Chapter 4 Enter Septimus Pike
Enter Septimus Pike
At first my little laboratory was not fit for much.
I had scant supplies. I reproduced the simple experiments I found in my reading, but I soon satisfied myself that the candle under the bell jar would, indeed, snuff itself, that the period of the pendulum remained the same even as its length decreased, and that the juice of a red cabbage would change color based on whether a solution was acid or alkaline.
I wanted more. I needed more.
Do you have any idea, Holzmann, how much a glass phial costs?
I hope not. I hope you are a gentleman of independent means, and that the cost is nothing to you.
Or perhaps you are affiliated with some university and need not fear the cost of breakage because they will replace it for you.
Heavens, what a luxury that must be! Alas, I have little money.
My allowance is not designed to stretch to more than shoe roses and the occasional bun.
It was enough for a few phials and a gas lamp, no more.
I quickly sold such possessions as I had, which amounted to some hair ornaments I never wore and a few pieces of ugly jewelry.
In my desperation, I even turned to alchemy.
This, too, failed me, though not for the reason you might expect—I actually found it quite easy to turn lead into gold, but have you seen the price of lead these days?
Highway robbery. I would almost do better to turn gold into lead.
It is all those lead musket balls, I suppose, that have to be forged to blow Napoleon’s head off.
It did not help that the equipment I longed for the most was delicate and must be ordered specially from America.
Yes, more than anything, I craved a proper electrical apparatus.
Where most young girls dream of handsome swains, I lusted after a great glass globe, a copper rod, and Leyden jars.
Such things cost a great deal more than a pair of shoe roses.
It took a great deal of thought, but I did come up with a solution—one that, if not exactly socially sanctioned, was at least socially invisible.
It unfortunately involved becoming more closely acquainted with a certain Mr. Septimus Pike.
Mr. Pike was one of the clerks of a Meryton lawyer called Phillips, who was married to my mother’s sister.
Poor Pike! Even when alive, he was never terribly appealing.
Not to me, at least. I believe he was generally considered handsome enough, but I could never see it.
I disliked the way he smelled. I dislike the way most people smell, especially men—a sensitive nose is a boon in a laboratory but a curse in daily life.
Pike smelled of the tools of his trade—ink, paste, and old ledgers not dusted recently enough.
I did, however, find him interesting. He was tall, with the slightly pinched tallness of a young man who had grown beyond what his master was willing to feed him, and his wrists stuck out of his sleeves an inch or more.
I had often found myself going in to dinner on his arm, after the more eligible young men had maneuvered to escort my prettier sisters.
A young man in his position—“Hanging on to a place in society by his fingernails,” my aunt once sniffed—might have tried too hard to please, but he rarely smiled and never flattered.
His gaze was clever and appraising, more the young squire than the penniless apprentice.
Of course, I was appraising him right back.
I chose Mr. Pike as my accomplice of all the people in Meryton for several reasons.
I could see he would welcome a bit of extra income. I’d often seen him glaring sullenly at the young gentlemen of the village strutting about in boots polished to a high shine and blinding white cravats. Mr. Pike dressed neatly but shabbily. Anyone with eyes could see how he hated it.
No one paid much attention to him. He was not common enough to associate with servants and tradesmen, nor fine enough to move in genteel circles. He was, to a large extent, invisible. This suited my purpose admirably.
I could easily speak to him privately. It was the simplest thing in the world to claim I had a message or a parcel for my uncle and slip into his office; everyone knew that he spent most of his afternoons dozing in his parlor.
If I went on the third Thursday of the month, the senior clerk’s day off, I would usually find it empty except for Pike.
The first time I slipped in to see him, he was surprised. “Your uncle’s inside,” he said.
“Yes, I know. I came to see you.”
His eyebrows shot up. He carefully put his pen back in the inkwell and leaned back from the ledger he was copying. “Me? I am flattered. What can I do for you, Miss Mary?”
“You can sell this for me.” I put a sack about the size of my fist on his desk.
Pike chuckled. “What is it? Hair ribbons? Some fine embroidery, perhaps?”
