by Deryn Lake
‘I should imagine, my boy, that she has also been given the gift of learning how to cope with it.’
The next morning they set off for Kensington. It had originally been intended that John alone would accompany his father, but Rose had begged – with tears – that she should be included in the party. So Irish Tom, who had grown as close to his master as it was possible for a servant to get, had helped John raise Sir Gabriel into the carriage, lifted up Rose, giggling and smiling, and finally closed the door behind them before clambering up onto the box.
They had a pleasant drive through London, Tom going all the way down Piccadilly to Hide Park Corner, passing the Tyburn gallows, that melancholy place of execution, and passing through the toll gate to Knight’s Bridge, where they stopped for a while for refreshment and nature’s call. Then they turned up The King’s Old Road to Kensington, which had been opened to the public and was quite the fashionable place, the beau monde gathering in numbers to be seen out exercising their horses and waving gaily to one another.
Eventually, the creatures walking slowly now, they turned up Kensington Church Street and Sir Gabriel gave a great sigh.
‘My dear, I can tell you that much as I enjoyed myself at the Hotwell – and met so many charming and interesting people – it is indeed a pleasure to be back home.’
John jumped out of the carriage as it stopped at the top of the row, but to his astonishment Sir Gabriel was almost too weak to walk down the step. The Apothecary had to pick the old man up and carry him to the street. It was then that the first terrible thought crossed his mind and refused to go away again. Was a visit from the Grim Reaper destined to come to him three times this year?
He imagined Elizabeth’s last terrible act, leaping towards the sun like Icarus; the death of Lady Tyninghame, whom he had once thought so delicate and delightful; and last night his own father speaking of dying. And yet, practical person that he was, he knew that it awaited all, had attended dying patients in the past and no doubt would have to do so again.
Sir Gabriel was apologising profusely. ‘My dear boy, can’t think what came over me. Must have been a sudden cramp in the legs. Caused by too much dancing at the Hotwell, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Yes, I wouldn’t be at all surprised,’ answered the Apothecary seriously. ‘You had quite a few dances with various ladies, I noticed.’
Miss Rose, bright as a new-minted coin, said, ‘Would you grant me the honour, Sir?’ and sank in a low curtsey.
Sir Gabriel took the proffered hand, bowed deeply and executed a few stately steps of the minuet before laughing and saying, ‘I think, my sweetheart, that I’d best go indoors before one of my neighbours thinks I have taken leave of my senses.’
‘Very good, Sir,’ and she offered Sir Gabriel her arm.
They made a stately entrance, John following behind, and Irish Tom assisting, the servants coming out of the front door with cries of welcome.
They passed a quiet but splendid evening, Rose behaving herself beautifully, and Sir Gabriel resplendent in a flowing white robe and black turban, its only adornment the huge zircon stone that had been mined in Russia and exported to England.
‘I love it when you are en deshabille, Grandpa.’
‘Why is that, my child?’
‘Because you always look so imposing, and I particularly like that jewel you wear in your headgear. It is so brilliant and alive, like gazing into the heart of the sea.’
‘Ah, my pretty Rosebud, you have such a beautiful way with words.’
‘I believe it is a magic stone.’
‘Then it shall be yours after I die. I have not mentioned it in my will, but remember what I say, John.’
Somewhere in the depths of his soul the Grim Reaper grinned and John shifted in his seat.
‘Anything wrong, John?’
Yes, everything is wrong. I can’t bear the thought of losing you, of no longer enjoying your friendship, your love, your wisdom. Father, you who have been so good to me. Why must you be taken from me?
Aloud he said, ‘No, I am feeling in good health. What about you, Rose?’
‘Blooming,’ she said, and laughed loudly at her own joke.
Sir Gabriel rose to his full height, an awe-inspiring sight, and said, ‘Well, I am rather tired. I think I’ll to bed. It’s all this travelling. It takes it out of one so.’
Rose jumped to her feet. ‘Can I get you anything, Grandpa?’
‘A glass of cold water, if you would carry that up for me, my dear?’
‘Of course.’
