The Alchemist's Daughter (16 page)

C
HAPTER
27

John never tired of polishing coins. Being surrounded by money and touching it was a pleasure, but Boisvert’s unwarranted harping quashed any joy he was having bringing a shine to silver. The metallurgist lectured him on women’s wiles as if he had never seen a female and had been pent up in a monastery all his life. Not that Boisvert’s sage words fell on deaf ears; it was just when it came to Bianca, his advice wasn’t relevant.

Bianca was and always would be unique.

From the moment he first saw her picking pockets at Cheapside, he knew she was the one for him. They had been only twelve, but Bianca had filched his heart as sure as she’d lifted sausage from under a butcher’s nose.

John knew he was destined for disappointment along the way, for he was schooled in the harsh realities of life. His father had been killed in a tavern brawl, and his mother had abandoned him for a Danish sailor. Left to fend for himself, John begged for scraps at an inn on Old Fish Street Hill and slept in an empty barrel in the back alley. He had a good heart, as good as any rascal who’d had to live by his wits to survive.

If he hadn’t helped Boisvert one night after the French metallurgist escaped the point of a dirk, both Boisvert and John would have fared much worse. Boisvert was new to London and ignorant of its customs and cuisine. That night Boisvert had ingested one too many ales and slices of dubious kidney pie. He bragged too much of Frenchwomen and French ways, and so, when he tripped out the door to weave his way home, it wasn’t long before he found himself at the end of a menacing blade. John watched as Boisvert was robbed, then kicked senseless for throwing up on his assailants. Wondering if the man had any coin left on him, John ventured out of his barrel and searched his pockets. When Boisvert’s eyes fluttered open, John saw an opportunity to rob the man’s rent once he helped him home. It was with some effort he got the pudgy greenhorn home to Foster Lane, and once he did, the metallurgist thanked him with a preemptive slam of the door.

John vowed never to help a Frenchman again.

Nothing would have come of it if Boisvert hadn’t sought his young rescuer to become his apprentice. When he found him, John followed as if called by Christ himself. And he never regretted it.

Except when Boisvert preached about women.

“Boisvert, contrary to what you believe, Bianca does not want to be taken care of. She has her own rent.”

“My friend, you are so naïve.” Boisvert shook his head with the arrogance of an experienced romancer. “It is not that the
fille
doesn’t want to be taken care of. Every woman,
sans exception,
wants that. It is because she doesn’t want . . . you.”

“Oh, I know she does. I know she wants me.”

“How so? You do not live with her.” Boisvert watched John for a reaction. “It is a curse, this love. It is true what they say—that this ‘love, she is blind.’ You saw it come, but you do not see it go.”

“Boisvert, Constable Patch is after her!” John threw down the polishing cloth. “She’s a wee preoccupied of late.”

“But can you tell me before this happened, before she saw a noose dangling, did she treat you as you wanted?”

John hated when Boisvert posed questions. It always got him thinking in ways that made him squirm. Bianca and he were different. They didn’t have to be crawling over each other to show how much they cared. Though, he had to admit, a little more crawling would have suited him.

“Bianca would never fawn over
any
one. She hasn’t the time.”

Boisvert tsked. He hung a metal mold on a hook next to the forge. “Then, that is a problem.”

“Perhaps for you. If Bianca acted like she couldn’t live without me, I wouldn’t want her.”

Boisvert looked on him with overt skepticism, which only further incensed John. The Frenchman had succeeded in wearing him down. He was worried about Bianca, and getting prodded by Boisvert wasn’t helping to allay his fears.

“Boisvert, I’ve had enough.” He lifted his jerkin off a hook and, ignoring Boisvert’s protests, headed out the door.

 

John had no intention of monopolizing Bianca’s time. He only wanted to peek in her window and see that she was safe. The last time he had done that, he had expected to see her working on one of her concoctions, not sprawled on the floor naked and unconscious. An uneasy feeling slithered down his spine as he wondered what he might find this time.

She had told him that helping her meant leaving her alone. Only she could do what was needed to save herself from a swing at the end of a rope. It bothered him to leave her, and he had done so reluctantly. John believed that Bianca would be able to avoid Patch for a day, and so he was able to go about his work at Boisvert’s without much worry. But John wouldn’t stay away forever. He sought his own reassurance in this matter, and he would help without her knowing.

