Free The Alchemist's Daughter by Eileen Kernaghan Page B

peaceful autumn garden with its tidy geometric beds, all was order and reason. Here, humankind and nature seemed in perfect accord. Yet in some corner of her mind there stirred a faint unease.
    Finally she said, “Kit, do you not find it curious, how we have been made so welcome here?”
    â€œCurious? What mean you, Sidonie? One could not have asked for more gracious hosts.”
    â€œI meant only that we are strangers, with no special place in society, ragged and travel-stained to boot. Surely in most great houses we would have been sent like beggars to the kitchen door, not treated as honoured guests.”
    â€œSidonie, you think too little of yourself. You are a learned woman, as the Countess is, and besides, this is no ordinary house. It is like a little Oxford — there are scholars and poets visiting from every corner of England. Sidonie, now that you have been to court, you see plots and machinations behind every bush.”
    â€œWhen you have been to court,” retorted Sidonie, “you will see that there are plots and machinations behind every bush. Kit, these are no idle fancies of mine, this is a world ruled by plots and politics, and it can be death to misplace your trust.”

C HAPTER T HIRTEEN
    Histories make men wise; poets witty; the mathematics subtile; natural philosophy deep; moral, grave; logic and rhetoric, able to contend.
    â€” Francis Bacon, On Studies
    In the forenoon Alice brought another summons — for summons it was, Alice’s tone made clear, and not an invitation. If Mistress Quince pleased, would she repair to the library? “Lady Mary sends her apologies,” Alice added, with a hint of self-importance, “for she has been at prayer all the morning, but now she is free, and wishes to speak with you.”
    So many audiences, and I so ill-prepared , thought Sidonie as she followed Alice nervously down the stairs and along the maze of ground-floor corridors. In the library, heavy linen curtains were drawn against the afternoon sun. Bookshelves lined the walls, and in the centre of the room stood an oak table supplied with writing materials and a pair of silver candlesticks. After a moment a servant entered, carrying a flagon of wine, two glasses and a dish of comfits on a pewter tray. Alice took the tray and set it on the table, drew up two high-backed cushioned chairs, and went out, leaving Sidonie to her own devices.
    Delighting in the familiar perfume of calfskin and morocco leather, Sidonie prowled from shelf to shelf, reading the gold-tooled spines. She glanced with scant attention at the works of poetry and romance, resplendent in their red velvet bindings and jewel-ornamented silver clasps; moved on past the herbals and histories, the tomes on hunting, heraldry and hawking; and paused before a tall case filled with works of science and mathematics, many of them bound in heavy old-fashioned boards, and all of them seemingly well-read. Here were volumes in Greek and Latin, as well as translations into modern tongues: works of cosmography, mathematics, astronomy, natural history. Boethius, Galen and Copernicus shared the crowded shelves with Theon of Alexandra, Regiomontanus, the De re medica of Celsus, Aristotle’s Meteorologica , the Origines of Isadore of Seville. There were many works as well on alchemy — some familiar to Sidonie, others she recognized as rare volumes, almost impossible to obtain. What my father would give to own such treasures , she thought.
    A soft voice spoke from the doorway. “Mistress Sidonie, I see you take an interest in mathematics.”
    Sidonie, who was crouching to explore a bottom shelf, got hastily to her feet and, still holding a volume of Alhazen of Basra in Latin translation, managed a curtsey. “Yes, my lady.”
    The Countess, pale and regal in black silk, waved her to a chair. “You may borrow that book if you wish. I fancied myself a mathematician, once — a true daughter of