She clattered off in the direction of the servants’ quarters and Sir Gabriel said, ‘That is a wonderful child you have there, John.’
‘‘I thank God for her. And for the twins. They are quite agreeable little monsters.’
‘They are fine boys, but I have only met them a few times. Tell me, my son, do you miss Elizabeth?’
‘I miss her every waking hour. Oh, Father, if you could have seen her towards the finish. It was pitiful. She was like a twig, a shrivelled leaf. And then to put an end to the pain by taking that dying horse of hers and leaping over the cliffs into the sea …’
‘To me it sounds a happy release for them both.’
‘That is what I think too. And somehow it has made it easier for me to cope with her loss. Because, if I was another sort of man, I could wrap myself in grief and never emerge again.’
‘Thank God you are not. For that would be to the detriment of your children. When Phyllida died, it was only having you, John, that kept me sane. But thank heavens you were young and active and it was all I could do to keep up with you.’
The Apothecary burst out laughing, despite the seriousness of the conversation. ‘Now that I don’t believe. You always were and you always will be the great leader of fine living.’
Sir Gabriel chortled and yawned. ‘My bed calls. Stay up, my son. Have a glass of port. Relax after all your recent adventures.’
With the room quiet, John stared into the fire, wondering how his future would evolve. He hoped that one day he would meet a woman who would rock him to the soles of his feet, so much so that he would ask her to marry him and his life would go off at a different tangent. But sweet though Emilia had been, as much power as Elizabeth had possessed, it was difficult to imagine anyone following in their footsteps. With a deep sigh, John poured himself another port and listened to the creak of the house as it settled and the longcase clock chimed ‘The British Granydears’ on the hour.
The following day dawned very brightly, full of that warm sunshine typical of an October day. Sir Gabriel again chose to remain en deshabille and wore a black robe decorated with small silver flowers. His turban was silver, fastened together by the great glittering zircon.
The year previously he had bought some new garden furniture and now he chose to sit on a cast-iron seat decorated with a pattern of fern leaves. It had been placed in the shade of a tree and as the clock struck noon Sir Gabriel ordered a bottle of champagne and three glasses. John looked at these last and asked a silent question.
‘My boy, a drop or two of alcohol has never done anyone any harm. Remember how I let you have little sips of wine?’
‘But Rose is a girl.’
‘The same applies.’
She came into the garden at that moment and John, looking at her, felt astounded by the way she was growing up. Perhaps because he had not seen her for several weeks, he appreciated again the beauty of her skin and the wonderful flick of her black lashes over eyes that were a startling hyacinth blue. In another few years she would have the whole of London at her feet. And just for a moment John had an image of himself with grey hair and an authoritative manner, regarding with raised brow the line of would-be suitors.
Sir Gabriel was ordering the servant to pour two glasses and himself filled Rose’s tumbler, just a quarter full. He raised his.
‘To my son and granddaughter. I would like to thank you both for the enormous happiness you have brought me. You have both been q
uite exceptional.’
They drained their glasses and had another until the bottle was empty. Then Sir Gabriel closed his eyes and dozed, while Rose, who had been sitting next to him, lowered her head into his lap like a little kitten. His old white hand, adorned with great rings, lazily stroked her hair. John must have slumbered for a while because when he opened his eyes it was to see that everything had grown very still. The hand stroking Rose’s hair was quiescent and the old man slept very deeply indeed.
In a second John jumped up and, kneeling at Sir Gabriel’s feet, felt for the pulse in his neck. There was none. Weeping came instantly. The father he had loved for ever – or so it seemed to him – was gone from him.
‘Oh, Papa, my beloved Papa,’ he cried, the tears pouring down his face uncontrollably.
Rose’s black eyelashes opened wide. ‘Oh, my dearest Father, don’t be sad.’
He wept in her little arms. ‘But I loved him, Rose. I loved him with all my heart.’
‘But he’s gone to find Phyllida, that’s all.’
He looked at her through a mist of tears. ‘And will he? Will he find Phyllida?’
‘Oh yes,’ she answered seriously. ‘For they have been finding and seeking one another since the beginning of time.’
