The Devlin Diary (28 page)

9 December 1672

H
ANNAH SLIPS INTO
a pew at the back of the church as the choir begins the Introit. St. Clement Danes is old, cramped, and dark, with the clammy air of a root cellar and a whiff of putrescence no amount of burning herbs can eradicate. Beneath the buckling stone floors the parish dead are buried one on top of the other. The broken flagstones are most noticeable near the altar, the most sought-after spot for the departed. Although the church filled up long ago, a few extra shillings to the sexton will ensure that old bones are dug up to make room for the new. Hannah’s own people—father, husband, daughter—rest in the churchyard near the south wall.

Although the service has just begun and it is not yet time to pray, Hannah quietly sinks to her knees. Her patellae fit into worn hollows made by hundreds of other knees on hundreds of other Sundays. Only a few others have sought out St. Clement’s dim sanctuary this morning; they look too lost in their own supplications to make note of hers. She bows her head and lowers her eyes. The voices of the choir rise, their somber Latin harmonies resonating off the moldy stone.
Thou shall purge me with hyssop and I shall be clean
. The guttering candles nod, her closed prayer book hums in her hands.

She soundlessly recites the words of the fifty-first psalm along with the choir without any expectation of an answer. The event that she related to Dr. Strathern was singular; she is no Joan of Arc. Hannah has never even considered herself particularly devout. It’s been a long time since she’s entreated God for anything. In recent months she has avoided church, using her patients or the care of her mother as an excuse.

Thou shall wash me and I shall be clean as snow.
Was it possible to be redeemed? To be a better person, to be wiser, kinder, more compassionate? To be the sort of doctor who could have saved her husband, her child, perhaps even her father? It is no wonder she has avoided coming here, and the weekly reminder of her failure. Failure to be the sort of physician she set out to be, not the one she is becoming, who waits on the king’s mistress and brushes up on recipes that make a woman’s skin white and soft.

When she collapsed at the dance the other night, Dr. Strathern caught her and carried her from the floor. That much she was able to deduce, although everything after that was confused, unclear. She remembers opening her eyes while she lay on the floor of the Great Hall, seeing Montagu, Lucy, and Hester hovering over her. She remembers vaguely some terse words exchanged between Strathern and Montagu, remembers brief snatches of the ride home interspersed with moments of blackness, as if she was drifting in and out of consciousness. She recalls that the atmosphere in the carriage was tense, but whether it was from Lucy’s and Hester’s worry about her or from their disappointment at leaving the dance early she could not say; perhaps it was both. She spent the next day in bed with a pounding head and a tremulous stomach, turning away the girls and even Mrs. Wills when she knocked on her door. Montagu sent a note inquiring after her health, which she was unable to answer. The next day, when she was feeling human again, a second letter arrived, telling her that he must go abroad immediately and would be away for some time. He didn’t mention how long.

Last night she read over Montagu’s last letter, as if it might divulge some secret about him, about who he was or how he felt about her. About his intentions, she supposed, but she could not solve that puzzle
with this missive, which was tender without being overtly romantic.
My dearest Mrs. Devlin
, it began,
It is painful for me to relate the following, for it puts such distance between us…
That he wrote to her in the first place must mean something; but what, exactly? That he expected her to notice his absence and to long for his return? Or that he felt such longing himself? From their first meeting they had a natural affinity; on the night of the dance their rapport took on new depth. She thought about the way he looked at her, the way he held her while they were dancing, the many compliments and courtesies he paid her. Until the night of the dance, she would have said that she favored no one more than Montagu, and she would have guessed that he favored no one more than she. And then she ruined it all by her embarrassing display. Though she doesn’t want to admit it, Dr. Strathern’s comments worry her. She knows better than to listen to court gossip—it’s meant to slander. She doesn’t really believe what he said about Montagu, but she can’t help wondering if just a bit of it might be true.

