Chapter 2 #3
He glanced at her then. “Oh, really? Well, what remedy is this then?”
“Several ladies spoke of an herbalist in Clerkenwell. A woman, apparently, who prepares treatments for headaches and nervous ailments.”
He returned his attention to his own plate before him. “Herbalists thrive upon desperation. The ladies of the ton are the perfect patients.”
“Lady Collins swore her migraines ceased entirely.”
“Well, Lady Collins also believes that wearing pearls improves digestion.”
Beatrice leaned closer. “Our footman’s mother was bedridden last winter. She visited this woman. She now walks daily.”
He paused. “And how did you acquire this information?”
A flicker of guilt crossed her face. “I asked.”
“Of the footman’s mother?”
“Yes.”
“And you obtained an address?”
She lifted her chin. “I did.”
Alistair exhaled slowly. “Beatrice…Lady Collins and our footman’s mother are hardly credible testimonials.”
“You have tried physicians, Alistair,” she pressed. “You have tried rest cures and tonics and sea air. Why will you not also consider this?”
“Because,” he said evenly, “those who operate in back alleys and call themselves healers are seldom benevolent.”
She placed her napkin on the table. “Or perhaps they are simply not men with titles but women who might actually know better.”
His gaze sharpened. “Doctor Pelham has over twenty years of experience. He has treated our mother, me, you, and now Lydia of any ailment we came down with.”
She held his stare for a moment longer, then lowered her eyes. “I wish only for Lydia to be well. It is something we have not tried yet.”
“As do I.”
Silence stretched between them. He sighed and went back to eating the food on his plate.
But it was as he folded his napkin, set it beside the plate, and stood that he relented. “Where is this address?”
Beatrice blinked. “You will seek her out?”
“I will determine whether this so-called healer is legitimate or predatory.”
“And if she is neither?”
“There is no third category.”
Beatrice pawed at her skirt until she retrieved a folded slip of paper from her hidden pocket. She handed it to him with a look that was equal parts triumph and concern. “Do not be unkind,” she said softly.
“I am rarely unkind.”
“Brother, you are often rather severe, which is often misconstrued as unkind. If she is to be called upon in the future, you would do well to remember to make a good impression…for our whole family.”
He did not deny it.
“Thank you, Sister. We will discuss this more upon my return.”
“Goodbye, Alistair.” he heard Beatrice say melodically
Within the hour, a modest carriage was prepared. Not the Blackthorne crest, not the gleaming pair of matched greys. A simpler conveyance. Discretion was preferable.
As the carriage rolled southward through London’s shifting neighborhoods, Alistair watched the city alter from polished stone facades to narrower streets crowded with tradesmen and market stalls.
Clerkenwell.
He stepped down once the carriage could proceed no farther without attracting attention. The driver tipped his hat uncertainly.
“Remain here,” Alistair instructed.
He removed his gloves and placed them inside his coat pocket. The air smelled of spices, smoke, and damp stone. Vendors called out prices in sharp, overlapping cadences. Women haggled over bolts of cloth. Children darted between carts.
He moved forward with deliberate composure.
The addresses on Beatrice’s paper grew increasingly questionable with each turn. Respectable brick gave way to uneven plaster. Signboards hung crooked. An apothecary’s window displayed jars of dried roots and powders in colors that suggested neither order nor regulation.
A group of laborers paused to glance at him. His coat, though understated, still marked him as foreign to this quarter.
He ignored them.
If this woman preys upon the desperate, I shall see it ended.
He turned down a narrower lane, the stone beneath his boots slick from recent rain.
The address lay ahead.
He squared his shoulders and continued forward.
The nearer Alistair drew to the heart of the herb market, the more violently London seemed to shed its refinement.
The air thickened with scent. Crushed coriander.
Singed pepper. Damp wool. Sweat. A sharper note of something bitter and medicinal that clung stubbornly to the throat.
Vendors shouted over one another in accents drawn from every corner of the empire.
Chickens squawked indignantly from wicker cages.
A boy darted past him, carrying a sack of something that left a fine golden dust drifting in his wake.
Alistair kept his expression impassive.
His coat was of dark wool, well cut but unadorned. His boots were polished but not ostentatious. Even so, he felt the subtle shift in the crowd as he passed. Eyes lingered. Conversations faltered. His bearing betrayed him. A lifetime of discipline could not be disguised by simpler tailoring.
A woman brushing past muttered something under her breath about gentlemen who had lost their way.
Perhaps she was not incorrect.
