A Cauldron of Secrets (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 2)

by Thomas K. Carpenter

  "Where is the powder?" he demanded, his grip surprisingly strong. "I need the powder."

  "Sir, away with you. Release my person," I spit out, trying to claw him back but succeeding in nothing.

  "The powder, you imposter, you must give it to me," he said, and something in his faint French accent tickled a memory.

  I cursed my decision to take the alley back to my abode, thus leaving myself open to being accosted by a lunatic. Stepping on his foot with my boot, I tried to lever him away from me. The old man had to be in his nineties, but he resisted me like a twenty-year-old.

  "You must be mistaken. I have nothing you need. Away from me, scoundrel," I said.

  "Scoundrel," he said, eyes twitching gleefully and mouth curling in asthmatic laughter, showing gray teeth and high gums. "You do remember me?"

  He released me from his grip. I stepped away and smoothed back the ruffled sleeve.

  "Not at all," I said.

  He stared at me, mouth moving in that perpetual chewing motion that afflicts the old.

  "Then you are an imposter," he said.

  "Imposter of whom?" I asked.

  He smacked his lips. "Princess Dashkova."

  I hesitated before answering, fearing some trick. "I might be. And who are you, good sir?"

  His hazy eyes regarded me as he swayed on his thin legs. The revolutionary coat hung on his meager frame. I felt I should have been able to knock him over with a puff of breath.

  "That you do not know my person, confirms my suspicion," he said, sounding disappointed, which only further confused me.

  We were far from the gentle gas lights, standing in a pool of dimness. I squinted and tried to recollect his identity.

  "You're an old man, is what you are," I said.

  He sighed as if his last breath was leaving his aged husk of a body. "Such is life," he said in French, turning away.

  Something awakened in my mind. "Voltaire?"

  He reacted as if he'd been shocked by one of Ben's Leyden jars. "Is this a guess?"

  "No," I said. "You are Voltaire, though I cannot understand what has happened. You are old."

  His gaze narrowed and he spoke, using his hand like a rapier as he made his points. "If you were Miss Dashkova, you would know why this age afflicts me. Since you must be an imposter, I will take my leave."

  I put a hand to my lips. "The powder," I said, recalling his first words to me. "You have none and now you are old. How long did it take? When did you last imbibe?"

  His face lit up like a spotlight, his hazy eyes sharpening. "Are you Miss Dashkova? You have powder? I need some. I came all this way to find more."

  The powder. It was a problem I had pushed out of my mind, having too many other concerns to deal with. "I am without even a grain."

  "Surely you lie?" he asked, almost tearing up. He seemed like a forgotten creature of the forest begging for scraps, rather than one of the greatest living poets and voices of the Enlightenment.

  "How long since you took some?" I asked.

  He looked in the darkness. "Not quite a year."

  "And when did you begin to age again?" I asked cautiously.

  He coughed into a handkerchief, dabbing the corners of his lips when he was finished. "A month ago. When was your last?"

  "Less than a year," I said, my voice trailing to nothing.

  I fell into a mood, feeling the world close in around me. Besides being an inventor and a political statesman, my mentor, Ben Franklin, was also an alchemical genius and had discovered a formula to extend life, even winding it backwards like a clock. Concerned about potential quasi-immortal beings, he'd shared this knowledge with only a select few. He called us the Transcendent Society, and I was a member, of sorts. Only Ben knew how to make the powder, and since he was missing, we'd run out of the substance that it took to maintain our youthful vigor. I was fifty-seven years old, but looked twenty years younger, a miracle of the powder.

  When I came out of my thoughts, Voltaire was staring. "Why have you not changed, turned older like me?" he said.

  "I haven't the foggiest," I answered. "I'm younger than you, and a woman, maybe it affects us differently. Maybe I'll start changing next week."

  "I think you're lying," he said, jabbing again with his imaginary rapier. "Either you have powder hidden away, or you're an imposter. You don't look like the Katerina I remember."

