After placing a steaming mug on the table for him, she stood before him. Hands on her hips and her head shaking, she waited for him to finish his little speech. “’Tis bad enough we have the constable dropping by in the evenings for a bit of supper. I only abide him because he always has strange news to tell.” Sitting down, he looked at her hopefully. “Is it the constable?”
“No, it is Dr. Larimer!” Lach intervened before she could speak, placing the note before the printer. “He is the one who is calling on her. This morning at ten o’clock!”
“Hmmm,” the printer said, pulling out his pocket-watch. “Any moment then, I should think.” He turned to his apprentice. “Lach, go fetch some of the medical books that came to us. The good physician might be needful of an anatomy. Or even an Aristotle.”
Sure enough, a few minutes later, Lach had just laid a few medical books down on the table when they heard a sharp rap at the door. The physician entered.
Master Aubrey stepped forward, vigorously greeting the physician. Years of selling tracts made his voice boom, even when speaking in regular conversations. Lucy stood still, her hands clasped behind her back.
“Come sit down, good sir. Lucy will bring you something hot to drink.” Master Aubrey gestured to the table by the kitchen, just outside the workroom. “Lach, get back to work.”
As Lucy set the cups down, she asked after the woman. Or at least she tried to speak, but she could only manage a squeak.
“Lost your voice? Even Culpeper can be consulted for such a minor sickness, Lucy. What is it that that herbalist’s adherents all say? Every man his own doctor, and all that,” he said, a slight dismissiveness creeping into his voice. Most physicians were a bit skeptical of the “people’s doctor,” as they called Nicholas Culpeper, claiming him to be no more than a gardener who knew his roots and flowers. Still, in a pinch, his home remedies might be referred to for the most common of ailments. “Honey for the soreness, and chamomile to relax your vocal cords. A bit of garlic or ginger will clear it up.” Here he frowned at Master Aubrey. “This lass may be hurting her voice by all the shouting you have her do.”
“Is she my apprentice or not?” Aubrey growled.
Hastily, Lucy pushed a steaming cup toward Dr. Larimer. “The lady,” she managed to croak.
“How does she fare?” Dr. Larimer asked, interpreting her question correctly. “A difficult question indeed. She has mostly remained asleep. On the few occasions she awoke, neither I nor my housekeeper could get any more sensible words from her, beyond what she told us yesterday in your presence. Her memory of her identity is completely gone, as though someone took a bit of lye-soap to a dish and wiped the whole thing clean.”
“How can that be?” Master Aubrey asked, wiping the sweat off his own face with an ink-stained handkerchief.
The physician shook his head. “A rather odd thing, to be sure. I have seen several such cases, and usually with soldiers—men who had waged war in the most difficult of straits. There is no accounting for it, to be sure, but at times they believe they are still at battle, shrieking of cannonballs and wheel-locks, or believing they are under the barber-surgeon’s knife.”
Master Aubrey nodded, his jovial demeanor disappearing. “I know of what you speak. Some men were so broken in spirit and health by war that they seem to have lost something of their natural mind.” He looked back at Dr. Larimer. “And you think this lass suffers the same malady of war?”
“Not exactly,” the physician said. “But last night, she woke us all a number of times, with terrible sobbing that set us all on edge. I believe she is reliving an attack of some sort.”
Lucy thought of the blood on the woman’s hands, the clear disarray of her clothes, the bruising on her arms. She was afraid that the physician was right. She wondered if the woman had said anything more.
As if he were privy to her thoughts, Dr. Larimer continued. “It is quite clear, to be sure, that she is from a family of quality and breeding.” He took a slice of apple from the plate Lucy had laid before him and crunched it loudly.
Lucy nodded, stirring a bit of ginger and honey into her own cup. “What about Mr. Sheridan?” she asked. In her raspy voice, only parts of each word were audible. “Did you speak with him?”
The physician frowned. “Yes, I did press Mr. Sheridan. After some questioning, he gave me a name.”
“What did he say? Who did he say she was?” Aubrey asked.
