Chapter 36

36

Caroline

Present day, Friday

The next morning, I stepped into the British Library for the third time. I walked along the familiar path, past the reception desk, up the staircase, and made my way to the third floor.

The Maps Room now felt as familiar and comfortable to me as the underground train stations. I spotted Gaynor near one of the stacks toward the center of the room, rearranging a pile of books at her feet.

“Psst,” I whispered, sneaking up behind her.

She jumped and turned around. “Hi!You can’t stay away, can you?”

I grinned. “As it turns out, I have news.”

“More news?” She lowered her voice and said, “Please tell me you didn’t break down another door.” At seeing the smile still on my face, she breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God. What is it, then? Something more on the apothecary?” She grabbed a book from the floor and pushed it into place on one of the shelves.

“This news is about me, actually.”

She paused, suspending another book in midair as she looked at me. “Do tell.”

I took a deep breath, still in disbelief that I’d done it. I’d done it. After all the outrageous things I’d done in London this week, it was this that most surprised me. “I applied to grad school at Cambridge last night.”

In an instant, Gaynor’s eyes filled with tears, catching the reflection of the lights overhead. She set the book down and placed a hand on each of my shoulders. “Caroline, I am so completely proud of you.”

I coughed, a knot in my throat. I’d called Rose a short while ago to tell her the news, too. She’d burst into happy tears, calling me the bravest woman she knew.

Brave.It wasn’t a label I would have given myself back in Ohio, but I realized now that she was right. What I’d done was brave—even a bit mad—but it was authentic and true to the real me. And despite how different my life looked from Rose’s now, her support reminded me that it was okay for friends to venture down different paths.

I looked at Gaynor, thankful for this unlikely friendship, too. I thought of my very first time in this room; rain-drenched, grieving and directionless, I’d approached Gaynor—a total stranger—with nothing but a glass vial in my pocket. A glass vial and a question. Now, I stood before her again, bearing almost no semblance to that person. I was still grieving, yes, but I’d uncovered so much about myself, enough to propel me in another direction altogether. A direction I felt I was meant to pursue long ago.

“It’s not a history degree, but a master’s program in English studies,” I explained. “Eighteenth century and Romantic studies. The coursework includes various antiquated texts and works of literature, as well as research methods.” I felt the degree in English studies would bridge my interest in history, literature and research. “I’ll submit my dissertation at the end of the program,” I added, though my voice shook at the word dissertation. Gaynor raised her eyebrows as I explained, “The lost apothecary—her shop, her register, the obscure ingredients she used—I’m hoping to make these the subject of my research. An academic, preservationist approach to sharing what I’ve found.”

“My God, you sound like a scholar already.” She grinned, then added, “I think it’s absolutely brilliant. And you won’t be so far at all! We should plan a few weekend getaways. Maybe hop over to Paris on the train?”

My stomach flipped at the thought of it. “Of course. The program starts after the first of the year, so we’ve got plenty of time to plan a few ideas.”

Though I could hardly wait to get started, in truth it was probably best the program didn’t start for another six months. I had some difficult conversations ahead of me—my parents and James, to start—and I’d need to train my replacement at the family business; secure student housing at Cambridge; and complete the paperwork for a marital separation, which I’d initiated online last night...

As if reading my thoughts, Gaynor wrung her hands together and asked in a hesitant voice, “It’s really none of my business, but does your husband know yet?”

“He knows we need to be apart for a time, but he doesn’t know I plan to return to the UK while we sort out our lives. I’m calling him tonight to tell him that I’ve applied.”

I also intended to call my parents and tell them, finally, the truth about what James had done. Whereas a few days ago, I’d meant to protect them from the news, now I realized how unreasonable that was. Gaynor and Rose had reminded me of the importance of surrounding myself with people who supported and encouraged me and my desires. This encouragement had been missing for far too long, and I was ready to reclaim it.

Gaynor resumed placing books on the shelf, looking over at me as she did so. “And the program, how long is it?” she asked.

“Nine months.”

Nine months, the same amount of time I had so desperately wished to carry a baby. I smiled, the irony not lost on me. A child might not have been in my immediate future, but something else—a long-lost dream—had taken its place.

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After saying goodbye to Gaynor, I made my way to the second floor. I hoped she wouldn’t spot me turning into the Humanities Reading Room. Admittedly, at this very moment, I meant to avoid her; for this task, I wanted to be alone and away from any prying eyes, however well-intentioned they may be.

