The Apothecary's Daughter

by Julie Klassen

  In silence, she and Charlie turned and watched the lantern light until it disappeared.

  Suddenly Charlie reached over and grasped her hand—a rare gesture. “Stay.”

  Tears filled Lilly’s eyes. “You are not making this easy.” She squeezed his hand. “Do not be sad, Charlie. It won’t be forever. I will come back and see you.”

  He stared off in the distance once more. “ ’At’s what she said.”

  Lilly’s pulse quickened. “What?”

  Charlie kept staring, but did not reply.

  “Do you mean Mother? She told you she was leaving?”

  “No more leaving,” he whispered.

  “What else did she tell you? Do you remember?”

  “Don’t leave, Lilly.”

  Lilly was torn, wishing she might extract every fragment of her brother’s memory, yet not wanting to further upset him.

  She drew herself up. “Come, Charlie. Father will be wanting his supper.”

  She returned home to find the laboratory-kitchen in more disorder than usual.

  “Father, you left the large alembic on the stove again!” she called. “Please help me move it if you want any supper tonight.”

  Charles Haswell wandered in from his surgery, hands full of rumpled letters and bills of lading. “Sorry, sorry. Lilly, where is that order for Shipton’s?”

  “I put it on your desk two days ago.” Lilly brought the soup pot from the cold cellar.

  “Did you? I cannot find the dumble thing.”

  “Perhaps if you put things away instead of stacking them all over your desk.”

  “But I have looked everywhere.”

  “Father. I do not wish to spend two more hours writing it again.”

  “Then would you please find it for me?”

  “Yes, yes. After I heat our soup. Can you find the ladle?”

  He began clanging around, removing the alembic and pulling out pots and kettles from the cupboard. “I cannot find a thing in here! Heaven help us after you leave.”

  Lilly sighed. “Not you, too, Father. I have argued with three of the people I care about most today. I cannot stand to disappoint you as well. If you want me to stay, just say so.”

  “Stay? Stay here and clean after me and sort my mess because I am a disorganized fool? Absolutely not. Go.”

  “You truly want me to go?”

  “Well, I don’t want you to stay and become like your mother.”

  Lilly gasped. “Father!”

  He paused in his search to look at her earnestly. “What I mean is—I do not want you to stay here and always wonder, always long for what you might have missed. Find out now, before . . .”

  “Before?” she asked.

  He sighed. “Before there is a husband—and children—to leave behind.”

  “Oh, Father.” Tears filled her eyes for the second time that evening. She squeezed his arm, and the two shared a rare moment of silent empathy. Then he cleared his throat and resumed his search.

  Lilly moved to the cupboard and pulled out a quarter loaf of stout brown bread. She forced a light tone. “Charlie told me that Mother spoke to him before she left. Said she would come back, that she would not be gone forever. Do you think it possible?”

  “That she planned only a short absence?” He shook his head. “I do not know. She was here one day and gone the next. Told me nothing. Perhaps she lied to Charlie to ease her conscience. Or Charlie might have remembered incorrectly or imagined the exchange. I doubt we shall ever know.”

  Finding a clean wooden paddle, Lilly used it to stir the soup, but her mind was far away. “I think perhaps she did lie, only meaning to comfort him. For I told Charlie I wouldn’t be gone forever, and that was a lie as well. Was it not? For I really do not know that. If I return soon, it will only be because I am an utter failure. Unable to learn what the tutors try to teach me, an embarrassment to the Elliotts.”

  “Which of course you will not be.”

  “I pray not, but what if the opposite is true. If I succeed, even modestly, will I not stay two years or more? She mentioned two seasons.”

  “And if you have the ultimate success . . .” He let the thought trail off.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why, to find a suitable husband, of course.”

  Lilly felt a thrill of anticipation at his words. “I had not thought of that as my principle aim, but I suppose you are right.”

  “In your aunt’s eyes, what else could it be? If you are a success that means you will be sought after by several eligible men and married to the richest or best connected among them. And assuming he is a London man, you might very well live there forever.”