  He flicked away a strand of my dark hair from my shoulder with his pointed finger. I was about to answer when a sudden pain formed at my temples. I bent over, grimacing with the sharp sensation.

  When it was over, Voltaire had crossed his arms. "You're a competent actor, at best."

  "No," I said. "It is me. I swear it."

  "I think you know Ben is gone, or killed him, and have a stash of powder hidden. You were quite the thief in your time. I think you broke into his house and stole it. Maybe he caught you and you killed him."

  "I'm not a thief, or a murderer," I said.

  He produced an ivory handled flintlock pistol from the pocket of his coat and pointed it at me. "Ha! Then you are a liar. Katerina Dashkova was a thief, and a damn good one at that," he said, but before he could say another word, he fell into a bout of dreadful coughing that sounded like ribs were breaking at each heave.

  Rather than wait for him to recover, I burst away, thankful I was wearing men's attire rather than some tight-fitting corset that would have crushed my ribs at each step. He fired at my back. The street brick exploded next to my foot.

  The flintlock pistol would take time to reload, so I cut down the street right into the path of a steam carriage. The iron-wrapped wheel rushed at my person. I dodged backwards. The steel frame clipped my shoulder, sending me into a spin to land on the curb.

  My knee jammed into the cobblestones, sending a bolt of pain through my head. The steam carriage continued down the street as if it hadn't seen me. I marked the ebony horseless carriage in my memory and hurried on, in case Voltaire had reloaded and was in pursuit.

  I took a circuitous route back to my home on Baker Street, which had been Ben's home in his younger years. The door was keyless, with a brass punch-button design that had to be pushed in the right order to open. I entered the code, fell into the front room, and slammed the door behind me.

  Shuddering with breath, I hooked the hair that had escaped my ribbon and fallen into my face back behind my ear. My hands shook, though that was not the first time I'd ever been fired at.

  Damn that Voltaire. He'd never liked me much before, arguing for my exclusion to the Transcendent Society. Now he'd called me a thief and was convinced I'd performed bodily harm to Ben Franklin, the leader of our little group.

  I only hoped he didn't know the location of my home, though it wouldn't be hard to ascertain by asking around town. Avoiding that shot-happy poet would make getting those pamphlets completed even harder.

  Under my breath, I let loose a vitriolic string of curses in Russian. It was my favorite language to curse in, though French was a close second and more appropriate in polite company. When I was finished, I composed myself, smoothing the ripped sleeve on my coat. A warm bath would erase the jitters bouncing through my skin like beans in a shaken can. I blew out a cleansing breath and was preparing to strip off my work clothes when there came a knock on my door.

  Chapter Four

  A knock? He'd found me already?

  I dug into the bottom drawer of the nearby armoire, looking for my dueling pistol, only to find dust and a half-dozen springs that I'd tried to make jumping-boots with. I found the pistol, finally, beneath the divan in its hardwood box, and the whole time I was preparing it—loading the gunpowder, jamming the shot in, snapping the frizzen in place, and cocking the hammer—I was convinced the door would be kicked in, or the window smashed, and I would have to do battle in my front room with nothing more than a half-loaded pistol.

  The knock came again, knuckles against wood. This time I heard it more clearly. It was almost polite. Not at all the pounding with t
he meat of the fist I would have expected from that ruffian, Voltaire.

  Sliding to the window with my pistol held at the ready, I hooked the edge of the patchwork curtains back, trying to get a look at my caller. I spied a brown, ruffled, box pleat skirt outside my door, though not the woman inside it, since she stood too close to the building.

  I was content to let her leave, having had my fill of excitement for the day, but she knocked again. She seemed persistent enough that I would have to deal with her, so I placed the dueling pistol behind my back and unlocked the door.

  The woman standing at my threshold was nothing as I’d expected. She had flaxen hair, the kind of doey, green eyes that made men stupid, and a spectacular bosom contained within her expensive silken dress. She stared at me with her lips slightly parted, a touch of angst on her brow, waving a crimson oriental fan to clear away the air from her face. The slight ruffling of golden hair from the fan gave her an angelic quality.