He crossed London Bridge and passed into the seedy borough of Southwark, feeling his disquiet grow along with the number of stray dogs and runagates eyeing him.

Once he turned onto her lane, a whiff of Morgan’s Lane stream worked its foul magic. His breath caught in his throat, and he pinched his nose closed. Bianca was made of sterner stuff than he, living in Southwark.

When John arrived at Bianca’s moldering front door, he hesitated, uncertain whether he should knock or just peep through the window and leave her alone. But the decision was made for him when he found the window still boarded. He’d have to risk her anger by knocking. This he did, to no response.

“Bianca,” he called, trying the door.

John circled around to the alley, knowing the back door and lock were probably still broken. After budging the door, he managed to push his face in the wedge and called her name.

Still, no response.

He kicked the spongy wood slats and loosened the flimsy rope securing it. Once he was inside, the only light came from the dying embers in her calcinatory furnace. He scanned the room, checking between the tables to be sure she wasn’t on the floor again, then found a tallow in a basket near the front door. He lit it in the stove and waved it about. Definitely no Bianca.

Where
was
she? Had Patch arrested her? He refused to believe it. She was too wily to let that happen—at least not without a fight. He studied the room for signs of struggle and found none. Just the normal jumbled mess of her experiments.

He scratched his ear, puzzling where she might have gone, when he saw lengths of grass reeds spread upon the table and a half-woven basket. He picked it up and turned it over in his hand. This wasn’t a basket; it was a cage. The uneasy feeling in his stomach doubled. He knew what animal a cage this size was meant for. And he knew where she’d go to get it.

C
HAPTER
28

If there was one thing Meddybemps enjoyed more than swiving, it was intelligencing. He was as happy as a pig in mud to combine the two. And for such good cause. He’d hate to see Bianca dangle at Newgate. Knowing her was far too fun.

He knew nearly every Southwark stew and proprietor thereof. Most were past bloom and preferred running the business, leaving the more physical exertions to their bawds. They were nearly all like walnuts to crack, but Meddybemps had a way about him.

So it was that he had encouraged the attention of Maude Manstyn off a twisting lane near the Clink. Her house did a good business, being one of the first stops for freed felons on their way to making more mischief. Meddybemps figured she had seen it all and any gossip worth knowing she would have heard about. And, as an older but still desirable woman, Maude was not averse to the occasional romp with a worthy pizzle.

It was hard to say what information he could wheedle out of her. The secrets kept between sister proprietors often remained that way. No one wanted to end in prison for any reason—the time and lost income was too inconvenient. These women were shrewd, and they knew how to survive. And that usually meant keeping their counsel and that of their neighbors.

Plied with a little Spanish port, Maude’s tongue loosened, and before long she was responding favorably to Meddybemps’s expert handling. Not only did she coo at his ministrations like a plump pigeon, she also enthusiastically answered his questions while kneading his bare bum.

“Meddy, don’t tease me so.”

“Luv, I’ve no mind to tease.” Meddybemps twirled a finger where it counted.

She raised her hips, pushing his head between her legs. “Then torture me!”

Meddybemps grabbed her hips and tilted her pelvis, his wandering eye no longer freewheeling. “You’ve known Jane Beldam for as long as you’ve been in Southwark.”

“Aye, that,” she agreed.

“And she was once a trull herself?”

“Oh, aye!”

“At the same stew as yourself?”

“Nay!” Maude placed her hands on either side of Meddybemps’s head and pulled him toward her, but his head popped up to peer over her smooth belly.

“Then where?” he asked.

Maude frowned. “Jane was at Barke House first and last. She rose through the ranks, as they say.” She shoved the crown of his head down with the heel of her hand, but he popped up again like a rabbit from its burrow.

“How did she become a madam of the games?”

“Fool man, like anyone does. She outlasted them all.” Maude boxed his ears and pushed him down again. “Meddy, I’m losing my patience.”

The storied streetseller rewarded her with just enough attention to keep her interested. “Do you know Robert Wynders?”

“Aye!” she responded, with unbridled enthusiasm.

“What is the connection between Jane Beldam and him?”

“Meddy!” she shouted in exasperation.

“Maude!” replied Meddybemps. He resisted her moony eyes until she answered him.

“He was her daughter’s lover!”

