Hemlock Page 19

  He paused, glancing half-apologetically at Dr. Stuart. “I fear that this is a rather long story and for you, Stuart, one that you already know well. I shall try not to ramble, and when I have done, we shall have some tea.”

  “Ramble as you like, sir,” Dr. Stuart said, bending over to pick up a pair of ember tongs from the hearth and lighting his pipe with a glowing coal. “It is a most interesting story.”

  Elizabeth felt a twinge of nervous anxiety, wondering where and how and why she might fit into this great man’s scheme, whatever it was. She listened intently, which was not hard to do, for Sir Hans spoke with a compelling conviction and energy.

  His story went like this. As the practice of medicine grew and developed in London, the importance of apothecaries increased, and with it the commercial trade in medicinal plants. Over a hundred years ago, during the reign of King James I, the apothecaries broke away from the Grocers’ Company to which they belonged. They formed their own professional society: the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries of London. Then, just thirty years ago, they had won the legal right to act as doctors and to prescribe medicines, as well as make and sell them.

  With the new privileges came new responsibilities, and the society set new goals for itself. It pledged to educate and train apprentice and journeymen apothecaries, ensure the quality of the medicines its members made and sold, find and punish frauds, and raise the professional standards of its members. It established a laboratory adjacent to its meeting hall in Blackfriars Lane, where medicinal herbs grown locally or imported from overseas could be prepared and wholesaled to apothecary shops. It conducted “herbarizing” expeditions led by trained botanists in the area around London, to identify and gather native medicinal plants where they grew in the wild. Since the medicines that were prescribed were mostly plant-based, these expeditions were important. Every apothecary had to learn to correctly identify every medicinal herb. A misidentification might mean that somebody died.

  The apothecaries also purchased a lease on a three-and-a-half-acre plot of land in Chelsea, a Thames-side hamlet some three miles west of the city. There, they created a teaching, demonstration, and experimental garden, where they began to cultivate not only the familiar English herbs but the new and unfamiliar exotics that explorers were bringing in from Asia, Africa, and the Americas. They hired gardeners, laid out plots and paths, and constructed conservatories and heated greenhouses—“stoves,” they were called, built over networks of subterranean fire pits and brick-lined flues that allowed tropical plants to be grown in English winters. The focus in this garden was not on a plant’s beauty or exotic nature but always on its usefulness, particularly its use as a medicine.

  As part of the society’s educational program, the garden was open to the public, and to visitors it was a source of wonder. Exotic plants and trees such as had never before been seen in England flourished there, including a Peruvian bark tree (chinchona, used to treat malaria), a great acacia, and four cedars of Lebanon. Collectors such as John Bartram of Philadelphia introduced plants from faraway places, and many people like Carl Linnaeus—the Swedish botanist who was creating a new method of naming plants—came to see these novelties.

  The garden quickly became an important part of the apothecaries’ educational programs, but maintaining it proved a daunting challenge. It was miles away from Blackfriars, and the roads could be impassable in wet weather. It cost a good deal to keep a knowledgeable and trustworthy gardener, who required both a salary and a house. (Trustworthiness was important. A gardener of the untrustworthy sort had made off with a thousand valuable plants and was never heard from again.) Building and maintaining the glasshouses was expensive, as were the rare plants brought from far places by botanical explorers.

  And then a challenge of another magnitude arose. Lord Cheyne decided to sell Chelsea Manor, which had once been the home of Princess Elizabeth and of Anne of Cleves. Obligingly, His Lordship first offered the garden to the apothecaries, but they couldn’t afford the £400 he was asking. They were faced with the very real prospect of losing their garden—until a contributor took care of the matter and they were able to carry on.

  Sir Hans paused at that point to ring for tea, and while they were waiting, Dr. Stuart spoke up.

  “If you will pardon me, Sir Hans, I fear you are too modest. I should like to tell Mrs. Blackwell who saved the garden.” With a smile at Elizabeth, he went on before Dr. Sloane could object.

