The Devlin Diary (14 page)

“So it is both an enema and a beverage?” Montagu inquires.

“Quite right,” Sir Granville says.

“How convenient.” Montagu’s expression is one of barely suppressed mirth. Hannah avoids meeting his eye, for fear of behaving shamelessly; she can barely keep her countenance as it is. Luckily, Montagu has the situation well in hand. “Mrs. Devlin, did I hear you say that you must be leaving?” he breezily inquires.

“What?” Sir Granville says.

Montagu bows his head slightly and winks at Hannah. “Please allow me to escort you,” he continues.

Hannah can’t think of a time when she’s witnessed—or worse, been a party to—such frank impertinence, but she can’t deny she’s very grateful for it. “Thank you, Mr. Montagu.”

Montagu takes his leave of Sir Granville, Hannah honors him with a small curtsy, and they quickly make for the door. Once outside, they burst into laughter.

“You were most impolite,” she chides him.

“Not me! It’s my business to be polite. As you shall see. Please allow me to escort you to your carriage.” They begin walking along the stone gallery in the direction of the palace courtyard and Whitehall’s main entrance.

“I have no carriage.”

“Then please allow me to see you home.”

“It isn’t necessary.”

“At the very least, you must allow me to walk you to the gate.”

“If you must.”

“A reluctant acquiescence.” Montagu puts his hand to his heart, but
he is grinning. “I am wounded. Women so seldom understand the great harm they do, just by their lack of regard for men’s finer feelings.”

Hannah laughs. “I think you are not so easily wounded.”

“But you do believe I have finer feelings, don’t you? That’s a good start. Tell me,” he says with a half smile, “what did you think of Sir Granville?”

“I cannot believe that that man is a physician,” Hannah answers vehemently. “And the king’s physician as well! Please tell me it isn’t true, or our entire country is in grave danger.”

“I’m afraid it is true,” Montagu replies with a resigned laugh. He looks at her quizzically. “Do you always speak your mind in such a forthright manner?”

“I suppose I do, yes.”

“That isn’t a healthy habit for a courtier.”

“I’m not a courtier.”

“But here you are at court. So you must be, at least for now. You are absolutely right about Sir Granville, of course. He’s one of the stupidest men I have ever met, but he is very wealthy and has long been a staunch supporter of the Crown. Therefore his position is secure. But do not fear. Even the king realizes what a buffoon he is. The last time he was ill and called for a doctor, he specifically asked for anyone except Sir Granville.”

“‘Even the king…,’” Hannah repeats. “You say that as if the king is less discerning than other men.”

“Have you ever been in His Majesty’s presence?”

“The King? Why, no. My fa—” She stops herself in time. “I saw him walking with his ministers in St. James’s Park once years ago, but that is all.”

“Perhaps you will discover for yourself the depth of His Majesty’s understanding.” He pauses and, less jovially this time, asks, “What do you think of the black widow?”

“Madame Severin?”

“Yes.”

“I was told that she mourns her husband. Surely that is not something to ridicule.”

“In most cases, no. But Madame Severin did not love her husband; she hated him.” He laughs heartily at the look of surprise on Hannah’s face. “You must never forget, Mrs. Devlin, that this is the court of Charles Stuart and nothing here is ever what it seems to be.”

“If she hated her husband, why is she still in widow’s weeds?”

“’Tis all vanity. In her youth, Madame Severin was one of the most beautiful women to grace this earth. The reason she still wears black is that she wants no one to forget that she was once the most stunning woman in France, and that men fought and died for her.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“What I say is true. Madame Severin’s story is a fascinating one. Her family, though aristocratic, wasn’t wealthy, and her dowry was small, but she was so beautiful that no one cared. There were many suitors for her hand. Her parents, being mercenary like all the French, married her off to the richest. She was sixteen, and he was more than twenty years her senior.

“The marriage was never happy. Severin was a man of passionate temper, quick to anger and given to frequent rages. A man like that does not so much love as possess. Madame Severin made him suffer in return, in the way she was most able: she made him jealous at every opportunity, and there were many opportunities. Monsieur Severin was forced to become a capable swordsman. When word got round how good he’d become, it put a damper on Madame Severin’s love life. But then she caught the eye of the finest duelist in France—and Monsieur Severin was dead within a month.”