The physician leaned forward and looked up at Master Aubrey, who nodded. A sudden conspiratorial silence fell over the group.
“He thought—and mind you, he was not sure—that she might be Octavia Belasysse.”
“Belasysse? As in—?” Master Aubrey asked.
“As in daughter of Lord Belasysse, most recently captain of the Gentlemen-at-Arms and governor of Tangier.”
A baron’s daughter. Lucy nodded. The woman’s manner was certainly that of a person used to ordering about servants and having her bidding done. That she might be a member of a noble family with political connections did not seem at all far-fetched.
“Would she be related to Henry Belasysse, member of Parliament?” Master Aubrey asked. “I remember that affair—” When Dr. Larimer coughed, Master Aubrey changed direction. “Why was she wandering about, then? Was she cast off?” Master Aubrey mused.
“Probably with child!” Lach chimed in from the table where he was just about to start composing a piece.
Master Aubrey threw a quoin at him. Nonchalantly, Lach picked it up from the floor and began to measure out the pamphlet.
“No, not with child,” Dr. Larimer replied. “Nor has she ever been in such a condition. Even if she were only in her first few weeks, there would be other signs.” He took a deep gulp of his hot drink and continued. “This brings us to the devilish predicament and why I am here. What to do with the lass. Mrs. Larimer and I are in agreement. We cannot throw her into the street—no matter that she plagues us with her shrieks. My oath precludes from causing her harm. Nor can I leave her at a local parish.”
“What about St. Bartholomew’s?” Master Aubrey asked.
Dr. Larimer shook his head. “The young woman is clearly from a family of quality. Such a place would not do. If she is indeed a Belasysse, well, it would behoove us all to see her carefully attended.”
“Quite so,” Master Aubrey said, still looking puzzled.
Lucy took another long sip of her drink. The honey was already soothing her throat, and when she gave a little cough, a bit of phlegm arose obediently, helping coat the scratchy parts.
The physician continued. “I thought to hire a nurse. On a temporary basis. Someone who could look after her for a short spell. At least as long as it takes to locate her family.” He looked up at Lucy. “Will you do it?”
Lucy was too startled to speak, but Master Aubrey was not. “Hire my apprentice? Out from under my nose? Sir!” His scandalized tone sounded real.
Dr. Larimer held up his hand. “Hear me out, my good man. For the next few days, no more than a week. Well, ten days at the most, I assure you. I would like to buy out Lucy’s service so you are suitably reimbursed for your loss of her labor. Clearly, with that voice, she cannot be out selling books right now anyway. To Lucy, I will provide a room and a small wage.” Turning back to Lucy, he named a sum. “This young woman needs another woman to care for her. I cannot ask my housekeeper to take on the extra responsibility, and my maid Molly”—he hesitated—“does not have the temperament to look after someone in such distress.” Lucy thought of how the maid had spoken in an unkind manner, and privately agreed.
“But why Lucy?” Master Aubrey asked. “Surely there are other women who could handle such a task?”
“I cannot hire a stranger to do this. I need it to be someone I trust, particularly if this young woman does turn out to be Octavia Belasysse. I will not be the one to bring scandal upon the baron’s home. Besides, for whatever reason, Lucy has had a calming effect on this woman.”
Dr. Larimer pre
ssed his thumb against the plate so that he could get the last crumbs of cheese. “I know that Lucy is well respected by the Hargraves, and I have seen her nursing skills myself.” He turned back to Lucy. “I know that you are a discreet and loyal companion. Indeed, I just need someone to sit by, make sure she eats and takes her medicine, and that her other needs are tended to. That she is taken out for walks, to revive her spirits, for I fear a deep melancholy will follow her present frenzy. Her sickness is of the mind, not of the body, so there is no chance that Lucy will grow sick from their increased acquaintance.”
Seeing Master Aubrey’s face, Lucy could tell he was undecided. She knew he did not like to turn down the request of a member of the gentry. She also knew that he was always unsure about how to deal with her, since she did not completely fit into the traditional role of an apprentice.
“May I speak to Master Aubrey for a moment, sir?” she whispered to the physician.
