay Hill and the credit will be yours.”
“I do not understand your meaning.”
“I am an apothecary, no physician. The Royal Society would never listen to me; they would laugh me from town. Such notoriety is of no use to me, nor is fame—nor credit. However, when you are successful, I must exact a price—a game of chess. A reprise.”
“Thank you, Mr. Erceldoune. I should like that.”
“If you need more, return and I will have more for you. I have little to waste if you decide against it. You must follow the instructions, which I have written out and placed in the leather pouch. Exactly.” Gaelan handed Bell the pouch for the inoculator. “I wish you luck, Dr. Bell, and look forward to a return chess match.”
“Indeed. And to you as well, sir.”
Gaelan watched as Bell turned left into the street and mounted the step to a carriage. What would come of it? Would Bell try the medicine, or was he merely being polite and this was the last he would see of Benjamin Bell’s grandson? And if it did work all round London? The illness would disappear, hopefully forever . . . or least for another few centuries. Such things have a way of cycling back repeatedly, like history.
Gaelan had done all he might within his ability. There was nothing left to do but wait.
Lady Caitrin Kinston had been for him an able assistant. He could ask nothing more of even the most gifted apothecary’s apprentice, and she had given it freely, without compensation—anticipating the needs, fulfilling them without so much as a request. Surely no complaint. Yet, it was a problem. Too much of a problem; Gaelan knew it with every fiber of his being.
Lyle Tremayne was smart as he was tough; it would take him a very short time to puzzle it out and ruin him. And her. If he had not already.
The hour was late, and the shop was closed for the day. Caitrin awaited him in the laboratory, hoping that he might this night teach a bit of the apothecary’s craft. But he owed her a gift. The promise to teach her a bit of glassmaking—allow her to make her own Rupert’s drop.
“You have done well . . . Carter. I cannot fathom a better assistant these past days, even as you recover from your own illness. And although I am not yet of a mind to offer you employment, as the crisis has now passed, no matter what the future might portend, you have earned a reward at least. The Rupert’s drop I promised you. I shall teach you how to fashion your own. And then we shall see your potential as a glassmaker—for that is one skill needed for any apprentice of mine.”
Her smile lit the room.
“Tell me, what is your favorite color?”
An entertainment for the lady—a diversion from a difficult landscape for himself. It was far too easy for him, so long in the desert of emotional entanglement, to fall into the complexities of her eyes, especially should he take her on to apprentice.
“The iridescent turquoise of the teardrop you crafted was indeed gloriously beautiful, yet, if you were to ask me my favorite color, it would be indigo—the deepest, richest blue.”
Had it been purple, it might have been a simpler proposition. He sighed, and she met his gaze. “Choose whatever color you wish, I only . . . there is a glass ornament in my father’s home of that color, and I shall miss it dearly come Christmas—”
“We shall see.” Gaelan searched the shelf of half-filled clear glass jars. “Ah, here it is.” He pulled out a small bottle.
He touched his boot to the small pedal and the small cauldron heated quickly; steam rose from beneath it as the fire blazed. “It is a large fire for a small vat, but I’ve nothing smaller. It is for making glassware and not trinkets—usually. But this is for a simple pleasure, and they are far too few, I fear.”
“How many times as a girl I marveled at creation of such beautiful glass wares, wondering how it was done—this transformation. Craving the knowledge to make such exquisite magic for myself!”
He could not suppress a small grin. With no desire for her to think him laughing at her, he diverted his gaze downward, into the cauldron, watching the glass melt and darken, and then lighten again to a pale white as he added more chemicals to the vat. “I confess, it is rather magical, this bit of alchemy. There is something quite extraordinary about glass, Lady Caitrin, is there not?”
“Please do not call me that, not while you are instructing me and so amusing me.”
“What is proper, then . . . in this case?”
“It would be Lady Caitrin, that is correct, but it will not do. Not here, where I wish to forget such connection to a family that so wronged me. Caitrin, I venture, would well please me.”
It was an invitation. Such familiarity after so brief a time—and in such close proximity. When she came to her senses and desired a return home after boredom set in . . . He had no desire to inflame her family’s ire—nor her regret. Nor his own desires, dormant for so many years, which he had thus far managed to restrain.
“Lady Caitrin.” He emphasized the distance between them rather more forcefully than needed. “I daresay, I’ve plenty to occupy myself, making notes of the past few days whilst the cauldron heats. In the meantime, do stay clear of it. Perhaps you will find occupation with this.” He handed her a Latin text. “You know Latin, I trust?”
