“I most certainly could if they guess from the lightness of my voice that I’m not a man at all. No,” I decided. “I shall hold my tongue and not say a word. It’ll be much safer. I shall be quite content just to watch and listen.”
“I do not believe you’d be capable of that.”
I grinned. “What do they talk about?”
“Oh, there’s all manner of tattle and carping.”
We passed onto the great thoroughfare of Fleet Street, past the waxwork exhibition and the church of St. Dunstan’s-in-the-West, where the Great Fire had stopped short. I held on to my cap as a sudden gust of wind funneled down the street and threatened to expose my curls. We passed lawyers and countless taverns and then moved on to the goldsmiths and Temple Bar.
I almost lost my nerve when it came to going inside until James slipped his arm around my shoulders, as he might have done with any apprehensive young lad in his employ. I took a deep breath to calm myself and did just as he had told me, paid my penny and made my way with him, past the benches and tables, to the far corner of the clubroom.
The air was hot and thick with a fug of pipe smoke and the strong, bitter smell of coffee. Before I knew it I was sitting on a bench, pressed up against James with a steaming dish in my hand. A tall, richly dressed gentleman with a long, straight nose and glossy wig was holding forth with great verve to an attentive group on his belief, which stood opposed to most popular and much expert opinion, that fossils were actual remains of prehistoric life. He spoke in a mild Irish accent and had a very confident set to his shoulders for one so young. Most of those listening must have been twice as old as he was, but that didn’t seem to perturb him in the slightest.
I leaned in toward James’s ear, shielded my mouth with my hand. “Who ever is that?”
“Hans Sloane,” he told me. “Not yet twenty, training to be a physician. He’s the most ambitious young man you’re ever likely to meet. Has his sights set on becoming president of the Royal Society, no less. The older man to his right is the excellent John Ray. It’s to him that both Hans and I owe our love of natural history. He is too thin and eats far too little, but has the energy and enthusiasm of a man a third his age. You’d like him. He’s compiling an important global history of flora, from the specimens and descriptions Hans and I have collected for him.”
Between puffs on his clay pipe, John Ray was warning Hans Sloane not to leap to conclusions about fossils. “To be incautious is to plunge into mere speculation and enter the borderland between science and superstition,” he said patiently. Mr. Ray had a strong face, grave and inquiring, but with a touch of humor about his mouth. “We must be ruthless in our demand for accuracy of observation and in the testing of every new discovery. New knowledge is in its infancy and we must reserve judgment until the proof is compelling.”
James glanced at me and smiled. “A man after your own heart, in more ways than you know. He’s a minister by profession, barred from the pulpit for dissent. He cannot preach, but believes he pursues his calling by studying the works of the Lord.”
For a moment I saw my father sitting in John Ray’s place.
“A brilliant young naturalist friend of mine was questioning me about metamorphosis the other day,” James suddenly said to his friend John Ray. “I found I could not convince her that it is irrefutable.”
“Her?” Hans Sloane gave his friend a delighted, interested smile. I dipped my face to hide my hot cheeks.
“We have not yet sufficiently studied the subject and cannot venture on any rash pronouncement,” John Ray replied in more measured tones. “I do not wish to disappoint your intriguing friend, whoever she is, but you must tell her that the time for a full answer is not yet arrived. It might take generations of patient investigations before we reach a satisfactory conclusion. But for what it is worth, I myself do believe in butterfly metamorphosis. We see it happen in a different way with frogs, after all.”
“What is the use of butterflies, anyway?” a man called Nehemiah Grew asked.
“To delight our eyes and brighten the countryside like so many jewels,” John Ray replied. “To contemplate their exquisite beauty and variety is to experience the truest pleasure and to witness the art of God.”
I found I was smiling at Mr. Ray and he at me. I wished for all the world that I could shake off my disguise and talk openly to this wise old man.
“Tell me, young James,” John Ray inquired. “What has been occupying you lately?”
