The Apothecary's Curse (29 page)

“Richard was terrified of discovery, especially now that Simon and James had intervened in the matter on your behalf. And he regretted showing me the daguerreotype. Two nights ago, he threatened me in a drunken frenzy.

“He had a dagger, you see, a horrid, jagged blade. He warned me that if I said a word to anyone, and most especially my brother or my cousin James, I too would find myself with a severed limb, and not a mere finger. Then he . . . Oh my God, I've said too much. . . . What if he . . . ?”

She skirted the edge of hysteria. Gaelan ventured to place a reassuring hand on her arm, which trembled beneath his fingers. “Please know that I have no reason to speak of this, and certainly not to Braithwaite. Your confidence could not be safer.”

She nodded and opened the high neck of her blouse, revealing a long scabbed-over cut near her ear. “My God, Lady Braithwaite—”

“He forced me . . . He held that dagger to my . . . I . . .” She was shaking so violently by now, Gaelan thought she would take ill, perhaps swoon, at any moment.

Unsure of what else might be done to calm her, Gaelan carefully placed his arm around her shoulder. “Hush now; you needn't say another word—”

“Please,” she pleaded through her sobs, tears flowing down her face and onto her dress, “you mustn't tell any of this to Simon. You have promised me to keep still about it.”

This promise he could not keep. It was too much, too monstrous for Braithwaite to walk away from it unscathed. Bell should know what his sister had suffered and why. “How can I not? Please do not hold me to an impossible vow—”

“You promised!”

“Aye, I did, but—”

Still shaking, she wept into his chest, her tears soaking through the soft cloth of his shirt. Encircling his other arm about her, Gaelan held her close, lightly stroking her hair.

He could only imagine the indignities she had suffered at Braith­­waite's hands. “Lady Braithwaite,” he ventured, gently as he could manage. “I noticed that first afternoon when you arrived, you walked . . . I . . . Forgive my . . . Your gait seemed . . . I have seen before . . . in women when—”

He had not the words to broach the subject with the required delicacy. Would anyone? “My lady, when a man performs certain . . . I mean to say . . .” He stopped, bewildered, unable to ask what he must. She was not, by far, the first woman with whom he had spoken of such things, but they always had come to
him
, seeking
his
help. With her . . . now . . . he was abashed and awkward. The question was irrelevant; he knew the answer without her saying a word.

“It is important that you tell . . . someone of this . . . violation. And I do not mean the scratch on your neck. If not your brother . . . any practitioner who might examine you. Do you understand me?”

She nodded uncertainly.

“There are . . . diseases that might take hold and—”

“I believe I am unharmed . . . in the way you mean,” she said, taking his good hand, her voice steadier. “It is painful to be sure, to sit, especially. But I've not noticed bleeding nor evidence of serious injury. Is that what you mean to ask?” Her cheeks flushed, but she seemed calmer, almost dispassionate speaking of it.

“This man must be stopped! And your brother is one of only a few with the power to do it.”

“And he'll do what? Richard is my husband, and as
such
I am his property to do with as he pleases. And who would believe ill of Lord Richard Braithwaite, good friend of the prince consort? I wish to speak of this not a moment longer.”

She was adamant, and to be silent was against his better judgment. “As you wish, madam; I shall be still on the matter.”

Gaelan regretted his promise as they sat quietly, knowing she would say not a word to Bell. She continued to rest against him, yet she seemed better, and the shaking had stopped. Eleanor brushed her fingers against the damp patch on Gaelan's shirt where her tears had fallen. It was the most intimate gesture he had experienced in years.

“We should go in,” he said reluctantly. “I . . . do not think . . . I mean to say . . . Dr. Bell should be back at home presently and—”

Eleanor nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Erceldoune, for your ear, for your shoulder to sob upon.”

“It's of no matter.” Her face was too close; Gaelan stood, knowing he must break this moment before it escalated into something that might lead to disaster beyond imagination. She was vulnerable, and she saw in him a kindred spirit . . . a willing ear, and that was all. Her wounded spirit reached out to his. “Perhaps we should return to the house. . . .”

She took his right hand in both of hers, lacing their fingers together. He broke the contact, wresting his hand away as if burned. “I think, my lady, I hear your brother's carriage. We'd best go in.”

“I believe I shall first take a walk; the air shall do me much good.”

CHAPTER 36

“Did you find Sally Mills well?”

Bell nodded absently, coming into the drawing room where Gaelan sat alone, awaiting his return.

“Where is Eleanor?”

“She is in the garden having a stroll. And what of Mrs. Mills?” Gaelan rose from the chair and paced, more impatient for news than he might have thought.

“She is a fine, grand old lady, I must say. Clever, and a bit old for you, perhaps. But talk of
you
made her blush.” Bell laughed.

“More mum than lover.”

“Hardly. You are what? Two centuries her senior?”

Gaelan was surprised Bell had returned in such high spirits. Was it possible he had recovered the book?

“Well, in any event, quite a eulogy she gave you. I'd no idea you'd been such a popular figure in Smithfield Market.”

“And . . . ?” Gaelan fidgeted with a letter opener.

Bell's voice darkened. “She does not trust me at all; she will only speak with you directly, if, as she said, ‘He is in fact still living!' She was quite adamant about it. She understands that you've no wish to be seen round the market, and proposes you stop there late, after the pub quiets down for the night.”

