Hemlock Page 8

  But Elizabeth was the sort of person who felt better about her difficulties when she was actually doing something about them, even if the doing only amounted to planning. By the time she reached the Stuart home in affluent Castle Lane near Bloomsbury Square, she had arrived at a tentative scheme. She would look through the few belongings she had brought with her, find what she needed, and put it—and her scheme—to Dr. Stuart when he arrived home from St. George’s Hospital, where he saw patients on Tuesday afternoons.

  And she would also spend some time with the children. Blanche and William would not miss their father; he had been absent at work every day and out most evenings. They scarcely knew him. But the upheaval that followed the loss of their familiar home and the family’s possessions had been even more difficult for them than it had been for her.

  It was impossible for Elizabeth to assure herself that all would be well, but it was necessary to assure them, poor things.

  • • •

  Dr. Alexander Stuart took off his wig and rubbed his close-shaven head, puffing out his cheeks as he sat down in the leather chair beside the fireplace. It had been a trying day at St. George’s Hospital, and the good doctor was tired. He took out a pouch of Virginia tobacco, lit his pipe with a coal from the tidy fire in the library grate, and settled back with a cup of hot China tea. The room was lit by the last pale gleam of the afternoon sun, which picked out the gilt on the bindings of the many leather-bound books on the bookcase shelves.

  Dr. Stuart prided himself, as well he might, on his many medical successes. A Scot who had made a successful transition from the north to the south, he had earned a medical degree under the famous Herman Boerhaave at the University of Leiden. There, in the university’s splendid botanical garden, he had studied the new pharmaceutical plants that were coming in from Asia and the New World.

  Degree in hand, he returned to London, where with a calculating Scots shrewdness he chose the right friends and cultivated the right (that is to say, influential) patrons. On the basis of these choices, he built the right practice. He had cleverly specialized in female diseases and obstetrical care—important, for this was a time when wealthy women were beginning to turn to physicians for the births of their children, rather than (or together with) midwives. Within a very short time, he’d had the honor of being admitted to the Royal College of Physicians, as well as being invited to serve the royal household as one of Queen Caroline’s physicians-in-ordinary.

  But for all these vital assets, Dr. Stuart was possessed of one enormous liability: the man was up to his ragged brown eyebrows in debt. Like many of his friends, including that master of celestial mechanics, Sir Isaac Newton, Stuart had gotten swept up in the South Sea frenzy of fifteen years before. He had lost his frugal Scots head—had lost it completely and inexplicably, in some form (he thought) of socially induced insanity. He had borrowed heavily and repeatedly to invest in the stock as it rose from one hundred pounds a share to one thousand. At which point Sir Isaac was reported to have said, “I can calculate the movement of the stars, but not the madness of men.”

  When the bubble burst (as of course it did), Dr. Stuart lost all he had saved and borrowed. Given his flourishing practice and his standing in the medical community, his creditors elected to be patient, understanding that if they sent him to prison, they would never see a farthing of what he owed them. Over time and by careful management, he had managed to repay a portion of the debt, and he regularly paid the interest on the rest. But if it weren’t for the fortune his wife Susannah had brought to their marriage, he would still be living in the cramped rooms he had rented from the apothecary Mitchell on Pall Mall, instead of this fine house in Bloomsbury. Susannah (the widow of a wealthy clothier) had graciously accepted him and had even paid the bulk of his debts, for which he was eternally grateful. It probably also explained his desire to offer whatever aid he could to those in distress.

  So it was that he had been thinking what might be done for the Blackwells. There was no helping the man. Alexander would be in Newgate (and deservedly so, in Dr. Stuart’s opinion) until his creditors were paid, which would likely be a matter of years, not months. The doctor himself knew of at least one debtor who was still imprisoned after twenty years.

  But young Mrs. Blackwell, who was left with two little ones and no means of support, did not deserve her fate. That was the awful tragedy of debt, which blighted not just the debtor but his entire family. A man’s bad business decisions and extravagant spending habits could doom a woman and her children. Why, only recently, a destitute young wife and mother had leapt into the Thames with both her babes in her arms, preferring the mercies of the river to a life in the Fleet or on the streets.

