The Apothecary's Daughter
Page 7
“Susan Whittier . . .” Will breathed, staring.
Lilly stared as well and felt a stirring of dread. “I have never seen her before.”
“She was away much of last season,” Christina explained. “Touring Italy, I believe.”
“She is very beautiful,” Lilly acknowledged, and swallowed a lump of envy.
“Is she?” Will said innocently. “I had not noticed.”
Lilly was unsuccessful in restraining her sarcasm. “And neither, I see, has Mr. Bromley.”
With a dismissive wave, Christina said, “Oh, he tried to engage her affections two years ago but was soundly rebuffed. You have nothing to fear from her, Lillian.”
Had she not? Lilly saw Mr. Bromley’s awestruck expression and did not feel reassured.
As they watched, Roger Bromley offered Miss Whittier his arm. She patted it as though it were the head of a child, laughed, and twirled away in a flutter of blue satin. Even from across the room, Lilly could not miss the man’s crestfallen countenance.
He glanced their way.
To pretend they had not witnessed his rejection, the three quickly feigned engrossed conversation. By the time Bromley had crossed the room and stood before them, a bright smile had transformed his handsome face.
“Price-Winters, you old hound,” he began. “Monopolizing the two handsomest ladies in the room, I see. The missus would not approve.” He bowed to Christina. “Miss Price-Winters.”
“Bromley.”
He turned toward Lilly. “And Miss Haswell. What a delight. I do hope you have saved at least one dance for poor me?”
She answered warmly, “Of course I have.”
Mr. Bromley had become one of her most frequent partners. He was an elegant, slim young man of middling height and excellent bearing. Straight brown hair framed classic English features. He was also the only son of a wealthy family, as her aunt often reminded her. As though Lilly needed reminding.
“Excellent,” he said. “Then I shall have the next and the last and as many as I can in between, when the chaperones aren’t looking.”
She smiled at him, and his answering smile almost reached his eyes. She studied his face, wondering just what was between him and the lovely Miss Susan Whittier.
At the end of the evening, Lilly found herself alone, surreptitiously searching the crowd for Mr. Bromley, who had requested the last dance with her. The first notes of a slow, ceremonious minuet began.
William Price-Winters hurried by. Seeing her, he paused. “Miss Haswell. Not sitting this one out, I hope? Oh, that’s right. Bromley claimed the final. Where is that chap?”
“I do not know.”
At that moment Roger Bromley and Susan Whittier walked past and joined the dance.
Will saw them too. “Oh. Well, I say.”
“She has agreed to a dance after all,” Lilly said. “How nice for Mr. Bromley.”
Will was not fooled. “I am sorry, Miss Haswell. My wife is waiting, or I—”
“Think nothing of it, Mr. Price-Winters. I have enjoyed a great deal of dancing this evening.”
“Wait,” Will said triumphantly. “Graves here will dance with you.”
“Really, I am fine—”
Will grabbed the arm of a nearby man she had never seen before and turned him around to face her. And a very handsome face it was. Thin nose. Pale blond hair swept over his right temple. A faint moustache, not in present fashion, shadowed his upper lip. “May I present Adam Graves. We were at Oxford together. This is Miss Haswell. Most sensible girl in the room, I assure you.” Will winked at her. “Even if she is my sister’s friend.”
Lilly curtsied to the newcomer. When she looked up, the blond-haired man still stood as he was, stiffly staring at her with startled blue eyes. After a tense moment, he gave a jerky nod.
Will clapped Graves on the shoulder. “Good man.” Will walked away to find his wife, who had finally made an appearance.
Still the man made no move. Did not offer his arm nor open his mouth. An awkward silence followed, and Lilly felt her cheeks burn. How mortifying.
She turned slightly so that she was facing at an angle between Mr. Graves and the dance floor. Blindly, she gazed toward the other couples moving gracefully through the delicate steps of the dance.
“It is all right, Mr. Graves,” she said without looking his way. “You needn’t dance with me. Mr. Price-Winters was only acting the part of protective brother. I do not mind sitting out.”
“Graves!” Will hissed as he and his wife stepped near, then away again.
Finally, Mr. Graves woodenly offered his arm. “Will you dance?”
She had long ago promised herself never to reject a man who’d gathered his courage to ask for a dance. The automatic response, “I’d be delighted,” would not come forth, however. She took a deep breath and forced out a quiet, “Very well.”
They joined the minuet in progress. He led her to an open space in the ballroom and took up the movements with stiff, minimal precision. She tempered her own steps accordingly. He kept his gaze averted.