At his nod, she and Master Aubrey went back into the main workroom. He looked at her warily. “You are not going to start weeping, are you?”
She crossed her arms. “Certainly not.”
“Then what is it?”
“Remember I told you that there was blood on her hands and shift when I found her?” she asked her employer in a painful whisper. “Why do you suppose that was?”
Whatever he had expected her to say, this was certainly not it. “How in the name of God would I know that?” he asked.
“Well, I don’t know either!” Lucy replied. “But it is rather strange, do you not think so?”
“Well, yes, I suppose the circumstances of how you found her are all rather odd,” Master Aubrey replied. “Perhaps she was involved in a crime of some sort?”
Lucy nodded emphatically. Now he was catching on. “That’s what I was thinking. I think it would make for a good story, don’t you think?”
Seeing Master Aubrey’s expression grow speculative, she continued more hastily, “I could write a short piece. Maybe you could include it with a recent gallows speech?” It was commonplace for Master Aubrey to sell last dying speeches of criminals at the Tyburn Tree near Newgate prison. The bloodthirsty crowds who would gather for the hangings were always willing to purchase a penny piece while waiting for the executions to start.
“You think you can figure out what happened to her?” Master Aubrey asked, sounding both doubtful and hopeful at the same time.
Lucy shrugged. “I don’t know. But I’m determined to try,” she declared. “Of course, this means you have to let me attend to her.”
The printer began to stroke his chin, while Lucy grinned inwardly. She knew that the printer was always up for a good story, Belasysse family or not. “All right! You may attend to this woman.” He wagged his finger at her. “This true tale had better be worth it!” He called out to the physician, “All right, Lucy may tend to this beleaguered woman. But I need her back in one week’s time.”
5
Around one o’clock that same afternoon, Lucy followed Mrs. Hotchkiss up the stairs of the physician’s home, an old leather satchel clutched in her hands. The patient, it seemed, had been moved into a private bedchamber on the third floor.
“Moaning and lamenting, she was. Dr. Larimer thought that she would scare off all his patients,” Mrs. Hotchkiss said, pausing to look at Lucy over her shoulder. “Worse than a babe stricken with the sickness, the way she wailed. You would have thought we were torturing the poor girl, for all her fretting and crying. Kept me awake half the night, she did.”
Clearly, the housekeeper did not take kindly to seeing her orderly household turned upside down. “Only after she took some soup with a smattering of ale did she begin to quiet down. Just curled up in a ball, silent as could be.” She lowered her voice. “I have half a mind to call in the astrologer myself, if I did not think the master would throw me out on the street!” She guffawed when she looked at Lucy’s face. “Follow me, then.”
They entered the room. The young woman was lying in the bed, fast asleep, her rich black hair loosened about her face. It was still a bit wild, although it looked like someone had attempted to get a comb through her thick locks. “Your room is just beside hers,” Mrs. Hotchkiss whispered, whisking Lucy through a second door. “You may put your satchel there,” she said, pointing to a small table.
Lucy looked about. The room was finer than what she had had at Master Hargrave’s. There was even a small stack of kindling.
“This used to be the nurse’s room,” the housekeeper said, “and next door, where that miserable woman is lying, the nursery. We have not used these rooms in some time. I am on the other side of you,” she continued, “should you need me.” A bit of steel had entered her voice. It was clear that she did not expect Lucy to need her for anything. “Molly will be in at seven to bring you some water and take your pot.”
Lucy nodded as if she had not been doing those very duties herself for the Hargraves just a year before.
The housekeeper looked at her curiously. “Sitting with the woman is a bit of a dull task, is it not? Unless she wakes up, I think the time will pass by slowly.” She patted the Bible on the table. “The Good Book, of course, is here.” The housekeeper turned to go. “I will have Molly bring you a small bite to eat.”
“Thank you,” Lucy replied. Fortunately, the herbal mixtures she had been drinking for the past few hours had done much to relieve the soreness of her voice. She dared not speak any longer, for it still hurt her throat, but for now she could at least be understood again. Then, before the housekeeper left, Lucy asked, “Are there some other books I might read?”
