by Deryn Lake
“What does that do?” Mary Ann whispered.
“There is nothing finer for soothing the intestines. Now, my girl, these doses are to be repeated every four hours without fail. I will call again this evening to see how the patient progresses and during the day I will send my apprentice, Nicholas, whom I am sure you remember well.”
He looked at her beadily, recalling the time when she had driven the young man to his wits’ end with love for her.
The girl had the good grace to blush, but then said slyly, “Don’t worry that incident is closed. Besides, I have been replaced in his affections I believe.”
John stared at her. “What do you mean?”
Mary Ann made much of sponging her aunt’s fevered brow, looking at John over the top of Elizabeth Fielding’s head. Then she whispered pointedly, “Nicholas has a new sweetheart. I have seen him walking out with her.”
John, despite the fact he had long ago waived the strict rules regarding apprentices in view of the Muscovite’s age, was interested. “Really? Who is she?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen her before. But very pretty though.”
A warning bell went off in the Apothecary’s mind. “Small, bright headed, with eyes the colour of wisteria?”
“Yes, that’s her. Who is she?”
“A new servant. Nicholas was probably showing her the way to a shop. She does not know this area.”
Mary Ann’s face went from sly to foxy. “Oh no doubt he was, but strange that they should be handfast as they walked.”
Inwardly, John groaned as he wondered just what bundle of trouble he had let into his house. However, he put on his sweetest smile for the benefit of the inquisitive imp regarding him.
“She may well have felt nervous when she walked. I’m sure that Nicholas was doing no more than guide her along.”
“Oh for certain,” Mary Ann answered, and gave him the sort of pert grin that made him want to slap her.
John turned back to his patient. “Keep your aunt like this, utterly quiet and still, and do not attempt to give her any food. She can have sips of water and no more. Tell your uncle that I will see him tonight.”
“Yes, Mr. Rawlings.”
“And can you also tell him the facts. Namely, that Mrs. Fielding will most likely not be able to attend tomorrow’s ceremony.”
“He will be very upset.”
“He probably will, but it is better that he should get used to the idea now.”
“I’m sure he will refuse to go himself if she cannot be there.”
“I do hope that he won’t even consider anything so foolish.”
It was a busy day in the shop, particularly with Nicholas out for an hour, and John was pleased when they finally closed for the night and he was able once more to take a chair to Bow Street. The court, which had been sitting that day, was no longer in session and as John turned into the tall thin house in which Mr. Fielding and his family lived, he passed Joe Jago, the Magistrate’s clerk, making his way outwards, a determined expression on his craggy face.
“Joe,” said John, delighted to see his old friend again, “where are you off to?”
“I’ve an appointment with my tailor, Mr. Rawlings.”
“A new suit for tomorrow?”
“Indeed, Sir. I thought a rich dark blue with silver trimming might be dee rigour.”
Joe had never got the hang of pronouncing de rigueur and the Apothecary grinned, though not mockingly.
“What time do you have to be at the palace?”
“The levee begins at eleven, so carriages will be arriving from an hour beforehand. Anyway, Sir, I must be off. The tailor has to make a final fitting then will be working through the night if all’s not perfect.”
“Good luck tomorrow,” said John and went within.
He found Mr. Fielding sitting beside his wife, gently holding her hand. It looked to John, as he went quietly through the door, as if both of them were fast asleep, the Magistrate absolutely still, Elizabeth not moving, pale against her pillows. The Apothecary hardly liked to disturb them but even as he silently approached, John Fielding raised his head.
“Mr. Rawlings?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for what you’ve done. My wife has ceased to vomit and purge and is now sleeping quietly. I owe this to your rapid response to our call for help.”
John felt his patient’s brow. “Sir, I know that Mrs. Fielding has greatly improved but I do not think it would be prudent to disturb her tomorrow. It is my honest opinion that she should be allowed to rest for several days more. She is still very weak, believe me.”
The Magistrate nodded. “Nothing would induce me to jeopardise her recovery. No, Mr. Rawlings, if you are agreeable it is you who will act as my second guide at the palace tomorrow.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you Sir. I must take another person - I should die of shame were I to trip on my way to the throne - and I can think of no one I would prefer to accompany me. John, will you say yes?”
The Apothecary reeled, partly at being called by his first name, something that the Magistrate had done only once before in their entire acquaintanceship, and partly at the thought of attending an investiture at St James’s Palace.
“Sir, I would be highly honoured,” he answered breathlessly.
“Then, my friend, when you have tended your patient I suggest you make for home and bring forth your best clothes for your servants to sponge and press. I intend that we shall put on a goodly show, us representatives of the Public Office.”
“And what are you wearing, Sir?”
“A new suit, dark damson in shade. I refuse to have anything too showy. It is Mary Ann who will outshine us all.”
Like the devil she will, thought John, and mentally started going through his wardrobe as he took his leave and headed home in a flurry of excitement.
In the event he chose his green and gold wedding suit, the finest day-wear he had, and rose early to make sure that he was as clean and well-shaven as it was possible to be. The rest of the household rose with him, running about with alacrity and barely concealed enthusiasm for the fact that their master was to go to the palace that day.