Her night was troubled by vivid, disturbing dreams. Memories from the night of the dance intertwined with fantasies and visions, things that never were and never could be. Montagu holding her hand and smiling seductively; that was real. As was her memory of Mademoiselle de Keroualle making a perfect curtsy to the king, all the while gazing up at him adoringly; or Lucy and Hester, their faces aglow, watching the dance from the balcony. But along with the authentic recollections were unsettling visions: the courtiers’ powdered, rouged faces turned grotesque as they spoke and ate and laughed. The queen busily knitted a black and white checkered counterpane that flowed from her lap and metamorphosed into the dance floor. Arlington and Madame Severin loomed overhead, as big as giants, moving the courtiers about like chess pieces. The king winked at her. “It’ll be our secret,” he said, but when she demanded to know what the secret was, he refused to tell her. Lucy and Hester stood in a garden, arguing vehemently. Madame Severin offered Hannah a glass of wine. She accepted it, but when she looked into the glass, she felt ill. Jane Constable danced with the Duke of York. After a few turns on the floor, the duke was no longer a man but a squalling baby strug
gling in the girl’s arms. Dr. Strathern held a severed foot in his hand. He kept trying to tell her something, but she could not hear him over the sound of the courtiers’ laughter.

Edward.
She permits herself to say his name. Softly, so that no one else can hear, except God. She went to sleep thinking of one man and awoke thinking of another. All night, her dreams kept returning to Edward Strathern. At first, she envisioned him as he was the night of the dance. Then she recalled every moment she had spent with him—in the tack room, the anatomy theatre, the Great Hall—in dreams that offered an unending kaleidoscopic vision of his face, witnessed in every mood and every light. When she woke, she was on fire with the thought of him, almost as if he had been lying with her. And she realized what she had been avoiding most of all, the feeling that had started the first time she’d looked into his eyes and seen that he was the one person from whom she could not hide, from whom she did not want to hide.

But he is to be wed to another, to a woman who is most likely a better match for him. She remembers the two of them dancing together: both tall and elegant, a seemingly perfect couple. From Strathern’s own admission, it’s a match based on affection. She does not want to covet another woman’s man; she does not want to think of him at all.

Make me a clean spirit, O God: and renew a right spirit within me.
She nestles her prayer book in the folds of her skirt, clasps her hands together, bows her head, and prays fervently to rid herself of her preference.

Walking home, she stays close to the buildings, her cloak wrapped tight. The storm that passed during the night is long spent, but the day remains blustery. Wind blows rainwater off the rooftops, whips in moaning, keening fury through the narrow alleys.

She turns into Portsmouth Street to find a private coach parked outside her door. Two roans paw the ground, steamy breath rising from their flared nostrils. The coachman jumps down from his seat to gentle them. When she gets closer, she sees the man who has come to call.

Dr. Strathern stands back from the front door, gazing up at the windows as if expecting someone to appear. She stops, feeling the blood
rushing to her face; whether it’s from panic, shame, or elation she isn’t entirely sure. She has just asked God to help her forget him, and now he is here. Is it a test? Did she mouth the words without meaning them? In her heart, what exactly did she pray for?

Her first impulse is to turn and walk away, but by the time she is close enough to recognize him he has seen her too. There is nothing for her to do but to continue forward, as if his appearance at her house on a Sunday morning is not unusual. She worries that her thoughts, her dreams, her desires are achingly obvious in her face, and she gives a brief thanks that people cannot read minds; for she would blush furiously if he could read hers. But Dr. Strathern gives no indication that his visit is anything other than congenial in nature, and so she decides to welcome him in the same spirit.

The doctor is attired somewhat carelessly for the Lord’s Day in a wrinkled wool coat. No wig, just his own shoulder-length hair tied back with a simple ribbon, a few strands breaking free in the gusty winds. The natural hue of his hair is slightly lighter than the wig she has seen him wear, its true color the warm brown of roasted hazelnuts with some early streaks of gray at the temples. She likes the gray, likes the unshaved stubble darkening his cheeks and chin and upper lip. She thinks back to how he looked the night of the dance, the velvet coat and the snowy cravat, his clean hands, his smooth face, how flawless he appeared. Even so, she decides she prefers him like this, mussed and a bit rough. It feels intimate, almost too intimate, both of them still creased with sleep.

“Is no one home?” Hannah asks. To her surprise, her voice sounds perfectly modulated and calm.

“Apparently not.”