“Other books?” Mrs. Hotchkiss looked taken aback. “That you might read? Whatever do you mean?”
Having seen the physician’s study the day before, Lucy knew Dr. Larimer possessed fairly far-reaching reading tastes. Her tone firmer, she said, “I think a bit of lighter fare to start. Something of the Bard, perchance?”
Mrs. Hotchkiss raised an eyebrow. “I shall have to confer with the physician, of course.”
After she left, Lucy opened the door to the sickroom. The woman was still sleeping deeply, though her cheeks were flushed. Pouring a bit of water into a small ceramic bowl, Lucy began to bathe the woman’s forehead, trying not to disturb her. She peeked inside the wardrobe and was surprised to see three dresses hanging there, one of which she remembered seeing Mistress Larimer wear in the past when she had dined with the Hargraves. Clearly, Mistress Larimer was not taking chances. If this woman was indeed a lost noblewoman, as Mr. Sheridan suspected, then Mistress Larimer would make sure that she was well dressed while recovering in their home. She would hardly have done such a thing for a pauper, of that Lucy was certain.
As she continued to move around the room, Lucy felt restless. In the drawer of the dressing table, she found a few combs and some dust balls but little else. Clearly, no one had resided in the room for some time. There was a trunk as well, and lifting the lid, she found a few spare blankets, an old kerchief to wear to bed, and some clean hand towels obviously meant for use alongside the pitcher and basin on the table.
Lucy peered out the window then, into Dr. Larimer’s courtyard far below. There was a large apple tree right outside and she could see tiny buds already starting to sprout. Soon the buds would grow into lovely pink and white blossoms along the great branches that stretched across and shaded the ground below. There was a small stone bench, where someone might go to do embroidery or sketch. What would it be like to own a fine home like this, she wondered.
She wandered back through the connecting door to her own chamber. The room was fairly similar in layout, though smaller, again with table, mirror, and Bible beside the bed.
Unused to sitting about idly, Lucy picked up the Bible and returned to the woman’s room, leaving the door between the rooms open. Taking the chair in the corner, she sat down with the Bible on her lap. After reading a few passages here and there, she set it aside.
She half wished the woman would wake up, s
o that she could ask her some more questions. But the woman continued to sleep, breathing deeply, making odd gulping and grunting sounds from time to time. Lucy watched the woman’s eyes move rapidly under her lids, and she could see her fingers begin to twitch.
Why did I bring nothing of my own to read? Lucy thought, sighing. Then she remembered Lach, looking unusually impish, tucking a tract of some sort into her satchel before she left. “Might come in handy,” he had said, and winked in a knowing way.
Passing back into her own room, she reopened her satchel and withdrew the piece Lach had given her. Glancing at the title, she groaned. The Daimonomageia: A small treatise of sicknesses and diseases from witchcraft, and supernatural causes. Hardly light reading, but it looked worth the effort.
Returning to her chair in the corner, she examined the tract. Written by a man named William Drage, it looked to be one of the ponderous tracts that Master Aubrey hardly ever tried to sell. Many of the words were beyond her, and slowly she worked out the difficult subtitle: Being useful to others beside physicians, in that it confutes atheistical and skeptical principles and imaginations.
At a cumbersome pace, Lucy began to read the tract, intrigued despite the difficult language. Drage mostly described how to help those who were afflicted by demons or otherwise touched by witchcraft. Hold the head of the be-witched over a pot of boiling herbs. When the fit approaches, be mindful of what might leap forth from the mouth of the afflicted.
Lucy frowned. Whatever could that mean? Fortunately, Drage explained in the next line: Master Gibbson of Hatborough cured a serving girl just so, and a mouse leapt forth of her mouth. Thus, the girl was absolutely freed of the demon. A deep glimpse into her eyes proved this to be so.
Lucy shuddered and continued to leaf through the long tract. Her eye was caught by another passage: All diseases that are caused by nature, may be caused by Witchcraft; but all that are caused by witchcraft, cannot be caused by nature.
A Death Along the River Fleet Page 4