“They are longing to stand outside St. James’s and wave you in,” said Emilia over their early breakfast.
“Indeed I shall let them,” John answered, then promptly felt middle-aged and pompous because of his words and tone of voice.
“What about Nicholas?”
“He’ll have to run the shop.”
“Oh how could you? He’s been your faithful creature all these years. How could you exclude him from the fun?”
“They’re not going to see much; just me entering the palace that’s all.”
“What about everybody else going in? What about the clothes and the coaches and the cheering? If you leave Nicholas out of all that, may it be on your conscience for ever more.”
Feeling more of a selfish wretch with every word his wife uttered, John swallowed noisily. “Oh very well. The shop will close today. But, sweetheart, somebody must stay and look after the house. I can’t give everyone the morning off.”
“Then let it be the two most recently joined, Lucinda and the lad. The rest can follow our carriage down.” Emilia caught breath. “Oh John, I’m so excited. To think you will see Mr. Fielding kneel before the King.”
“I wish you could come in.”
“I shall be quite happy watching from the coach. Then afterwards we can drink champagne and you can tell me all about it.”
The Apothecary got up from his place and going round the table, kissed her on the lips. “You are like a child, with that sweet ability to really enjoy an occasion. Promise me that you will never lose that.”
“I promise.”
“Now, let us go and put on finery. The greatest hat in your collection must be worn today, so that everyone staring in through the carriage windows can admire you.”
“I hardly think that anybody will be looking at me
with so many important people making their way within.”
“A beautiful woman is always regarded,” John answered gallantly as they left the room, calling for the servants to help them dress.
The coach made its way to St. James’s Palace by turning out of Nassau Street, down Gerrard Street, then through Princes and Coventry Streets into Piccadilly. From there Irish Tom clipped the horses smartly to the junction with St. James’s Street where, somewhat to John’s astonishment, he saw that a crowd had begun to gather. It seemed that as this was the first investiture following the coronation there was still a certain amount of interest in the new young monarch and his recently acquired Queen.
The Apothecary had always thought that very old and very young sovereigns held a certain amount of popular appeal. It was merely the middle-aged who tended to bore, their very years making them stuffy and lacklustre. George II had been no exception. Short, strutting, charmless, Germanic, swaying of jowl and crimson of visage, the public at large had been thoroughly bored with him and were only too anxious for his grandson to ascend the throne. And now he had. Amiable, tall, good-looking, blue-eyed, and very proud of the fact that he had been bom in England, young George was high in popularity and at the moment was cheered wherever he went. If he had married the beautiful Sarah Lennox his star would have blazed in the firmament, but instead he had wed Charlotte, German as they come and with a face like a squashed fig. She was not the glamorous consort that the public craved but, still, they liked the lad and now they had turned out to see the carriages full of grand personages proceed to the palace through that area of London known as St. James’s.
Originally the Tudor building had stood in a rural setting, hunting and grazing grounds surrounding it on every side. Now urban development had caught up, but its earlier associations were reflected by the parks which adjoined it. Behind St. James’s Palace lay St. James’s Park, to its right as one faced the building. Green Park, while its own small but adequate gardens lay behind the state apartments.
As they entered St. James’s Street, the Apothecary saw that a line of coaches was ahead, moving at slow speed down the road towards the junction with Pall Mall.
“Is that the way in, Sir?” called Irish Tom from the box.
“Mr. Fielding said that the carriages were to drop us by the walkway leading to the German Church. The doors going into the palace open off there.”
Across the top of this walkway, which led from Pall Mall down to St. James’s Park, were a pair of stout gates to keep unwanted visitors out. But today these stood open, allowing those descending from their conveyances to pass down the path and inside the building without hindrance. Further, at intervals along the way, a dozen or so little pageboys were stationed to assist people in and help with the disposal of travelling garments.
The crush in Pall Mall, even though there was still some time before the levee proper was due to begin, was considerable. Carriages moving at a snail’s pace were edging forward to join the queue which had formed at the gates leading to the walkway. Postillions were leaping about, pulling down steps to allow passengers, all dressed to the zenith, to alight onto the specially swept cobbles. Huge feathered headdresses, quite the latest thing in high fashion, bobbed dangerously as ladies in mighty gowns minced forward on tottering heels. Gentlemen from the professional classes, looking uncomfortable in stiff new clothes, attempted to strike a note of decorum. Whereas the bucks and the blades vyed with each other as to the amount of gems stitched upon their waistcoats, the number of curls flouncing on their wigs and who could have the most fantastical shape of patch worn upon his face. One demi-rip, alighting with a look of disdain from his carriage, boasted a galleon, a coach and horses and a cupid upon one cheek, a sickle moon, several stars and an arrow on the other.
“Look at ‘im,” shouted an urchin in the crowd, at which the young man waved his beribboned great stick at the miscreant, tripped over the cobbles and nearly fell over, much to the delight of the onlookers.
