Chapter 17

17

Eliza

February 9, 1791

Just as Nella promised, the coaches began running again at daybreak. We took the first one back into London, empty except for us two ragged, dirty travelers and our filthy linen sacks full of beetles, many of which were still alive and nearing suffocation in their tightly tied bags.

Neither of us said much on the journey. For me, it was due to fatigue—I had hardly slept a minute—but Nella had slept well, I knew, for she’d snored loudly most of the night. Perhaps she remained quiet due to embarrassment at all she had revealed: her love for Frederick, the baby out of wedlock, the terrible loss of it. Was she ashamed she had shared too much with me, who she meant to send away and never see again?

The coach dropped us on Fleet Street, and we made our way to Nella’s shop along the mud-packed street, passing a bookseller, a printing press and a stay-maker. I read a window advertisement for a tooth extraction—three shillings, including a complimentary dram of whiskey. I cringed, averting my gaze to a pair of young women in pastel morning gowns floating past, their pale faces heavily rouged. I caught the edge of their conversation—something about the lacy fringe on a new pair of shoes—and noticed that one of the women held a shopping bag.

I glanced down at my own bag, full of crawling creatures. The importance of our impending task brewed terror inside of me. Purchasing the eggs for Mr. Amwell had not scared me like this; a watchman would not question a young girl with eggs. But now, a quick glance in our linen bags would reveal an odd sight indeed and would surely prompt questioning. I, for one, did not have an explanation prepared, and I resisted the urge to look behind me at the cobbled lane, lest someone followed on our heels. The likelihood of detection must have been a heavy burden; how did Nella carry the weight of it each day?

We continued to walk quickly, stepping around tied-up horses and scurrying chickens, and I had little else to do but fear imminent arrest as I forced my feet forward.

At last we arrived at the shop, and I had never in my life been so grateful for an alley empty of all but shadows and rats. We slipped into the storage room, made our way through the hidden door, and Nella immediately set a fire going. Lady Clarence was to arrive at half one, and we hadn’t a moment to waste.

The room warmed in minutes; I let out a sigh, grateful for the heat on my face. Nella removed turnips and apples and wine from her cupboard and placed them onto the table. “Eat,” she said. While I dug in hungrily, she continued to toil about the room, pulling out pestles and trays and buckets.

I ate so quickly that a terrible stomachache began to spread its way across my belly. I leaned forward, hoping to hide from Nella’s ears the rumbles and growls coming from within me, wondering for a moment if perhaps she had poisoned me. It would, after all, be a convenient way to get rid of me. Panic rose in my chest as the pressure inside grew, but the feeling released with a belch.

Nella threw her head back in laughter, the first time I had seen real cheer in her eyes since the moment we met. “Feel better?” she asked.

I nodded, stifling my own giggle. “What are you doing?” I asked, wiping a bit of apple from my lip. She had taken hold of one of the beetle bags and now shook it forcefully.

“Stunning them,” she said, “or at least those that are still alive. We’ll pour them into this bucket first, and it’s not easy reining them in if a hundred angry beetles try to crawl out at once.”

I grabbed the other bag, mimicking her actions, and shook it with all my might. I could hear the bounce and fall of the insects inside the bag, and in truth, I felt a bit sorry for them.

“Now pour them in here.” She slid the bucket toward me with her foot. I carefully untied the strings at the top of my bag, gritted my teeth and opened it. I had not yet had a clear look inside the bag, and I dreaded what I might find.

I estimated half the beetles to be dead already—they lay there like pebbles, but with eyes and tiny legs—and the other half showed little resistance as I poured them out, their greenish-black bodies tumbling into the tin bucket. Nella poured her bag in next, then lifted the bucket and walked it to the hearth, setting it onto the roasting rack over the fire.

“Now you roast them? It is as simple as that?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Not yet. The heat of the fire will kill the remainder of them, but we cannot roast in this bucket, or we will find ourselves serving up little more than beetle stew.”

