by Sarah Penner
As I stood in the riverbed with Bachelor Alf, I considered the possibility that long ago, he also used to work an uninteresting desk job. Did he finally decide that life was too short to be miserable forty hours a week? Or maybe he was braver than that and bolder than me, and he’d turned his passion—mudlarking—into a career. I considered asking him, but before I had the chance, another member of the tour called him over to inspect a find.
I took the vial back from him and leaned forward, intending to put it back in its spot, but a sentimental, wistful part of me refused. I felt a strange connection with whomever last held the vial in their hands—an inherent kinship with the person whose fingerprints last impressed on the glass as mine did now. What tincture had they blended within this sky blue bottle? And who did they mean to help, to heal?
My eyes began to sting as I considered the odds of finding this object in the riverbed: a historical artifact, probably once belonging to a person of little significance, someone whose name wasn’t recorded in a textbook, but whose life was fascinating all the same. This was precisely what I found so enchanting about history: centuries might separate me from whomever last held the vial, but we shared in the exact sensation of its cool glass between our fingers. It felt as though the universe, in her strange and nonsensical way, meant to reach out to me, to remind me of the enthusiasm I once had for the trifling bits of bygone eras, if only I could look beneath the dirt that had accumulated over time.
It dawned on me then that since touching down at Heathrow this morning, I hadn’t cried once over James. And wasn’t that exactly why I ran off to London, anyway? To cut away, if only for a few minutes, the malignant mass of grief? I fled to London to breathe and that was damn well what I’d done, even if some of that time had been spent in a veritable mud pit.
I knew that keeping the vial was exactly what I should do. Not only because I felt a subtle attachment to whomever this vial once belonged, but because I’d found it on a mudlarking tour that wasn’t even part of the original, fated itinerary with James. I’d come to this riverbed alone. I’d stuck my hands into the muddy crevice of two rocks. I’d staved off tears. This glass object—delicate and yet still intact, somewhat like myself—was proof that I could be brave, adventurous, and do hard things on my own. I dropped the vial into my pocket.
The clouds above us continued to build, and lightning struck somewhere to the west of the bend in the river. Bachelor Alf called us over to him. “Sorry, folks,” he hollered, “but we can’t go on after a lightning strike. Let’s pack it up. We’ll be back out tomorrow, same time, if anyone wants to join again.”
Pulling off my gloves, I walked over to Bachelor Alf. Now that I’d grown somewhat accustomed to my surroundings, I couldn’t help a sense of disappointment about the tour ending early. After all, I’d just had my first real find, and I felt a growing curiosity and the urge to keep looking. I could see how such a pastime might become addictive.
“If you were me,” I asked Alf, “where would you go to learn more about the vial?” Even though it didn’t have the markings Alf expected on a typical apothecary vial, perhaps I could still glean some information about it—especially given the tiny animal etched onto the side, which I thought resembled a bear walking on all fours.
Giving me a warm smile, he shook off my gloves and threw them in a bucket with the others. “Oh, I suppose you could take it to a hobbyist or collector who studies glassmaking. Polishes and molds and techniques change over time, so perhaps someone could help you date it.”
I nodded my head, having not the slightest idea how to find a “hobbyist” glassmaker. “Do you think it’s from here, somewhere in London?” Earlier, I’d overheard Bachelor Alf telling another tour participant that Windsor Castle was about forty kilometers to the west. Who knew how far the vial had traveled, and from where?
He raised an eyebrow. “Without an address or any text to help us? Almost impossible to determine.” Above us, a roll of thunder warned. Bachelor Alf hesitated, torn between wanting to help an inquisitive novice like myself and keeping us both dry—and safe. “Look,” he said. “Try headin’ over to the British Library and ask for Gaynor at the Maps desk. You can tell her I sent you.” He checked his watch. “Not open much longer today, so you best get moving. Take the Underground, Thameslink to St. Pancras. It’ll be fastest—and driest. Plus, it’s not a bad place to wait out a storm.”
