The Alchemist's Daughter by Katharine McMahon Read Free Book Online

decent. My bosom bulged over the top. What would my father say? I chewed my lip as I fixed the bodice in place and covered myself up with a muslin neckerchief. I had nothing else to match the visitor’s gorgeous plumes, no necklace, no rings—just my mother’s pink ribbon, which I pulled out of a little drawer, held to my face, then wound through my hair and tied in a bow, just visible behind my ear.
    [ 6 ]
    I N THE DINING parlor, a pearly mist floated through the open lattices and candlelight made soft shadows amid the folds of our visitor’s cravat. Fortunately, my father barely glanced at me. He was already scooping up soup, pursing his lips after each mouthful to ease it down. “Robert Aislabie,” he said, waving his dripping spoon at the stranger. “Come to talk to me about phlogiston. My daughter, Emilie.”
    I took little sips of Aislabie along with my soup, which I spooned up by leaning forward from the waist—I couldn’t bend my neck in case I fell out of my gown or jabbed myself with a pin. He rippled on the edge of my vision in lustrous splashes of color, and his snowy cuffs and cravat had a radiance unknown at Selden. He wore a turquoise waistcoat embroidered with pink and cream butterflies and flowers, and a jacket of peacock blue to match the plumes in his hat. My mother, I thought with amazement, would have worn silks like this, iridescent and gorgeous. His brilliance scattered over everything else like pollen. The room, which had always seemed dull, was mellow with the textures of ancient wood and pewter. Even the plain food was spiced by the presence of Robert Aislabie.
    Meanwhile, he told us his story. He was the younger son of a Norfolk farmer, had studied for a brief spell at Cambridge with a view to the church but found himself too liberal in his views, and had instead gone into trade with an uncle. By the time he was nineteen, Aislabie had so successfully invested spare income in the import of molasses and cotton, the export of refined sugar and cloth, that he was able to buy South Sea stock. While others lost heavily when the Bubble burst, Aislabie sold out in the nick of time and transferred his funds into coffee, tea, chocolate, and silk. But business was still precarious. Recently, he had lost an entire cargo during a shipboard fire. Fire was the scourge of shipping because it could wipe out profits in half an hour. So, having read my father’s recent paper on phlogiston during one of his frequent visits to the Royal Society, of which he hoped soon to be admitted as a fellow, Aislabie had come to Selden seeking advice on how ships might best be protected against fire.
    While my father and Aislabie discussed the combustible nature of shipping materials, I risked a few peeps at Aislabie’s face. His nose in profile was straight and long but quite broad at the tip with prominent nostrils, and an intriguing little hollow beside his mouth came and went when he smiled. Beside him, my father was like a dry twig next to a young birch. My father’s crabbed hands had yellow nails, his neck was wizened, his gums were nearly toothless, and his table manners were, I now realized, disgusting. He carried dripping lumps of meat to the center of the table to dip them in the salt, sopped his bread in the sauce, stuffed his cheeks with food, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. If asked a question, he never answered immediately but scrutinized it as if it were a bit of moth-eaten cloth. Aislabie, meanwhile, had the muscular hands of a farmer’s son, used fork and knife with careless ease, cut his meat very small, and pressed his lips together after each new mouthful.
    Toward the end of the meal, my father picked up his staff, heaved himself away from the table, and went to piss in the pot behind a curtain. I suffered as I heard him fart and sigh and release a trickle.
    For perhaps three minutes, Aislabie and I were alone. At first he didn’t speak, but then he said, “Mistress Selden. Your ribbon has come