“I have been observing the characteristic marks that distinguish day-fliers from night-fliers,” James contributed, with his typical ease and unassuming friendliness. “I believe you are right, John. It seems to be clubbed antennae and whether or not wings are held erect or open when at rest.”
“And whether they are seen by moon or sun, of course,” Hans Sloane concluded.
“Ah, but some night-fliers are seen by day,” James added, to much general interest. It was clear he was liked as much as he was respected amongst them all, be they young or old, sophisticate or novice. It made me feel very privileged to be with him, to call him my friend.
The talk abruptly shifted to apple pips, a handful of which Hans Sloane had produced from his pocket. Then Mr. Ray talked about how his friend Willoughby had kept a tame flea on their travels in Venice. I did not catch all of what he was saying as I was distracted by other conversations going on around me. The general level of noise in the coffeehouse was extraordinary, but it didn’t take me long to tune my ear to the conversations of various sects, hotly debating contents of recent pamphlets and the news in the gazettes.
James wagged his elbow at me. “Drink up before it’s cold,” he whispered aside to me, indicating my full dish. “It’s good for you, cleanses the brain and fortifies the body.”
“I can believe it. These people are most certainly fortified with something.”
He laughed.
“Well now, Petiver,” Hans Sloane boomed. “Share your hilarity with the rest of us. And aren’t you going to introduce us to that little fellow beside you?”
If I could have slid into obscurity beneath the table, I would have done it. James cleared his throat. “My assistant, Isaac. He helps me with my butterflies.”
“Does he indeed? And were you talking about butterflies just now?”
“He’s not been in a coffeehouse before. He was giving me his impressions.”
Mr. Sloane turned his full attention on me, as if I was the most interesting person he’d ever met. “Well, lad, what do you make of it all?”
I felt my cheeks flame, but was thankful at least that hardly anyone else seemed to be listening.
“Come, come now, let the boy speak,” Mr. Sloane said in a raised voice. “It is, after all, the custom of the house to let every man begin his story and propose to answer another, as he thinks fit. ‘Speak that I may see you,’ does not the philosopher say? So let us see who we have here.”
My throat dried, as I felt all eyes turn to me. But then I felt James’s hand beneath the table slide across my knee, find my own hand and give it an encouraging squeeze.
“I believed I was coming to a coffeehouse but it seems I’ve stepped into a high court of justice,” I said. “It seems that here anyone in a camlet cloak can take it upon himself to reorder the affairs of church and state.”
Mr. Sloane hooted merrily and John Ray’s eyes twinkled at me kindly. “Your little assistant is both very erudite and observant,” he said. “I’m sure he’s a great asset and help to you in the observation of butterflies.”
“He is.” James still had a hold of my hand under the table, and he pressed it a little tighter. “I could not do without him.”
“YOU WERE VERY CONVINCING,” James said, after the session had ended with the customary prayers and we walked back out onto Fleet Street. It was dusk and still warm. “They were all taken in by you. Hans will probably try to poach you from me, he took you for such a bright little spark.”
“The sharpest wit would count for
nothing if they knew what was, or rather was not, hidden inside my breeches.”
“Slow down,” James protested. “Why are you walking so fast?”
“Because I’m angry. And my legs are buzzing like a beehive. My head too, for that matter.”
James chuckled. “Coffee does that to you, if you’re not used to it. Don’t be despondent, Eleanor. You did it. You outfoxed them all.”
I swung round to him with my hands on my hips. “And what exactly was the good of that? What happens to me now?”
“You keep on with your work.”
“It will count for nothing. None will care to know what I do. Just because my name is Eleanor, not Edward or some such. Because I am a woman.”
“That’s not true,” James said emphatically. “You are an outstanding naturalist and you should be recognized as such.”
“Oh, James . . .”