I thanked him and hurried off, hoping I still had a few minutes left before the storm let loose. I pulled out my phone, sighed in relief that the station was only a few blocks away, and resigned myself to the fact that if I’d be spending ten days alone in the city, it was due time to learn how to use the Underground trains.
* * *
Leaving the train station amid a downpour, I spotted the British Library just ahead. I started jogging, tugging at my collar in a futile attempt to air out the inside of my shirt. And to make matters worse, my shoe—which had filled with water when I stepped in the puddle along the river—remained soaked through. When I finally stepped into the library, I took one look at my reflection in the window and sighed, fearing that Gaynor may send me away on account of my disheveled appearance.
Pedestrians, tourists and students filled the foyer of the library, all of us taking shelter from the rain. And yet, I felt like the only one without a real reason to be there. Whereas many others carried backpacks and cameras, I’d arrived with only a piece of unidentified glass in my pocket and the first name of someone who may or may not be an actual employee. For a moment, I considered the idea of throwing in the towel; maybe it was time to find a sandwich and plan a real itinerary.
The moment this thought crossed my mind, I shook my head. That sounded exactly like something James would say. As rain continued to batter the glass windows of the library, I willed myself to ignore this voice of reason—the same one that had told me to rip up my Cambridge application and encouraged me to take a job at the family farm. Instead, I asked myself what the old Caroline would do—the Caroline of a decade ago, the zealous student not yet dazzled by a diamond on her finger.
I stepped toward the staircase where a group of wide-eyed tourists milled about, a brochure spread wide in front of them and umbrella bags scattered at their feet. Near the staircase was a desk with a young female attendant; I approached her, relieved when she showed no dismay at my wet, unkempt clothes.
I told her that I needed to speak with Gaynor, but the attendant chuckled. “We have more than a thousand employees,” she said. “Do you know which department she works in?”
“Maps,” I said, at once feeling slightly more legitimate than I did a moment ago. The attendant checked her computer, nodded her head and confirmed that a Gaynor Baymont worked at the Enquiry Desk, Maps Reading Room, Third Floor. She pointed me to the elevators.
A few minutes later, I stood at the Enquiry Desk in the Maps Room, watching as an attractive thirtysomething woman with wavy auburn hair leaned over a black-and-white map with a magnifying glass in one hand and a pencil in the other, her brow twisted in deep concentration. After a minute or two, she stood to stretch her back, startling when she saw me.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I whispered in the near-silent room. “I’m looking for Gaynor?”
Her eyes met mine and she smiled. “You came to the right place. I’m Gaynor.” She set down the magnifying glass and brushed aside a loose hair. “How can I help you?”
Now that I stood in front of her, my request seemed ridiculous. Clearly, the map in front of her—a haphazard mess of tangled lines and minuscule labels—was an important point of research for her at the moment. “I can come back,” I offered, halfway hoping she would seize the idea, send me off and thereby force me to do something more productive with this day.
“Oh, don’t be silly. This map is a hundred and fifty years old. Nothing’s going to change in the next five minutes.”
I reached into my pocket, draw
ing a confused look from Gaynor: she was probably more accustomed to students hauling in long tubes of parchment rather than rain-soaked women reaching for small objects in their pocket. “I found this a bit ago at the river. I was mudlarking with a group—led by someone named Alf—and he told me to come see you. Do you know him?”
Gaynor grinned widely. “He’s my dad, actually.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, drawing an irritated look from a nearby patron. How sneaky of Bachelor Alf to not tell me. “Well, there’s a small image on the side here—” I pointed “—and it’s the only marking on the vial. I think it’s a bear. I couldn’t help but wonder where it might have come from.”
She tilted her head, curious. “Most people would have no interest in such a thing.” Gaynor extended her palm, and I handed her the vial. “You must be a historian, or a researcher?”
