Easton's Gold (6 page)

Gabrielle sighs in happiness. “I'm so glad it's working. I should go again straightaway.”

“Yes, Gabrielle, you must. And then you must bring your apothecary back here. I have a favour to ask him.”

“I'll try,” Gabrielle says hesitantly. “He is a strange man, but I'll try.”

The Marquis looks at her with a half smile. “I'm sure you could persuade any man to do anything.”

Gabrielle smiles again, nods and backs out of the room.

Her cheeks burn and she has an odd, bittersweet feeling as she hurries through the crisp, dawn air. It moves her that the Marquis thinks she is charming. Yet the phrasing he used is notthe compliment she wanted from him. She recalls the words and says them over and over, changing them so that they are more to her taste. “I'm sure you could persuade any person to do anything.” Much nicer than “any man.” And perhaps that's what he meant to say.

The cobbles around her clatter with activity just like yesterday, and Gabrielle has to slow down and dodge carts, donkeys, and groups of small boys before she reaches Fleet's door.

This time it does not open to her push, so she balls her fist and bangs hard three times. Nothing happens. She takes a few steps backwards and looks up.

“Sir!” she shouts. “Mr. Fleet!”

The lattice windows stare blankly down at her; most are dark, but one diamond catches the rising sun.

She makes a voice tunnel with her hands. “Mr. Fleet, sir, please open up. It's important!”

__________

T
HE VOICE WAS SO CLOSE IT
sounded like it must have come from somewhere in his room. Fleet turns on his side.
Could it have been a dream? It seemed too loud not to be real.

“Mr. Fleet, please!” the voice comes again.

It isn't a dream and it's outside
. Fleet tumbles out of bed, the skull rolling into the dip in the mattress. He makes for the window, undoes the latch and throws it open.

Beneath him on the street is Gabrielle smiling broadly at him, showing her white teeth in a way he has not seen before. “I thought you'd never answer!”

“I'll be down in a minute,” he mutters. Closing the window, he turns back into his room and prepares himself as well as he can, splashing water on his face and changing into his day clothes. In a few moments, he is running down the narrow stairs, crossing the floor and unlatching the front door.

Gabrielle slips in like a cat uncertain of its welcome.

“I'm sorry,” she says. “I didn't mean to wake you, but it's past dawn.”

“It must be good news,” he gasps, still a little breathless. “You worried me at first.”

“He is dressed and walking around the room.”

Her dark eyes sparkle in a way that is captivating. She is speaking to him as a sister might; there is no reserve at all, and she assumes he will share her joy.

“That's wonderful!” Fleet says, still holding the door open. “I suppose you'll want some more?”

“Yes,” says Gabrielle, bounding toward the counter ahead of him. “But more than that, I need you.”

Fleet stops dead.

She glances back at him, still grinning, then she takes out her purse and surveys everything around her.

He lets the door shut and coughs, covering the bottom half of his face with his fist, then strides across the room.
What does she mean “I need you”
? He steps behind the counter and opens the drawer, rubbing his temples as though deep in thought.

“You have some more, don't you?”

Fleet frowns intently, pretending to check.

“Yes, I still have some,” he says.

“Could you come with me now back to the Marquis's house? He needs to see you.”

“He wants to see me?” Fleet repeats. He had wanted this all along but expected it would take longer.

“Yes, that's all right isn't it? You weren't open anyway, and it's just around the corner.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose so.”

Fleet pulls a cloth from a hook and lays it down upon the counter. He begins spooning out a dose of moss powder as large as that of the day before. He senses Gabrielle's eyes wandering from shelf to shelf.

“Where is the skull this time? You said it never left the shop.”

Fleet clears his throat again and slides closed the drawer. “I keep it somewhere safe when I am not guarding the shop.”

“I could almost believe you take it to bed with you!”

Fleet glances up at her dark, shining eyes. He returns her smile and starts drawing up the corners of the medicine bag.

“Can you bring it now for the Marquis to drink out of?”

Her tone has become more serious, and Fleet feels her attention on him. His face burns in the silence.