Twenty-Five
Never had the circle of life been brought home more forcefully to the Apothecary – and never, indeed, had the superstition that bad or good luck comes in a cycle of three. He had stayed in Kensington and organised a rather hectic – and rather beautiful – funeral for Sir Gabriel Kent, the last of the great beaux. Not many of Sir Gabriel’s older friends came because he had, in fact, outlived them all. But people with whom he still played cards, neighbours – including the jolly Mr Horniblow from next door – and people who had served Sir Gabriel in shops and liked the old man’s style, all came aplenty. Then there were John’s friends: Joe Jago, representing Sir John Fielding, Serafina and Louis de Vignolles, Samuel Swann, looking terribly sad. And last, but a million miles from least, came Jacquetta Fortune on the arm of Gideon Purle, followed by Robin Hazell and Fred, terribly small, new hat held hotly in hand.
Despite the solemnity of the occasion, John had striven hard to make it as joyous as possible. On the morning of the burial he and Rose had visited Sir Gabriel for the last time. John had placed a kiss on the old man’s cold cheek and Rose had placed an autumn rose in the coffin. Then the lid had been nailed down and the mourners – nearly eighty of them – crowding outside the house had walked in procession to the church at the end of the lane. Dispensing with tradition, John, Joe Jago, Louis, Samuel, Gideon and Nicholas Dawkins, the Muscovite, bore the coffin on their shoulders for the short journey to the church.
John had had sets of mourning gloves of finest kid made for all the mourners, and could not help but smile at Fred’s look of pure joy as he had placed them on his hands.
‘Me first pair,’ he had whispered to Robin Hazell, who had winked at him but remained silent.
After the miserable ceremony of throwing earth on the grave – most of John’s friends threw flowers – they walked back to the house and enjoyed a wake, which went on rather a long time. So it was that John, quite solitary, walked down to the graveyard where Sir Gabriel now lay next to his tragic little daughter-in-law, Emilia Rawlings. He stood for a long time, staring at them silently, thinking how different everything would have been if Emilia had not been brutally murdered by a jealous, crazed soul. Then he realised the futility of such thoughts. Things were as they were and it was up to him to make the best of them for the sake of the young people. Sighing, he scattered rose petals on both graves, said ‘Adieu,’ to them and, bracing his shoulders, walked out by the church and into the waiting carriage in which his daughter sat quietly alone.
So the cycle of life went on. The week after the funeral there was a wedding in St Ann’s, Soho. Mrs Fortune, now at the peak of her beauty, was walked up the aisle by Nicholas Dawkins, whose wife had made the happy introduction between Jacquetta and John. And what a family affair it was. Gideon, John’s former apprentice, was the happy bridegroom, and though one or two of the more gossipy members of the congregation might have mentioned that the bride looked a deal older than the groom, the general jollity of all present overcame such remarks and all proceeded merrily. Afterwards, the guests trooped down to the grave of John’s mother, Phyllida Rawlings, and Jacquetta laid her wedding bouquet by the headstone.
The breakfast was held at number 2, Nassau Street, and there was much feasting and drinking, followed by dancing. Serafina stood in front of John and asked him to dance. He made a face and pointed to his mourning clothes.
‘Oh, sweetheart, do you think Sir Gabriel would have minded? Why, he would have been the very last. I can almost hear him saying, “Come along, my boy”.’
John got to his feet and bowed. ‘How right you are, my beautiful friend.’
They joined the long line of dancers and whirled into ‘Man in the Moon’ with great enthusiasm. And the Apothecary could have sworn that, narrowing his eyes very slightly, he could see a stately figure dressed in stunning black and white, cavorting close by.
Later that evening, when all the children were asleep, the last guest had left and the house had reverted to its usual peaceful state, John managed to look at the day’s post. One letter in particular drew his attention because it had journeyed from Boston, come all of that long and fearful journey across the Atlantic. John turned it for a moment between his fingers, wondering who it could possibly be from. Then he noticed that on the outside of the envelope was printed the sender’s name, one Josiah Hallowell, The Orange Tree Tavern, Boston. More than a little excited, John undid the seal and read the contents.
