John looked over at his sleeping love descending into a private sea of dreams. She twitched and murmured. Whispers of content floated from her lips. He rustled, punched his pillow, and resettled. If he could not sleep, then why should she? He asked so little of her; why could she not obey his wishes?
Still, when he gazed over at her, he could not bear to disturb her sleep. Instead, he whispered in her ear his desire to move from Gull Hole. And she smiled.
CHAPTER 8
Barnabas Hughes reluctantly made his way back to Ferris Stannum’s, his leather satchel by his side. The satchel bulged with an apothecary’s balms and tinctures. He had been summoned to attend Goodwife Tenbrook, for she had taken ill. It was not for him to judge who should receive care. He was undoubtedly the most virtuous physician in London. Known for his selfless attendance in even the dourest of circumstances, Hughes could not in good conscience ignore a dying man’s needs. Or, in this case, a dying woman’s needs, though he was not certain how ill Mrs. Tenbrook actually could be.
Yesterday the landlady had been fuming and full of bluster. He objected to her callous treatment of Amice; the girl had just arrived and was shocked from her father’s sudden death. How sacrilegious to speak ill of the dead when in the same room as the corpse. To Hughes, it did not come as a surprise that she should take ill soon after. The dead find a way to exact retribution.
A shame Amice and Stannum had not reconciled before he died. A daughter was a treasure for any widower and should be appreciated as such. Could Stannum not see her mother in those eyes? The mother’s chin, the mother’s brow—did he not remember? How could his heart not flutter recalling a time in his youth? Barnabas Hughes shook his head. His old friend’s intransigence would remain a mystery.
As he turned down the short lane off Ivy, the shadows from the overhanging rents fell across his path and his heart. His mood grew more somber from the cheerless character of the neighborhood. He resented being called upon to return to his old friend’s home. He was not ready to face the unsettled emotions that would surely surface when he was faced with the alchemist’s locked door and no Ferris Stannum beckoning him to enter.
Hughes paused in front of the familiar residence and sighed. Controlling his emotions, he entered from the street, barely glancing at Stannum’s closed door. He climbed the stairs leading to Mrs. Tenbrook’s and knocked.
Her muffled call bade him enter. A single candle flickered near her bed, and he remained in the doorway until his eyes adjusted to the dim interior. The landlady peeked out from under a sheet that was as pale as her skin. Her robust complexion appeared ashen in contrast to the day before.
“My head feels stuffed with bombast,” she said, drawing down the cover from her mouth so he could hear her weak voice. “I can’t think two thoughts straight.”
Barnabas Hughes stepped inside and immediately opened the shutters to a small window. She pulled the sheet back over her head. “The light hurts me eyes,” she cried. “You’ll blind me.”
“I cannot see to treat you. And we must have some air. I cannot breathe in here.” He stepped through piles of rubbish, the collected leavings of a lonely life. Chairs with broken or missing legs, blankets and bowls—no doubt pilfered from previous tenants. They littered the floor, taking up valuable space. He stood over Tenbrook, then sat on the edge of her bed and addressed her through the sheet. “Tell me when you first had your symptoms.”
“I was fine until the middle of last night.” She clenched the edge of her cover, preventing him from drawing it down. “I tell ye, I can’t bear the light! Then I woke short of breath and fought to get air.”
“You have no issue breathing now—with your sheet over your nose?”
“I am improved, I believe.”
Hughes rose from the bed and closed the shutter halfway. He stumbled over something and bent to pick it up. Ferris Stannum’s empty bottle of wine. Assuming the cause of her discomfort, he said, “Mrs. Tenbrook, you are wasting my time. You suffer from too much drink.”
The frailty in Tenbrook’s voice fell away, replaced with her characteristic spleen. “Nay, it is not that. I know what a hangover feels like, ye fool.”
“If you are improved, then why summon me?”
Mrs. Tenbrook threw down the cover. “Because me eyes ache and me head pounds and I have no one to look after me.”
It was an oft-heard complaint. If Barnabas Hughes had a groat for every time an old woman sought him for attention . . .