  And Dr. Stuart felt something of an obligation to Mrs. Blackwell. An Aberdonian Scot himself, he was a longtime friend of her father and had felt not a little consternation when he learned that she had eloped with young Blackwell, who had not yet completed his education and was in no financial position to support a family. Furthermore, while the young man’s father (an academic of some local fame) liked to boast that his son was a prodigy, it was evident that Alexander suffered from a severe lack of diligence and discipline. He had not even finished his undergraduate studies when he took himself off to Leiden.

  That was damaging enough, but worse was the lack of a professional credential. When the newly-married Blackwells arrived in London, Alexander was claiming to have earned a medical degree at Leiden. This seemed improbable in the extreme. When Dr. Stuart (remembering his own time with Boerhaave) had questioned him closely, it was evident that his degree was a fabrication and insufficient basis for the practice of medicine in London.

  Still, because Alexander was genuinely bright and skilled in languages, Dr. Stuart had been able to help him find work as a proof corrector for William Wilkins. He excelled in that position and was encouraged to learn as much as he could about the technical business of printing, bookmaking, and bookselling. It was evident that he had a natural aptitude and a great enthusiasm for the trade. Dr. Stuart began to think that perhaps Blackwell had found a natural calling and urged him to stay on in the business.

  But the foolish young man had made another rash decision. He would set himself up as a printer. And instead of entering a partnership with a journeyman printer, he decided to simply defy the printers’ guild’s requirement for a seven years’ apprenticeship. To establish the business, he spent his wife’s substantial dowry and when that was not enough, borrowed the rest, leasing a fine building over Somerset water gate in the Strand and purchasing three expensive presses and other printing equipment. It had to be the very best of everything, for Alexander Blackwell liked to present himself as an outstanding success.

  Whatever else he was, Blackwell was adept as a printer. He had produced four commendable books when the predictable happened. He was haled into court and convicted of exercising the art and trade of printing without having served the requisite term of apprenticeship. He was fined and the business closed. Within two months, a commission of bankrupt was issued against him, and his printing equipment and household furnishings were sold. To complete his ruin, his creditors had him arrested and sent to prison. Those who knew Blackwell felt that this was a case where imprisonment was justified. Some might have said it was quite clearly deserved.

  Mrs. Blackwell, on the other hand, was a brave young woman who had borne her husband’s difficulties with equanimity and without complaint. Now, given his acquaintance with her family, Dr. Stuart felt—in a rather paternal way—that he ought to do something to help her. It was true that he and Susannah were providing her and the children a place to live, and many would say that this was enough. But was there something more he could do, some other way he could help?

  Yes, there was, and in fact, an idea had occurred to the doctor that very afternoon. As he pulled on his pipe and thought how he might offer the suggestion to her, there was a knock on his study door and she came in, car
rying a brown leather portfolio.

  By the standards of the day, the doctor judged that Elizabeth Blackwell was not a pretty woman. But she had arresting dark eyes in an angular face, a fine head of thick russet hair, and a look of active intelligence that brought its own singular beauty to her face. Her dress was modest: a garnet-colored woolen bodice and skirt, simply styled and topped with a white lace kerchief pinned at the neck. She spoke with traces of a Scottish brogue, and her voice was low and firm. She was both direct and thoughtful, with none of the silly flirtatiousness of well-bred London ladies. The good doctor had found himself liking her, and now that he had thought of how he might help, he was eager to share his plan with her. But he did not begin there.

  “Mrs. Stuart tells me that you have been to Newgate,” he said, pulling on his pipe.

  “Aye, that I have.” Elizabeth’s tone was grave. “I have just returned.”

  “And how is your husband?”

  She managed a tight smile. “He was looking forward to a nap, and some time to read Dr. Swift’s ‘Proposal.’ As long as he has a book, a candle, and his supper, Alexander will want for little else.”

  “Ah,” said Dr. Stuart, thinking that this would be an accurate, if unemotional assessment of the man—not exactly what one might expect from a wife. He cocked his head. “And you, my dear?”

