The Lost Apothecary(14)
I thanked him and hurried off, hoping I still had a few minutes left before the storm let loose. I pulled out my phone, sighed in relief that the station was only a few blocks away, and resigned myself to the fact that if I’d be spending ten days alone in the city, it was due time to learn how to use the Underground trains.
Leaving the train station amid a downpour, I spotted the British Library just ahead. I started jogging, tugging at my collar in a futile attempt to air out the inside of my shirt. And to make matters worse, my shoe—which had filled with water when I stepped in the puddle along the river—remained soaked through. When I finally stepped into the library, I took one look at my reflection in the window and sighed, fearing that Gaynor may send me away on account of my disheveled appearance.
Pedestrians, tourists and students filled the foyer of the library, all of us taking shelter from the rain. And yet, I felt like the only one without a real reason to be there. Whereas many others carried backpacks and cameras, I’d arrived with only a piece of unidentified glass in my pocket and the first name of someone who may or may not be an actual employee. For a moment, I considered the idea of throwing in the towel; maybe it was time to find a sandwich and plan a real itinerary.
The moment this thought crossed my mind, I shook my head. That sounded exactly like something James would say. As rain continued to batter the glass windows of the library, I willed myself to ignore this voice of reason—the same one that had told me to rip up my Cambridge application and encouraged me to take a job at the family farm. Instead, I asked myself what the old Caroline would do—the Caroline of a decade ago, the zealous student not yet dazzled by a diamond on her finger.
I stepped toward the staircase where a group of wide-eyed tourists milled about, a brochure spread wide in front of them and umbrella bags scattered at their feet. Near the staircase was a desk with a young female attendant; I approached her, relieved when she showed no dismay at my wet, unkempt clothes.
I told her that I needed to speak with Gaynor, but the attendant chuckled. “We have more than a thousand employees,” she said. “Do you know which department she works in?”
“Maps,” I said, at once feeling slightly more legitimate than I did a moment ago. The attendant checked her computer, nodded her head and confirmed that a Gaynor Baymont worked at the Enquiry Desk, Maps Reading Room, Third Floor. She pointed me to the elevators.
A few minutes later, I stood at the Enquiry Desk in the Maps Room, watching as an attractive thirtysomething woman with wavy auburn hair leaned over a black-and-white map with a magnifying glass in one hand and a pencil in the other, her brow twisted in deep concentration. After a minute or two, she stood to stretch her back, startling when she saw me.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I whispered in the near-silent room. “I’m looking for Gaynor?”
Her eyes met mine and she smiled. “You came to the right place. I’m Gaynor.” She set down the magnifying glass and brushed aside a loose hair. “How can I help you?”
Now that I stood in front of her, my request seemed ridiculous. Clearly, the map in front of her—a haphazard mess of tangled lines and minuscule labels—was an important point of research for her at the moment. “I can come back,” I offered, halfway hoping she would seize the idea, send me off and thereby force me to do something more productive with this day.
“Oh, don’t be silly. This map is a hundred and fifty years old. Nothing’s going to change in the next five minutes.”
I reached into my pocket, drawing a confused look from Gaynor: she was probably more accustomed to students hauling in long tubes of parchment rather than rain-soaked women reaching for small objects in their pocket. “I found this a bit ago at the river. I was mudlarking with a group—led by someone named Alf—and he told me to come see you. Do you know him?”
Gaynor grinned widely. “He’s my dad, actually.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, drawing an irritated look from a nearby patron. How sneaky of Bachelor Alf to not tell me. “Well, there’s a small image on the side here—” I pointed “—and it’s the only marking on the vial. I think it’s a bear. I couldn’t help but wonder where it might have come from.”
She tilted her head, curious. “Most people would have no interest in such a thing.” Gaynor extended her palm, and I handed her the vial. “You must be a historian, or a researcher?”
I smiled. “Not professionally, no. But I do have some interest in history.”
Gaynor glanced up at me. “We’re kindred spirits. I see all sorts of maps at my job, but the old, obscure ones are my favorite. Always a bit of room for interpretation, as places evolve quite a bit over time.”
Places and people, I thought to myself. I could feel the change in myself at this very moment: the discontent within me seizing the possibility of adventure, an excursion into my long-lost enthusiasm for eras past.
Gaynor lifted the vial to the light. “I’ve seen a few antiquated vials like this, though normally they’re a bit larger. I always thought them rather off-putting, as you don’t really know what was once inside. Blood or arsenic, I imagined as a child.” She looked more closely at the etching, running her finger over the miniature animal. “It does look like a little bear. Strange there are no other markings, but safe to say it probably belonged to a shop owner at one time, likely an apothecary.” She sighed, handing the vial back to me. “My dad has a heart of gold, but I don’t know why he sent you to me. I really have no idea what this vial is, or where it’s from.” She looked back down at the map in front of her, a gentle way to tell me that our short conversation was over.