The Apothecary's Daughter

by Julie Klassen

  “Oh yes, miss. Very natural, trees are. ’Tis why I likes ’em.”

  The footsteps marched away as they had come. When the sound faded, Mary stepped to the door and held it open.

  “Everything all right, Charlie?”

  Lilly could hear the hesitation in his voice. “Uh . . . yes, Mary.”

  “Did you get the birds fed?”

  “Oh . . . yes.”

  Lilly rose and joined Mary at the door. She saw Charlie on his feet, dusting seedcake crumbs from his breeches.

  “Well, good-bye,” he said and lurched away in his awkward gait.

  “Charlie?” Lilly called after him.

  He turned and looked at her, clearly troubled.

  Lilly bit her lip. “Nothing. I shall see you later.”

  The two young women returned to their places at the worktable.

  Lilly began picking at her own piece of seedcake. “The man Miss Robbins was with in the wood. I suppose it was Francis.”

  Mary kept her eyes on the biscuits as she placed them on the pan. “Do you? I shouldn’t think so.”

  “You would if you saw them flirting with one another in the shop.”

  Mary shrugged. “It is her nature to flirt, I think. Perhaps after this she’ll be more circumspect.”

  “I doubt it,” Lilly said, then recalled that Francis had taken ill the previous day. Miss Robbins had not mentioned when the tête-à-tête had occurred, but likely quite recently. So perhaps it had not been Francis after all. . . .

  “You aren’t going to ask Charlie about it, are you?” Mary asked.

  Lilly hesitated.

  “Lill, don’t. You wouldn’t want him to break a promise to a lady— no matter if the lady is Dorothea Robbins.”

  “I suppose you are right. Must you always be right, Mary?”

  Mary put a dough-crusted hand to her brow in mock melodrama. “It is a curse I must bear up under somehow.” She eyed Lilly’s plate. “Now, are you going to eat my cake or not?”

  That afternoon, diminutive Jack Dubin stepped into the shop, a wax-sealed missive in his hand.

  “Letter by special messenger—that’s me—for one Miss Lillian Haswell. You wouldn’t know anybody by that name, now, would ya?”

  Cheeky boy. Stepping around the counter, Lilly swiped the letter from him. “You know very well who I am, Jack.” She tossed him a coin. “Here is a little something for your trouble.”

  He looked at the coin in his palm. “A very little!”

  “Well, try delivering with less wit next time.”

  Lilly retreated through the back door and took her time slitting open the red wax seal. It was the first time she had ever received a letter by messenger. Or any letter, addressed specifically and solely to her. How she had once longed for a letter from her mother. But none had ever come.

  She opened it and saw it was from Aunt and Uncle Elliott, written from their lodgings across the canal in Honeystreet, just a short stroll away.

  My dear niece,

  We very much enjoyed meeting you yesterday, though the circumstances were no doubt trying for you all. Would you please do us the honor of dining with us this evening here at The George at seven? We would very much like to deepen our acquaintance with you before we return to London.

  Sincerely,

  Mr. and Mrs. Jonathan Elliott

  Still holding the letter, she wandered back into the shop, and was surprised to see Jack Dubin still there.

  “What’s it to be, love?” he asked. “I’m to take back your reply.”

  “Oh.” She hesitated. Should she refuse out of loyalty to her rejected brother? For the sake of her long-spurned father and mother? After all, these people were strangers to her—strangers by choice.

  But by choice no longer.

  “Tell them I accept.”

  Lilly had eaten at The George before, though not recently. During the first few months after her mother’s disappearance, her father, dazed and struggling to care for his children as well as his shop, had taken them to the then-new establishment whenever Mrs. Fowler had a day off. Finally he and Lilly, under the tutelage of Mrs. Mimpurse, had learned to cook simple meals for themselves.

  During her mother’s absence, the kitchen had slowly transformed into a laboratory-kitchen, as the distillation and compounding apparatus slowly made their way into the room Mother had doggedly declared off limits before. Now, despite Mrs. Fowler’s protests, stove, cupboards, and table saw double duty in food and medicinal preparation. Lilly often wondered how long it would be until they accidentally sat down to a meal of arsenic or digitalis while their patients languished with cure-alls of cod and leek soup.