  Her face darkened. “Well, I have decided one thing, at least. My visit to the prison today persuades me that I cannot take the children there. They cannot endure the cold and damp. And while you and Mrs. Stuart have been wonderfully accommodating, I don’t feel that I can impose on you. I shall have to find some paying work for myself that supports us and pays something toward Alexander’s debt. That is why I—” She held out the portfolio. “Please be so good as to look at these, sir.”

  Curious, Stuart laid his pipe aside and opened the portfolio. It contained a large number of pencil sketches, charcoal drawings, and water colors—portraits of people, of flowering plants, a drawing room scene, a street, boats moored along a wharf.

  “Quite, quite nice,” he said, in some surprise. “These are yours?”

  “Yes. I studied drawing as a girl, and have continued over the years to pursue it.” She gave him an intent look. “At the risk of presuming, I wonder if you think I might be able to earn money as a portraitist. If you do, might you be willing to introduce me as an artist to your friends?”

  Stuart was somewhat surprised at the directness of her request, although he understood the necessity that compelled it. He laid the portfolio on the table beside his chair.

  “I think it’s entirely possible, Elizabeth, but I have another idea to advance to you. Would you agree to hear it?”

  “Of course, sir.” She folded her hands. “I will consider any kind of proposal. I don’t think I need to tell you how desperate I am.”

  He picked up his pipe and puffed on it until it glowed. “As you know, I am in charge of obstetrical services at St. George’s. My work involves both attention to women in labor and to the training of midwives. It seems to me that you possess all the qualities of a good midwife: literacy, intelligence, strength, and energy.” He regarded her through the cloud of fragrant smoke. “You have given birth to children, and understand women’s pain and suffering. I am sure that you also understand that midwifery is a challenging profession. But it is a noble calling, an important service to women, and highly valued. I believe it would suit you.”

  Head cocked to one side, Elizabeth was listening attentively. “Thank you for your confidence. That’s an excellent idea, and I shall be glad to consider it.” She took a breath. “I hope you will forgive me for being direct, but I must know. What is the compensation? What will I be able to earn?”

  Dr. Stuart resisted the urge to smile at her bluntness when it came to money. A true Scotswoman, indeed—her native habit perhaps strengthened by the painful dealings with her husband’s creditors.

  “During the six-month training period, I am afraid there is none. When that is complete, how much you earn will depend on the number of births at which you assist, your experience, and—to put it frankly—the kind of clientele you develop.” He paused to be sure she was paying attention. “Mrs. Kennon, for instance, ministers to the royal family. She has a reputation that allows her to charge up to fifty guineas for a delivery. If you are introduced into the right circles, I think you should do as well as she. Not right away, of course, but in time.” He intended to introduce her, and if she proved herself during her training period, he had the connections to ensure her success.

  Elizabeth’s eyebrows had risen at the mention of fifty guineas. “Indeed it does interest me, sir, and if I were responsible for myself alone, I should undertake it at once. But given my husband’s situation, I fear that my need for funds is rather more urgent.” She gestured toward the portfolio. “Please tell me truly. Do you think I can earn at least some money as an artist?”

  Surprised at his disappointment, he picked up the portfolio.

  “I should think so,” he said slowly, looking again at her work. He turned over several pieces, admiring the colors in this one, the composition in that. Elizabeth Blackwell did indeed have some talent, although perhaps more in botanical illustration than in portraiture. Her renderings of roses, for instance, were outstanding. Vivid, detailed, delicately colored, and remarkably true to the life.

  And as he considered her situation and mentally reviewed those of his friends who patronized the arts, an idea came to him.

  A very bright idea, if he did say so himself.

  Part Three

  February 7, 1735

  Number 3, Great Russell Street

  Bloomsbury Square, London

  Sir Hans Sloane, Baronet (born April 16, 1660, Killyleagh, County Down, Ire.—died Jan. 11, 1753, London, Eng.), British physician and naturalist whose collection of books, manuscripts, and curiosities formed the basis for the British Museum in London.

  —The Encyclopaedia Britannica

  Elizabeth looked at the copper nameplate beside the impressive door and pulled in her breath. The white stone residence was very grand in the pleasingly symmetrical style that was called Georgian, for the two King Georges. The park behind her—Bloomsbury Square—was also quite grand, with the Duke of Bedford’s mansion on the north side, and just down the way, Montagu House, said to be the grandest private dwelling in all of London. As Dr. Stuart raised the ornate knocker and let it fall, a grand coach-and-four rattled over the cobblestone pavement, bearing a grandly bewigged footman in full livery.