I smiled. “Not professionally, no. But I do have some interest in history.”
Gaynor glanced up at me. “We’re kindred spirits. I see all sorts of maps at my job, but the old, obscure ones are my favorite. Always a bit of room for interpretation, as places evolve quite a bit over time.”
Places and people, I thought to myself. I could feel the change in myself at this very moment: the discontent within me seizing the possibility of adventure, an excursion into my long-lost enthusiasm for eras past.
Gaynor lifted the vial to the light. “I’ve seen a few antiquated vials like this, though normally they’re a bit larger. I always thought them rather off-putting, as you don’t really know what was once inside. Blood or arsenic, I imagined as a child.” She looked more closely at the etching, running her finger over the miniature animal. “It does look like a little bear. Strange there are no other markings, but safe to say it probably belonged to a shop owner at one time, likely an apothecary.” She sighed, handing the vial back to me. “My dad has a heart of gold, but I don’t know why he sent you to me. I really have no idea what this vial is, or where it’s from.” She looked back down at the map in front of her, a gentle way to tell me that our short conversation was over.
It was a dead end, and my face fell as disappointment crept in. I thanked Gaynor for her time, pocketed the vial and stepped away from the desk. But as I turned, she called out after me. “Pardon, miss, I didn’t catch your name?”
“Caroline. Caroline Parcewell.”
“Are you visiting from the States?”
I smiled. “My accent gives me away, I’m sure. Yes, I’m visiting.”
Gaynor picked up a pen and leaned over her map. “Well, Caroline, if there’s anything else I can help with, or if you learn something about the vial, I’d love to know.”
“Of course,” I said, then I pocketed the vial. Somewhat discouraged, I resolved to forget the object and the mudlarking adventure altogether. I didn’t much believe in the fate of finding things, anyway.
7
Eliza
February 5, 1791
I woke to a pain in my belly unlike any I had felt before. I placed my hands underneath my night shift and pressed my fingers into my skin. Beneath them, my skin felt warm and swollen, and I clenched my teeth as a dull ache began to spread itself wide.
It was not the same bellyache I might have had after too many sweets, or after spinning ’round in the summer garden with the fireflies back home. This ache was lower, like I needed to relieve myself. I rushed over to my chamber pot, but the heaviness still did not go away.
Oh, but what an important task lay ahead of me! The most important one my mistress had ever given me. It was more important than any dish I had scoured, or pudding I had baked, or envelope I had sealed. I could not disappoint her by saying I did not feel well and would like to stay in bed. Those excuses might have worked on the farm with my parents on a day when the horses needed brushing or the beans were ready to be plucked from their stalks. But not today, not in the towering brick house belonging to the Amwells.
Wiggling out of my night shift and walking to the washbasin, I resolved to ignore the discomfort. As I washed, as I tidied my garret room and as I stroked the nameless fat tabby cat who slept at the end of my cot, I whispered quietly to myself, as though saying it aloud made it more believable: “This morning, I will give him the poisonous eggs.”
The eggs. They remained nestled in the jar of ash, tucked into the pocket of my gown hanging near the bed. I removed the jar and pulled it to my chest, the coolness of the glass reaching me even through my nightgown. As I clutched the jar more tightly, my hands did not shake, not one bit.
I was a brave girl, at least about some things.
* * *
Two years ago at the age of ten, I rode with my mother from our small village of Swindon to the great, sprawling city of London. I had never been to London and had heard only rumors of its filth and its wealth. “An inhospitable place for people like us,” my father, a farmer, had always muttered.
But my mother disagreed. Privately, she would tell me of London’s bright colors—the golden steeples of the churches, the peacock blues of the gowns—and of the many peculiar shops and stores in the city. She described exotic animals wearing waistcoats, their handlers ushering them through the city streets, and market stands selling hot almond-cherry buns to a line of customers three dozen deep.