  Mary, who had a knack for such things, had come over earlier to dress Lilly’s hair, coiling and pinning her long plait atop her head, curls at her temples. Now donning her best gown for the occasion—the printed muslin with lace tips, normally reserved for churchgoing—Lilly descended the stairs at a quarter before the hour, cloak over her arm.

  The door of Francis’s bedchamber was open and she looked in on the miserable young man, who had lain abed ill since yesterday. Lying propped on his pillows, his brown eyes widened and brows rose when he saw her. “Where are you off to?”

  “Supper with my aunt and uncle. At The George.”

  “Oh. Right.” Still, he stared at her.

  Stepping into the pantry that had long served as the apprentice’s bedchamber, Lilly sat on the edge of the narrow bed and removed the cloth from his forehead. “How are you feeling?”

  “Two parts dizzy and a drachm of weak.”

  She touched his forehead. “Your fever has abated somewhat.”

  She rose to her feet and dipped the cloth in a basin of water on the room’s single chest of drawers. “Your color is better also. I believe Father is right—the patient will live.”

  “Is he relieved or disappointed at that prognosis?”

  “Relieved, of course.” She added with a grin, “Otherwise he should be obliged to return your apprenticeship fee.”

  He did not grin back. “I thought he might be disappointed, considering I am not the cleverest apprentice he has ever had.”

  “Shh. You improve every day.” She wrung out the cloth.

  “And you, Lilly, are you relieved not to be rid of me?”

  She cocked her head to one side. “Well, it would be nice to have this pantry back, and I should not mind a better balance of males to females in this house. I am sorely outnumbered.”

  Francis, whom she was so used to teasing, did not seem to find this amusing. Instead he looked crestfallen.

  “Francis, forgive me. I see you are not your old thick-skinned self at present, ready to serve up your own share of teasing in return. Of course I am pleased you are feeling better. And that we shall have you with us for years to come.”

  Francis smiled ruefully and closed his eyes. “You are never so kind to me when I am well. I shall have to fall ill more often.”

  “I pray not, Francis. You know what Father says. . . .”

  He ducked his chin and mimicked Charles Haswell’s low, stern voice, “ ‘It does not do for a medical man to take ill.’ ”

  “See? You remembered.” She replaced the cool cloth on his forehead. “And as soon as you are fully recovered, we shall have you remembering herbals and remedies as well.”

  When she entered The George’s dim, lamplit dining room, her uncle rose from a table in a quiet corner. Jonathan Elliott was tall enough that when he stood to greet her, his head rustled the dry hop flowers hanging from the beamed ceiling. “Lillian, we are so pleased you could join us.”

  Still seated, her aunt extended her hand and Lilly took it in hers. “I am pleased to do so.”

  “How nice you look. Your hair is lovely like that.”

  “Thank you. My friend Mary arranged it.” Lilly took her seat and Uncle Elliott pushed in her chair.

  Sitting once more he said, “We have taken the liberty of ordering supper. I hope you like beefstea
ks and artichokes?”

  She could not remember the last time she’d had either. “Sounds delicious.”

  Two old farmers sitting near the fire with tankards of ale were the only other patrons. Mrs. Dubin, who looked from Lilly to her well-dressed companions with unconcealed curiosity, served them with pragmatic efficiency.

  Once their meal was before them, her aunt began. “As you know, we came here with intentions toward your brother which, sadly, are not feasible. However, your uncle and I both believe that we have not made the trip in vain, for meeting you—and of course your father and brother—has been delightful. We are especially impressed with you, my dear.”

  “Thank you.” Lilly felt undeniable pleasure at this warm praise.

  “Now, as you know, your uncle must name a male relative to inherit his entailed property. However, we do have some discretion in the distribution of personal effects, such as jewelry, furniture—even an annual allowance may be left to, say, a special young lady. I do not mean to bribe you, Lillian, but I would like you to consider an opportunity. We would like you to come live with us in London. We would hire the best tutors for you in deportment, drawing, language, and dance, and teach you all you need to know to be a proper, accomplished young lady.”