“Mrs. Tenbrook, it does little good to worry over your circumstances. You have shelter and some coin, which is more than most. Be glad you are not living under a tree.” His patience thin, he grabbed her under the armpits. Ignoring her moaning and attempt to beat him about the head, he pulled her to an upright, sitting position. “I must listen to your heart and lungs.” Instead of laying his ear against her chest and leaving himself vulnerable to further clubbing, he laid his ear against her back.
“I hear no congestion.” He looked around for her chamber pot. “I must ask for your waters.”
“I’m too weak to stand,” she whined.
So Barnabas Hughes found her slop bucket and helped her onto it.
Ignoring John’s warnings, Bianca waited until he had left for Boisvert’s before setting out for Ferris Stannum’s room of alchemy. If John asked later, she would tell him she was collecting the retorts Amice had set aside for her. Which was partly the truth, but Bianca did not accept that her mentor’s sudden death was from natural cause. She had a few questions for Mrs. Tenbrook. Her first priority was satisfying her curiosity.
She walked down Bankside toward the bear-baiting venues in Southwark and waited at Molestrand Dock for a wherry. The day promised to be another steamy one; the sky had a gray, lifeless hue. A few swans dabbled in the reeds, their white feathers dingy from the muck. A ferrier poled his skiff to the landing and Bianca climbed in.
The sun bore down as they angled across the river to Paul’s Wharf. Bianca almost wished she had taken a ferry closer to London Bridge, where she could have ridden across in its shadows even though it would have made for a more rolling ride. The shallows on the other side harbored biting flies when she disembarked, and she hurried up the steps to escape them.
Taking the narrow Paul’s Chain, Bianca walked toward St. Paul’s parish. Along the way, it seemed every door of every rent was thrown open for air, allowing her a rare peek inside as she walked past. Bianca was privy to wailing babes and shouts of domestic life, reminding her she had not seen her parents in several months. They lived one street over, but she had not forgiven them from her last visit. News of her marriage to John should have been met with joy. True, her mother had responded with cheer, but her father’s pale eyes had shown as cold as quartz in January. She should not have expected more from her father, but his disinterest had burned her worse than any caustic remark. Since then she had stayed away. Hadn’t her father once told her to be cautious of fire?
Nearing the lane where Ferris Stannum lived, Bianca attempted to shake off her feelings of disappointment with her father. Instead, she thought of her tutor and his untimely demise, but the dreary lane and its despondent inhabitants further added to her gloom.
At Tenbrook’s building, Bianca pushed open the outer door, leaving it unlatched for light. Ahead, the door to Ferris Stannum’s room was closed. She rapped on it, tried pushing it open, but found it locked. A faint sound of conversation ranged from the second floor, so Bianca abandoned Ferris Stannum’s to climb the stairs. Ahead, Goodwife Tenbrook’s door was ajar.
Bianca called through the gap and was answered by Barnabas Hughes.
Inside, Bianca was surprised to find the interior only slightly brighter than the stairwell. She paused, noting the maze of hoarded possessions. On the other side of the room, the physician stood next to Mrs. Tenbrook. The goodwife sat on the edge of her bed wearing a shabby night shift. Her hair hung loose and uncombed, a wild gray nest. Her whole demeanor surprised Bianca, who had just seen the wom
an vindictive and full of rancor the day before.
“Goodwife Tenbrook, you are not well.”
The landlady’s rheumy eyes found Bianca. “Ye state the obvious,” she said in a raspy voice.
“She woke in the night unable to fill her lungs,” said Hughes. He placed a pillow against the wall and eased her back against it. “You must stay upright until your strength returns. It will keep the phlegm from pooling.” He searched in his medical satchel and removed a vial of tincture. “This will help clear your lungs. Tell me where to find a cup.” He glanced around at the cluttered interior.
Mrs. Tenbrook waved her arm at a cupboard. “Over there,” she croaked, resuming her previous pathetic voice. She squinted at Bianca. “So what are ye about?”
Bianca took a few steps but took care to stay back from the disagreeable old bit. “I came for the retorts Amice said I could have. The door to Ferris Stannum’s room is locked.”
“Pay me and I’ll unlock it for ye.”
Barnabas Hughes searched for a cup in the dark corner and lit a candle to better see.
“I promised the money to Amice.”
