The Alchemist's Daughter (22 page)

“I doubt if any of those peasants would have the wit to rebel without a ringleader. I shall remember this conversation, Shales.”

“As their priest, I have a duty to speak for them.”

“As their priest, I’m sure you’ll explain to them the consequences of any violent or illegal action.” Aislabie bowed deeply before whisking me away to the waiting carriage.

Once I was inside, he stuck his head in after me. “I forbid you to speak to that man again without first asking my permission.”

“But he’s been so kind to me.”

“Probably part of his plan. He’ll try and get you on his side. He’s been stirring up all kinds of trouble. Watch yourself, Em.”

“He’s no threat, he’s a clergyman.”

Aislabie roared with laughter. “As if that was a guarantee of good behavior. Nonetheless, Em, do as I say, there’s a good girl.”

[ 5 ]

M
Y HUSBAND WAS
out late that night, so I went to bed alone. Because Sarah hadn’t returned either, I had to rely on an unfamiliar maid to untie my laces. As soon as she’d gone, I snuffed the candles and got into bed. As usual when Aislabie wasn’t there, I left the bed curtains open so I could see the night sky and the moon, if there was one. Again and again I walked through the Abbey with Shales, saw the banners and the monuments, the soot caught in the furls of stone carving, the glint of gilt, the pocks of woodworm. I listened to what we’d said to each other and wished I could relive the conversation—only this time I would be more honest with him about palingenesis, and I’d find the right words to comfort him for the death of his wife. I certainly wouldn’t return his handkerchief until I’d had it washed. And above all, I’d say more about the quality of air. The fact that I hadn’t given him an answer when he asked for my help grieved me most; it was as if a closed door had been pushed open onto my former life of investigation and natural philosophy but then been slammed shut again.

In the small hours, I heard Aislabie’s footfall on the stairs. He tried to open the door quietly, but it banged against a chair, and he cursed. Then he sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and took off his shoes. I turned my back and wrapped my arms round my knees.

“It’s a cold night, Em,” he murmured. “I’m looking for a place to warm these hands of mine.”

I heard his wig drop softly on the table, then his clothes, one by one until at last the mattress sagged under his weight as he coiled himself round me and tucked his hand under my arm. He had been drinking, and the kisses he planted on my neck were soft and wet.

I remained in a tight knot.

“Come on, Em, take pity on your poor cold man.”

“I’m too tired. Too sad.”

“What’s to be sad about, now your old man’s here?”

I turned on my back. “Didn’t you realize how sad I was at the funeral? It hurt me to be there.”

“You mean because of your father. But Em, he was an old man. It was time he died.”

“And our child. I was thinking about the baby we lost.”

He sighed and straightened himself so that we lay like a couple of knights on their slabs in Westminster Abbey. “It would be a very good thing for all of us, Em, if you learned to let the past stay in the past. Lord, how would it be if we all went round tearing our hair out because at some time someone had died.”

“Who are the dead people in your life, Aislabie?”

“I don’t choose to remember them, and I think that is a cultivated choice. My life is crowded enough without being cluttered up with the dead.”

“Tell me about your parents.”

“They’re not dead, as far as I know.”

“Shouldn’t we visit them?”

“Whatever for? It’s years since I clapped eyes on them.”

“That seems to me a very cold attitude. How do you know they’re not in trouble and needing you?”

He propped himself on his elbow and leaned over me so that I felt his warm, wine-laden breath on my cheek. “You’ve said enough. Point taken. Should not have taken Mistress Em to a funeral. Can we have an end to this now?”

“You ignored me.”

“When did I ignore you?”

“In the Abbey. I was sad and I needed you, but you ignored me.”

“Dear God. Em, I went to a deal of trouble getting you in there in the first place. All you had to do was tag on to my arm and you would have been fine. But when I looked for you, there was no sign because you’d gone off with the very holy Reverend Shales.”

“Not gone off. He took pity on me.”

His hand had crept down to the hem of my shift, and he sprinkled kisses on my shoulder, but still I lay rigid. It was not like me to resist him; I didn’t recognize myself, and part of me wanted to put my arms round his neck and abandon myself to the comfort of his body. But some stony Emilie had taken hold, and she was waiting for Aislabie to show just a hint of regret that he had not been kinder in the Abbey. It was his lack of knowledge that was so hurtful, his inability to take my feelings into account.