Sirs,
I was recently introduced by a Niece of mine to a Delicious Sparkling Water which had upon it the name and address of J. Rawlings, 2, Nassau Street, London. My Niece recently crossed the Atlantic Ocean to live with me in the Colonies and brought said Bottle for me to sample. I must tell you now that the Long and Arduous Journey did not affect the Quality of the Water at all, but I found it both Delicious and Thirst Quenching.
To come to the Point, dear Sirs. I wonder whether it would be possible for one of your Representatives to make the Journey to visit my Establishment in Boston with a view to entering into a Business Agreement whereby your good selves would ship out to us so many bottles Per annum. Of course it would be a Long and Tedious Journey but you would be assured of the Warmest of Welcomes when you Arrive. Written in the Hope of Hearing from You Soon.
Respectfully Yours,
J. Hallowell.
The Apothecary sat for a long time in the darkening library, thinking about what he had just read with an amused smile teasing his lips. Then he began to think seriously about it. Though his business was doing quite well, it was actually small, more a cottage industry than anything else. It would be impossible to send Gideon, newly married as he was, and Mrs Fortune – or rather Purle – was out of the question. He could hardly send Robin Hazell, and John actually laughed aloud, though not unkindly, at the thought of choosing Fred as his emissary. That left himself.
The Apothecary suddenly sat bolt upright. Why not? And then he thought of his young children and his heart plummeted. Very well to send himself, aware of all the dangers of the voyage, but to subject the twins to such a hazard would be unspeakably selfish. With a sigh, John picked up a book and tried hard to concentrate. But before his eyes rose a vision of a vibrant new land, full of an exciting mix of peoples striving to build a life. He could almost hear the bells of Boston ringing and smell the sharp, salty aroma of the harbour. The call to adventure which dwelt within him, never far below the surface, rose up and John seriously began to consider the prospect of going.
For once the courthouse next to the Public Office in Bow Street was empty, and on making an enquiry as to the whereabouts of Sir John Fielding with the Runner on the desk, John was told that court proceedings had risen early and that Sir John had left for
his country house in Brompton, near Kensington. Irish Tom obediently turned the horses in the direction of Piccadilly and trotted away briskly.
They found Sir John sitting outside in a very finely wrought iron chair with arms and a strong back. He was totally relaxed, his great wig removed, showing his short cropped hair beneath, the ribbon which covered his eyes also gone so that he looked like a man asleep which, perhaps, he was. However, as the carriage clattered along the small lane leading to the house, Sir John stirred and sat upright, a fine figure clad in a white cambric shirt, his coat carelessly spread on another chair, his socks and shoes removed so that he could wriggle his toes in the autumn sunshine.
He went very still as John dismounted and approached. ‘Give me a minute,’ he called. ‘Let me identify you from your tread.’
John pulled a face at Tom and advanced slowly, walking with a slight limp.
‘It’s Lord Suffolk,’ the Magistrate cried triumphantly. ‘And you’re suffering with an attack of gout.’
John burst out laughing, put on a gruff voice and said, ‘You’re right, Sir John. M’gout has swollen m’foot up like an air balloon, so it has.’
‘John Rawlings,’ said John Fielding, ‘you do one of the worst imitations I have ever heard. And I’ve heard a few, you can believe me.’
John bowed before him, while Tom went off to the servants’ quarters, Meanwhile, Sir John had called out for a jug of punch and two glasses.
‘Well, my lad,’ he said to John, ‘you find me en deshabille but delighted by the pleasure of your company. It is a long while since we last met. Let me say how sorry I was to hear about the death of Sir Gabriel. The world will miss him.’
‘It will indeed, as do I. I don’t think anyone could ever quite replace him in my affections.’
‘Quite rightly so. Now tell me your adventures. And miss out nothing. I long to hear a bit of gossip away from the courts.’
The punch arrived and, having sipped from his glass, John embarked on his tale, while Sir John listened in that intense silence of which only he was capable. Crouching forward slightly, his body rigid, the look on his face severe, John knew that he was imparting the details of the death at Hotwell to the keenest brain in London. Eventually the Magistrate spoke.