I walked to one of the library-issued PCs at the back of the room. It was only a few days ago that Gaynor and I sat together at an identical computer upstairs, and I hadn’t yet forgotten the basics of navigating the library’s search tools. I opened the main British Library page and clicked Search the Main Catalogue.Then I navigated to the digitized newspaper records, where Gaynor and I had attempted our own fruitless search on the apothecary killer.

The whole day lay empty in front of me, and I expected to be here a long while. I settled into my chair, pulled one leg up underneath me and opened my notebook. Who is Eliza Fanning?

It was the one question, the only question, I’d jotted down two nights ago.

In the search bar for the British Newspaper Archive, I typed two words: Eliza Fanning.Then I hit Enter.

Immediately, the search results returned a handful of entries. I scanned them quickly, but only a single record—the one at the very top of the page—appeared to be a match. I opened the article and, since it had been digitized, the full text was displayed in an instant.

The article was published in the summer of 1802, by a newspaper called The Brighton Press. I opened another tab in the browser to search for Brighton, learning that it was a seaside city on England’s south coast, a couple hours south of London.

The headline read “Eliza Pepper, née Fanning, Sole Inheritor of Husband’s Magick Book Shoppe.”

The article went on to say that twenty-two-year-old Eliza Pepper, born in Swindon but a resident of the outskirts of Brighton since 1791, had inherited the entirety of her husband Tom Pepper’s estate, including his wildly successful book shoppe at the north end of town. The shoppe carried a wide assortment of books on magick and the occult, and customers hailed regularly from all parts of the continent seeking remedies and cures for the most unusual of ailments.

According to the article, unfortunately Mr. Tom Pepper himself could not seem to conjure an antidote for his own troubles; he’d recently fallen ill, believed to be pleurisy of the chest. His wife, Eliza, was his sole caregiver until he met his untimely end. But as tribute to the life and success of Mr. Pepper, a celebration was held at the shoppe; hundreds were in attendance to pay their respects.

After the event, a small group of reporters interviewed Mrs. Pepper about her intent for the shoppe going forward. She assured the men that it would remain open.

“Both Tom and I owe our very lives to the magick arts,” she told the reporters, before explaining that long ago, in London, her very own magick blend saved her life. “I was only a child. It was my first tincture, but I risked my life for a special friend, one who still encourages and counsels me to this very day.” Mrs. Pepper then added, “Maybe my youth was to blame, but I had not an ounce of fear when the moment of death presented itself. Indeed, I found the little blue vial of magick to be feverish against my skin, and after swallowing the tincture, the heat of it was so powerful that the frigid depths were a welcome respite.”

The article stated that the reporters questioned her further about this last bit. “The ‘frigid depths’? Do explain, Mrs. Pepper,” one of the men asked. But Eliza only thanked the men for their time and insisted she was needed back inside.

She then reached out her arms on either side of her, taking the hands of her two young children—a boy and a girl, twins, aged four—and disappeared with them into her late husband’s store, the Blackfriars Shoppe of Magick Books & Baubles.

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I left the British Library less than an hour after I arrived. The afternoon sun shone hot and bright above me. I bought a bottle of water from a street vendor and settled on a bench in the shade of an elm tree, considering how best to spend the rest of the day. I’d intended to spend the entire afternoon at the library, but I’d found what I was looking for in almost no time at all.

I understood, now, that the apothecary was not the one who jumped from the bridge. It was her young friend, Eliza Fanning. This explained how the apothecary made an entry in the register on the twelfth of February. It was because, contrary to what police believed, the apothecary was not dead. But neither was Eliza; whether on account of her tincture or sheer luck, the girl survived her fall.

But the article about Eliza didn’t explain everything. It didn’t explain why the ingredients of the tincture were unknown to the apothecary, or whether the police ever knew of Eliza’s existence. The article didn’t state whether the apothecary subscribed to Eliza’s same beliefs about the efficacy of magic, nor did it expand on the nature of Eliza’s relationship with the apothecary.

And still, I did not know the apothecary’s name.

There was something poignant, too, about young Eliza’s involvement. Shrouded in mystery was the role she played in the apothecary’s life and death; she’d only revealed to the papers that she’d risked her life for a special friend, one who still counseled her to that day. Did this mean the apothecary lived another decade and had left London to join Eliza in Brighton? Or had Eliza been referring to something else—the apothecary’s ghost, perhaps?

I would never know.