I cocked my head, puzzled. “Stew?”

“Their bodies have water inside them, just like you and me. Now, Eliza, you have worked in a kitchen. What would happen if you set a dozen fish into a small pan over the fire? Would the fish on the bottom be crispy and flaky, as your master might have liked?”

I shook my head, finally understanding. “No, it would be soggy and wet.”

“And can you imagine trying to turn a soggy, wet fish into a powder?” At my grimace, she went on. “So it is with these beetles. They will steam if dumped in all at once. We will roast them on a much larger pan, only several at a time, to ensure they are crispy and dry.”

Several at a time, I thought to myself. And more than a hundred beetles? That may take as long, if not longer, than the actual harvesting of the silly things.

“And after they are crispy?”

“Then, one by one, we will grind them up with a pestle, until the powder is so fine, you would not know it from water.”

“One by one,” I repeated.

“One by one. Which is why Lady Clarence best not return a moment too soon, as it will take us every last second to finish the task.”

I recalled the moment when Nella threw her beetle powder into the fire, causing an eruption of green flame; what nerve it must have taken, to throw over a day’s worth of work into the blaze. Until now, it had not been clear to me just how strongly she felt against murdering the mistress of a lord—how strongly she resisted aiding in the death of a woman.

I imagined the tediousness of the day ahead and willed myself to be cheerful about it. Nella had told me that she did not want me at the shop after this chore was complete. But perhaps if I performed it well, she would change her mind and permit me to stay. The idea of it energized me, because the hot, crimson bleeding from my belly had finally ceased, leaving in its wake a russet-colored shadow, and this could mean just one thing: Mr. Amwell’s spirit had decided to make its way out of my body and lie in wait for me. But where? There was only one sensible place, the place where he knew I was soon to return: the lonely Amwell estate on Warwick Lane.

Oh, how I would have rather stayed and roasted a thousand beetles than step foot back into the dwelling place of my dead master. Who knew what ugly form he would take next?

---

With twelve minutes remaining until Lady Clarence’s arrival, a terrible storm was unleashed outside. But we hardly noticed it, for both of us were bent over mortar bowls, grinding the beetles as finely as we could.

If Nella intended to send me away before Lady Clarence returned, it must have been a distant thought by now; it would have been impossible for her to finish the task without my help. With six minutes to go, Nella asked me to choose a vessel—any appropriately sized jar would do, she instructed. She remained head down, eyes focused and sweat on her forearms as she ground the pestle loudly against the mortar.

At half one, Lady Clarence arrived, not a tick of the clock late. No pleasantries were exchanged upon her arrival. When she stepped into the room, her lips formed a tight line and her shoulders were pulled taut. “You have it ready?” she asked. Rain droplets slid down her face like tears.

Nella swept underneath the table while I carefully poured the remainder of the powder into the sand-colored earthenware jar I had found in a lower cabinet. I had just finished securing the stopper and the cork was still warm from my fingers when Nella answered her.

“Yes,” she said, while I gently, ever so gently, passed the jar into the care of Lady Clarence. She clutched it to her chest in an instant, hiding it underneath her coat. No matter who would ingest the poison—for my loyalties were not as rigid as Nella’s—I could not help the pride that swelled within me on account of the many hours that went into the preparation of it. I did not recall ever being so proud, not even after composing lengthy letters on behalf of Mrs. Amwell.

Lady Clarence passed a banknote to Nella. I could not see how much, nor did I particularly care.

As she turned to leave, Nella cleared her throat. “The party is still tonight?” she asked. In her voice was a glimmer of hope, and I suspected that she prayed the whole affair had been canceled on account of the weather.

“Would I have rushed over here in the rain if it were not?” Lady Clarence retorted. “Oh, don’t be so foul about it,” she added, seeing the look on Nella’s face. “You’re not the one stirring it into Miss Berkwell’s liqueur.” She paused, pursing her lips. “I only pray she drinks it quickly so we may put this all to an end.”