“It’s gunpowder.”
Pike froze. After a moment, he opened the sack and sniffed it, then took a few granules between his fingers. Carefully he closed it and looked back at me.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
I considered lying. However, most of the essays and sermons I read caution against deceit, especially in females. Since I am often obliged to lie anyway, I do try to be honest when I can. Hopefully the scales will still balance. I have a great abundance of some other virtues, such as chastity.
“I made it,” I said. “It is easy enough if you know how, if rather messy.” It’s true, by the by.
The process involves charcoal, a tract of land where rotting flesh has been buried, and—well—the contents of chamber pots.
All of those are, of course, easily found on a farm.
Anyone with patience and a strong nose could do it.
Let me know if you would like the recipe, Holzmann.
Pike gave a snort of incredulous laughter. “Cooked it up in the kitchen, I suppose, alongside the day’s soup.”
“Certainly not. My mother would never allow me to make soup.”
“But gunpowder is permitted?”
“Ah. Well.” This was the delicate bit. “She doesn’t know, actually. As a matter of fact, Mr. Pike, I would prefer that you not mention this to—well, anyone.”
“And you wish me to sell it?”
“Well—yes.” I shifted from foot to foot. “It will sell, won’t it? There are all those soldiers about, and it’s almost hunting season…” I felt a twinge of uncertainty. I had never considered that my months of disgusting labor might be for nothing. I stretched out a hand to take the bag back.
He swiftly pulled it back toward him. “Oh, it’ll sell all right, for a pretty penny, too, if it’s the real stuff.”
“It is.”
“Come now, where did you really get it? Raided your father’s hunting chest, I suppose.”
“No! I told you. I made it.”
He eyed me. “You’re a strange one, Miss Mary.”
“So I have many times been told.”
It was a strange conversation we were having, too. There are certain proprieties when a young man speaks to a single young lady. We were observing none of them.
“It’s very fine gunpowder,” I said. “I tried it out in the woods, using one of my father’s rifles. It fires very smoothly. I shot two pheasants.”
He said nothing. He was still staring into the bag.
“Well,” I said, “good day to you,” and I retrieved the bag and turned to go.
A hand shot out and grabbed my wrist.
I jumped. Turning, I snatched my hand back. “Sir?”
“No deal until we test the merchandise, miss,” he said, and, before I could cry out, he grabbed the bag and threw a pinch of my gunpowder into the fire.
Gunpowder on its own is not terribly explosive. It requires compression by a bullet or bomb before it can tear flesh. But of course it will put on a show. There was a sharp bangbangBANG and a series of rapid flashes of white light that made me throw an arm across my face.
“Well,” he said calmly. “That seems to be in order.”
“Mr. Pike! Why would you do that?”
For the first time since I’d known him, he smiled. “It is an improvement over copying out contracts in triplicate.”
“Ah.” I pressed a hand to my racing heart.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll sell it for you. I daresay Sir William’s steward will buy it. The Lucases are always inviting too many guests to hunt.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “You may keep half of my profits, as a token of my gratitude.”
He looked amused again. “How gracious. Now get out of here; the noise may draw Poll from the kitchen.”
I left, but the bright spots danced in front of my vision for some time. Later I found that the cinders had burnt holes in my petticoat. Mamma scolded me for my carelessness.
A week later I slipped into Uncle’s office again.
Pike had four shillings, which we split as promised.
We soon had a regular arrangement. I would bring him gunpowder or other creations, and he would sell them.
With my portion of the funds I sent away for glassware and a proper burner and everything else I needed for my laboratory.
For a time, there was between me and Pike a comradeship of sorts.
I found that, though he had been forced to terminate his education early, he had a quick understanding.
I lent him my journals, and soon he was not only sourcing supplies for me but suggesting alternatives.
He seemed to enjoy having a secret with me, and I admit I did, too.
Sometimes when my family dined at my uncle’s, he would catch my eye and say something smooth and respectful that nevertheless guided my uncle to greater heights of pontification.
Then he would catch my eye and I would be forced to smother a laugh in a napkin.