Ship Fever by Andrea Barrett Page A

course.”
    In their excitement they’ve been walking so fast that they’ve left Juliet behind. They hear the men calling them and stop. Quickly, knowing she has little time, Sarah Anne asks the remaining important question. “And your husband?” she says. “He shares your interests?”
    â€œHe’s dead,” Mrs. Pearce says calmly. “I’m a widow.”
    She lives in London, Sarah Anne learns, alone but for three servants. Both her daughters are married and gone. “I would be so pleased if you would visit us,” Sarah Anne says. “We have a place just a few miles from town, but far enough away to have all the pleasures of the country. In the gardens there are some interesting plants from North America, and we’ve quite a large library…”
    Mrs. Pearce lays her gloved hand on Sarah Anne’s arm. “I’d be delighted,” she says. “And you must visit me in town. It’s so rare to find a friend.”
    The others join them, looking cold and displeased. “Miss Colden,” Mrs. Pearce says.
    â€œMrs. Pearce. I do hope you two have had a nice talk.”
    â€œLovely,” Mrs. Pearce says.
    She looks over Juliet’s head at Sarah Anne. “I’ll see you soon.” Then she hooks her hand into Mr. Hill’s arm and walks away.
    â€œOdd woman,” John says. “Bit of a bluestocking, isn’t she?”
    â€œShe dresses terribly,” Juliet says, with considerable satisfaction. From the sharp look she gives Sarah Anne, Sarah Anne knows she’ll pay for that brief bit of reviving conversation. But her mind is humming with the pleasure of her new friend, with plans for all they might do together, with the letter she’ll write to Linnaeus the very instant she reaches home. She imagines reading that letter out loud to Mrs. Pearce, showing Mrs. Pearce the response she will surely receive.
    â€œWe should write him about that old potion,” Mrs. Pearce says; and Sarah Anne says, “What?”
    â€œFor melancholy. Don’t you know it?”
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    â€œIt’s a potion made partly from the blood of swallows. Birds of summer, symbols of ease—the potion is supposed to ease sadness and give wings to the feet.”
    â€œMore likely than what he’s proposing,” Sarah Anne says, and Mrs. Pearce agrees.
    It’s September now—not the September following their meeting but the one after that: 1764. The two women are in an unused stable at Burdem Place, patiently waiting, surrounded by their equipment. It is just barely dawn. Down in the reeds, where the birds are sleeping, they’ve sent Robert the gardener’s boy with a net and instructions. What they’re talking about while they wait is the letter Sarah Anne received last week from Carl Linnaeus, in which he graciously but firmly (and in Latin; but Sarah Anne can read it), dismissed her theories and stated his absolute conviction that swallows hibernate under the water. The letter upset Sarah Anne, but she would not have done anything more than fume had Mrs. Pearce not been visiting. It was Mrs. Pearce—Catherine—who’d said, “Well. We’ll just have to do the experiments ourselves.”
    On the wooden floor they’ve set the bottom half of a cask, which Robert has filled with water. Below the water lies a few inches of river sand; on the surface a board floats an inch from the rim. A large piece of sturdy netting awaits the use to which they’ll put it. Inside the stable it’s still quite dark; through the open door the trees are barely visible through the mist. Above them the house sleeps. Just after four o’clock, Sarah Anne rose in her new room and tapped once on the door of the room down the hall, where Catherine stays when she visits. Catherine opened the door instantly, already dressed.
    Recently it has been easier for them to talk about the