For a girl like me, surrounded by livestock and wild shrubs bearing little more than bitter fruit, such a place was unthinkable.
With four older brothers to help on the farm, my mother had insisted on finding a placement for me in London once I reached the proper age. She knew if I did not leave the countryside at a tender age, I would never see a life outside the pastures and pigpens. My parents had argued about it for months, but my mother would not relent, not even a bit.
The morning of my departure was a tearful, tense one. My father hated to lose two good hands on the farm; my mother hated the separation from her youngest child. “I feel as though I’m slicing off a piece of my heart,” she sobbed, smoothing out the lap quilt she’d just placed into my case. “But I will not let it doom you to a life like mine.”
Our destination was the servant’s registry office. As we rode into town, my mother leaned close, the sadness in her voice now replaced with exhilaration. “You must begin where life has slotted you,” she said, gripping my knee, “and move upward from there. There is nothing wrong with starting as a scullery maid or housemaid. Besides, London is a magickal place.”
“What do you mean by magickal, mother?” I’d asked, my eyes wide as the city began to come into view. The day was clear and blue; already, I imagined the calluses on my hands growing smaller.
“I mean that you can be anything you want in London,” she replied. “Nothing great awaits you in the farm fields. The fences would have kept you in, as they do the pigs and as they’ve done to me. But in London? Well, in time, if you are clever about it, you can wield your own power like a magician. In a city so grand, even a poor girl can transform into whatever she desires to be.”
“Like an indigo butterfly,” I said, thinking of the glassy cocoons I’d seen in the moorland during summer. In a matter of days, the cocoons would turn black as soot, as if the animal inside had shriveled up to die. But then, the darkness would lift, revealing the butterfly’s striking blue wings within the papery encasement. Soon after, the wings would pierce the cocoon, and the butterfly would take flight.
“Yes, like a butterfly,” my mother agreed. “Even powerful men cannot explain what happens inside a cocoon. It is magick, surely, just like that which happens inside London.”
From that moment forward, I desired to know more of this thing called magick, and I could hardly wait to explore the city in which we’d just arrived.
At the servant’s registry office, my mother stood patiently aside while a pair of women looked me over; one of them was Mrs. Amwell, in a pink satin gown and a cap bordered with lace. I could hardly keep from staring: I had never in
all my life seen a pink satin gown.
Mrs. Amwell seemed to take an instant liking to me. She bent forward to speak to me, crouching low so our faces almost touched, and soon after she placed her arm around my mother, whose eyes were brimming again with tears. I was delighted when Mrs. Amwell finally took my hand in hers, walked me to the broad mahogany desk at the front of the office and asked the attendant for the papers.
As she filled in the required information, I noticed that Mrs. Amwell’s hand shook badly as she wrote, and it seemed a great effort to keep the nib of the pen steady. Her words were jagged and bent at odd angles, but it meant little to me. I had been unable to read in those days, and all handwriting looked as illegible as the next.
After a tearful goodbye with my mother, my new mistress and I took a coach to the house she shared with Mr. Amwell, her husband. I was to work first in the scullery, and so Mrs. Amwell introduced me to Sally, the cook and kitchenmaid.
In the weeks to follow, Sally minced no words: according to her, I did not know the proper way to scour a pot or how to pick roots from a potato without damaging the flesh. As she showed me the “right” way of doing things, I put up no complaint, for I enjoyed my placement with the Amwells. I had my own room in the attic, which was more than my mother had told me to expect, and from there I could watch the amusing, ever-present activity on the street below: the sedan chairs rushing past, the porters bearing enormous boxes of unseen goods, the comings and goings of a young couple who I believed newly in love.
Eventually, Sally grew comfortable with my abilities and began allowing me to assist in the preparation of meals. It felt a small movement upward, just as my mother had said, and it gave me hope; someday, I, too, hoped to be toiling about in the magnificent streets of London, in pursuit of something greater than potatoes and pots.