A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [86]
I was dying to dig into the crates Bobby had brought, but what with one thing and another—the white pig’s demented attempt to eat Adso, a goat with infected teats, a strange green mold that had got into the last batch of cheese, the completion of a much-needed summer kitchen, and a stern conversation with the Beardsleys regarding the treatment of guests, among other things—it was more than a week before I found leisure to unpack Lord John’s present and read his letter.
September 4, 1773
From Lord John Grey, Mount Josiah Plantation
To Mrs. James Fraser
My dear Madam—
I trust that the Articles you requested will have arrived intact. Mr. Higgins is somewhat nervous of carrying the Oil of Vitriol, as I understand he has had some evil Experience connected with it, but we have packed the Bottle with some Care, leaving it sealed as it came from England.
After examining the exquisite Drawings you sent—do I detect your daughter’s elegant Hand in them?—I rode to Williamsburg, in order to consult with a famous Glassmaker who abides there under the nomen (doubtless fabulous) of Blogweather. Mr. Blogweather allowed that the Pelican Retort would be simplicity itself, scarcely a fair Test of his Skill, but was enchanted by the Requirements of the distilling Apparatus, particularly the detachable Coil. He apprehended immediately the Desirability of such a Device in case of Breakage, and has made three of them.
Pray consider these my Gift—a most insignificant Demonstration of my abiding Gratitude for your many Kindnesses, both toward myself and Mr. Higgins.
Your most humble and obedient servant,
John Grey
Postscriptum: I have thus far restrained my sense of vulgar Curiosity, but I do venture to hope that on some future Occasion, you may possibly gratify me by explaining the Purpose to which you intend these Articles be put.
THEY HAD PACKED WITH some care. Pried open, the crates proved to be filled with an immense quantity of straw, the bits of glassware and sealed bottles gleaming within, cradled like roc’s eggs.
“You will be careful with that, won’t ’ee, mum?” Bobby inquired anxiously, as I lifted out a squat, heavy, brown-glass bottle, the cork heavily sealed with red wax. “It’s turrible noxious, that stuff.”
“Yes, I know.” Standing on tiptoe, I boosted the bottle up onto a high shelf, safe from marauding children or cats. “Have you seen it used, then, Bobby?”
His lips drew in tight, and he shook his head.
“Not to say used, mum. But I’ve seen what it does. Was a . . . a lass, in London, what I come to know a bit, whilst we was a-waitin’ the ship to carry us to America. Half her face pretty and smooth as a buttercup but t’other side was so scarred you could scarce look at it. Like as it was melted in a fire, but she said ’twas vitriol.” He glanced up at the bottle, and swallowed visibly. “Another whore’d thrown it on her, she said, ’cause of jealousy.”
He shook his head again, sighing, and reached for the broom to sweep up the scattered straw.
“Well, you needn’t worry,” I assured him. “I don’t propose to throw it at anyone.”
“Oh, no, mum!” He was quite shocked. “I s’ould never think that!”
I disregarded this reassurance, involved in delving for more treasure.
“Oh, look,” I said, enchanted. I held in my hands the fruit of Mr. Blogweather’s artistry: a globe of glass, the size of my head, blown to perfect symmetry and lacking even the hint of a bubble. There was a faint blue tinge to the glass, and I could see my own distorted reflection, wide-nosed and bug-eyed, like a mermaid peering out.
“Aye, mum,” said Bobby, dutifully peering at the retort. “It’s, er . . . big, in’t it?”
“It’s perfect. Just perfect!” Rather than being cut off cleanly from the blower’s pipe, the neck of the globe had been drawn out into a thick-walled tube about two inches long and an inch in diameter. The edges and interior surface of this had been . . . sanded? Ground? I’d no idea what Mr. Blogweather had done, but the result