  Lilly’s pulse accelerated. Her own days at Shaw’s private girls school had ended when her mother left. Might she now finish her education as she’d longed to do?

  Her aunt continued, “You might even bring that friend of yours as lady’s maid if you like. We would count it a privilege to host you through a London season or two and introduce you to society . . . and perhaps even to your future husband.”

  “Now, Ruth, let us not get ahead of ourselves,” Jonathan Elliott admonished.

  Lilly’s heart and head were pounding with such exhilaration, hope, and fear that she found herself speechless.

  “Would you not like to see London?” Aunt Elliott asked. “To fill the gaps in your education? See the best museums, hear the finest concerts, dance at the most exclusive balls? Perhaps even travel to Italy or Spain?”

  Travel. An image flashed before her mind’s eye. Her younger self and her mother, heads bent over an old world map . . .

  Still Lilly said nothing, just stared at the kind face of her aunt as though the woman were speaking a language Lilly could not quite make out.

  Finally Lilly managed to sputter, “W-why?”

  “Why?” her aunt repeated, not understanding.

  “Why would you do this for me? Why would you want to? I have nothing with which to ever repay you.”

  Her aunt’s delicate features became earnest. “I do not believe that, Lillian. Not for one moment. Your happiness, your success shall be all the repayment we ever need.” She reached across the table and took her hand. “If you come to feel some fondness for us, well, that would be more than we could ask for.”

  Lilly battled to contain the excitement building within her. Was this not what she had long wished for? But would Father ever allow it? Tentatively, she asked, “Have you spoken to my father about this?”

  Uncle shook his head. “There was no need to until we knew if you were even interested. But we shall, if you think you might be.”

  Aunt Elliott studied her, obvious hope in her eyes. “Shall we, Lillian? Shall we speak to him?”

  Lilly took a deep breath, inhaling the hundred questions warring within her. She asked only one.

  “When?”

  An apothecary first of all should be a lover of piety,

  one that fears God, void of envy and malice, of good competency . . .

  and not given to corpulency.

  —C. J. S. THOMPSON, MYSTERY AND ART OF THE APOTHECARY

  CHAPTER 4

  Upon her return from The George, Lilly found her father standing in the laboratory-kitchen, using a scraper of horn to clean one of his mortars. He set down the instrument and wiped his hands on a cloth.

  “Lilly, good. You’re home. I need you to come with me to Marlow House.”

  Whatever excited words she might have spoken died on her lips. “Marlow House? Whatever for?”

  “Sir Henry’s man summoned me. Seems his master is in a great deal of pain.”

  “But, Sir Henry has been calling for Dr. Foster of late.”

  “Yes, but Foster is home in bed with the very malady that has laid our Mr. Baylor low.” He added a vial to his medical case and snapped the lid shut.

  She took a deep breath and blew it out between puffed cheeks. “I see.”

  “Why so forlorn? This is good news for us. Have I not told you that it does not do for a medical man to fall ill? It costs business— patients. Which is why I never get sick.” He grinned at her, but she did not return the gesture.

  “Perhaps I ought to stay here in case Francis—or Charlie—needs anything.”

  “Mrs. Mimpurse is on her way over. Come along. You need only carry two species jars. I cannot have them jostling about the gig while I drive.”

  Her natural curiosity trumped her trepidation. “What remedy do you propose?”

  “I prepared traditional gout powder, of course.”

  Unbidden, her mind flashed the ingredients: birthwort, red gentian root, leaves of germander, and centaury.

  “But depending on his symptoms,” her father continued, putting on his greatcoat, “I may need to prescribe something stronger.”

  “James’s Powder?” she asked.

  “Too strong.”

  “Compound powder of ipecacuanha?”

  He narrowed his eyes in thought. “Do you mean . . . ?”

  Opium, potassium nitrate, vitriolated tartar, liquorice, ipecacuanha. She gave him the outmoded name. “Dover’s.”