  "Madam, how may I help you?" I asked.

  She held out her hand as if expecting me to kiss it. "Madam Carmontelle, my apologies for bothering you at your home."

  She had a sweet, wholesome American accent, the kind developed from being born in this new country: part aristocratic tenor with a can-do attitude that bubbled up through every word. It matched the scent of her perfume, which reminded me of a garden of exuberant flowers.

  I examined the street, taking care that Voltaire wasn't lurking in any corners. She eventually realized I wasn't going to kiss her hand and put it back against the ruffles of her skirt.

  "What is it that you wish?" I asked.

  "Morwen Hightower," she said, touching her chest as if I didn't know she meant herself. "I'm inquiring after a printer." Her eyes grew watery and she waved her fan faster. "No, I'm actually looking for my husband, but that's why I'm looking for a printer."

  "Looking for your husband? I don't know how I could help," I said.

  "I was hoping to make a pamphlet that might describe him, so that if he's found, I would know it." Her generous lips bunched up. "I realize in Philadelphia, such pamphlets are not in fashion, but in New York, where we came from, the streets are filled with pamphlets extolling the virtues of dandelion oil, or looking for more workers at the steam factory. I thought I could do the same here, since I don't know any other way to find him."

  Her fan had stopped, and her gaze drifted to the cobblestones. She was stilled by the admission of her lost husband.

  "Madam Hightower," I said.

  "Morwen," she said, correcting me.

  "Morwen," I said. "Why did you come to Philadelphia?"

  Her fan fluttered to life as if she were a butterfly shaking the dew off its wings. "The confectionary business is quite competitive in New York. We came to Philadelphia upon hearing that the shops here were small and not yet advanced in the arts of chocolate making."

  Her eyes flashed with remembrance and she dug into a pocket hidden on the front of her dress and handed me a miniature treat wrapped in decorative silk, contained by a tiny crimson bow.

  "It's a piece of our best chocolate. Go ahead and try it," she said with a smile.

  I weighed the treat in my hand as my stomach gurgled impolitely. I desired to rip open the bindings and devour the chocolate, which I'd developed a taste for in France, although I knew it wouldn't help my nerves. So I stepped around the door to set it on the oaken end table and used the opportunity to relieve myself of the loaded pistol.

  Rubbing the knot that had formed in my arm from holding the heavy weapon in an awkward position behind my back, I answered her, "Maybe later. For now, I am tired from a long day. And I'm afraid, as much as I could use the business, I cannot help you right now. There is no paper to be had in Philadelphia, and without it, I cannot make your pamphlets."

  The corners of Morwen's lips tugged downward and my heart beat with the desire to make her happy. It was a weakness of mine to help put things right. When my sovereign, Catherine the Great, had been belittled by the previous emperor, Peter the Third, I'd conspired to put her back at great risk to the lives of many people.

  She sighed, closed the fan in her hands, and tucked it into another pocket on her ruffled dress. "That's what the other printers told me as well." She gave a petite laugh, tinged with despair. "What a terrible irony that we came to Philadelphia to grow our fortune, only to find that we cannot spend the money we have made."

  She patted my shoulder as if she were older than I and consoling me. "If you should come upon materials for my pamphlets, please visit my shop, and let me know. I would pay handsomely for the privilege of your printer. I wish you a good evening, Madam Carmontelle."

  "Good evening to you, Madam Hightower," I said, and then remembering I didn't know the location of her shop called after her. "Where can I find your shop, should I need it?"

  "On White Horse Alley, near South Street," she said.

  I knew the place and nodded farewell, content that I could find her again. It seemed there was something about the location that stuck in my memory, but I set it aside. I had a bath waiting if I wanted it.

  With Morwen Hightower gone, I locked the door, then went into the cellar to start the water flowing up and into the bathing room. The cellar was dry as a bone, unlike most sublevels in the city, which were affected by the high water table and the surrounding rivers. It was also as cold as winter's breath, and I shivered despite myself.

