by M C Dulac
“Joe has so many flowers. Lydia takes me to the market in the morning sometimes,” Rosie clambered onto a stool, staring intently at the blooms. “I like these ones. Cornflowers are my favourite, but it is not the season now.”
“You know all their names,” Elise smiled. “Do you go to the gardens?”
“I’ve never seen flowers grow in a garden,” Rosie said. “Only in the buckets at the market.”
“I have a garden on the river. One day I will take you. There are beautiful flowerbeds and a woodland nearby, where the wildflowers grow.”
“Wildflowers?”
“Finding a flower in the forest is the most wonderful thing. You have to go at just the right time of day and you have to be very patient.”
“Please take me, Miss.”
“I will Rosie. One day,” Elise smiled, although a bitter sadness suddenly filled her throat.
As she walked through the streets to meet Ed, she realised there would be no coming home, no more evenings by the river, no more collecting petals at sunrise or wandering in the woods. The world she had ignored for so long had found her and treated her as a fugitive and an outcast. Her dream had gone, like morning mist. A different, uncertain future lay ahead. Her fear came up from the shuddering streets and through her aching bones.
Then in the crowd of strangers, she saw Ed.
“You look like a flower girl,” he declared.
“This is my oldest cloak from Paris,” Elise said. “My other one got wet. And you are wearing a different coat today too.”
“I borrowed it from Jack. No one will recognise us, which is good because we’ll be going back into Wyatt’s territory.”
“We are?” Elise said, keeping up with Ed as he strode along the street.
“You were right about the drawing, Miss. I found there is one English family whose crest has a sword and an elm leaf. The Haddens from Wiltshire.”
“Wiltshire is in the country.”
“Yes, but the Hadden family has a townhouse in the West End. And the old Lord, who died last year, had an extensive library.”
“Maybe the book is there. But how shall we find the house?”
“I’ll tell you,” Ed opened the door of the coffee house for her.
They settled into the booth by the grimy window.
“Well, last night, I was having dinner with Jack down the pub and I asked him if he’d ever heard of Lord Hadden. Didn’t tell him why I was asking. The way that wily old fox Wyatt gets around, I fear his men are everywhere. Turns out the new Lord is a great gambler, and Jack has driven him home several times. He knows just the house. It’s in Belgravia, south of Knightsbridge.”
“That’s near Madame Rochelle’s house.”
“That’s right. Wyatt has friends all over the place there. So we better keep our heads down. Also Jack thought Christabel was worn out by the trip to Hampstead yesterday, so he can’t lend us a carriage. We’ll have to walk today.”
Elise nodded brightly. After all the help Ed had given her, she could not tell him about her fever. They finished their coffee. As they began their walk, her spirits lifted at the thought of finding the book.
It took an hour to reach the West End. They stopped at another coffee cart on the way for bread and butter, but the food did little to fill her stomach. They walked along Pall Mall and passed the imposing Buckingham Palace. Going further they reached an area of wide streets.
Elise felt a wave of fatigue as she looked at the rows of identical townhouses.
“There’s a lot of houses,” Ed said, his words matching her mood. “But Jack said it’s just off Grosvenor Crescent.”
They walked on for another half hour, took a few wrong turns and finally came to an elegant square.
“That must be it,” Ed said.
A grand townhouse faced the square. The windows were shiny and the railings painted black.
“I’m not sure how we are going to get inside.” Ed rubbed his chin.
The achievement of finding the house was quickly deflated by the problem of what to do next. After a few minutes, a servant came up from the basement and began to polish the door.
“I’ve got an idea,” Ed said, and strode across the street.
“Is this Lord Hadden’s residence?” she heard him say.
The servant gave Ed a supercilious stare. “Yes it is.”
“Is his lordship at home?”
“He’s in the country at the moment,” the servant’s eyes seemed to want to move Ed away.
Ed’s face fell. He put his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels, as if unsure what to do next.
“The servants’ entrance is down there. But there are no situations vacant in the household, if that is what you are seeking,” the servant said without looking up. He concentrated on the doorknob and then added. “I must ask you to please move along.”
Ed sighed and nodded. He glanced curiously at the windows. Elise’s heart sank. They had found the right place, but they had no way of getting inside.
Suddenly the door to the house flung open and a portly man strode down the steps.
The colour drained from Ed’s face. The gentleman was staring at him.
“You’re Wyatt’s servant aren’t you?” the man boomed.
Ed nodded without speaking.
“He said you’d be coming.”
“He did?”
“You want to look in the library don’t you?” the man adjusted his gloves. “Off the hall. Don’t know why Barnabas thinks my brother has this book. He barely reads.”
“Book?”
“Barnabas said you are looking for a book. Go on then.”
Ed walked up the steps slowly. The manservant beckoned to a horse and carriage that was trotting along the street. Several more servants ran out to help the gentleman into the carriage. Lord Hadden’s brother settled inside and the carriage lurched off.
Ed disappeared through the front door. Elise walked along the edge of the square. A clock struck the half hour. Another carriage came down the street and a man alighted.
