A signal of approval, Charlotte hoped. It was something the surgeon gave grudgingly.
“Will you help me?” she asked flatly.
“What is it you need?”
“Any books you might have on alchemy.”
Frowning, he scratched at his chin. “Not my cup of tea, Mrs. Sloane. I’m a pragmatist, not a dreamer. I care about lessening the misery of everyday ills, not chasing after imaginary miracles.” He pulled a face. “Though the secret of turning lead into gold would be a damnably practical one to possess.”
“Lead into gold? Wasn’t that just an obscure medieval fantasy?” said Charlotte. “Surely it’s been dead for centuries, along with the mad monks who had created it.”
“Greed is timeless,” answered Henning dryly. “And while the idea might seem mad, a number of serious men of science devoted their efforts to alchemy, believing it possible.”
She felt a shiver skate down her spine.
“As to books, I may have a few from student days at St. Andrews.” The surgeon levered to his feet and ambled over to the overflowing bookcases crammed around the perimeter of the room. “I warn you, though, a few of them are in Latin.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she replied, “That doesn’t present a problem.”
His brows winged up slightly, but he merely turned and began to search the shelves.
Stepping a little closer to the hearth, Charlotte sought to warm her hands over the barely glowing coals. Papers rustled, punctuated by a grumbled curse and the loud thump of something heavy falling to the floor. She remained tactfully silent.
“Auch, so that’s where you benighted buggers have been hiding,” he finally muttered.
He returned to his desk and set down an armload of books, along with several manuscripts, each one tied together in rough brown twine. “Here ye go, lassie:The Aurora of the Philosophers, a classic work by Paracelsus, the famous Swiss alchemist;The Triumphal Chariot of Antimonyby Basil Valentine; a medieval translation from Arabic of Jabir ibn Hayyan’s work; and a handful of other titles, though Lord only knows what you hope to glean from them.”
Henning stacked the books in a haphazard pile. “And several copies of Newton’s notes on alchemy, along with a recipe calledPreparation of Mercury for the Stone, written by Eirenaeus Philalethes.”
“The poor man,” murmured Charlotte. “His name sounds as if one is choking on a piece of rotten fish.”
“Alchemists were very secretive about their writing—and with good reason,” explained the surgeon. “It’s been illegal for centuries to practice alchemy, both here in England and on the Continent, and the penalties were quite severe, including death—transgressors were to be hung from a gilded scaffold.”
“That seems rather extreme,” responded Charlotte. “Was it for religious reasons?”
“Only partly,” he replied. “Governments—being made up of pragmatic souls like me—were aware that if individuals could make gold at will, it would devalue the country’s finances and destroy the economy.” A smirk. “That certainly put the fear of God into them.”
“Interesting.”
“So a number of men who practiced alchemy wrote under secret pen names. In the case of Eirenaeus Philalethes, his real name was George Starkey. He was an upstart American who studied at Harvard College in Boston, where he became enthralled with alchemy. After earning fame practicing medicine in his country, he came to England in 1650 and established himself as a leading physician,” went on Henning. “But he also became a leader in the occult arts, greatly influencing his contemporaries, including such notable men of science as Robert Boyle and the great Sir Isaac Newton himself.”
Henning ran a hand over the knotted twine wrapped around the manuscripts. “Newton was extremely careful to keep his interest in alchemy very quiet. He never published any of his writings on the subject, but his private papers show he spent a great deal of his time trying to formulate the philosopher’s stone—though he often disguised the chemical ingredients he was using by giving them fanciful names like ‘dove of Diana’.”
Chariot of Antimony, dove of Diana, the philosopher’s stone.Charlotte felt her head was beginning to spin with all the arcane terms.
Henning, a careful observer of others despite his own disheveled appearance, must have read something of her thought in her face. “So tell me, Mrs. Sloane, what exactly do you hope to find in all this?”
“I’m not sure,” she answered slowly. “Granted, unlike Lord Wrexford, I have no formal knowledge of chemistry or science. But sometimes bringing a different perspective to a problem can help in seeing the solution.” She hoped she sounded more confidant than she felt. “The untutored eye is not influenced by expectations of what it is supposed to see. It can respond to intuition, to . . . imagination.”
Henning’s mouth quirked in what may or may not have been a smile. “The art of perception?”
A faint flush rose to her cheeks. “It may sound silly to you—”
“Nay, not at all. These days, there are many very prominent intellectuals who believe that science and art have much in common.” After rummaging through one of his drawers, he found a large piece of oilskin cloth and set to wrapping the books and manuscripts against the inclement weather. “I don’t envy you the task, but I wish you well.”
“Thank you.” Charlotte took the package and started for the door.
“Two last things, lassie. My door is always open to you. Despite my snaps and growls, I’ll not bite your head off if you come to me needing help.”