“Yes. My governess insisted upon it, and now I’ve every reason to thank her, and regret making her life quite more miserable than it had already been. I shall leave you for—”
> “A quarter hour should be sufficient to melt the materials.”
Gaelan watched her, taking a long breath after the door closed behind her, relieved at the short respite, hopefully adequate to come to his senses. She was far too near, far too vulnerable. This was as dangerous an error as ever he had made since leaving Shoreditch in 1625 . . . after the plague. Loneliness had taken its toll and two hundred years without close companionship were too dear a price to pay.
Despair had been his only mate since then, and for far too many years. And now this lovely, fragile woman had crossed his threshold as if sent to him by the gods. Despair had fled, replaced by her presence, despite what he insisted even to himself.
He endeavored to no avail, busying himself writing notes about the illness to add to those of his grandfather’s. She returned. So soon? The clock had moved forward the full fifteen minutes he’d requested. He rose, ushering her to the cauldron.
“Now then, shall we get to working on your Rupert’s drop? I see the glass is quite ready.”
How to accomplish the task without nearness, which she might take to be improper? Which could lead them both toward a precipice he wished not to plunge from. “My lady, I might instruct you, but it would go more swiftly if I guide your hand. May I—?” He gestured, demonstrating.
Caitrin’s warmth seeped through the soft linen of his tunic as he stepped behind her. She shivered, causing Gaelan to take a step back, embarrassed, realizing he had never so instructed a woman; he’d thought nothing of it, stupidly so. “I am sorry. I only meant to guide your hand. I thought you understood. My intentions are to amuse you, and if—”
Of course, she would be fearful, wary after what had transpired between her and her brutal cousin. Gaelan needed to be vigilant, mindful of propriety, given . . . Moving off to her side, a fair distance, Gaelan awaited her reassurance.
“Sir, I took no offense at your nearness. Far from it. You have only been kind and quite a bit more the gentleman than any so-called of my acquaintances. Please, I beg of you. Show me!” Her countenance was serious, but the sparkle in her gaze suggested her delighted anticipation of the enterprise.
“Aye.” He caught her right hand in his left, placing there the long metal wire. “Now—” Their hands moved together as they dipped the wire into the black-blue of the cauldron. “Take up a bit of it and move it ‘round and ‘round thus—” The motion was rhythmic and lulling as they dragged the long wire through the heavy, viscous mix.
“Lift the wire now and hold it above the vat of water higher and higher.” The molten glass thinned and thinned as it broke away finally, landing with a “plop” in the cold water.
Fetching the drop from the water, Gaelan dried it on his tunic, placing it then in Caitrin’s outstretched hand.
Her eyes sparkled in the firelight, catching the reflection of the iridescent bauble. “It is extraordinary. It is white as snow, yet it possesses an inner fire. How—?”
“It is, as I said, magical. But only the magic that is science. And glass, the most magical substance of all.”
Gaelan’s low bow concealed the blush that had heated his cheeks. Caitrin’s smile penetrated the long years of solitude that followed him now for greater than two centuries. It was too dangerous in so many ways. Her nearness, his isolation—self-denial for good reasons that he had never minded.
“You have been, these past days, a greater comfort than I have ever known, Mr. Erceldoune. I wish there was a way for me to repay your kindness, but I fear that I will only cost you grief, as my father will not likely relent. I am his only child, and he will not rest until I am captive once again. And you, sir, by keeping me in your protection, are more at risk than I—”
“Hush now. Let’s not trifle with this when we’ve to celebrate your first glass creation! Will you break the thread?”
Her eyes widened in shock. “Why no, sir! This shall I keep—a most precious gift, more so than had it been a genuine sapphire.”
“Then let me bind it in a leather thong for you, that you may wear it about your neck.” He fetched a long twine of leather, which he kept in good supply to bind pouched goods, braiding it about the drop until it was secure, before handing it to her.
“Will you not tie it about my neck?”
He obliged, tying a slip knot that would allow her to easily remove the pendant.
This . . . arrangement . . . far too intimate. He had vastly misjudged himself . . . his feelings for . . . No, it would not do for even the shortest time. Either she would need to leave or . . . An idea struck like summer lightning.