Barnabas Wyatt’s real servant could appear at any time. Her heart raced and her temples pulsed. Her palms were damp. Her knees were weak and the fever swept over her. Each second was agony. She folded her fingers over and over.
Then Ed appeared at the front door. The manservant glared at him.
“The servants’ entrance is down there,” he repeated, obviously offended that Ed had been allowed to enter and leave by the front door.
Ed nodded, skipping quickly down the front steps. The servant turned and watched him and then his eyes fell on Elise. His brows knitted.
“Excuse me,” the manservant called out. “I said, excuse me. What was your name? And who are you, young woman?”
Ed was about to join Elise, but changed his path suddenly as though the manservant’s eyes were arrows aiming for his neck.
Elise began to walk fast. Ed was walking on the other side of the street. The servant called again but his words were drained out by the blood pounding in her ears and the banging of her heart.
Elise and Ed darted through the squares, like two sparrows in formation. She wanted to run, but did not want to attract attention. Instead she sped as fast as she could, covering the ground in anxious strides.
The treetops of Hyde Park appeared. Elise glanced behind her, imagining angry servants and policemen and even Wyatt himself in pursuit, but the street was calm.
Ed had entered the Park. He tilted his head and she followed him along a shady path.
The branches concealed them as they sat on a bench. They waited for a moment to ensure they were alone.
“Did you find anything?” Elise whispered.
Ed ran his hand through his thick hair. He turned to her and raised his brows.
“Did you see the book?” Elise asked, her mind racing with thousands of possibilities.
Ed was breathing fast.
“Did you leave it behind?” Elise’s eyes widened.
/>
A proud grin spread over his handsome features.
“His Lordship had quite a collection of books, but I think this is what you are looking for,” he said, as he drew a green book from under his coat.
Chapter Eighteen
Elise ran her hand over the green silk cover. Her skin tingled. She opened the book slowly and saw familiar handwriting.
“This is Albert Price’s book,” she said.
Her heart raced and her spirit soared. She was heady and dizzy and alert all at once. There were many sketches and illustrations and notes in Price’s meticulous writing. In this book he wrote leisurely, unhurried and calm. This was the notebook of a young alchemist, someone discovering the secrets for the first time. Someone trusting enough to write down his thoughts and observations and record his own journey. Here were the answers to the questions that had intrigued her for the last twenty years. There were things she had never known, but which all made sense. She had forged her own path and made her own mistakes. She had to know what she was seeking before she worthy of knowing the answers. And here was what she wanted to know, set out like a wise teacher to an eager student.
“It’s a curious book,” Ed said.
“It’s a very curious book.”
It was the conversation she always wanted to have. Albert Price’s kindly words reached her across the centuries. The pages warmed her heart, taking away the morning chill. No wonder Price never destroyed this book. It contained his happiness and enthusiasm. It was safer to keep it apart from his other possessions. He could not let his enemies capture him and his secrets. And the book had been kept safe through a strange mixture of fate and coincidence.
Ed stared ahead, reliving his adventure in Lord Hadden’s house.
“When I entered that room, my heart sank, because there were so many books, more than in Mr. Jasper’s library. The servants were coming and going and I was certain I was done for. I had no idea where to start. So I stood there and listened. It was almost as though the book sung out to me,” Ed’s eyes gleamed. “Which is very strange, because books can’t sing. Except maybe if they are trying to find their rightful owner. So I followed the song and found it waiting on the top shelf, wedged between other books. You’d never know it was there.”
“It is a humble book.”
“You speak like it is a person. This alchemy is an odd business. But at least I’ve returned the book to the right person.”
“You have. We have completed our quest.”
“It was a quest, wasn’t it? It’s been quite a ride since I found those letters in Bingham Manor,” Ed rubbed his face. “And that book has had quite a life too.”
Elise traced her fingers over the pages. The words looped before her and beckoned her on, page by page.
Time stood still. The birdsong faded and even Ed’s words faded away. She was transfixed by Albert Price’s writing.
The sun was shifting in the sky but all she wanted to do was keep reading.
“Miss, it’s getting chilly and we have been here a long time,” Ed was saying. “Even though I was Wyatt’s servant up until two nights ago, I don’t want to be arrested for impersonation. Wyatt is always around this part of town, visiting his fancy friends.”
“Of course,” she said, blinking.
“Shall I carry the book for you?”
“No, I’ll keep it with me.”
“Come on then, let’s be on our way.”
Elise clutched the book under her cloak as they walked across Mayfair, along Pall Mall and then onto the bustle of Fleet Street.
Her head throbbed. The excitement of finding the book had made her spirits soar, but now her body ached as the fever raced up and down her limbs.
The fever gripped her tightly and the world began to sway. Ed looked at her with concern, but there was no quicker route. He tried to wave down a hackney cab and then an omnibus, but none stopped nearby. At last they reached Cramley Court.
“You don’t look well, Miss,” Ed said, helping her to the front door.
“She’s got a fever,” Elise heard Mrs. Bell say. “Not another invalid.”
Elise caught her reflection in the looking glass in the parlour. There were circles under her eyes. The fever had taken hold but the elixir was fading too. The gentle particles that kept her alive were breaking down. She was aware Georgia was standing in the doorway. Georgia was much healthier now, she observed with relief.
