5
Because of Jennie’s inability to read as others in her family did—swift and without effort—she’d thought for many years that she had no real abilities, that instead her brain was as mixed up as the hog’s mash. Mathias, a favorite brother, who had died in 1861 during the Terrible War, had been her patient teacher, helping her link the scratching on a page to names for letters and then matching them to sounds. It was her sister Rebecca—who died the year that Dougie was born—who taught her how to write. To print, actually, in big block letters, as in cursive she reversed the b and d. She still struggled with both reading and script. Before her parents pulled her from the humiliation of school, she’d had to stand in front of others and read fresh and unfamiliar words, an effort that caused her heart to pound and breath escape her lungs as she listened to the snickering of schoolmates. Though once Jennie memorized material, she could stand before a crowd and declaim whole paragraphs of words.
Her father was a pastor, George a scientist, DW a teacher and lawyer. Lucinda ran a household and a boarding business that took thought and action. Girls didn’t go on to school, and certainly not those for whom reading was such a trial. But her family’s presence told her they trusted her ways with oils and herbs. They might not know of her longing to understand better how people became ill or how they healed. Nor had she ever said that if she’d been trained, perhaps she might have saved her own baby.
She watched the distillery be set up, her thoughts going to Ariyah’s birth and death, thoughts rushing through a memory tunnel the way the Schyrle brought distant objects into closer focus. Women and children needed access to a university-trained woman physician. Maybe one day she’d have a daughter who would be that healer.
Jennie took a deep breath. Her ribs still hurt from Charles’s shove.
“I don’t think I knew that Charley wanted to build a separate building,” her father said. “I hope he isn’t too discombobulated. One really should see if the thing works.”
“Oh, it’ll work, all right.” George had few doubts of anything in life. In that, he was like Charles, or at least as Charles had been before his wedding-night fall.
Her father handed George the glass tubing he connected to the tin-lined copper pot he’d had made. He’d fashioned a brass coil that snaked from the kettle into a large tub of water, both containers sitting almost side by side. “The spring water here is quite cold, so that’s good. You have to cool the steam to liquid to get the oils. The steam will travel through the coils. Do you have plants ready? As soon as this water starts to boil, we’ll be adding them.”
“Lavender.” Jennie spoke with pride. Half the flowers on the stems had withered when she’d harvested them the previous week, so they were perfect. “I’m going to start with lavender.”
“That’ll do.”
She gathered the plants, holding them gently so her own body oils wouldn’t contaminate them. She watched every detail of her brother’s actions. They waited for the water to boil and spoke of land law changes; the sermon Pastor Parrish had given that Sunday. Her father remembered Mathias and his going off to war, and Rebecca’s love of novels brought her into this occasion. She’d died of typhus. Joseph came out and watched, entering into the conversation. Jennie looked for Charles, wishing he’d join them too, but he didn’t. Hopefully he was watching Dougie. She felt a twinge of guilt that she hadn’t wondered earlier where her son was, but he’d followed his father inside. He’d be fine.
Finally, George stepped back to remove the cover. Jennie placed handfuls of what she’d dried into the copper pot. George secured the lid that sported a hole where the tubing rose straight up and then angled toward the cooling tub coils. The copper pot sat over the flames. As the fire heated her plants, steam rose up into the cooling tub. Inside, it coiled like a snake and came out the side near the bottom of the water cooling tub. The area around the opening had been caulked as tight as a newly framed log cabin so it wouldn’t leak. Whatever oils would appear would then pour into a beaker that had two openings. “A glass receptacle works best,” George said.
“The essencier,” Jennie said.
“Right. It’ll separate oils from waste.”
“How much will it make?” The scent was strong.
“That depends. The oils are found inside the plant’s oil glands and the tiny hairs and even the veins.”
“Like our own veins,” Jennie said.
“Like that, I believe. If you were very careful when you harvested them, you might get a few more ounces than if you weren’t. I suspect there’s a method to it, just as there is to being in a laboratory, like that Bunsen finding an antidote to arsenic. Alchemy is an art.”
“An antidote to arsenic?” Joseph expressed interest.
George told them more and Jennie asked to borrow the paper that had informed her brother. It would take her a time to read it, but there were many accidental deaths from arsenic and strychnine that settlers used to manage rats and mice. To find something that would halt a terrible death seemed miraculous.
“You may as well go inside,” George said. “It’s just a waiting game now.” He shooed them toward the door. “Mama’s pie is baking and the little girls’ arms are tired of whipping up the cream William brought. I’ll watch the flames.”
“I’ll stay here with you.” Jennie imagined repeating this process with rosemary and violets and peppermint too. She didn’t need notes. She’d memorized what George had done. But she also wanted to go through the cleanup process.
“Best you check in with your husband.” Her father put his arm around Jennie’s shoulder and pushed her toward the house.
“He—he’ll be fine.”
Her father frowned. She felt the pressure on her shoulder. Her small stature made it easy for even those who loved her to push her in their direction.
“Yes. I’d better face the music.”
Charles wasn’t in the main room of the house.
“Upstairs.” Lucinda pointed with her chin while she plopped whipped cream onto slices of pie. “Tell Douglas the pie’s ready.” Mary and Nellie licked their fingers of the cream. “I suspect he’s ready for something sweet. Did everything work all right with the still?”
“Yes. It seems to. I’ll have lavender oil in a few hours. Isn’t that grand?” Jennie pulled an apron over her head, the movement sending a lavender scent into the warm room.
Jennie started to tell them about the arsenic antidote George had mentioned, but her mother looked over the top of her spectacles in that way she had of expressing her displeasure at Jennie’s hesitation.
“Jane Jennie Lichtenthaler Pickett, you’d best—”
“Alright. I’m going upstairs.” She felt like a recalcitrant child, yet why should she? She was a grown woman, a mother of two—one living—and a wife who worked hard to take care of her family and contribute. A man didn’t always have to be pampered, did he? Compromise was part of the language of a marriage or ought to be. And this distillery was as close to Jennie’s dream of being a real healer that she would ever have. With it, she could not only meet her family’s needs, but she could help others. Couldn’t she have just one afternoon to celebrate without having to soothe her husband’s wounded spirit?
She took a deep breath, shortened with the jab of pain that came as she climbed the stairs. She pushed open the door. With Charles, it was always something.