“What is the crime in that?” he mused, absently running a finger along her inner thigh. It was not atypical for a man to take pleasure. “Ahh,” he said, as a thought occurred to him. “Was he married?”

“Oh, AYE!” she shrieked.

Now they were getting somewhere, though, he had to admit, she made it difficult for him to keep drilling her—with questions. For the moment, one of his objectives would have to suffer, and never one for letting business get in the way of pleasure, Meddybemps dispensed with the interrogation.

The two of them bounced on the bed in wild abandon. Maude slapped his bum like the flank of a spirited stallion, ignoring concerned inquiries at the door. The denizens had never heard such caterwauling from Maude. It was enough to make seasoned whores turn pink about the ears.

But they ignored everyone. They whooped and howled, shrieked and growled. And when finally Meddybemps rolled off Maude in utter exhaustion, he, the bed and even the house itself sighed in relief that that was finally over and done with.

Meddybemps lay with his arms splayed, gasping and staring at the ceiling, his mind empty and his body spent. He should get up and take a hard piss, though it was only a rumored preventive for the French pox (alas, too late for him anyway) and the itch. Instead, he resigned his “health” as a lost cause and enjoyed the tranquility of the moment. Slowly, as he regained his senses, his visit’s other purpose crowded out his feelings of bliss and demanded attention.

“That a married man takes a lover is not unusual, nor is it so shocking,” said Meddybemps, returning to the subject.

Maude lay beside him, her eyes closed. “True. But Wynders had cause to keep it quiet.”

Meddybemps turned to face her. “And the cause being?”

“Methinks it’s my turn to be coy.”

“Maude!”

“Meddy?”

“Don’t torture me!”

Maude’s eyes opened, and she smiled archly, turning to look at him. “It’ll cost you, luv.”

Meddybemps hadn’t an ounce of vigor left to pluck. Surely she couldn’t be serious. But the look in her eye spoke otherwise. “Have pity,” he said. “I am not the stuff I once was.”

“Nor I. But be cheered you’ll leave with no fewer coins.”

With a moan of appreciation and exhaustion, Meddybemps accommodated. It was a bit of a struggle, but once he got past a slow start, they were once again shaking dust from the rafters.

This time, Meddybemps didn’t wait to question her. “What of this scandal?” he asked as he teetered over her.

“Meddy!” she shouted.

“Maude!” Meddybemps retreated, a man expert in the taunt and touché.

Maude squirmed. “It is rumored she was with child,” she said in exasperation.

“Wynders’s child?”

“AYE!”

Meddybemps rewarded her while he pondered, splitting his wits between the two. He stopped to catch his breath. “What became of the girl and her child?”

“Disappeared.”

“No one disappears never to be found. They might leave and go somewhere. Surely that is the explanation.”

Maude pulled him toward her, and they took up where they had left off. “Supposedly he forced Jane to send her daughter away to France to wait out the child’s birth. Perhaps she serves the nuns that took her in. No one has seen or heard of her since. She’s long since been forgotten.”

“Indiscretion comes at a price—both for Wynders and Jane Beldam.”

“It would have been dangerous to let the girl stay at Barke House.”

“Dangerous?” asked Meddybemps, thinking of his overtaxed genitories. “How so?”

“Jane’s daughter was a bug of Bedlam, they say. Discretion was at issue. Best to keep the pregnancy and birth a secret. You see, Wynders’s money did not come from his earnings in business.”

“Meaning?”

“He married it, silly man.”

“But how could he force her to leave?”

“For coin, what wouldn’t a person do? And for Jane it was an opportunity. Not only could she rid herself of a troubled child, she could make money doing it.”

“So, the girl never returned?”

“It is not my interest. I trouble myself no more over it. Jane’s conscience is her own concern.”

Meddybemps stopped in distraction. “Yet Wynders still frequents Barke House.”

Maude reminded him of his task. Her stamina was truly a source of wonder. “Perchance Jane Beldam still has sway,” she mused. “They are like two bulls squaring off. They circle and move with their eyes fixed on each other. Neither dares to step first.”

The information gave Meddybemps something to ponder, and while his brain was occupied with that puzzle, his pizzle was occupied with another. He rocked and galloped to the finish, then fell off Maude and rolled from the bed, grabbing his pants. “Well, no one gossips about a man’s virtues.”

Maude smiled knowingly. “They do here.”