The Alchemist's Daughter Part 12

"But why?"

"She was afraid."

I stared up at him. I was about to say, 'Surely you should have persuaded her,' but the look in his eye was so remote that I didn't dare. I said, "At least you can pray for her. I wasn't taught how to pray."

He said nothing.

"Do you mind telling me what you pray?"

"I pray for the wisdom to find meaning in the . . . her death."

"And have you?"

"No, Mrs. Aislabie, I find no meaning. But perhaps that's because I'm too small to see a plan so large I rarely get anything but a brief glimpse of it."

"Should I pray for my father's soul, do you think?"

He laughed. "Not if you don't believe in such a thing."

"So how should I pray for him?"

"Are you asking my advice as a clergyman?"

"Yes. As a clergyman. That's your profession, after all. Why are you surprised?"

"I wouldn't dare advise you about anything."

"Please."

"Mrs. Aislabie, I'm sure you pray for him night and day just by keeping him in mind."

"And if I don't pray. If I am neglectful, do you think I will be punished?"

"By what? By whom?"

"Do you think I might be struck a blow because I have done wrong?"

He was silent a long time. "What kind of blow?"

"I lost . . . I cannot help thinking . . . I married Aislabie, and then I lost . . ."

"You lost your baby, Mrs. Aislabie. Is that what you mean?" Another long pause. "No. I don't think it is a matter of punishment. I think it's a matter of recognizing how frail we all are."

"I feel punished."

"No. No. I do not believe in a mechanism for punishment and reward."

"So your prayer is not entreaty."

"For what? For favors? For an a.s.sured place in heaven? I have tried all kinds of asking and am never satisfied. What I do know is that the expectation of heaven can be no subst.i.tute for what happens here. It can't be an excuse for inflicting misery on others. But sometimes I can't help hoping that heaven will contain a few shocks for those of us who are complacent or cruel."

"What shock will be prepared for you?"

"Perhaps a series of meetings with Mrs. Aislabie will be arranged, to ensure I am never complacent for long." I looked up and was caught off guard by his smile and then a sudden change, an expression in his eye that was intense and unnerving. We walked on in silence, my hand still resting on his arm, but now I was self-conscious, aware of the occasional pressure when his leg brushed my skirt. Once I glanced up at him, but he was looking away. Then I saw that we had returned to the nave and that the crowd had dispersed. My husband was standing fretfully by the door, and I felt a stab of anxiety.

Before we reached him, Shales took the crumpled handkerchief from me and put it in his pocket. He said, "I remember that when you came to visit me in my study, you asked what I intended to do with the air I had collected by fermenting those peas. Ever since, I have been wondering what was behind that question. I have struggled with my plants, with small-scale measurements and observations, but until I spoke to you it never occurred to me to go a step further with regard to the airs I had collected. It seems to me that I have been taking a very narrow view. Do you think you would have time to give me a lesson or two, Mrs. Aislabie, or direct my reading?"

I was flattered and amazed, but there was no time to answer. My husband sprang forward, and my hand transferred itself from one arm, black worsted, to another, blue velvet. Aislabie bowed low to Shales. "I gather you've called at the house a couple of times. We must arrange a meeting."

"I was wondering if you have any comments on the pet.i.tion we handed to you," said Shales. His voice was clipped, and for the first time I saw he could be formidable.

"Can't say I remember it."

"You should take note. The mood is ugly. My parishioners have heard all kinds of rumors-they can't sleep peacefully in their beds for fear of losing the roof over their heads."

"Nonsense."

"And then there's the matter of money. They pay their rents and see no return. The land is in a poor state. Wages have not been paid."

"Not everyone pays rents. I've been looking at the books."

"Nonetheless . . ."

"Nonetheless. We are all having to pay for decades of neglect and mismanagement, despite your commendable efforts with fertilizing the soil. It will take years of careful husbandry to restore the estates. I am not a magician, Shales, unlike my predecessor."

"People are very unhappy."

The roguish dimple played in Aislabie's cheek. "I hope this isn't a threat, Shales."

"I'm no threat. It's your choice. But if you don't consult with them, they will rebel."

"I doubt if any of those peasants would have the wit to rebel without a ringleader. I shall remember this conversation, Shales."

"As their priest, I have a duty to speak for them."

"As their priest, I'm sure you'll explain to them the consequences of any violent or illegal action." Aislabie bowed deeply before whisking me away to the waiting carriage.