“I’ll get some broth,” Georgia said.
“Best carry her upstairs.”
Elise struggled to keep her eyes open. Ed was carrying her up the staircase. Rosie was nearby and Georgia and Mrs. Bell’s voices were behind her.
Ed lay her down on her bed. She saw him place the book on the chair in the corner and cover it with a cloak. She heard someone say ‘doctor’ and she tried to murmur ‘no’. The shadows were closing in. She felt herself slipping away into darkness and did not resist.
She woke some time later. All was dark. A candle had burnt to the wick, swimming in a pool of tallow.
A tiny pale face stood in the doorway. For a moment she thought she was back in the convent in France among the orphans.
“Reveille,” she murmured. “I have come home at last.”
But the pale face was Rosie’s. The child crept forward. “Mama thinks you might die.”
“I may be dying,” Elise tried to raise her hand. “My time has come.”
“I don’t want you to die. Mama says I can’t come closer because I might catch your fever.”
“Listen to your mama.”
“I want to help you. Can I get tea?”
“Not tea. But,” Elise’s eyes flickered. “Rosemary and hawthorn.”
“Flowers!”
“And morning-kiss and rose petals,” Elise’s voice was far outside of her. She closed her eyelids and thought of the garden in Little Bingham. She imagined herself wandering the lawn with her basket. She saw the flowerbeds and the green grass and the meadows of hay and the sun rising above the trees.
“Mineral salt from Carpathia. Rose petals picked at dawn,” she murmured.
“Is that all?” Rosie whispered. She had reached the foot of Elise’s bed.
“Red rose petals.”
When Elise opened her eyes again, Rosie had gone. Maybe she had dreamt her presence. The room was distorted in the shadows. Was the sun rising? No, the yellow light was cast by the lamps in the courtyard. There were voices in the hall. Ed and Georgia. The word ‘doctor’ again.
“No doctor can help me,” Elise murmured, turning her head.
The word ‘dying’. Elise closed her eyes, nodding to herself.
The book was peeking out from under her cloak. She must tell Ed to look after it.
The shadows were surrounding her again. She slipped into a sleep that may have lasted a minute or an hour. When she woke, her brow was hot and her limbs clammy. By her side was a bunch of flowers.
She propped herself up on her elbows. The room was spinning and she breathed deeply to steady herself. She blinked several times.
There were flowers on the windowsill and others on the table. Rosie stood by the window with a huge smile on her face.
“Got them!” she beamed with pride.
“The flowers? How -”
“Lydia’s friend, Sally, sells rosemary on the embankment and Sally’s mum sells salts and herbs near Covent Garden. I got the rose from a man at the market. I told him it was very important.”
“It is nighttime. How could you go out in the dark?”
“It’s all right, Miss. I went out the back door and they never saw me.”
Elise sank into the pillow. Her life force was almost gone. She stared at the ceiling and breathed slowly. Each breath was a huge effort.
“You said they’d make you better, Miss Elise,” Rosie’s voice drew her back.
Elise turned her head. How could she tell a child that the elixir of life had to be prepared in a certain way; that the flowers had to be gathered at the
right time, that it depended on the time of the day and the position of the moon. That it was a secret passed from alchemist to alchemist, and had its origins in the mists of time and ancient cities?
How could she create an elixir from these poor wilted flowers, gathered at the end of the day in a gritty city, cut in fields far away to adorn the tables of rich people? Where was she to find the pure water to mix the ground up petals, and how could she compress the process into the next few hours?
“Please, Miss,” Rosie said. She was holding the rosemary in her tiny hand, and her eyes glistened with tears.
Rosie should not be in the sick room. To see death at such a young age wasn’t right. Elise imagined how frightening she must appear to the child. The adults were downstairs, believing Rosie was fast asleep. She must send the child away, to sleep peacefully.
The tear fell on the rosemary. It glowed in the moonlight.
“Please, try Miss, for me.”
Elise rose from the bed. Pain raced through her limbs and she shivered.
“I will try to make the elixir,” her voice was weak.
“I’ll help you,” Rosie declared.
Elise nodded. Her head was so heavy. “All right my little apprentice. First, I will need a flask.”
“Flask?”
“A glass?”
Rosie looked around and produced a broken cup.
Elise swallowed. “That will have to do. Now the aqua regis, the pure water.”
“This water’s from the pump in the yard,” Rosie picked up a large jug, carrying it unsteadily. “No one has been ill from the water this month.”
“London well water. Then that will be our aqua regis. Now we must grind all the flowers so they are very fine.”
Elise thought how Albert Price had first shown her how to make this elixir in his vast laboratory in Paris. He had the finest equipment and powders from elite apothecaries. He worked under beeswax candles among ancient books. Here she was in a humble attic, in a neighbourhood not far from the slums, trying to make the same exalted elixirs.
“We need a mortar and pestle to grind the petals.”
“A mortar?”
“A bowl.”
Rosie disappeared for a moment. She must have run faster than a sparrow around the house, for she was back in a moment with a bowl.