“Oh, the Blundy girl. You are the man she mentioned?”

I nodded. “It seems that she spent my money a little freely. I have come to settle her—or rather my—debt.”

Crosse grunted. “You won’t be paid, you know, not in money.”

“So it appears. But it is too late for that now. Besides, I set her mother’s leg, and it was interesting to see whether I could do so; I’d learned a great deal about it in Leiden, but never tried it on a living patient.”

“Leiden?” said the younger man with sudden interest. “Do you know Sylvius?”

“Indeed,” I replied. “I studied anatomy with him; and I have a letter from him with me for a gentleman called Mr. Boyle.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” he asked, and walked to the door at the back of the shop and opened it. I could see a flight of stairs in the corridor beyond.

“Boyle?” he yelled. “Are you up there?”

“No need to shout, you know,” Crosse said. “I can tell you. He isn’t. He went to the coffee house.”

“Oh. No matter. We can go and find him. What’s your name, by the way?”

I introduced myself. He bowed in return, and said—“Richard Lower, at your service. A physician. Almost.”

We bowed once more and, that done with, he clapped me on the shoulders. “Come along. Boyle will like to meet you. We’ve been feeling a little cut off up here recently.”

As we walked the short distance back to Tillyard’s, he explained that the ferment of intellectual life in the town had ceased to bubble as it had in the past, due to the return of the king.

“But I heard His Majesty is a lover of learning,” I said.

“So he is, when he can tear his attention away from his mistresses. That’s the trouble. Under Cromwell, we eked out our existence here, while all the lucrative places in the state went to butchers and fish sellers. Now the king is back and naturally, all those well-placed enough to take advantage of his generosity have gone to London, leaving a rump of us up here. I’m afraid I shall have to try to make a name for myself there as well, sooner or later.”

“Hence the wig?”

He grimaced. “Yes, I suppose so. One must cut a dash in London to be noticed at all. Wren was back here a few weeks ago—he’s a friend of mine, a fine fellow—decked out like a peacock. He’s planning a trip to France soon and we’ll probably have to shade our eyes just to look at him when he gets back.”

“And Mr. Boyle?” I asked, my heart sinking a little. “He has—ah, decided—to stay in Oxford?”

“Yes, for the time being. But he’s lucky. He’s got so much money he doesn’t have to fish for positions like the rest of us.”

“Oh,” I said, greatly relieved.

Lower gave me a look which indicated that he understood perfectly what had been going through my mind. “His father was one of the richest men in the kingdom and a fervent supporter of the old king, bless his memory, as I suppose we should. Naturally, a lot of it was dispersed, but there’s enough left for Boyle not to have the concerns of ordinary mortals.”

“Ah.”

“A fine person to know, if you are inclined to philosophical knowledge, which is his main interest. If you’re not, of course, he won’t pay much attention to you.”

“I have done my best,” I said modestly, “with some experimentation. But I’m afraid that I am only a novice. What I do not know or understand greatly outweighs what I do.”

The answer seemed to please him mightily. “In that case you will be in good company,” he said with a grin. “Add us all together and our ignorance is almost complete. Still, we scratch at the surface. Here we are,” he went on, as he led the way back into the very same coffee house. Mrs. Till-yard again approached, wanting another copper off me, but Lower waved her away. “Fiddlesticks, madam,” he said cheerfully. “You will not charge a friend of mine for entry into this bawdy house.”

Loudly demanding that coffee be brought to us instantly, Lower bounded up the stairs to the room I had previously selected. It was then that I had the horrible thought—What if this Boyle were the unpleasant gentleman who had turned away the girl?

But the man sitting in the corner whom Lower immediately approached could not have been more different. I suppose I should here pause and describe the Honorable Robert Boyle, a man who has had more praise and honor heaped upon him than any philosopher for centuries. The first thing I noticed was his relative youth; his reputation had led me to expect a man certainly over fifty. In fact, he was probably no more than a few years older than myself. Tall, gaunt and obviously with a weak constitution, he had a pale, thin face with a strangely sensual mouth, and sat with a poise and a degree of ease that instantly indicated his noble upbringing. He did not appear so very agreeable; haughty rather, as though he was fully aware of his superiority and expected others to be as well. This, I later learned, was only part of the story, for his pride was matched by his generosity; his haughtiness by his humility; his rank by his piety; and his severity by his charity.

Nonetheless, he was a person to be approached with care for, while Boyle tolerated some truly dreadful creatures because of their merit, he would not put up with charlatans or fools. I count it as one of the greatest honors of my life that I was allowed, for a while, to associate with him on terms of ease. Losing this connection through the malice of others was one of the bitterest blows I have had to endure.

For all his wealth, reputation and birth, he tolerated familiarity from his intimates, of whom Lower, evidently, was one. “Mr. Boyle,” he said as we approached. “Someone from Italy to pay homage at your shrine.”

Boyle looked up with raised eyebrows then permitted himself a brief smile. “Good morning, Lower,” he said dryly. I noticed then and later that Lower constantly misstepped himself in his dealings with Boyle, as he considered himself an equal in matters of science, but was all too conscious of his own inferiority in rank, and so moved from an excessive familiarity to a respect which, although not obsequious, was still far from assured and comfortable.

“I bring you greetings from Dr. Sylvius of Leiden, sir,” I said, “He suggested that, as I was to come to England, you might permit me to make your acquaintance.”

I always feel that introductions are one of the most difficult of areas of etiquette. Naturally, they exist, and will always continue. How else could a total stranger be accepted except under the patronage of a gentleman who can vouch for his character? In most circles, however, the mere existence of a letter is enough; if they are read, it is generally after the introductions have been performed. I hoped that a letter from Sylvius, a physician as famous in medicine as was Boyle in chemistry, would ensure me a welcome. But I was also aware that divisions ran deep, and that my religion might well cause me to be rejected. England had only recently been in the grip of fanatical sectarians, and I knew their influence was far from dissipated—my colleagues in the coach to Oxford overnight had informed me with glee of the new persecutory laws against us that the Parliament had forced the king to adopt.

Boyle not only took the letter and began to read it, but also commented on its contents as he progressed, making me ever more nervous as he did so. It was, I saw, rather a long missive; Sylvius and I had not always seen eye to eye, and I greatly feared that much of the letter would be uncomplimentary.

And so it seemed as Boyle read. “Hmm,” he said. “Listen to this, Lower. Sylvius says your friend here is impetuous, argumentative and much given to querying authority. Impertinent, and a positive gadfly in his interests.”

I made to defend myself, but Lower gestured for me to be quiet. “Family of gentlemen merchants in Venice, eh?” Boyle went on. “Papist, I suppose?”

My heart sank.