Once I was inside, he stuck his head in after me. "I forbid you to speak to that man again without first asking my permission."

"But he's been so kind to me."

"Probably part of his plan. He'll try and get you on his side. He's been stirring up all kinds of trouble. Watch yourself, Em."

"He's no threat, he's a clergyman."

Aislabie roared with laughter. "As if that was a guarantee of good behavior. Nonetheless, Em, do as I say, there's a good girl."

[ 5 ].

MY HUSBAND WAS out late that night, so I went to bed alone. Because Sarah hadn't returned either, I had to rely on an unfamiliar maid to untie my laces. As soon as she'd gone, I snuffed the candles and got into bed. As usual when Aislabie wasn't there, I left the bed curtains open so I could see the night sky and the moon, if there was one. Again and again I walked through the Abbey with Shales, saw the banners and the monuments, the soot caught in the furls of stone carving, the glint of gilt, the pocks of woodworm. I listened to what we'd said to each other and wished I could relive the conversation-only this time I would be more honest with him about palingenesis, and I'd find the right words to comfort him for the death of his wife. I certainly wouldn't return his handkerchief until I'd had it washed. And above all, I'd say more about the quality of air. The fact that I hadn't given him an answer when he asked for my help grieved me most; it was as if a closed door had been pushed open onto my former life of investigation and natural philosophy but then been slammed shut again.

In the small hours, I heard Aislabie's footfall on the stairs. He tried to open the door quietly, but it banged against a chair, and he cursed. Then he sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and took off his shoes. I turned my back and wrapped my arms round my knees.

"It's a cold night, Em," he murmured. "I'm looking for a place to warm these hands of mine."

I heard his wig drop softly on the table, then his clothes, one by one until at last the mattress sagged under his weight as he coiled himself round me and tucked his hand under my arm. He had been drinking, and the kisses he planted on my neck were soft and wet.

I remained in a tight knot.

"Come on, Em, take pity on your poor cold man."

"I'm too tired. Too sad."

"What's to be sad about, now your old man's here?"

I turned on my back. "Didn't you realize how sad I was at the funeral? It hurt me to be there."

"You mean because of your father. But Em, he was an old man. It was time he died."

"And our child. I was thinking about the baby we lost."

He sighed and straightened himself so that we lay like a couple of knights on their slabs in Westminster Abbey. "It would be a very good thing for all of us, Em, if you learned to let the past stay in the past. Lord, how would it be if we all went round tearing our hair out because at some time someone had died."

"Who are the dead people in your life, Aislabie?"

"I don't choose to remember them, and I think that is a cultivated choice. My life is crowded enough without being cluttered up with the dead."

"Tell me about your parents."

"They're not dead, as far as I know."

"Shouldn't we visit them?"

"Whatever for? It's years since I clapped eyes on them."

"That seems to me a very cold att.i.tude. How do you know they're not in trouble and needing you?"

He propped himself on his elbow and leaned over me so that I felt his warm, wine-laden breath on my cheek. "You've said enough. Point taken. Should not have taken Mistress Em to a funeral. Can we have an end to this now?"

"You ignored me."

"When did I ignore you?"

"In the Abbey. I was sad and I needed you, but you ignored me."

"Dear G.o.d. Em, I went to a deal of trouble getting you in there in the first place. All you had to do was tag on to my arm and you would have been fine. But when I looked for you, there was no sign because you'd gone off with the very holy Reverend Shales."

"Not gone off. He took pity on me."

His hand had crept down to the hem of my shift, and he sprinkled kisses on my shoulder, but still I lay rigid. It was not like me to resist him; I didn't recognize myself, and part of me wanted to put my arms round his neck and abandon myself to the comfort of his body. But some stony Emilie had taken hold, and she was waiting for Aislabie to show just a hint of regret that he had not been kinder in the Abbey. It was his lack of knowledge that was so hurtful, his inability to take my feelings into account.

After a moment, he gave a little grunt then flung back the sheets, swept his coat from the floor, and left the room, slamming the door behind him. I heard him stumble on the first couple of steps leading to the next floor, then turn back and go to the small bedchamber with the burgundy drapes he used when I was away in Selden. I lay in my solitary bed, feeling a curious mix of triumph and sorrow. I had surely been right to tell him that I was unhappy, but if he'd stayed just a few seconds longer I would have given in. I couldn't have resisted the pressure of his hand on my thigh or his penitent little kisses for long.