After a moment, he gave a little grunt then flung back the sheets, swept his coat from the floor, and left the room, slamming the door behind him. I heard him stumble on the first couple of steps leading to the next floor, then turn back and go to the small bedchamber with the burgundy drapes he used when I was away in Selden. I lay in my solitary bed, feeling a curious mix of triumph and sorrow. I had surely been right to tell him that I was unhappy, but if he’d stayed just a few seconds longer I would have given in. I couldn’t have resisted the pressure of his hand on my thigh or his penitent little kisses for long.

[ 6 ]

B
Y MORNING,
S
ARAH
still wasn’t home, which I saw as yet more proof that she had little respect for my authority. Without her savage ministrations, my clothes wouldn’t fit. The maid who dressed me was so tentative about lacing my stays that my gown gaped. When Aislabie came in, affectionate as ever and apparently quite unperturbed by what had been said the night before, he laughed at my frustration and wouldn’t hear of letting me go home to Selden without Sarah. Instead, he took hold of the laces and gave a few sharp tugs. “See, we don’t need her. The wretched girl has probably met up with her family and been persuaded to stay an extra night.”

“She has no family. I’ve a good mind to dismiss her if she ever does come back.”

“I told you before to be firmer with her. You keep her on much too loose a rein. She’s a London girl, and she’ll take everything she can.”

“Then how can I trust her?”

“You can trust her as well as any other. And do you really want to put yourself to the trouble of finding someone else?” He tossed me a purse of change. “Give her one more chance. Amuse yourself in town today. Take another maid, go shopping, and buy yourself something decorative.”

I strode about the house for a bit, spoke to the parrot, and thought of my alchemy steaming away without me. And then it occurred to me that this was the first chance I’d had to visit London alone and that there certainly were places I wanted to go very badly indeed. So I asked the maid to summon a chair, told her I wouldn’t be needing her, thank you, and ordered the men to take me to Crane Court, Fleet Street.

The uneven, rocking motion was quite pleasant, and with the curtains shut the bustle in the streets was less intimidating, but I felt very alone and was suddenly overwhelmed by yearning for that moment yesterday when I had stood by the tomb with Shales and talked about heaven and suffering.

This time I went right into Crane Court, which was in deep shadow even though the sun was shining. At the far end was a modern double-fronted house with a flight of steps leading to the door—the home of the Royal Society, where my father had come each year to read in the library and attend lectures and meetings. The windows were shuttered, and there was a mourning ribbon on the door. I knocked.

“Madam.” Behind the servant, I could see a broad staircase and a passage to a small garden, where a birch fluttered in the sunlight. From somewhere above came men’s voices.

“I wonder if I might read in the library.”

“Fellows only are admitted to the library.”

“My father was a fellow. Perhaps you knew him. Sir John Selden. He left papers. I should like to see them.”

“Sir John Selden.” His fat jowls bulged when he smiled. “I remember Sir John Selden. Quite the recluse. Quite the character.”

At this point, two gentlemen in mourning bands came up beside me, brushed past, and nodded to the footman. “Sir John Selden’s daughter,” said the footman, “come to take a look at his papers.”

They smiled politely, but I realized that these younger men had scarcely heard of my father.

“Regrettably, the rules on admission are very clear,” added the footman as the others disappeared upstairs.

“You could ask . . .”

“Perhaps you are unaware, madam, that our president was buried yesterday. It is hardly the time to break the rules.”

After the door closed, I retreated into deep shadow at the opposite side of the yard. Another man emerged from the alley, tall, dressed in black. Shales, was it? No. But it occurred to me that Shales might come here and that it would be shameful to be caught in the shadows of a world that belonged to him and my father, but not to me.