Gaelan nodded. It was as he'd expected, if not hoped for. “That is quite Sally, I'm afraid. Empiricist to the core. She'd never believe that I was alive, much less exonerated, unless she saw it with her own eyes. I only thought that a letter written by mine own hand would suffice. I'm sorry to have sent you on a fool's errand.”

He'd have to risk a venture to Smithfield himself. “I shall go see her this night. I can promise nothing, and do not take her reluctance to speak with you as evidence that she has my belongings.

“I've not yet received a response from my apprentice's father, and I hold out little hope that he will be of any help in any event; it is unlikely that the lad yet resides on this side of the sea. He'd often spoken to me of America.”

“Then all is lost?” Bell drew up close to Gaelan, pointing an accusing finger in his face. “I find it impossible to believe that with your vast experience and great knowledge there is nothing you might concoct to reverse this curse you've put me under.”

Gaelan retreated to a corner of the room, ignoring the accusation. “I've revealed what little I know, and, I confess, I recall very little of that book but its splendid images. To speak true, I spent much effort these past four and a half years to quash as much knowledge of it as I was able. I well understood Handley's aim, and the very thought of him extracting from me, under such extreme duress, anything that might assist . . .” It was too soon, the wounds too raw. He could not yet speak of Handley or Bedlam without releasing the demons that pursued him like a shadow. He blinked in vain effort to forestall the vivid images that even now lurked in the periphery of his vision, and sent him staggering to the settee. “Might I trouble you, Dr. Bell, for a drink?”

Bell gestured to the sideboard.

“Would you mind, sir? I fear that arguing has rendered me . . . I am not yet myself.”

Bell obliged. Gaelan finished the whisky in one swallow. “Dr. Bell,” he said after shakily placing the empty tumbler on the table, “even should I recall the precise method by which I created the elixir for you, most of the ingredients were labeled with symbols, not names, and those ingredients themselves derived from still other elements and herbs. It is the way of alchemy to be obtuse, I am afraid. And with that particular book, it would not do, as you quite know, to improvise.”

Bell was frustrated, that much was obvious, but what was there to do? Gaelan had done all he could, and the only hope was that Sally might know something—anything to provide a clue.

“Shall we go out to the garden, then, and keep my sister company?”

“Wait.” Gaelan tugged on Bell's elbow, staying his hand on the garden door. “You need to speak with her—privately—about Lord Braithwaite,” he said quietly.

“Why do you say that?”

“I promised not to break her confidence. But I can at least implore you to press her on it. I am not breaking my promise, however, to report that Braithwaite's brutality has not been confined to convicted felons and residents of Bedlam. You
must
speak to her, and do it soon 'ere her husband comes back to fetch her home, which undoubtedly he shall do.”

“Sir, you alarm me!”

“Good. Then I have said quite enough.”

Gaelan returned from his visit to the White Owl long past midnight. He'd not realized how hard it would be to walk through the marketplace again. So many reminders of a good life—and the worst that life had to offer him. He passed in front of the spot where his apothecary shop had once thrived. A sheep merchant's stall now stood in its place. Even in the dark, it was plain that the entrance to his cellar had long since been built over. If his books had been left there, by now they would be a ruin.

Seeing the astonishment on Sally's face when he removed the hooded cloak he'd worn brought a smile to his. She had for him one letter, kept despite the knowledge Gaelan was dead, from Tim, dated three years ago—from Tennessee in the United States. The letter burst with anticipation of his new life in America and the hope for Gaelan's eventual release from Newgate. Perhaps, Tim had imagined, Gaelan would join him across the Atlantic.

So, Tim had fled England immediately . . . gone by the time of Gaelan's supposed death in prison.

He was delighted that Tim had made his way to America, a land of opportunity where class made less difference than intelligence and ambition. He'd taken the entire library, he said, hoping that his mentor would understand and not be angered, promising to take care and use the recipes and notes to help people in the New World. “And,” he'd said, “keep all of it safe for you, especially the unusual book with its many strange pictures, hopeful that someday I might restore the whole of it to the rightful owner.”

Gaelan wondered if Tim yet resided there, in Tennessee. Perhaps that would be Gaelan's first stop upon leaving England.

Weary as he was, and with three pints of Sally's best ale in his belly, Gaelan thought perhaps this night, for once, he might drift off to a good night's rest, no terrifying dreams of Bedlam. But the crackle of the dying fire, the pop and snap of an old house settling, even the crickets and birds, all conspired to keep him from slumber. Restive, he thrashed among the bedcovers in the dead night air until fitful sleep claimed him. . . .

“Mr. Erceldoune! Mr. Erceldoune! Do wake up!”

Shaking. Violent shaking. Handley vanished, his red-hot brazier disintegrating into grains of sand, the searing bite as it melted his flesh fading as he awoke disoriented in the semi-darkness. But who was shaking him? Or was it his own body quaking with fear as . . . ?

A voice calling out to him—he followed its gentle murmur, not at all murderous, as it called his name through the fog of his dream. Not Handley. Not Braithwaite. Soft, strong hands gripped his arms, but not harshly, as the anxious whisper fluttered just beyond his ear. “Mr. Erceldoune, please! Do awaken, I beg of you!”