  “It is a fact, Mrs. Blackwell, that without Sir Hans, the garden would have been lost. He has always been a patron and staunch friend of the apothecaries, generously helping them with building expenses and laboratory equipment. But he saved the garden by buying the entire manor—its houses and surrounding estates. That done, he leased the garden to the apothecaries for an annual five pounds. Five pounds, mind you, and a promise to send a few distinctive plants every year to the Royal Society. It was a generous, most generous gift.”

  Sir Hans had put up his hand to object, but Dr. Stuart vigorously shook his head. “No, no, sir, it must be said. If you had not intervened, the garden would have been lost, and with it several thousands of rare plants of inestimable pharmaceutical value. It is now said, in fact, that the Chelsea Garden rivals the botanic gardens of both Paris and Leiden.”

  At that point, tea arrived—a silver pot and a crystal platter of frosted raisin teacakes—and there was a brief silence while it was served, with Elizabeth wondering all the while what this bit of apothecary history had to do with her. She was not a trained botanist and had little interest in working in a garden. Unless, of course, she should be paid enough to reward the time spent.

  Then Sir Hans took up the story again. The garden, he said, was currently under the direction of Mr. Isaac Rand, with Philip Miller as gardener. Rand was an apothecary and an ardent botanist. He had recently published a catalogue of over five hundred of the garden’s plants. Mr. Miller was not only a master gardener but the author of the popular Gardener’s Dictionary and more recently, The Gardener’s Kalendar.

  “Excellent works, and very thorough,” Dr. Stuart said, munching on a cake. “The catalogues especially are much in demand among the apothecaries, for they list all the plants that can be obtained from the garden.”

  “Yes, much in demand.” Sir Hans emptied his cup and put it down on the table. “And that is why I have it in mind to commission another book.”

  “But, sir,” Elizabeth said. “If there are already several recent books about the garden, I cannot see that another will serve. Won’t it simply duplicate what Mr. Rand and Mr. Miller have done? How will it distinguish itself?”

  “Ah, Miller and Rand,” Dr. Stuart said in a low voice. “That may present some difficulties, I fear.”

  “But we need not confront that now,” Sir Hans said briskly. He smiled at Elizabeth. “Your questions are very good, my dear Mrs. Blackwell. Excellent, in fact! A new book must distinguish itself. And this one certainly shall, for the simple reason that both Mr. Rand’s and Mr. Miller’s books are botanical. While they are fine in their way, there is not enough attention to the medicinal properties of the plants.” He put down his teacup and gave her a direct look. “And—most importantly—they are not illustrated. A reader who does not already know what the plant looks like will remain unfortunately unenlightened.” He put a hand on her portfolio. “What is needed is an illustrated manual of the plants of Chelsea.”

  “Ah,” Elizabeth said softly, beginning to understand. She took a deep breath. “Ah, yes. I see.”

  “Indeed!” With enthusiasm, Sir Hans went on. “The book I have in mind will be a work of engraved and colored plates of the major plants in the garden. These are not woodcuts or casual drawings, but plants drawn from life, labeled, and described briefly in an accompanying text. The book will serve as a manual for apothecaries and their apprentices, assisting them in identifying the medicinal plants with which they work. They can use it in their con
sultations with their patients and customers. It can also be sold to the general public, which would very much benefit from more knowledge about plants and their uses as medicine.”

  Elizabeth swallowed hard. “And how many of these engraved and colored plates are you thinking of?”

  Sir Hans made a vague gesture. “Mr. Rand’s handbook contains just over five hundred plants, I believe. I should think there would be that many illustrations.” He paused, watching her closely. “I should, of course, be glad to advance some monies to see the artist well into the project.”

  But she had stopped listening when she heard the number of illustrations the man expected. “Five hundred?” she whispered. “Five hundred?”