“Well, Amice isn’t here, is she? Ye came over from Southwark for nothing.”
Hughes pinched his mouth in distaste as he picked through the old woman’s cupboard. He found mouse droppings in abundance and moldy bread that should have been tossed out the window weeks ago. It was bad enough helping her onto her jordan and tasting her urine, but the squalor in which Mrs. Tenbrook lived was more than he could stomach. He found a cup and dumped out a desiccated moth, and just as he turned, his eye caught something of interest. He blinked and held the candle for a closer look.
“Perhaps you might tell me where to find Amice,” said Bianca.
“I might, but I won’t.” Undeterred by illness, Mrs. Tenbrook still generated enough strength to remain ornery.
Barnabas Hughes turned on the landlady. “Mrs. Tenbrook, tell the girl where to find Amice or I won’t give you the medicine.” His voice had enough edge that Mrs. Tenbrook momentarily shut her mouth, taken aback.
“No needs getting your willy in a dither,” she said. “Amice lives above the Royal Poke boozing ken. She lives there with her thieving husband.” She glared at Hughes.
“She is married?” asked Bianca.
“Much to her old man’s displeasure. Though it matters little now.”
“They did not end on happy terms,” added Hughes. He poured the tincture into the cup and added a few drops from a second vial. He handed the cup to Mrs. Tenbrook.
“Ye isn’t trying to poison me, is ye?” She sniffed the mixture and winced.
“I would not be so obvious.” Hughes packed his satchel as she downed her medicine.
“Meeting her yesterday, I would not have guessed she was married,” said Bianca.
“A girl her age should be settled and chasing after babies,” said Mrs. Tenbrook. “Instead, she is a tavern wench supporting her lazy baboon of a husband.”
“You should feel better by tomorrow,” said Hughes. “I shall return to check on your condition.” He bowed from his neck to Bianca, who pulled a stool next to Mrs. Tenbrook and sat.
Once the physician started down the stairs, Bianca pressed the landlady for specifics. “Tell me, Mrs. Tenbrook,” she said. “How long had Ferris Stannum and Amice been estranged?”
“I’d say a year. She rarely came round anymore. It was shocking to see her suddenly show up yesterday. Peculiar in that she picks the day her father dies to finally come calling.”
“Do you know why they were at odds?” Bianca asked.
Mrs. Tenbrook placed a fist on the bed and pushed herself into a more comfortable position. Her voice lost its raspy quality as she continued. “Amice took up with some rascal. Her father didn’t like him. Stannum wanted her to take a position in a home of gentry. But Amice fell for the rake the first she clapped eyes on him.” Mrs. Tenbrook smacked her parched lips and held out her cup to Bianca. “Would ye fetch me a drink?”
Bianca took the cup used for Mrs. Tenbrook’s tincture, noticing the strong scent of mint and the remains of the yellow syrup pooled on the bottom.
“I’ll have what’s in that cask,” said Mrs. Tenbrook, pointing.
“It is not the first time a daughter should marry against her father’s wishes,” said Bianca, setting aside the cup and ladling the brew into a bowl next to a small cask.
Mrs. Tenbrook took a sip of the flat ale. “Sometimes it matters more to a father when the daughter is his only child.”
Bianca supposed that might be true, but she had experienced little proof of it in her own life. Her father was too involved in his alchemy to concern himself with what she chose to do. She wondered if it would have been different if her brother had lived. Would he have garnered any interest from her father? Philip had been her twin, and while she had grown and thrived, he had died within a month of their birth. If her mother hadn’t told her, she never would have known she had a sibling. Perhaps Albern Goddard’s disinterest was just his nature. Maybe it was better he didn’t interfere with her affairs.
“So Amice did not visit often?”
“Bah, I never seen her.”
“But perhaps you were occupied and didn’t know when she came.”
“Oh, I knows all right,” said Mrs. Tenbrook. “Once she married, the two could never have a civil discourse between them.” Mrs. Tenbrook finished the ale and handed the empty bowl back to Bianca.
Bianca thought it a harsh judgment coming from the combative old biddy. “You heard arguing?”