Perhaps I would glean more information about these missing details, someday, when I began my research work and returned to the shop with a proper light and a team of historians or other academics. Undoubtedly, a wealth of unexplored possibility existed inside that tiny room. But these sorts of questions—especially those about the subtle, mysterious interactions between two women—would likely not be found in old newspapers or documents. History doesn’t record the intricacies of women’s relationships with one another; they’re not to be uncovered.

As I sat underneath the elm tree, the soft twitter of larks somewhere above me, I mused on the fact that after learning the truth about Eliza, I hadn’t gone back upstairs to tell Gaynor. I hadn’t told her the name of the person who really jumped from the bridge on February 11, 1791, and lived to see another day. To Gaynor’s knowledge, it was the apothecary who jumped from the bridge and committed suicide.

It wasn’t that I felt the need to hide this fact from Gaynor, so much as I felt a protectiveness over Eliza’s story. And even though I meant to further explore the apothecary’s shop and her lifetime of work, I intended to keep Eliza to myself—my lone secret.

Sharing the truth—that Eliza, not the apothecary, jumped from the bridge—could very likely catapult my dissertation work to the front page of academic journals, but I didn’t want the renown. Eliza had been only a child, but like me, she’d found herself at a turning point in her life. And like me, she’d gripped the light blue vial between her fingers, hovered above the frigid, unwelcome depths...and then she’d jumped.

While sitting on the bench outside the library, I pulled my notebook out of my bag, but I flipped backward, past the notes about the apothecary, to the first page. I reread the original, planned itinerary with James. My handwriting from weeks earlier was loopy and whimsical, interspersed with miniature hearts. Only a few days ago, this itinerary had left me nauseated, and I’d had no desire to see the sights that James and I meant to experience together. Now, I found myself curious about all the places I’d waited so long to see: the Tower of London, the V&A Museum, Westminster. The idea of visiting these places by myself wasn’t as distasteful as it was a few days ago, and I found myself eager to explore. Besides, I felt sure Gaynor would be happy to join me on a few outings.

But visiting a museum could wait until tomorrow. There was something else I needed to do today.

I took the Underground from the library to Blackfriars station. As I exited the train, I headed east toward Millennium Bridge, strolling along the narrow riverfront walkway. The river, to my right, rolled calmly along its well-worn path.

I followed along the knee-high stone wall for some time, then I spotted the concrete steps leading to the river. They were the same steps I’d taken a few days earlier, just before the mudlarking tour. I made my way down them, then stepped carefully over the smooth, round stones along the river. The silence struck me, as it did my first time here. I was grateful to see that there were no people milling about on the rocks—no sightseers, no children, no tour groups.

Opening my bag, I pulled out the light blue vial; the one, I now knew, which had contained Eliza’s magic tincture. It had rescued her, and in some strange way, it had done the same for me. According to the apothecary’s register, the contents of this vial two hundred years ago had been ingredients unknown. The unknown had once been an unpleasant concept to me, but I realized now the opportunity in it. The excitement in it. Clearly, it had been the same for Eliza.

For both of us, the vial marked the end of one quest and the beginning of another; it represented a crossroads, the abandonment of secrets and pain in favor of embracing the truth—in favor of embracing magic. Magic, with its enchanting, irresistible appeal, just like a fairy tale.

The vial looked exactly as it had when I’d found it, albeit a bit cleaner and smudged with my own fingerprints. I traced the bear with my thumbnail, thinking of all the vial had taught me: that the hardest truths never rest on the surface. They must be dredged up, held to the light and rinsed clean.

A movement in my peripheral vision caught my attention: a pair of women, upriver a long way, walking toward me. They must have come down another set of steps. I paid them no mind as I prepared for my final task.

I clutched the vial to my chest. Eliza must have done the same while standing on Blackfriars Bridge, not far from here. Raising the vial above my head, I thrust it forward to the water with as much strength as my arm allowed. I watched as the bottle made an arc upward and over the water, then splashed gently in the far depths of the Thames. A single ripple made its way outward before a low wave overtook it.

Eliza’s vial. My vial. Our vial. The truth of it remained the one secret I would not share.

I remembered Bachelor Alf’s words on the mudlarking tour, about how finding something on the river was surely fate. I hadn’t believed it at the time, but I now knew that stumbling upon the tiny blue vial was fate—a pivotal turn in the direction of my life.

As I stepped onto the concrete steps to make my way up and out of the riverbed, I glanced once more upriver, toward the two women. This stretch of river was long and straight; they should have been closer to me now. But I frowned, studying the area, and then smiled at my own wild imagination.

My eyes must have been playing tricks on me, for the two women were nowhere to be found.

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