  Elizabeth was no stranger to the making of books. She knew what such an undertaking would cost—the hours and the labor—and her stomach muscles knotted at the thought of it. There would be preliminary sketches followed by final drawings, followed by engravings on copperplate. There would be the descriptions to compile and engrave or typeset. There would be the printing and binding. And then the whole business of marketing the book, which was crucial to its success. She had seen fine books moldering in warehouses for lack of adequate marketing.

  But this was no time for timidity. Although she was not entirely sure she could actually do the work, she knew how it should be done. She needed the money, and it seemed that Sir Hans was willing to provide something by way of an advance—perhaps even something in the way of living expenses for her and the children as the project got underway. She needed a new start, desperately. Daunting as it might be, she could not let this opportunity go by.

  Her pulses hammering, she took another breath and sat straighter in her chair, hoping she looked like a woman who knew whereof she spoke.

  “Well, then. A publication of the size you’re considering should best be done in two volumes.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “It might even be useful to first publish the plates in serial form—say, one issue each week, by subscription and by single sales.”

  “Serial?” Dr. Stuart asked, frowning uncertainly.

  “Yes, published first in numbers. By installments, that is.” She was thinking of a serial publication that had come from Alexander’s press. “At the shop, we published Peter Hardy’s Travels through Holland and Germany in just such a manner, weekly, in fifty-two issues, by subscription. Then it was to be published in a single volume.” She omitted to mention that the volume had to be turned over to another printer when the creditors had closed the shop.

  “You’ve had some experience with this,” Sir Hans said with satisfaction. “How incredibly fortunate. Tell me, my dear—what sort of weekly publication would it be?”

  Elizabeth did not find this question difficult, given her experience with the Hardy book. “Four plates per issue,” she said, “together with a page of descriptions, bound in the usual thin blue covers. The issues could be sold uncolored for perhaps a shilling, with colored offered at two.” She paused, thinking rapidly. The creation of such a book would be a huge undertaking, more than two years, by her quick calculation. She added, “The bound volume could also be sold as both uncolored and colored, of course.”

  “The bound volume,” Dr. Stuart said thoughtfully. “You envision both the sale of serial installments and a bound volume.”

  “Two bound volumes,” Elizabeth corrected herself. “Five hundred plates would best be managed in two volumes. They need not be published at the same time, of course. The first volume might appear when half of the serial installments—say, a hundred-twenty-five plates—have been published. Which would increase the demand for the second installments and the second volume, I should think.”

  “I see,” Sir Hans said. “Yes, I see. What a clever idea, Mrs. Blackwell.”

  “And,” she added, “if the installment sales are not high enough to merit the publication of a bound volume, there is no need to go to that expense.” She looked from one to the other. “It’s always best to be cautious and try out the market.”

  “An excellent point,” Dr. Stuart said approvingly. “Quite shrewd.”

  Sir Hans brought them back to something Elizabeth had said earlier. “You mentioned subscriptions, I think,” he prompted.

  Elizabeth nodded. “Since the work is intended for the use of apothecaries and physicians, subscriptions could be offered to them, not just in London but in all the major cities of England, Scotland, and Ireland. Paid in advance, that could create a cash reserve large enough to subsidize the initial printing costs. Booksellers, of course, will prefer to take the numbers on consignment.”

  She was feeling the excitement beginning to tremble in her, and she made fists of her hands in the folds of her woolen skirt. The more she thought about this, the more she thought she might have stumbled into something that would actually be profitable enough to redeem Alexander’s freedom. And—if she managed it adroitly—something that could support herself and the children in the interim.

  But still, five hundred illustrations! That would require hundreds, no, thousands of hours in the garden and at the drawing table. She was a practical woman of some experience. She knew that those hours—and days and weeks and months—would cost her dearly, especially with her children. She should have to find someone to look after them while she spent all day working on the book. But how else could she produce enough earnings to support them and buy Alexander’s freedom? She made herself relax her hands, but her insides were knotted so tightly that she could scarcely take a breath.

  Dr. Stuart did not appear to notice. He leaned toward his patron. “Sir Hans, I believe that Mrs. Blackwell understands what is needed here far better than you or I.”