Nella closed her eyes as though the words sickened her.

After Lady Clarence left, Nella walked slowly to where I sat at the table, lowered herself into her chair and pulled her register toward her. She dipped her quill into the ink with a slowness I had not seen plague her before, as if the burden of the preceding hours had, at last, caught up to her. To think of the countless poisonous remedies she had dispensed, and yet this single one lay so heavy on her heart. I could not understand it.

“Nella,” I began, “you mustn’t feel so bad. She would have ruined you had we not made the beetles for her.” Nella had done nothing wrong in my eyes. Indeed, she had just saved countless lives, my own included. How did she not see it?

Nella paused at my words, the quill in her hand. But without replying, she placed the nib to parchment and began to write.

Miss Berkwell. Mistress to, cousin of, the Lord Clarence. Cantharides. 9 February 1791. On account of his wife, the Lady Clarence.

On the last mark, she held the nib to the paper and exhaled, and I felt sure tears were imminent. Finally, she set the quill on its side, and a gentle roll of thunder rumbled somewhere outside. She turned to me, her eyes dark.

“Dear child, it is that—” She hesitated, considering her words. “It is that I have never had this feeling before.”

I began to tremble, as if a chill had just entered the room. “What feeling?”

“A feeling that something is about to go terribly, terribly wrong.”

In the quiet moments that followed—for I knew not how to reply to her frightening statement—I grew convinced that some nameless, unseen evil haunted us both. Could the spirit of Mr. Amwell have begun to haunt her, too? My eyes fell on the worn burgundy book still resting at the side of the table. The book of magick. Nella had said the book was meant for midwives and healers, but the inscription inside the back cover noted the address of the bookshop where it originated—a place where I might find more volumes of the same subject matter.

If my fear of Mr. Amwell’s spirit was reason enough to visit the shop, Nella’s sense of impending doom was reason to make haste.

The muffled sound of rain continued; the storm had not yet let up. If Nella did indeed throw me out, I would be passing a long, wet night in the slick streets of London. I would not return to the Amwell house, not yet, and I doubted I had the bravery to sneak into a stranger’s shed as Nella liked to do.

“I intend to visit the bookshop in the morning, once the rain has ended,” I told her, pointing at the magick book.

She raised her brows at me, a skeptical look I was getting to know well. “And you still intend to seek a remedy to remove spirits from the house?”

I nodded yes, andNella made a small grunting noise, then stifled a yawn with her hand.

“Little Eliza, it is time for you to go.” She stepped closer to me, pity in her eyes. “You ought to return to the Amwell house. I know you fear it greatly, but I assure you, your fright is needless. Perhaps when you step through the door and declare that you have returned, any remnant of Mr. Amwell’s spirit, real or imagined, will be released, and your heavy heart with it.”

I stared at her, speechless. I had known all along that a dismissal was possible, but as she had now declared it so, I could hardly believe she had the gall to send me away so easily—and into the rain, at that. I’d ground more beetles than she did, after all; she could not have done any of it without me.

I stood from my chair, my chest hot and thumping, and felt the childish sting of tears forming. “You d-do not want to see me again,” I stammered, letting a sob come forth, for I realized all at once that I was not as sad about being banished from this place as I was about never again seeing my new friend.

At least I knew she was not made of stone, for Nella stood from her own chair, shuffled toward me and wrapped me in a tight embrace. “I do not wish you a life of goodbyes, as the one I have lived.” She brushed away my stray hair with the back of her hand. “But you are unspoiled, child, and I am not the kind of company you want to keep. Go on now, please.” She took the magick book from the table and placed it into my hands. Then she abruptly pulled away from me, walked to the hearth and did not look at me again.

But as I stepped through the hidden door and away from her forever, I could not help but glance back once more. Nella’s body bowed into the warmth of the fire, as though she might let herself fall into it, and amid her haggard breaths, I was sure I also heard her weeping.