He begins tying the bag with string. “It's too early for that, but I will come to meet your Marquis.”

S
he knocks quickly three times, and butterflies rise in Gabrielle's stomach as she waits for an answer.

“Come,” the Marquis's voice bellows.

Glancing backwards to make sure Fleet is still there, she turns the brass door handle. As the door creaks open, she is surprised by the sunlight streaming in through the windows. She hasn't seen the room in full daylight since they arrived from France and has forgotten the colour of the walls—deep pink like spring tulips.

As she catches sight of the Marquis, she lets out a laugh of pure joy; he sits behind a writing desk that has been placed diagonally in the far left corner of the room. This must have been arranged within Gabrielle's half-hour absence. Judging from the yelling back and forth between the servants and the frantic racing around in the hallway, there have been many such directives since she left.

Gabrielle ushers Fleet to follow her in. The Marquis is scribbling something. The feather of his quill trembles with each movement of the nib.
The Marquis at work
! Gabrielle feels a rush of pleasure. There is something regal in his white hair and stocky frame. Restored, he is like an eagle—noble, powerful, and wise.

“Mr. Fleet, I presume!” the Marquis says, laying down his quill. He shifts a little, and Gabrielle suspects he would like to rise but is afraid of revealing his infirmity to another man, even the one he has sent for to cure him.

“At your service, my lord,” Fleet replies in an unfamiliar monotone. He bows at the neck very slightly and walks only a single pace forward. Gabrielle, who is standing between them, backs off to the wall.

“Should I leave you two, my lord?” she asks.

“Stay, Gabrielle, as what we have to talk about concerns you also. I do not want to repeat things unnecessarily. My strength is returning, but I must not tempt Providence and undo the good apothecary's work by taxing myself too early.” Then he addresses the newcomer, “I commend you, Mr. Fleet, your physic works like no other I have taken.”

“I am glad to be of service,” Fleet says, and again Gabrielle is perturbed by the strained tone in his voice and his too-slight bow. She frowns at the apothecary, wishing he would show for the Marquis some of the respect that she herself feels. But the Marquis himself doesn't seem to notice anything awry.

“So, Mr. Fleet,” says the Marquis. “What makes you different?”

“Different?” the apothecary returns, brow knitted.

“Why do your treatments work when so many others do not?”

Fleet appears to think for a moment. “It's very simple,” he says, shuffling his feet, “so simple that any mystique around myself and my work must disappear upon the hearing.” He looks up at the Marquis whose head is cocked now. “It is merely that I choose my cures by their effect on the body, not by their appeal to the imagination. Salt crystals catch the light; sulphur gives off a strange glow when burning. But their curative powers are limited.”

“A good answer!” laughs the Marquis, a hint of something youthful retuning to his eye. “A good answer,” he repeats in a whisper. Then he is silent for a moment. “Now, learned apothecary,” he begins again, leaning back in his chair, “what would you say if I told you I intend to uproot myself entirely and take a sea voyage across the Atlantic Ocean?”

Gabrielle shrinks from his words, as though receiving a blow.
He's surely not really going to go through with this
! She looks hopefully at Fleet, who catches her eye then stares at the floor.

“I would say it is a most ambitious plan for any man of advanced years,” he says carefully. “As far as the particular extent of the danger to yourself is concerned, I can only tell that once I have observed you for a length of time.”

“Time is something I cannot afford, Mr. Fleet,” the Marquis replies. Now he glances at Gabrielle. Gabrielle feels her lip tremble.

“Well,” Fleet replies, “I should do a thorough examination anyway. I should listen to your heart—”

“—No examinations,” the Marquis interrupts, slapping the desk. “You will draw your conclusions based on what I tell you. No doctor, barber-surgeon, or apothecary worth his salt needs to prod and peer at his patient. Only tricksters require such evasions, and I know you are not a trickster.”

Fleet is silent for a moment. Then he sighs once more. “Well perhaps you could give me some background in addition to that which I have already heard.” He dips his shoulders and nods toward Gabrielle. “The young lady has told me some of the history of your malady, but I should like to hear more before forming any conclusion.”