“I mean it. Already because of you I’ve learned there are butterflies living only on the marshes that disappear when that marshland is destroyed. That’s a valuable lesson. It shows us the importance of butterflies in telling us about the world we live in. They are like little barometers, foretelling change. If a butterfly disappears, we should take note. It could be of vital importance one day.”
We started walking again. “Do you honestly think so?”
“Any one of those gentlemen in that coffeehouse would think so. Any of the great scientists of the Royal Society itself would think so. Scientists living hundreds of years from now will think so. Rarities can never be conserved unless people like you discover as much as you can about them.” We carried on in silence for a while.
When he resumed talking, James told me, “Hans has a vision of building a great institution, bigger than Tradescant’s Ark, like a giant curio cabinet, housed in its own building, where thousands of artifacts and specimens can be displayed for all to see and study. He’s always telling me that he envisions my collections forming the bedrock of the insect cabinets. Think what it would be like to contribute to that great and lasting collection—the greatest natural history collection in Britain. There’s no reason why yours could not be a part of it, too.”
“That would be an amazing honor,” I conceded. “But I honestly didn’t start collecting butterflies with any mind to fame or immortality or even to science. I read that Christopher Wren and Isaac Newton were inspired to be involved in science and mathematics by the sight of a comet. For me it was the beauty and color of a golden butterfly.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being first drawn to something because you think it very beautiful,” James said quietly. “So long as you take the time to find out and appreciate its other virtues.”
“You forget the tulip fanciers who ransomed their fortunes and ruined themselves, all for the transitory beauty of a rare flower,” I said.
“Perhaps it was worth it,” James said. “The ancients went so far as to worship butterflies for their beauty. They believed that the fire goddess followed young warriors onto the battlefield and made love to them, holding a butterfly between her lips.”
Coming from any other man, it would have sounded like an overt flirtation, but James always seemed to be above that, his thoughts moving on the permanently higher plane of science and ideas. Our discussions had ranged over such arcane and wonderful topics in the past that we could speak of almost anything with complete ease. But when we had reached the door of the Burgeses’ house, I could not help but feel relieved that our conversation had reached a natural end.
“Would you like a cup of milk before you set off back?” I didn’t wait for James to answer but went straight to the jug on the table. I could hear Mary soothing one of the little ones who’d woken up, and John was no doubt in his closet, saying his prayers. I took off my hat and let down my hair, thinking how it would give my kind hosts the fright of their lives if they found a strange boy in their kitchen. Not that they would be unshocked to see me with my hair cascading over a waistcoat, all the way down to a pair of brown breeches! I was about to pour the milk when I saw a letter, propped against the jug and addressed to me.
“The writing’s much tidier than mine,” James said, peeping over my shoulder.
It was indeed precise, spare and bold. William Merrick’s writing. I unfolded it and read. It was a short letter, but it took a disproportionately long time for me to take in the contents.
“Is everything all right, Eleanor?” James touched my arm.
I looked up at him. “I have to return to Tickenham immediately. There’s been a flood, an early flood. The rivers have burst their banks. They didn’t get the cows off the moor in time and many have drowned. A boy from the village was washed away and lost his life trying to save them . . . trying to save his family’s livelihood.”
James looked down at the letter, as if he would read much more than was contained within it. “Tell me about your home, about the moor. I have traveled so little, I don’t even know exactly where it is.”
I refolded the letter, tossed my hair over my shoulder and finished pouring the milk. I handed him the cup and leaned back with my hands against the table. “It lies to the north of the Mendip hills, near to the coast and the Bristol Channel. In summer the land is so fertile it produces the best cattle in all of England. But in winter it is wet and marshy. We call it the moor but it’s really a low-lying expanse of peat, threaded with rivers. We are used to a regular onset of great autumn and winter floods that sweep in during October or November and remain until January, sometimes returning throughout February and March and early spring. You’d think it a strange spectacle to see people striding on stilts through the water, or a congregation forced to come to church in boats and carry their dead across the water to bury them. But that is life for us, has been life for us for generations.” I smiled. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you didn’t want to know all that.”