[ 7 ]

I
WALKED OUT
onto Fleet Street, where coffeehouses had opened up on every alley and street corner. For me, London had only two real landmarks. I had visited one of them, and now I turned east toward Spitalfields, thinking I would have another search for my mother’s house. The street was very crowded, and without Sarah’s protection I was knocked about and eyed up so insolently that I almost turned tail. But that spare day, the day when I should not have been in London, turned out to be so momentous that afterward I thought that some guiding hand had taken hold and was directing my feet, because the next thing I saw was a notice tacked up on the side of an entrance advertising a lecture by the eminent German philosopher Hans Wepfer, who would shed light on the vital force of life, the Archaeus. Everyone was welcome to attend at the Swan in Wine Office Court at twelve o’clock.

How could I resist such an invitation? I bought a pie like a true Londoner, took it down to the river, watched the mass of oars on the choppy water, and looked downstream to where
Flora
must be moored somewhere among a distant forest of masts. I remembered that Shales had once given a sermon about the river and how it was a link between his past and his present. No wonder his face in repose was full of sorrow, when he had lost his beloved wife so needlessly to smallpox.

I followed the progress of a little boat weaving in and out of larger vessels and discovered that I was nearly happy, with my head full of ideas and purpose. After the lecture, I would go to Spitalfields, and this time I would certainly find news of my mother’s family. Sarah had been the problem before. Her attitude had discouraged me and made me timid.

I had to pay sixpence for admission to the upstairs room at the Swan. The rows of chairs were already packed with interested citizens of every age and calling, who went quiet as a slight man in an untidy wig made his entrance, took his place behind the lectern, and began with a dramatic question: “What is life?”

He was so struck by his own profundity that he stood stock-still for several minutes, fixing us with his mournful brown eyes. Then, like a magician at the Selden Wick fair, he added confidentially and in a strong Germanic accent, “I will tell you. Life is a vital force called the Archaeus. This Archaeus has a more familiar name, Nature, and is the essence of life when combined with matter in water or air. Meanwhile, light shines from the sun and stars, and when dispersed through the Archaeus forms fire. Many natural philosophers, among them the greatest and the best, including the phlogistonist Georg Stahl, are now pursuing this idea to its inevitable conclusion.”

I jumped at the sound of that word,
phlogistonist
, and glanced behind me in case my father was listening. But there was only the same motley audience, some already bored, others nodding wisely as if they knew all this already.

“That is why metals,” said Wepfer, “gain weight when they are reduced to a calx; in the process of strong heating they take the Archaeus from the air, and that makes them heavier. And this same spirit or Archaeus affects the fermentation of plants and the action of our own nervous system.” Here he produced a chart showing the inner workings of the human body, its veins and arteries accurately drawn but with a most improbable looking fire in the belly.

I had never heard so much nonsense talked in so few minutes. Wepfer was undoing years of painstaking research and made no reference to the experimental method, which required proof of a theory rather than wild speculation and the reckless linkage of unrelated ideas. But I did understand one truth as a result of the lecture. His high-flown foolishness was permissible because even the late-lamented I. N. had not nailed the question of whether fire was state or substance, and whether the air consisted of just one type of corpuscle or several.

By the end of the talk, the room was so smoky that several ladies had to be escorted out. Wepfer said that there was time for only three questions. My hand shot up, and he turned to me with amusement. “I wonder if you are familiar with John Mayow and his conclusions about fire and air?” I asked. His smile faded, but he nodded gravely. “Then you’ll know that Mayow noticed that if a mouse was placed under a glass, it could not live after part of the air—the part he called the nitro-aerial spirit—had been consumed, even though some air was left in the glass. Likewise with a candle flame. How does Mayow’s theory that air in fact consists of at least two different parts fit your theory of the Archaeus, which you say is a force separate from the air?”

People turned their heads and looked at me with a mix of astonishment and annoyance. “I am impressed,” said Wepfer, “that you have read a digest of Mayow’s
Tractatus Quinque Medico-Physici
, but my dear lady, I’m afraid it never does to believe that just because one has understood a particular detail everything else will be equally clear. Behind the most simple explanation is a world of experience, a lifetime’s reading, not just a wet afternoon curled up with the latest journal.” Laughter. “The Archaeus, madam, is a much more plausible theory than that of Mayow, who believed that the invisible air around us could be divided into various parts.” And he turned to the next questioner.