“That’s odd,” Hannah says, reaching into her purse for her house key. This is an even greater mystery than the purpose of Strathern’s visit. “My mother is never left alone.”

She unlocks the front door and lets them inside. In two quick movements she removes the patents from her shoes, then calls out to Mrs. Wills. Receiving no answer, she walks to the door leading down to the kitchen and calls again. The house is silent.

“We take turns going to church,” Hannah says as she returns to
where Strathern waits in the parlor. “I left a note—they knew I would be back soon.”

“Lucy?” a thin, querulous voice calls from above. “Lucy, is that you?”

“My mother,” Hannah explains, crossing to the stairs.

“She’s ill?”

Hannah hesitates, then decides to tell him the truth. “She is ill in her mind.” She starts up the stairs, then stops and looks back at him. “Why don’t you come with me? I may need your help.”

They find Charlotte still in her nightdress, sitting on the edge of her bed, attempting to pull a comb through her long gray hair. Hannah kneels in front of her to gently untangle it. Though Charlotte is only a few years older than Mrs. Wills, she aged rapidly after becoming ill six years ago. She’s an old woman, with liver-spotted hands, knobby knees, delicate bones. Only in her bright blue eyes can one get a glimpse of the girl she once was. “Mother, where have the others gone?”

“Lucy’s supposed to dress my hair.” She looks at Hannah, confused. “Who are you?”

“I’m your daughter, Hannah.”

“I don’t remember a daughter. I have a son.” She turns to Strathern, smiling as if she knows him. “Two sons.” She beams with pride.

Hannah glances at Strathern:
Now you see.
He nods sympathetically. She looks around the room, but there’s no sign of dishes or a tray. “Have you had your breakfast?”

“Butterflies and flowers,” Charlotte replies, waving her hand as if shooing something away. “Butterflies and flowers.”

“It looks like they’ve gone out without even bringing up her breakfast,” Hannah says to Strathern. “This isn’t like Mrs. Wills at all.” She presses her mother’s hands between her own, then bends down to check her bare feet. “You’re freezing. Mother, please, get under the blankets.” She looks at Strathern and points to a metal box next to the hearth. “Do you mind?”

He stacks more coal in the smoldering grate while she coaxes her mother back into bed. “Stay here. I’m going to make up your morn
ing medicine.” She motions for Strathern to follow her and leads him upstairs.

She’s relieved that he doesn’t recoil at her attic bedroom, hardly that of a proper young woman, but instead calmly takes it all in—the bundles of drying herbs, tables and shelves crowded with bottles and jars, the alembics, the stacks of books. She’s relieved that his eyes pass over the unmade bed as if it weren’t there. Hannah goes straight to her workbench, picking up a small marble mortar and pinching off bits of various herbs, which she crumbles between her fingers before dropping them in. “How did you discover where I live?”

“I asked an apothecary. The lady doctor of Portsmouth Street is quite well known, it seems. I’m beginning to see why. Do you make all your own medicines?”

“Some, not all.”

He stands near the shelves, looking over the books:
The English Physitian
by Nicholas Culpepper;
Theatrum botanicum
by John Parkinson; Robert Burton’s
The Anatomy of Melancholy; Rare Secrets in Physick and Chirurgery
by Elizabeth, Countess of Kent;
A Proved Practice for Young Chirurgians
by William Clowes; Peter Lowe’s
Discourse on the Art of Chirurgery;
Harvey’s
Du Motu Cordis.
“I see you’re not entirely opposed to book learning.”

“Not at all. I find it very helpful, in fact, especially if the authors emphasize observation over theory. The books on surgery are quite good.” As soon as she says this she regrets it; it reminds her of how they met. Reminds him too, she notices as their eyes meet. But that’s a dangerous thing to do. She quickly looks away.

“Do you know how to use this?” she asks, handing him a mortar and pestle.

“I think I can manage.” He sets it on the table and grinds the herbs into powder. “What are you making?”

“An electuary. I’ll put the ground herbs into honey—she won’t take it any other way. Dandelion to strengthen her bones, rosemary flowers and juniper for mental clarity, fennel to stimulate her appetite.” She brushes her hair away from her face with a gesture both impatient and fatigued. “Sometimes she simply refuses to eat.”