“He was killed in a duel?”

Montagu nods. “Madame Severin was not yet nineteen. She rejoiced in his death, but she was not to be a merry widow for long. Severin’s riches turned out to be a sham, and the creditors gathered like packs of dogs at her door. They took everything she owned. Her new lover, the man who had killed her husband, was even more jealous than Severin. One night, after he’d seen her with another man at a party, he decided that the only way to stop her flirtations was to make her less beautiful. So he sliced off her ear and cut her cheek with a rapier.”

“That’s barbaric.”

“Yes, I suppose it is. But do not feel sorry for her. Princess Henriette-Anne, who was soon to be wed to the Duc d’Orleans, took pity on her and asked her to be one of her ladies. It didn’t take long for Madame Severin to rise to mistress of the bedchamber. Some years later, she arranged to have the duelist killed; he was set upon by some supposed highwaymen. Some people even believe she killed him herself. It will never be proved, but I think it behooves her to remain in England. And here she thrives. Madame Severin is ideally suited to being a courtier. Her ability to charm and deceive was well honed during her marriage.”

“You pass a harsh judgment upon her.”

“No harsher than what is warranted.”

They approach the main gate. “You seem to know much about many people, Mr. Montagu.”

Montagu gives her a sidelong glance. “You have no idea.”

The courtyard swarms with crowds as people of all types, from the highest noble to the most humble apprentice, pass in and out of the gate at Whitehall Street, the main thoroughfare leading into the palace. The only requirement for entry to Whitehall is a decent suit of clothes, and even that minimal condition is waived in some cases. A few of the king’s guards and the red-coated horse guards, whose barracks and stables lie just across the road, stand duty, but they seldom harass anyone. Carriages, sedan chairs, and hackney coaches for hire line up in front of the Banqueting House.

“Again, may I escort you home?” Montagu asks.

“No, really—”

“But I insist.” His light, mocking tone is gone. He directs Hannah’s attention to one of the hackney coaches on the street. Maitland stands by the door, waiting for them.

Hannah realizes at once that Lord Arlington has arranged this—not just the coach but also Montagu’s presence at Mademoiselle de Keroualle’s and even, perhaps, the former ambassador’s solicitousness. She tries to hide her disappointment, though she fears she is unable to completely do so. “I see.”

“Do not be alarmed, Mrs. Devlin.” Montagu takes her arm and escorts her through the milling crowds. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

Her father.
Hannah puts down her quill and presses her temples between her thumb and fingers. It’s been more than a year since her father died, a year ago September. Not died, precisely, but was killed, the victim of his own charity: Dr. Briscoe was visiting a patient in one of the poorer parishes when he was robbed and left for dead. One by one, the people she most loved passed away: her husband, Nathaniel, her daughter, Sarah, her father. Hannah’s mother left in spirit long ago, though she remains in body, and Hannah has nothing on which to place the blame: a sickness of the mind, or of the soul?

If only there were someone whose mind and counsel she could
consult, could rely upon. Mrs. Wills is too busy with the work of the household to be a confidante, and she has never shown great interest in medical matters. The girls are too young; they look to Hannah as a mother of sorts. Since her father died, she’s had no one to talk to. No wonder she scribbles in this diary every night: to create a listener, a sounding board, a place where all her thoughts can be expressed without encountering judgment or censure.

Hannah yawns and stretches. The events of the day have been wearying. To find syrup of poppies, she had to go to two more apothecary shops, and even so she was able to purchase only a small amount, a few days’ worth at most. To make up for the possible shortfall, she’d also bought some laudanum, Dr. Sydenham’s creation of opium and wine. Generally laudanum is stronger than poppy syrup, and must be used more judiciously, but she feels better knowing it is close at hand. She has taken only a few drops of syrup today, just enough to reduce her pain while keeping her mind clear. She wouldn’t have gotten through the trip to Whitehall without it. But now it is night, and, keeping to its usual pattern, the headache has grown worse. She looks across the room to her workbench, a plank table as big as a door placed under the eaves. The brown bottle that contains the poppy syrup is just one of the many bottles and jars and dishes set amongst the jumble of her medicine-making apparatus, the mortars and pestles, the pill-making board, the alembics.