  How Ben Franklin had achieved a perfectly dry cellar was a secret he had not shared, so grateful was I that he was letting me use his former home.

  In one corner of the room, a compact steam engine sat on a metal table, while on the other side was a table covered in jars, tubes, and beakers. I moved to the steam engine and filled the combustion chamber with fine coal dust, closed and sealed the door, and used the starter that worked much like my flintlock pistol. Normally, a steam engine in a closed space would be the death of its user, but Ben had designed the pipes and exhaust to flow outside.

  Once the flywheel started to turn, though laboriously at first, I turned my attention to the other pipes winding through the room. With a deft turn of the handle, I released the flow of water from the well outside to be pumped up into the bath in the room above. The heat from the steam engine would warm the water. These were the least of the miracles of the bath.

  The filling and heating of the bath would take time, and I resolved to stay and monitor the engine until its task was complete. As my hand dipped into my pocket on reflex alone, I was reminded of the certain object I had liberated from my first visitor of the day, Anne Bingham.

  It fit on the palm of my hand. I held it at eye level, knowing precisely what it was from my early years in Russia, and also knowing nothing about it at all. It was a duck egg. I'd cooked my fair share of them, the duck included, in my cottage west of Moscow after my husband had squandered our fortune gambling.

  Thinking upon those times reminded me that it had been too long since I'd received a letter from my son, Pavel. The absence of said letters worried me that he'd fallen out of favor with Emperor Paul, who had no love of me, and would use any excuse to punish Pavel as a proxy. It was a delicate balance for Pavel to be loyal to a new emperor while his mother was in exile.

  The egg, however, demanded more of my attention. I felt a faint vibration from it, as if it were buzzing with machinery inside. Holding it gave me a sense of unease, a slight pressure at the temples.

  Remembering that I'd had the same affliction in Ben's parlor, looking upon the cauldron, put a stone in my gut. These were not unknown quantities to my person, though I'd encountered few of them in this new country. That pressure at the temple, like the feeling of a storm front moving in directly over my head, making the flesh prickle with anticipation, was something I'd felt before in the old country, in the forests of Russia.

  I could have smashed the duck egg onto the stone floor, obliterating it into cream shell shards, thick yoke, and a yellowish goo that would have smeared across my hand. Part of
me wanted to, demanded that I smash it. Yet, I didn't.

  Why was Anne Bingham carrying a duck egg around in her front pocket? A woman like her—one who owned a parlor that Martha Washington visited, was married to the President of the Bank of North America, and was a Federalist who desired nothing less than to be the new royalty of America—why would she bother with a mere duck egg, unless it held some other meaning?

  The mystery of the duck egg seemed a more incomprehensible question than the cauldron and the dead man in Franklin's parlor. Thievery, I could understand. Strange contraptions were the warp and woof of that house. Together they were interesting, but a known quantity.

  Had Ben been here, I was certain he would have had some kernel of knowledge that would have illuminated the mystery, since his understanding of the supernatural was further along than my own.

  However, I was also certain down to my bones that the duck egg had some purpose that eluded me, and that I might hold the answer to my. But the trials of the day, the frustrations with the printing job, Warden Snyder's accusations, and Voltaire trying to fill me full of pistol shot, left me as drained as a barrel of whiskey on the Fourth of July.

  The soothing rush of water filling the tub in the bathing room seduced me to return upstairs. With a heavy sigh, I set the duck egg on the table. Before leaving, I unstoppered a beaker of lye, took out a homemade swab, and brushed a film of the acidic liquid onto the egg. Even that small amount of lye burned the inner skin of my nose and made my eyes water. I stopped the beaker and placed it back amongst my other materials.

  Tomorrow, after a good bath and a long night's sleep, I would continue my investigation. The mystery of the duck egg left me with an itch between my shoulder blades that I couldn't scratch, but at least I knew it wouldn't be hazardous to my health, unlike my growing debts, Anne Bingham's animosity, and the accusations of Warden Snyder that I had killed that thief or Ben Franklin.