“Enough to set the dogs barkin’ up and down the lane. I had to come down and tell them to pipes down for fear the neighbors would call the ward.” She rubbed her eyes with balled-up fists. “I don’t need any wards poking around my place.”
“Could you hear what they were arguing about?”
“Oh, sures. Mostly Stannum was displeased with Amice’s husband. And Amice said who was he to choose who she could love? The girl has her point. But then, when it comes to choosing lovers, we get the kind of love we think we deserve. Seems to me, the girl didn’t have a particularly high opinion of herself.” Mrs. Tenbrook tipped her chin to drink. “I’ll have another go of that.”
“There is no more,” said Bianca. The small barrel was not empty, but Bianca decided the woman had had enough.
Mrs. Tenbrook groused, trying to convince Bianca to fetch a fresh cask from the neighborhood ken. Eventually, the landlady relented and continued with her story. “There was the subject of a dowry,” she said.
Bianca listened with interest. Her own father had never bothered with a dowry. He spent every coin he had on alchemy and ingredients. She wondered what alchemist could provide for a daughter’s dowry. None, she thought.
“The stingy alchemist refused to pay a penny for her hand.”
“That does not surprise me. And if her betrothed was a spendthrift, then all the more reason to deny her a dowry.”
“Not done that way.” Mrs. Tenbrook yawned and snuggled back against her pillow. “Ye just don’t decide to ignore the old ways. Even if ye have nothin’, ye try to help in some way.”
“Even if the father should object to the betrothed?”
“She’s still his daughter.” Mrs. Tenbrook closed her eyes and waved her away. “Take your leave. I want to rest.”
Bianca thought it odd that Mrs. Tenbrook should come to Amice’s defense. After all the sniping yesterday, she would have thought the old woman would rile at the mention of Amice. Instead, she seemed to empathize with Stannum’s daughter. Perhaps Tenbrook saw herself in the girl.
Bianca stood motionless, studying her surroundings while Mrs. Tenbrook’s eyes were shut. Pails filled with kitchen waste needed to be emptied. Filthy bowls crowded her table. The floor rush was trampled and dusty, needing to be changed—Bianca would later trace the origin of several red welts on her legs to the flea-infested reeds. Mrs. Tenbrook had no desire to tend to her own accumulation of objects, onl
y those of others.
As Bianca made her way down the stairs to the floor below, she heard a sound from Ferris Stannum’s room. Perhaps it was Amice clearing the room, but what if it wasn’t? She crept down the remaining steps to the landing, cautiously tiptoed toward the door, and placed an ear against it.
The clatter of glassware and sudden shatter caused Bianca to try the door for a second time. It opened with no effort.
“Sir!” she exclaimed, catching the usurer fumbling with several alembics.
Tait straightened, reflexively hiding something behind his back.
“How did you get in here?”
“I walked in,” said Tait, defensively.
“The door was locked when I tried it.”
Tait’s eyes drifted away from Bianca’s. “Perhaps you were mistaken.”
“Sir, I know how to open a door. I am not mistaken.”
“I do not know what you are implying.”
“Have you a key to this room?”
“I do not,” said Tait. He gave Bianca an appraising once-over but did not offer an explanation.
“Why are you here?”
The lender studied Bianca’s face before answering. “I learned that Stannum died and I came to see if it was true.”
“Who told you he died?”
“His daughter.”
“You spoke with her?”
Tait stared at Bianca. “Are you a lawyer? Because I feel as if I am in court. Unless I am mistaken, I am standing in the home of a man who owes me a good deal of money.” The usurer stepped up to Bianca, purposely standing close enough to intimidate. But Bianca stood firm.
He continued, “Perhaps you are unaware of the service I provided Ferris Stannum.” Tait removed his blush velvet hat and wiped his brow with the inside of his sleeve. He returned the cap to his thinning pate, all the while studying Bianca carefully. “I have made it my life to lend money to men I deem worthy. Over the years, I have had some success in sniffing out talent.” His lips flicked in a brief grin. “Ferris Stannum had such potential. Perhaps he was the most gifted alchemist I ever met. So many are nothing more than pretenders. They surround themselves with gimcrack embellishments, like these strange . . .” Tait picked up an alembic and his brow furrowed as he looked at it.
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