A plain coach that John recognised drew to a halt, having finally reached the top of the queue, and Joe Jago, garbed to wonderment, jumped out and pulled down the steps. He was followed by Mary Ann, daintily shod and dressed like the little beauty she was, her dark hair not powdered but adorned with the brightest and cheekiest feathers that the Apothecary could remember seeing. And then, resplendent in a flowing cloak and truly mighty wig topped by a tricorne with flashing buckle fixed to the left cock, there stepped out John Fielding himself. Joe Jago guided him downwards, then offered his arm.
A cheer went up, for the onlookers knew who he was and that he delivered rough but fair justice, and there was a cry of, “There’s the Blind Beak.” In response, the Magistrate doffed his magnificent hat towards the crowd, and there was another cry of “Good fellow.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to watch from the coach after all,” said Emilia. “They’re all being directed onwards to make way.”
“Well I don’t want you on your own in the crowd.”
“I’ll be with Nicholas and the servants. Anyway, there’s Samuel, look!”
And she pointed to where John’s old friend, head and shoulders above the throng, was making his way towards the gates, cheering as he went.
Another coach, very fine indeed, drew to the head of theline and Miss Chudleigh, fashionable from frills to feet, emerged, sauntering into the palace as if it were her rightful abode. Then eventually, after several more parties had made their way within, it was the Apothecary’s turn. Nicholas, who had travelled with his master, jumped out and pulled down the steps personally, then made a low bow. John, very deeply honoured, stepped into the street and for the first time in his life felt something of what it must be like to be truly rich and famous, attending palaces and great functions, gaped at by a staring multitude. He turned back to look at Emilia who was waving to him out of the window. John raised his hat to her, then proceeded at a measured pace down the walkway to the entrance.
A pageboy stepped forward. “Your card, Sir.”
“I do not have one. I am with Mr. John Fielding’s party. He is just there ahead of me.”
The boy bowed. “If you will wait a moment, Sir, I will go and check.”
“Very well.”
The page looked solemn and added apologetically, “We are instructed to monitor all visitors, Sir.”
He was a very strange little chap, John thought, thin to the point of emaciation, with a hollow haggard face and listless eyes, not at all suitable for a child of his age. In fact there was something so haunting about the boy that John found himself studying him with more attention than he would normally have paid such a creature.
Walking rather slowly, the page made his way into the palace, into a long reception hall, lined on both sides with sofas on which several people had already taken seats. He obviously was not certain who John Fielding was, for the Apothecary observed him pluck at the sleeve of another boy and whisper something into his ear. The other page, dressed in livery and with a white wig, as were they all, glanced over. A fleeting impression that he had seen the larger, older boy before came over John strongly, but a second later whenhe looked again, both children had vanished into the throng.
The wizened little page finally reappeared. “Are you Mr. Rawlings, Sir?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Fielding is expecting you. I am so sorry for the inconvenience. Please to come in.”
Handing him his cloak and hat, John entered St. James’s Palace.
The reception hall, even though thronging with people, could be seen to have the most elegant lines, running as it did along the side of one of the old Tudor courts. John gazed with approval at mirrors and candlesticks and splendid furnishings as he made his way to where the Blind Beak sat on a sofa, waiting the moment when the levee would begin and they would be called upon to climb the stairs to the state apartments.
Joe Jago, standing guard over the Magistrate and keeping up a running commentary as to who was present while Mary
Ann burbled on about the cutting fashions of the beau monde, turned at the Apothecary’s approach.
“You look very splendid, Sir.”
“As do you, Joe. I have never seen you in such a becoming rig-out. Did your tailor work all night?”
“No, Sir, only till eleven.”
John bowed before Mr. Fielding. “I have arrived, Sir.”
“Delighted to hear it. Tell me, Mr. Rawlings, do I look a fool in all this finery?”
“No, Sir. You look magnificent. You all do. The Public Office can be proud of its representatives this day.”
Joe’s eyes, a shade lighter than his suit, filled with tears, though none spilled on to his rugged cheek. “It is the finest hour in the Office’s history, Sir. The Beak rewarded at long last for all his efforts.”
“I saw Miss Chudleigh come in earlier. Is she here to honour you, Sir?”
“In part, perhaps. Though, of course, as maid-of-honour to the King’s mother, she has the right of entree to all the royal palaces.”
John stared about him. “Who are all these little pageboys? Are they royal servants?”
Mr. Fielding rumbled a chuckle. “Far from it. They are either peers of the realm in their own right or the sons of peers. However, they are on call for all state occasions.”
“A funny little monkey-faced lad saw me in. He hardly had the strength to get about it seemed to me.”
“We had a very handsome one,” Mary Ann answered. “Pupils the colour of mauve flowers. I wonder if he has a peerage already.”
“You are incorrigible,” stated her uncle firmly. “You are to behave yourself. Miss.”
“Oh, Papa,” she cooed in response. “When do I not?”
John and Joe exchanged a glance and rolled their eyes but said not a word.
The reception room was now nearly packed to capacity and there had been no new arrivals for several minutes. Therefore it surprised no one when there came a stirring and a call for silence from the far end of the room.
“My lords, ladies and gentlemen,” announced a major domo, “the levee will shortly begin. Will you make your way to the left hand staircase in the order that I call out. If you will then proceed through the state apartments and assemble in the Queen Anne room. Footmen and pages will be on hand to assist you.”