  Still blindly stirring, Lilly bit back a smile. Her daydreams of a handsome gentleman falling in love with her no longer seemed so foolishly fantastic.

  “Which is a sad prospect for your old father, but that is life, and we cannot stop it. Thankfully there are decent roads between here and London, and there is always the canal.” He pulled out the ladle from the cupboard with triumphant flourish. “Now, when are you to depart?”

  PART II

  The apothecary of this country is qualified by

  education to attend at the bedside of the sick, and,

  being in general better acquainted with pharmacy

  than the physicians of English universities . . .

  is often the most successful practitioner.

  —JEREMIAH JENKINS, OBSERVATIONS ON THE PRESENT STATE OF

  THE PROFESSION AND TRADE OF MEDICINE, 1810

  For seeing that our frail mortal bodies are subject

  to a vast multitude of diseases,

  it hath most graciously pleased almighty God,

  of his infinite mercy, goodness, and compassion to sinful man,

  to plant remedies in our gardens, before our doors, and even on

  every side of our paths, in order that we might

  put forth our hands, and duly receive the healing balm. . . .

  —CULPEPER’S COMPLETE HERBAL & ENGLISH PHYSICIAN

  She was certainly not a woman of family, but well educated,

  accomplished, rich, and excessively in love. . . .

  —JANE AUSTEN, PERSUASION

  CHAPTER 6

  In the room that had been hers for more than a year, Lillian Grace Haswell stared at herself in the dressing table mirror. Her aunt’s lady’s maid placed the last ornament in her elegant crown of russet hair, copper highlights gleaming in the candlelight.

  “There you are, miss.”

  “Thank you, Dupree.”

  Rising, Lilly smoothed the bodice of her jonquille gown where it skimmed over her slight figure and flowed to the floor. The maid handed her long white gloves and helped arrange a light mantle over her shoulders. A heavy cloak would not be needed on such a fine early-May evening.

  As she carefully descended the stairway of the Elliott home, her aunt and uncle watched from the hall with evident delight.

  “My dear Lillian, how lovely you look!” Aunt Elliott cooed.

  “Very handsome indeed,” Uncle Elliott added, his hands grasping lapels which did not quite cover his girth.

  Aunt Elliott smiled at her husband. “Is she not a vision of perfection?”

  “A vision to be sure. But not quite perfect, dear lady.”

  Her aunt tilted her head to one side. “Oh?”

  “Something is missing.”

  Lillian paused on the landing, looking down at herself. She considered the gloves, the reticule, the slippers peeking from under her skirts. What had she forgotten?

  “I know just the thing.” Jonathan Elliott turned to the hall table behind him and a moment later walked purposefully toward Lilly.

  He stood before her and brandished a brown velvet case. “Now, mind your expectations, my dear. It is not the ‘latest thing,’ as they say. I am afraid it is rather old.”

  The Elliotts shared a smile that revealed her aunt’s awareness of her husband’s intent.

/>   He opened the hinged lid of the jewel case and displayed its contents.

  “How lovely!” Lilly’s exclamation was sincere. For within the silk lining was a stunning saffron-yellow pendant on a gold chain with a matching topaz bracelet.

  “These belonged to Lillian Elliott,” her uncle said. “Your grandmother.”

  Her heart squeezed at this show of affection. “They are beautiful. I wish I had known her.”

  “I have no doubt she would have been very fond of you.”

  Her aunt stepped behind her and fastened the necklace while Lilly slipped on the bracelet.

  “I shall take great care and return them safely.”

  “They are yours now, my dear. Although it would be wise to lock them in the jewelry chest when not in use. One can never be too careful.”

  “I am happy enough to be borrow them, Aunt—you needn’t give them to me.”

  “Nonsense. We have had every intention of giving them to you for some time. Why do you think I counseled you to select a gown of this color?”