  “Ah. Right. I have both.”

  Lilly looked about her, intertwining and twisting her fingers. “I could transfer smaller amounts to vials, Father. Then you could carry them in your case.”

  “I prefer not to delay.”

  “But—”

  He eyed her keenly. “You are not still afraid of Sir Henry’s son, are you?”

  “No. That is, not as long as you shall be there with me.”

  Mrs. Mimpurse, buxom and energetic, arrived from next door and shooed them out, clucking like a mother hen. Lilly climbed up into the gig, and her father handed her the clunky jars, then circled the rig and climbed up into the seat beside her. Urging Pennywort, their mare, into a trot, he drove through the dark, windy night the short distance to Marlow House. Unlike his daughter, Charles Haswell was not fond of walking. Especially in chilly weather.

  Lilly thought of a dozen ways to bring up the astounding offer her aunt and uncle had made, but she could not force out a single syllable. Not yet. In any case, the howling wind would only swallow her words. There would be time later, once the current crisis was passed and she’d somehow found the courage to withstand the hurt that would surely appear in her father’s eyes when she told him she longed to accept.

  When they arrived, Sir Henry’s butler, Mr. Withers, greeted them and took their coats. He then led them through the large manor and up the long curved staircase. Following her father, Lilly carefully carried the two pottery jars. At the far end of the corridor, Withers knocked softly on a closed door and then opened it to them.

  They passed through the outer dressing room and then entered the inner bedchamber. From the canopied bed, the baronet lifted his arm in a weak gesture of welcome.

  “Haswell, good of you to come.”

  “Of course, Sir Henry. And this is my capable assistant, Miss Haswell.”

  Even in his pain, the grey-haired man smiled politely to her, the expression lifting the bushy silver sideburns. She knew the baronet was in his fifties, yet he looked older. “Ah yes, your daughter. How do you do?”

  Lilly dipped an awkward curtsy.

  “Very pretty,” Sir Henry said, then shifted his gaze to her father. “More and more like her mother, is she not?”

  Her father looked at her, then quickly away. “Yes, ra
ther.”

  Sir Henry studied her father’s averted face. “Still no word?”

  Setting down his case, her father drew himself up briskly. “No word. Now, let us see what we can do to alleviate your discomfort. . . .”

  Lilly waited at a polite distance from the bed while her father questioned the baronet in low tones about his symptoms. Twice at her father’s bidding she retrieved vials or instruments from his case and once filled a water glass at the bedside table.

  When her father began lifting the blankets from the man’s legs, he paused.

  “Lilly. I think you’ve done all I need. Perhaps you might take yourself to the kitchen and wait for me there? If Mrs. Tobias is still awake, she might offer you a cup of chocolate. And if not, at least the fire will keep you warm.”

  “Very well, Father.”

  “Take a candle.”

  Nodding, she took the candle holder and let herself from the room.

  She did not admit she did not know the way to the kitchen from Sir Henry’s room. She had been to Marlow House before but had always waited in the kitchen while her father went up to see Sir Henry, or Lady Marlow, before her passing.

  Lilly held the candle high and started down the dark, broad corridor. High upon its walls were formal portraits of Marlows past— men in coat and cravat, or military regalia; ladies in fine gowns and jewels—as well as paintings of the hunt, rearing horses, hounds with bared teeth, and foxes with hideous wide-eyed expressions of pain and fear.

  In the light of the candle, those eyes seemed to glare at her. The dogs, to growl at her. She shivered.

  She passed the main staircase and continued to the corridor’s end, assuming she would there find the servants’ stairway down to the kitchen.

  Suddenly she heard a noise behind her. She spun around, holding her candle before her like a sword. But the corridor was empty.

  She continued on until she heard footsteps to her left. She whirled. But her candle only illuminated more paintings and tapestries upon the wall.

  She walked faster.

  Nearby she heard a scrape, saw a dark stab of movement before her, then felt a rush of air. Her candle was out before her mind could identify what she had seen. And then she saw nothing at all. Nothing but blackness.