  Sir Hans nodded vehemently. “Before George, I believe she does!” He turned to Elizabeth. “Mrs. Blackwell, what do you say? Are you willing to undertake the project?”

  Elizabeth managed a slight smile, but she was still thinking of the work—and the years. Little William would be nearly five before it was done, Blanche past seven. And what if she failed? What if she invested all that time in compiling the book and still couldn’t earn enough to pay Alex’s creditors?

  She took a deep breath. Sir Hans had mentioned an advance. How much did he have in mind? How far could she trust him—or his lawyers? What if he promised support and then reneged? She could think of a half-dozen ways in which such a project could go awry. She was tempted to say yes on the spot, but she knew it would be foolhardy to jump into a scheme like this without a written and signed agreement.

  “I am interested,” she conceded, “but there are things to discuss. I should wish to own the copyright, for instance, and the plates. I should also prefer to manage the project myself, set its schedule, choose the printer, and so on.” In this, she knew she was departing from the usual author’s course. She would make more money if she retained control of her work and didn’t assign the rights to a publisher, as was usually done. She would be assuming the greater risk, of course—but Sir Hans’ backing would cushion that, at least a little.

  “And I must settle the matter of my children’s support,” she added. “To be quite frank, sir, I am in need of money. I cannot take on a project for the love of the garden or for the sake of the apothecaries. I am obliged to meet my husband’s debts. And I must find a nest for my chicks and myself.” Another narrow smile. “I hope you will forgive me if I suggest that we first give some careful thought to the matter of an agreement.”

  “A Scotswoman through and through.” Sir Hans looked pleased. “I am quite ready to consider your terms, Mrs. Blackwell. Since this is clearly an area in which you are experienced, I suggest that you draft an agreement that covers the issues you judge to be crucial to the success of the project. When we have that, we can discuss it and see where we are.” He held out his hand. “Will that suit?”

  “Very well, sir,” she said primly, taking his hand. But her breath was coming short and her hea
rt was leaping within her. It scarcely seemed possible—but had she happened on the means to set Alex free?

  Only time—and her best efforts—could tell.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Hemlock Society was an American right-to-die and assisted suicide advocacy organization which existed from 1980 to 2003. . . . The group took its name from Conium maculatum, a highly poisonous biennial herbaceous flowering plant in the carrot family. The name was a direct reference to the method by which the Athenian philosopher Socrates took his life in 399 BC, as described in Plato’s Phaedo.

  “Hemlock Society”

  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hemlock_Society

  Just before I woke the next morning, I dreamed that Elizabeth Blackwell and I were dashing pell-mell through the Physic Garden at Chelsea, around and around a huge stone statue of Sir Hans Sloane that sat in the middle of the garden. Pursuing us through the chilly gray mist was Sunny Carswell, dressed in a burnt-orange tracksuit, waving her arms and shouting that we were making off with her precious Herbal. A large white gull circled overhead, crying thief thief thief.

  But I had awakened in Hemlock House, not the Chelsea Garden, and the cry of thief thief wasn’t a gull but the beep beep alarm on my cell phone. I got out of bed and went to the window. It must have been raining all night, for the hemlocks were bowed with the weight of water, a light rain was still falling from a leaden sky, and an antic west wind was whipping the trees and bushes. I opened the casement a few inches and pulled in a quick lungful of damp April air—warm air, pleasant spring air.

  Well, so much for Virgil, I thought as I closed the window. The meteorologists had missed the forecast by a country mile. If it weren’t for the wind’s shrill howling, it would be just another balmy spring day.

  After a few minutes’ debate, I decided that the plaid shirt, jeans, and sandals I had worn the previous day might be too informal for this morning’s interviews with the police chief and Ms. Twinset and the afternoon get-together with the Hemlock Guild. I settled for a caramel-colored corduroy blazer over a red top and black slacks. I had brought a pair of red and black striped woolly socks that Ruby had knitted for me and I put those on, with black loafers.