He paused before an apothecary’s stall that appeared marginally more orderly than the rest. Glass jars lined the shelves behind the counter, each labeled in careful script. The proprietor, a thin man with spectacles sliding down his nose, peered up at him.
“Headache remedies,” Alistair said evenly.
The man studied him for a moment, as though measuring both purse and patience.
“For yourself, sir?”
“For a member of my household.”
The apothecary snorted softly. “If laudanum has not sufficed, you will find little better here.”
“I seek alternatives.”
A flicker of interest crossed the man’s face.
“Alternatives,” he repeated. “You would want the Indian widow’s supplier, then.”
Alistair’s gaze sharpened. “The address I was provided was for here.”
The man jerked his chin toward a narrow passage between two leaning buildings. “Oh, aye, most come here for her anyway. She’s through there. Back of the alley. Supplies herbs to some grand lady who sells miracles to Mayfair, too…If you are lucky, you might run into her.”
Miracles.
“Does this Indian woman possess credentials?” Alistair asked.
The apothecary laughed outright. “Credentials? In Clerkenwell?”
“Very well…” Alistair inclined his head once and stepped away.
The alley to which he was directed appeared narrower than the rest, hemmed in by damp brick and shadow. The noise of the market dimmed slightly as he entered, replaced by the drip of water from an overhanging gutter.
He walked carefully, his boots avoiding the worst of the slick stones.
Broken crates. Faded posters nailed crookedly to the brick. A door hanging slightly ajar, revealing sacks of something dried and twisted within.
He cataloged it all instinctively. Improper storage. Lack of inspection. Unregulated import. If some charlatan woman truly peddled medicine from such quarters, she deserved to be exposed.
He was midway down the passage when impact struck him full force.
A body collided with his chest, small but not fragile. The momentum forced him half a step backward before he steadied.
A muffled exclamation escaped from beneath a dark veil.
A parcel slipped from gloved hands and struck the stones, releasing a sharp, unfamiliar fragrance that cut through the damp air. Something green and resinous. Something foreign.
“Sir,” the woman snapped, her voice clear and edged with irritation, “must you plant yourself directly in the path of others?”
Alistair stared down at her.
She wore a plain cloak of serviceable brown, the hood drawn low, bonnet tied tightly beneath her chin. The attempt at anonymity was deliberate.
“You ran into me,” he replied evenly.
She bent at once to retrieve the parcel.
As she did, the hood shifted.
For an instant, the veil parted just enough to reveal the line of her cheek, pale against the shadows. Dark lashes. Eyes that lifted toward his with a flash of intelligent appraisal that halted him more effectively than the collision had.
They were not the eyes of a market girl.
They were measuring and sharp.
She straightened swiftly, clutching the parcel to her chest.
“You should take care where you stand,” she said, with infuriating composure. “These lanes are not accustomed to idle obstruction.”
Her accent betrayed her. She was certainly polished and well-educated. Unmistakably of the upper ranks.
“What business have you here?” he asked before he could stop himself.
Her chin lifted slightly beneath the veil. “What business have you, sir?”
The questions hung between them.
He noticed then the faint scent clinging to her cloak. Not perfume. Something earthier mixed with floral. Herbs. Crushed petals.
On the other side of her, a young gentleman of perhaps sixteen shifted anxiously from foot to foot, glancing between them.
The young woman before him cast a brief glance toward them, then she looked back at Alistair.
Not flustered, but almost as if she was memorizing him.
Without further word, she stepped around him with swift precision and moved toward her companion. The young gentleman spoke urgently, though the words did not carry.
The pair disappeared around the corner.
Alistair remained where he stood.
Though the alley seemed suddenly narrower, he drew a steadying breath before carrying on toward the Indian widow’s shop.
A well-born lady. Here. Conducting…business?
By the time Alistair reached the back of the alley, his patience had worn thin. The building was cramped between two others. Its windows crowded with jars whose contents ranged from dried leaves to powders of questionable origin. The scent alone was enough to make him reconsider his purpose.
Still, Lydia’s pale and exhausted face that morning returned to him with unpleasant clarity.
He knocked.
The woman who answered was precisely what he had anticipated. Middle-aged, sharp-eyed, and plainly accustomed to skepticism. She spoke confidently of her remedies, naming herbs he did not recognize and describing their effects with a certainty that sounded suspiciously like practiced salesmanship.
Alistair purchased the preparation regardless.
If the concoction proved useless, he would consider the money lost to foolishness. If it helped Lydia even slightly, however, then the indignity of standing in that cramped shop would have been tolerable.
He left with a small sachet wrapped in paper and the lingering conviction that desperation had driven him somewhere he would never have otherwise entered.