[ 6 ].

BY MORNING, SARAH still wasn't home, which I saw as yet more proof that she had little respect for my authority. Without her savage ministrations, my clothes wouldn't fit. The maid who dressed me was so tentative about lacing my stays that my gown gaped. When Aislabie came in, affectionate as ever and apparently quite unperturbed by what had been said the night before, he laughed at my frustration and wouldn't hear of letting me go home to Selden without Sarah. Instead, he took hold of the laces and gave a few sharp tugs. "See, we don't need her. The wretched girl has probably met up with her family and been persuaded to stay an extra night."

"She has no family. I've a good mind to dismiss her if she ever does come back."

"I told you before to be firmer with her. You keep her on much too loose a rein. She's a London girl, and she'll take everything she can."

"Then how can I trust her?"

"You can trust her as well as any other. And do you really want to put yourself to the trouble of finding someone else?" He tossed me a purse of change. "Give her one more chance. Amuse yourself in town today. Take another maid, go shopping, and buy yourself something decorative."

I strode about the house for a bit, spoke to the parrot, and thought of my alchemy steaming away without me. And then it occurred to me that this was the first chance I'd had to visit London alone and that there certainly were places I wanted to go very badly indeed. So I asked the maid to summon a chair, told her I wouldn't be needing her, thank you, and ordered the men to take me to Crane Court, Fleet Street.

The uneven, rocking motion was quite pleasant, and with the curtains shut the bustle in the streets was less intimidating, but I felt very alone and was suddenly overwhelmed by yearning for that moment yesterday when I had stood by the tomb with Shales and talked about heaven and suffering.

This time I went right into Crane Court, which was in deep shadow even though the sun was shining. At the far end was a modern double-fronted house with a flight of steps leading to the door-the home of the Royal Society, where my father had come each year to read in the library and attend lectures and meetings. The windows were shuttered, and there was a mourning ribbon on the door. I knocked.

"Madam." Behind the servant, I could see a broad staircase and a pa.s.sage to a small garden, where a birch fluttered in the sunlight. From somewhere above came men's voices.

"I wonder if I might read in the library."

"Fellows only are admitted to the library."

"My father was a fellow. Perhaps you knew him. Sir John Selden. He left papers. I should like to see them."

"Sir John Selden." His fat jowls bulged when he smiled. "I remember Sir John Selden. Quite the recluse. Quite the character."

At this point, two gentlemen in mourning bands came up beside me, brushed past, and nodded to the footman. "Sir John Selden's daughter," said the footman, "come to take a look at his papers."

They smiled politely, but I realized that these younger men had scarcely heard of my father.

"Regrettably, the rules on admission are very clear," added the footman as the others disappeared upstairs.

"You could ask . . ."

"Perhaps you are unaware, madam, that our president was buried yesterday. It is hardly the time to break the rules."

After the door closed, I retreated into deep shadow at the opposite side of the yard. Another man emerged from the alley, tall, dressed in black. Shales, was it? No. But it occurred to me that Shales might come here and that it would be shameful to be caught in the shadows of a world that belonged to him and my father, but not to me.

[ 7 ].

I WALKED OUT onto Fleet Street, where coffeehouses had opened up on every alley and street corner. For me, London had only two real landmarks. I had visited one of them, and now I turned east toward Spitalfields, thinking I would have another search for my mother's house. The street was very crowded, and without Sarah's protection I was knocked about and eyed up so insolently that I almost turned tail. But that spare day, the day when I should not have been in London, turned out to be so momentous that afterward I thought that some guiding hand had taken hold and was directing my feet, because the next thing I saw was a notice tacked up on the side of an entrance advertising a lecture by the eminent German philosopher Hans Wepfer, who would shed light on the vital force of life, the Archaeus. Everyone was welcome to attend at the Swan in Wine Office Court at twelve o'clock.

How could I resist such an invitation? I bought a pie like a true Londoner, took it down to the river, watched the ma.s.s of oars on the choppy water, and looked downstream to where Flora must be moored somewhere among a distant forest of masts. I remembered that Shales had once given a sermon about the river and how it was a link between his past and his present. No wonder his face in repose was full of sorrow, when he had lost his beloved wife so needlessly to smallpox.