  “They are perfect together. Thank you, Aunt. You are very kind.” She kissed Ruth Elliott’s soft cheek. “And you too, Uncle.” The big man leaned down to receive her kiss.

  “There, there. You are most welcome, my dear. Now, shall we be off?”

  The Price-Winters family was hosting the ball, and Lilly had long been looking forward to it, for she had become acquainted with both son and daughter during the previous season.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Price-Winters, good evening,” Jonathan Elliott began. “You remember our niece, Miss Haswell.”

  “Of course. She and our Christina often enjoy one another’s society.”

  Lilly noticed Mrs. Price-Winters had not included their son, William, in her mention of society. Aunt Elliott had tried to match her with Christina’s brother last season and was disappointed when he married another. Still, Lilly curtsied and smiled at the parents of her friend. The sole friend she could claim after sixteen months in London.

  She followed alongside her aunt and uncle, past their hosts and around the perimeter of the crowded ballroom. Lilly smiled and curtsied her way through a long series of introductions, her eyes straying around the room in hopes of seeing Roger Bromley, a current admirer whom her aunt highly favored.

  A silver-haired gentleman in uniform bowed before her. “Miss Haswell. You probably do not remember me, but—”

  “Admiral Asher, of course I do. How fares your Dora?”

  Admiral Asher was uncle to Roger Bromley, Lilly knew, and she was careful to speak kindly to him. The older man smiled and informed her that his daughter had just presented him with a charming granddaughter and that both were getting on extremely well. Lilly assured him she was happy to hear it and moved on.

  Her aunt joined her at the refreshment table. There, they were approached by an elegant matron. Lilly did not miss the wrinkle between Ruth Elliott’s eyebrows as she began, “Lillian, have you met—?”

  Lilly smoothly supplied, “Mrs. Langtry. Of course. We met at the Willoughbys’ last summer.”

  The matron’s eyebrows rose. “How kind of you to remember. And I am pleased to see you again, Miss . . .”

  “Haswell.”

  “Quite.”

  When her uncle went off to acquire something other than punch or ratafia to drink, Lilly also excused herself, stepping away from her aunt and Mrs. Langtry to greet her approaching friend.

  “Christina, there you are. What a lovely gown.”

  “It is nothing to yours, and you know it.”

  “Nonsense.”

  A year older than Lilly, Christina Price-Winters was plump and well-endowed, and her mauve dress dipped low to reveal more cleavage than Lilly would have felt comfortable exposing—even had she that much to expose. Christina’s face was broad, with prominent eyes and expressive brows that often rose and fell in dramatic punctuation during conversation. Her wide mouth was given to smirks and sardonic one-sided grins.

  “Zee gown eez mag-nee-fee-sawwnt,” Christina said, mimicking her French dressmaker. “Ew-la-la, eet transforms votre fille, madame. So svelte. So graceful . . .” Christina snorted. “She is more skilled in opening Mother’s purse than in stitching seams—that much is certain.”

  “That explains why your neckline is so low,” Lilly quietly teased. “Or perhaps Madame Froissant ran out of material?”

  Christina grinned. “This is my current scheme to encourage Edward to propose. Do you think it will succeed?”

  Lilly glanced at the balding but highborn lord who was staring at Christina with frank admiration. “I believe it already has.”

  Though not a beauty, Christina’s family, connections, and deep dowry supplied her with a promising number of most eligible suitors. Far more than Lilly enjoyed.

  Christina’s ginger-haired brother, William, walked across the room toward them. Secretly, Lilly had shared her aunt’s keen disappointment when he had announced his plans to wed last year. He had been the first man in London to catch her eye and raise her hopes. She found him amusing and sweet-natured and had briefly believed he admired her as well. Perhaps he had. But with Will, and the few suitors that followed, she had quickly learned that she had neither the rank nor wealth to hold the interest of a gentleman of quality—nor of his parent with the purse strings. Men enjoyed dancing with her and flirting with her, but in the end went on to marry girls with better connections and richer dowries.

  Will Price-Winters bowed before her. “Miss Haswell.”