“My lady. Caitrin. I think you and I know it is improper for us to reside beneath the same roof—unmarried. Your reputation would—” He had few choices to secure both her safety and his own. “Yet I have given it some thought, and I have a proposition for you.” He’d not given it any thought at all. It was as impulsive a notion as he had ever contemplated, but he could think of nothing else. “Shall we retire to the sitting room, where such things might be more appropriately discussed?”
Brushing by her to open the door, Caitrin flinched, barely perceptibly. Realizing he was again too close by her, he opened the door quickly and allowed her passage, saying nothing further until they were downstairs and Caitrin was seated comfortably upon the sofa.
Gaelan paced, taking up a spot at the window, looking down into the market square below, and inhaled a deep breath before facing her. The Rupert’s drop sparkled in the candlelight.
“You, my lady, possess a curiosity I daresay I have rarely observed in one of your sex. You are indeed clever; you know philosophy and literature, and I aver an interest in science which rivals even my own. I . . . as you are well aware . . . I have a need of an assistant, an abundant need—as you know, and have rightly pointed out, and as has been made clear the past week, and—”
He had, in the span of five minutes, already become a babbling fool. She said nothing; at least she did not laugh at him. No. Her gaze met his. Tears had gathered in her eyelashes; her face was flushed.
He cleared his throat, regaining his composure. For this to work, he would need to keep his distance. He did not socialize with his apprentices as a rule. They studied and worked for him. He would give them lessons in Latin and Greek, chemistry, and a bit of alchemy. How to properly clean and use the glass contraptions that might be as foreign to them as any language. And they would retire to their quarters to study, and he to his books until the morning. It could work, at that.
“You cannot, of course, reside here. It would not do for your reputation. And you ought take on an assumed name, and I shall arrange with Mrs. Sally Mills for you to sleep at her inn, the White Owl. She is no gossip.” He paused, wondering if he should qualify the statement. “At least not when it really matters.”
“But how soon would it be until someone sees me there? Please let me stay here with you.”
She was frightened, yet she was right, and he knew it. Yet he couldn’t keep her locked away, a prisoner in his laboratory or flat, either. The apprentice’s quarters were too exposed to passersby and visitors. She would soon arouse suspicion in one way or another.
“Mr. Erceldoune, forgive my forwardness . . . but I must confess to you a story of a friend—a close friend. Her mother dressed her in men’s clothing and sent her off to Cambridge to study medicine. She passed all the years of her time there, and still she . . . he practices medicine in Sussex. No one the wiser.”
“But why would her mother—”
“She was widowed. I am certain her husband would never have allowed it, but her mother wished more than anything to have an impact on the world beyond teas and balls and taking visitors. That she’d never had for herself, but she had determined that her daughter should have that opportunity. The daughter was clever, cleverer than all her sons, than half the suitors come calling for her hand.”
“Would she—the girl, her mother—not wish for husband and children? This charade at which she plays must wear on her—”
> “She has a husband—in secret. Also a physician. But my point is, sir . . . Would it not be possible for me as well to pass as a boy? Your apprentice, and live under your roof—and your protection?”
Gaelan, too, knew of women with no other recourse, passing as men. There was Andrew MacFee, with whom he’d attended the anatomy theater at Guy’s Hospital in Southwark many years earlier. His deft touch and too-delicate hands. Gaelan always been good at spotting someone with a secret—a kindred soul, whose exposure would cause ruination. He’d never enquired and would not have dared suggest despite his curiosity. Yet, somehow, he knew.
Even as he acknowledged the truth of what Caitrin proposed, Gaelan well comprehended the folly of such an enterprise. “We would need to create story for you—from whence you came, your kinfolk. Yet, it could work.” He scrutinized her. She might pass. For a while, but only that. “I adjure you, my lady, to think, and very, very hard. For this decision should not be taken lightly.” Advice he might well take in himself. But his heart refused to give logic its due.
“I have made it already. The prospect of such work excites me, and as far as home and family, I have none I wish to claim. My father has forsaken me, my mother equally so by her silence. There is nothing to which I can fathom returning.”
“Then let it be done.” Gaelan sighed, knowing that someday, he might well rue the day he’d allowed it.
CHICAGO, PRESENT DAY
CHAPTER 39
Every biowaste disposal room was the same. The burial crypt of infectious tissue, discarded organs, the stuff of horror novels—yellow and red biohazard bags of blood and gore, discarded needles and organs in the basement, hidden away, the mouth of hell, the purifier of all medical evil. Yet it was sterility of the place that chilled Anne at two in the morning, alone in a desolate hospital basement.
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