In the beginning, the poppy syrup helped her sleep, but its soporific effect has ebbed away over time. More often now she feels restless and unsettled after taking it; the pain is lulled and quieted, but she is not. The only answer, she knows from observing patients, is to administer a larger dose. Perhaps switching to the laudanum would help. There are dosing instructions for tincture of opium in the notes her father kept while working with Dr. Sydenham, she recalls. She is about to get up and look for his bound journal when she hears a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Hannah calls.

The door opens slowly. Hester reluctantly takes a few steps inside. Her freckled face has a pleasant, coppery glow in the candlelight. Hannah notices the creases ringing the bottom of her flannel overskirt;
Mrs. Wills has let out the hem twice, and it’s already too short again. Hester is growing so fast that she’s all arms and legs, like a newborn foal. She holds a blue ceramic cup of something steaming that smells of nutmeg. “Mrs. Wills made you a posset,” she says, offering the cup awkwardly. “To help you sleep.”

Hannah has tried to keep her late nights and nocturnal perambulations a secret from the rest of the household. Obviously she hasn’t been entirely successful.

“Thank you, Hester.” Hannah takes the cup from her. The posset is made of hot milk, honey, red wine, and spices. It would no doubt be good for her, but she does not, at this moment, feel like drinking it. She puts it on the writing table next to her diary. “You may sit with me for a few minutes, if you like,” she says, knowing that her offer will almost certainly be turned down. Hannah hasn’t given up hope, however, that one day Hester will be less apprehensive.

Hester can barely conceal her panic. She has never enjoyed being in Hannah’s room; in fact, she is afraid of it: the bundles of herbs drying in the rafters; the jars of mysterious liquids and powders; the ceramic canisters of dead, dried insects and animal parts; the bubbling alembics; the strange aromas; the stacks of aging, leather-bound books. Hannah tries to see it through Hester’s eyes: less of a bedchamber than a combination of apothecary’s shop, alchemist’s warren, and a place with, perhaps, a darker purpose. Hester’s family moved to London from the countryside, and Hester has retained many of the small-town prejudices that she was born with, even though Hannah has insisted on educating both of the girls. Hester believes in bizarre and morbid occurrences, such as bewitched girls who vomit pins and hanks of horsehair, or men who fall under an evil spell and are compelled to dance a jig until they die. Even though Hannah has tried to point out the improbability of such events, Hester’s belief in the occult is hard to dislodge.

“Please excuse me, ma’am. Lucy and I are busy with our Latin grammar.” She has given the one excuse that always works with Hannah: she is studying. Mrs. Wills doesn’t think much of Hannah’s educational curriculum for the girls. Especially the Latin, she says, is a waste of time and tutors’ fees, but Latin is still the language of scholars and Hannah
wants Lucy and Hester to have the ability to read widely, regardless of their path in life. Although admittedly neither of them have taken to it with the enthusiasm that she did.

“And how are your studies progressing?”

“Very well, ma’am.” It is a dutiful answer and a predictable one. It’s also a lie: the last time Hannah quizzed the girls they were woefully inept. But that isn’t what bothers her most. No matter how she tries, she can’t get past Hester’s reserve. It’s as if all the girl’s darker emotions, her resentment and anger and fear, have turned inward to fester and grow. She worries that someday Hester will do something terrible, something worse than lying or shirking her duties or tormenting Lucy, something so bad it will be irreversible. But her head throbs and she can do nothing about it now.

“All right, you may go.” Hester is out of the room as soon as the words are out of Hannah’s mouth.

She looks at the posset, still steaming in the cup. No, it won’t do. It won’t do at all. She crosses the room to her workbench and picks up the bottle of poppy syrup. Eight drops this time. Maybe ten. Maybe more.