  She curtsied. “Good evening, Mr. Price-Winters. What a fine ball this is. And where is your lovely new wife?”

  He shrugged. “Some earth-shattering calamity with her hair, I understand. No doubt she shall be down directly.” He frowned at something over their heads. “I say, who is that?”

  Christina followed his gaze and rolled her eyes. “Mr. Alban.”

  “Your old tutor?”

  “And recently Lillian’s as well.” Christina hunched over, rubbing her hands together in imitation of Mr. Alban, parroting his stammering speech. “Miss . . . Miss Has-s-s-well. Do decline the vairb to be onc-c-ce more.”

  “Christina, please,” Lilly admonished. Christina’s imitation was spot on, but Lilly did not wish to injure the man’s feelings or reputation.

  “What is he doing here?” William asked.

  Christina shrugged. “He all but begged an invitation, and Mother hadn’t the heart to refuse him.”

  Mr. Oscar Alban was educated, mild-mannered, and patient. He was also short, balding, and wore thick spectacles and ill-fitting clothes. It was little wonder parents trusted him with their daughters.

  Mr. Alban bowed before Christina’s parents, who now stood conversing with Lilly’s aunt and two older couples. “Mr. and Mrs. Price-Winters. Thank you for your generous.s.s invitation. I cannot remember when I’ve enjoyed mys.s.self more.”

  Mrs. Price-Winters was reserved in her reply. “You are welcome, Mr. Alban.”

  The tutor turned to those assembled around his host and hostess. “I had the privilege of instructing Miss Price-Winters s.s.some years ago. And now Miss Has-s-well also. It as been a rare honor indeed to teach two s.s.such fine and gifted ladies.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Alban.”

  “Miss Has-s-well’s progress with the romance languages has s-s-surpassed every expectation, although Miss Price-Winters can proudly claim the s-s-superior accent.”

  “That is Christina,” Mr. Price-Winters interjected. “Our little myna bird.”

  “But Miss Has-s-well has memorized French and Italian vocabulary more quickly than any s-s-student I have ever had the pleasure of teaching.”

  William leaned near Lilly and teased quietly, “Bluestocking.”

  “I s-s-suppose her background and her familiarity with Latin—”

  Aunt Elliott interrupted abruptly. “Mr. Alban, why do you not dance with my niece? I am sure she would benefit from instruction there as well.”

  “Ah . . . well . . .
I do not claim to be a dancing master. But, of course, I s.s.should be pleased to dance with Miss Has.s.well.h He turned toward her. “If she would oblige me.”

  Lilly forced a smile. “Of course.”

  As he escorted her to the dance floor, he asked quietly, “What was it I s.s.said to offend?”

  “Please forgive my aunt, Mr. Alban. It is only that she prefers as little as possible said of my background. Not everyone sees knowledge of Latin and physic as a credit to accomplished young ladies.”

  “I s-s-see.”

  “I ought not to have mentioned my past to you. It was just . . . you struggled so to account for my progress, and I didn’t want you to think—”

  “That I am a more gifted teacher than I truly am?” he wryly supplied.

  “No! I did not mean—”

  “There, there Miss Has-s-well. I understand. Do not fret—I shall take all the credit for your amazing progress from here on.”

  When the dance ended, Lilly excused herself from Mr. Alban and rejoined Christina and her brother.

  “And where is Mr. Bromley this evening?” Christina asked.

  “I have yet to see him,” Lilly said. She still held out hope for this suitor. Roger Bromley did not seem put off by her lack of title or sizeable income. But then again neither he nor his parents likely knew her father was in trade, nor were they aware of her mother’s disgrace. Lilly wondered how long his interest would last once they knew.

  “I see the swell,” Will said, “there by the door.”

  Lilly followed Will’s gaze and saw Mr. Bromley, stylishly dressed in black tailcoat and white waistcoat. He stood before a willowy blonde in blue satin with an overdress of white netting. “Who is that he is talking to?”