“You speak about it as if you love it very much.”
“In summer there is nowhere I would rather be, and even the floods bring their own mystery and magic.”
He drank some of the milk and waited for me to go on.
“The people of Somersetshire have waged a war against water for centuries,” I said. “I grew up hearing stories of the disastrous flood of the year sixteen hundred and seven, when a high tide met with land floods so violent that they overwhelmed everything built to withstand their force. Walls and banks were eaten through and the moor was inundated to a depth of twelve feet. The floodwaters were littered with pieces of bobbing timber and the floating corpses of dead cattle and goats. Whole villages were sunk right up to the tops of the trees, so it appeared as if they’d been built at the bottom of the sea.”
James was listening with rapt attention, as if I was weaving a fantastical story.
“So you see, we are used to floods,” I said. “But nobody expects them in September. Nobody is ready for them.”
“Isn’t it too late now? What can you do? Why must you go back?”
“I am their squire now. I do not know if I shall make a very good one, but I am all they have. These people are my family, James. The women kept me company when I was having my first baby. They will look to me.”
“But what can you do?”
I threw up my hands with a small shrug. “Have the kitchen cook up a vat of broth. Send out laborers and carts to mend any breach in the seawall. Take a bucket and start bailing. I shall not know where I am most needed until I am there.”
“Tickenham is blessed to have you.” He plopped my hat back on top of my curls. “You will make a most able little squire, I think.”
“I hope so. I shall do my very best.”
He handed the cup of milk to me, brought out his flask and poured a dash of whiskey into it. “If you are going to go, I shall have to give you your gift now.”
“My gift?”
He smiled. “I do know how you like gifts. I was saving it for New Year, but you must take it home with you now.” He hunted around in the pot cupboard. “Mary has
been keeping it safe for me. Now, where might she have hidden it?” He moved onto the settle, opened up the seat and peered inside. “Ah, here it is.”
I’d been expecting more butterfly wings, but instead he produced a large and intriguing wooden box. “James, whatever is it?”
He placed it in front of me on the table and stood back. “Open it and see.”
I took off the lid and brought it out, recognizing immediately what it was from the pictures I’d gazed at in the book my father had burned, fearing it might carry the plague to us. I lifted it out and set it on the table, a heavy instrument with polished brass knobs and glass lenses and dials. “A microscope.” I looked at James, but I couldn’t see him all that well, since my eyes were blurred with tears. “I’ve wanted one for years.”
He looked so happy, as if it was he who’d been given the most wonderful gift, not me. “It’s from Christopher Cock’s workshop in Long Acre,” he said. “One of the best instrument makers. By royal appointment.”
I put my eye against the eyepiece.
“You really need a lamp globe to help illuminate specimens properly. I was planning to bring mine over here for you to try, but you’ll work out how to get a satisfactory image using sunlight.”
“I don’t know what to say. How to thank you.” I looked at him, suddenly distraught. “But James, I don’t have anything to give you in return.”
“Yes you do,” he said. “You can give me a promise never again to say your work has no merit.” He took my hand in his, as if binding me to a pledge. “Promise me that you will never, ever give up your love of butterflies, and that is all the thanks I shall ever need.”
I saw the earnestness behind his smile. It was as if he was asking me to remain faithful to our friendship, since butterflies had always been the link between us.
“I swear it.”
“I will teach you how to use the microscope properly,” he said, “just as soon as you return to London.”
I DIDN’T GO UP to bed when James left. I placed a candle as near to the microscope as I dared. It had been sold with some prepared glass slides and I slipped one under the lens, peered down the eyepiece at it, but saw nothing at all. I needed James to show me how to use it. I needed him to help me see with clarity. Maybe I would come back to London soon, but for now the summer was over. Despite repeated adjustments to the knobs and dials, all I could see before me was darkness.
The Lady of the Butterflies Page 33