“Certainly,” the Marquis says. He stares down at his outstretched fingers as though counting his symptoms. “I have been confined to bed for six weeks. In that time I have been unable to move more than a few inches by myself, that is until I took your first draft.” The Marquis looks up at Fleet, who in turn nods as though accepting the compliment. “I have been unable to eat. My joints seized up. I've had strange dreams. That is all.”

Fleet looks up at the ceiling, as though considering something. “And was there some fever or special exertion that brought this on?”

Gabrielle takes a step forward and between them; she cannot help herself. “A voyage, my lord! A voyage from southern France to England. That's what brought on your ague! Please, Mr. Fleet, advise him not to make the same mistake again!”

Gabrielle's face burns. In her plea she has outstretched her arms toward the apothecary, holding out her palms as though wishing for nails to be driven through; she realizes it must give her outburst an odd kind of pathos, and she feels ashamed. But the Marquis smiles at her in a kindly fashion.

“You see how she worries for me?” says the Marquis. “Am I not a lucky man to have such faithfulness in my household?”

“Indeed, sir, you are,” Fleet replies with a tight smile.

“You must tell me, Mr. Fleet, what are my chances of surviving such a journey as I describe without daily physic?”

“I would say, my lord, your chances of survival are fair at best.”

“I thank you for your honesty,” says the Marquis, giving Fleet a quick bow. “And were I to have a hundred-day supply of physic, what then?”

“Well then, you would likely survive quite well for a hundred days. But as you have no doctor with you to observe your condition and adjust your medicine accordingly, I fear that, even for that time, your health will be severely compromised.”

“Ah!” the Marquis exclaims. “It is as I feared.”

The Marquis sighs and looks from Fleet to Gabrielle then back again to Fleet. “So what am I to do, Mr. Fleet? I must go, that much is decided.”

Gabrielle feels a tug in her chest that almost pulls her off her feet.

“No, my lord! You do not have to go!”

The Marquis looks at her sadly.

“I must go,” he continues more quietly, “but if I go without someone with knowledge of cures, someone with proved abilities to treat my own ague, then I may well die.”

Gabrielle looks between the Marquis and Fleet. The Marquis is staring at the young apothecary, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. Fleet's expression gradually changes; his brow knits and his mouth opens.

“You can't mean?” Fleet whispers.

The Marquis nods.

“Where is this voyage bound?” Fleet asks hoarsely.

“Newfoundland.”

He flinches at the word as though it were a stone hurled at him through the air. Then he straightens himself and coughs. “May I ask,” he says slowly, “why this voyage is so imperative?”

“That I prefer to keep to myself, at least for the while.”

Fleet glances across at Gabrielle.

Is he testing whether I know the reason
? Gabrielle wonders.

The young man's face has become moist with sweat.

“Needless to say,” the Marquis continues, “you will be paid handsomely. I will see to it you are the richest apothecary to sail from the shores of England. What do you say to ten gold sovereigns a day?”

“It is most generous,” the young man stammers. Yet he does not smile.

“May I then count on you to join my household on this voyage?”

“Give me until tonight to think about it, my lord. I will give you my answer then.”

“We will await you,” says the Marquis. He nods at the young apothecary. Fleet nods back.

The apothecary turns and walks out of the room. Gabrielle glances back at the Marquis and then follows Fleet through the doorway.

__________

G
ABRIELLE CATCHES UP WITH
Fleet at the front door, as he hoped she would.

“Sir,” she says. “You must help him!”

He says nothing but steps outside and gestures for her to follow. The breeze is mild now and the street crowded. Fleet walks slowly, dodging merchants, tradespeople, and children. Gabrielle's need is delicious to him; he can almost taste it in her hesitant movements, in the way she keeps glancing at him while they walk.

“He wouldn't tell me why this voyage is necessary,” Fleet says at last, pausing as two fighting boys come scuffling across their path. He takes Gabrielle's elbow gently in his hand and steers her toward the cover of the buildings on the right. “Without knowledge of what drives him,” he says, “how can I advise against it?”