  The name on the nameplate was grand, too.

  “Sir Hans Sloane?” Elizabeth whispered, not quite believing. Dr. Stuart had not told her whom they were meeting this afternoon. He said only that he had spoken to a patron of his—a wealthy doctor who took a personal pleasure in helping worthy and talented people who interested him.

  Elizabeth was awestruck. She would be showing her portfolio to the legendary Dr. Sloane! This gentleman was reputed to have kept the dying Queen Anne alive long enough to allow the Elector of Hanover to scurry over from Saxony and mount the Protestant throne, thereby dashing the hopes of the Jacobite Catholics. The new king, George I, had rewarded the helpful doctor with a baronetcy, while George II not only named him the royal physician but knighted him.

  No doubt the honors were deserved. Throughout his long career, Dr. Sloane had shown himself to be a man of achievement. Born in Ireland to a Scots-Irish family, he had an immense botanical curiosity and an avid interest in plants that were novel and strange. At nineteen, he had come to London to study at Apothecaries’ Hall and in the apothecaries’ garden at Chelsea, gaining a wide knowledge of the plants that were the basis of all pharmaceuticals. In his twenties, he had served as the physician to the governor of the faraway island of Jamaica, where he observed the native practice of using an extract of the bark of the cinchona tree (what the French called quinine) to treat the eye
s. For stomach ailments, he had observed Jamaican women mixing ground cocoa beans with sugar and milk; when he returned to England he brought with him a recipe for “milk chocolate” and advocated its medicinal use. He was one of the first to inoculate his patients against the smallpox, was a governor of the new Foundling Hospital, and in spite of his fame, still kept a daily free surgery for the poor. But Sir Hans was perhaps best known for the immense collection of curiosities he had assembled from around the globe, a collection that—it was said—rivaled any on earth.

  Dr. Stuart lifted a gloved hand to ring the bell. “For many years, I have been privileged to count Sir Hans as a friend and colleague,” he said. “I have explained your circumstance to him, and he is sympathetic. You could find no better, and certainly no more liberal, sponsor.”

  Elizabeth straightened her shoulders. “I trust he doesn’t feel that I have come on bended knee,” she said sharply. “I am not begging his charity.” As Alexander’s wife, it was her obligation to do all that she could to save her husband. But not that. Never that.

  “He knows that you are a Scotswoman, and Scots never beg.” Dr. Stuart rang the bell more smartly. “I have commended your artistic talents to him and told him why you are eager to apply them just now.”

  A few moments later, they were shown into Dr. Sloane’s library, a room the size of a ballroom. It was filled floor to ceiling with bookcases and shelves that were crowded with the strangest assortment of rarities that Elizabeth had ever seen, many of them labeled in a thin, spidery hand.

  There was an odd-looking rock studded with tiny gold nodules, a ceremonial cup crafted from a carved nautilus shell, trays of assorted seeds and botanical materials, maps and manuscripts, tobacco pipes in various exotic shapes, a gilded rhinoceros horn, tiny figures carved from whalebone and labeled “Eskimo,” a burning glass, an Indian drum from Virginia, a wooden medicine stick designed to induce vomiting, a rattlesnake’s rattles, birds’ eggs and feathers, glass boxes of beetles, a purse made of asbestos and sold to Sir Hans by a visiting colonial named Benjamin Franklin, and racks of thick green-bound volumes, each labeled Herbarium, containing pages and pages of dried plants collected from all over the earth. A stuffed striped donkey from the Cape of Good Hope sulked in a corner; an amazingly lifelike seven-foot yellow snake from Jamaica was draped over a large mirror, and a brilliantly colored tropical bird with a long tail perched on a chandelier. Above the fireplace mantel hung a silver-and-iridescent-blue fish as long as Elizabeth was tall, with a sword on the end of its nose. The floor was covered with a great variety of rugs, a Polynesian grass mat next to a hand-knotted Persian carpet beside a tiger rug from India, its snarling fangs ready to snap at Elizabeth’s toes.