She sighed inwardly. Throughout the previous season and now this new one, she had danced with dozens of gentlemen she secretly found disagreeable or unappealing. But never, she hoped, had she made her disinterest as plain as Mr. Graves made his now. Everyone in the room undoubtedly saw how loath he was to dance with her.
She discreetly glanced around at the other dancers. There at the front were Roger Bromley and Susan Whittier. Roger beamed at his partner, though Susan stared aloofly off in the distance. Miss Whittier and Mr. Graves ought to be dancing together, Lilly thought, since both appeared to be enjoying themselves equally.
Suddenly, over Roger’s head, Lilly glimpsed a familiar profile. She started, drawing in a breath and turning her face away quickly. There was no mistaking that imposing figure nor those sharp features. Roderick Marlow? Here? Now? To witness her humiliation? To reveal, to her aunt and uncle’s mortification, her identity as an apothecary’s daughter, which to most in attendance, granted her the status of a mere shopkeeper’s daughter?
On the next turn of the dance, she stole another glance. Roderick Marlow stood talking to Mr. and Mrs. Price-Winters. On his arm was a stunning woman with splendid maple-leaf-red hair. Mr. Marlow glanced up and his eyes narrowed. Again she averted her face. Had he seen her?
As the musicians reached the final stanzas, Lillian stepped closer to her partner. “Please excuse me, Mr. Graves. I fear I must take my leave.”
He stopped dancing and stood there. He opened his mouth, but she was already turning away. She was several yards away from him when his “Of course” reached her ears. Normally she would have hated to be so rude, but in this case she assumed her partner would be relieved to be free of the duty to escort her back to her place and falsely thank her. She again glimpsed Mr. Marlow’s face above the heads of the crowd. She could not be certain, but—was he trying to weave his way toward her? She walked quickly away to the safety of the ladies lounge.
Her aunt found her there several minutes later. “There you are, my dear. Are you all right?”
“Yes. Merely tired.”
“Your uncle and I are ready to depart, if you are certain you do not wish to remain longer?”
“I am ready.”
Gathering their wraps, they made their way to thank their hosts near the door. A man’s hand touched her gloved arm and she started. But it was only Will Price-Winters. His usually cheery face was serious. “Miss Haswell, I hope you will not take my friend’s reluctance as an affront toward your lovely person. Graves is the most reticent chap I know.”
She quickly skimmed the crowd around them. “Think no more of it. Good night, Mr. Price-Winters.”
He eyed her closely. “You are certain you are all right?”
“Quite, I thank you. Do say good-bye to Christina for me.”
“I shall.”
On the carriage ride home, Aunt Elliott squeezed Lilly’s hand. “Well done, my dear.”
“Roger Bromley favored you with more dances than any other lady present.”
Perhaps not by choice, however, Lilly thought. “Yes, he was very kind.”
“More than kind, my dear,” Aunt Elliott said. “He is evidently quite taken with you. And as a gentleman of means, Mr. Bromley is under no compulsion to find a wealthy wife of the ton. I know we were disappointed last season, my dear, but I trust we shall prevail this time.”
Lilly only smiled meekly. She had thought so, too, before tonight. Before she had seen the way he looked at Miss Whittier. Had her aunt not noticed? Had she seen only what she wished to see?
Ruth Elliott continued, “I was a little concerned when I saw you dancing with that fair gentleman at the last.”
“Were you. Why?”
“Chap with the moustache, you mean?” Uncle Elliott interrupted. “Someone ought to tell him it isn’t all the crack, no matter what some officers seem to believe.”
Her aunt continued undeterred, “Have you met him before?”
“No. Christina’s brother introduced us. A Mr. Graves, I believe. They were at Oxford together.”
“Ah . . . Graves,” her uncle said. “Mr. Price-Winters told me he is awaiting licentiateship in the Royal College.”
She stared at her uncle, not comprehending.
“The Royal College of Physicians, my dear,” Uncle Elliott clarified.
Lilly felt oddly stunned. “I did not even realize.”
“Good gracious, I trust the two of you did not spend the evening discussing ailments and diseases.” Her aunt shuddered.
“We discussed nothing,” Lilly said. “We barely spoke.”
“Good.” Her aunt relaxed against the seat. “Then no harm done.”
So modern ’pothecaries, taught the art
By Doctor’s bills to play the Doctor’s part,
Bold in the practice of mistaken rules,
Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools.
—ALEXANDER POPE
CHAPTER 7
The following evening, the Willoughbys hosted a musicale in their stately Grosvenor Square home. The performer was a young soprano Lilly and the Elliotts had heard perform the previous season. Lilly did not appreciate the ingenue’s cathedral-high vibrato but resisted comment. She knew her aunt would never dream of declining an invitation from the Willoughbys.
Dressed in an elegant gown of pearly nacre satin, her upswept hair ornamented with pearls, Lilly followed her aunt and uncle into the impressive home. Several servants were kept busy taking guests’ wraps, and by the time Lilly turned after handing over her hooded cloak, she realized she had become separated from the Elliotts in the throng. No matter. She knew where to find them. Front and center before the soprano.
Following slowly with the crowd, Lilly made her way through the double doors into the great drawing room. There the crowd thickened as gentlemen greeted one another and ladies searched for the best seats to regard one another’s gowns and to spy potential suitors for their daughters. Lilly paused and stepped to the side, out of the flow, while she searched the room for her aunt and uncle. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a gentleman standing against the wall, arms crossed. She glanced over and was disconcerted to see Mr. Graves standing there, looking at her. One could not miss his pale blond hair.
Not knowing what else to do, she nodded at him and returned to her search. Where were they? A moment later, she still felt his ponderous eyes upon her. The last thing she wanted was for him to believe she loitered there in hopes he would take notice and address her.
She glanced coolly at him over her shoulder. “I am looking for my aunt and uncle. We came together, and I seem to have lost them.”
He nodded stiffly but said nothing.
“Why do you stare?” Lilly asked tartly. “If you are trying to place me, I am the lady you danced with last evening.”
“I had not forgotten. But nor would I call what I did dancing.”
She looked at him sharply. “Dancing it was, though you were coerced into doing so.”
He blinked his blue eyes. Opened his mouth. Blinked again.
Crossing her own arms, she turned her back to him, attempting to resume her search, though anger coursed through her and she felt unable to focus with his cold eyes pricking her.
A moment later she was surprised when he stepped to her side and said quietly, “I meant only that I am aware my poor attempt can hardly be called dancing.”
“You seemed familiar enough with the steps,” she challenged.
He dipped his chin. “True. I can claim no lack of training.”
“But you clearly did not enjoy it.”
“No. I am—” He cleared his throat. “Miss Haswell, please forgive my conduct of last evening. There is not a man alive who should require coercion to dance with you.”
She looked at him, stunned. She felt her lips part, but now it was she who could not seem to speak. And by the time she could, he had already slipped away into the crowd.
It was all Lilly could do to keep from wincing as Miss Augusta Fredrickson hit the climactic note of her aria. However, she could not keep one eyebrow from lifting higher and higher with each screeching half step as the soprano trilled up the score in a piercing octave. The scream, when she first heard it, sounded like more of the same. It took her a few seconds to realize that the scream came from behind her and from a more pleasing voice. She whirled in her seat as the soprano sang on. Clearly others had not realized the shriek had not been part of the performance.
Lilly left her chair and, ducking a bit, hurried to the back of the room. A woman screamed again, this time adding words to her emission. “Somebody help! Call a doctor!”
It was Mrs. Price-Winters, kneeling beside her husband, who lay prone and gasping on the floor.
The singer broke off at last.
The hostess, Mrs. Willoughby, rose. “Is there no doctor in the house?”
Crouched beside Mr. and Mrs. Price-Winters, Lilly searched frantically, but there was no sign of Mr. Graves.
One liveried footman ran to send for a doctor. A second stood nervously at the double doors of the drawing room.
“You there,” Lilly called to him. “Please bring me the house medicine chest.”
The footman stared at her.
“The mistress does have one?”
He nodded.
“Then hurry!”
The young man rushed away, and Lilly bent to examine Mr. Price-Winters.
In less than a minute, the footman ran back in and set a mahogany box beside the prone man. Kneeling there, Lilly threw open the hinged lid. Square bottles with labels on their shoulders proclaimed their contents—turkey rhubarb, fever powder, ipecacuanha, laudanum. Lilly recognized the chest as an older model of one they sold in their shop at home. She pulled open the bottom drawer—lancet, blistering plaster, double-ended measure, and . . . There! The probang. A long flexible device used to dislodge anything stuck in the gullet.
The first footman rushed back in. “Doctor’s on his way.”
“How long?” Lilly asked.
“A few minutes yet, I’d reckon.”
Mr. Price-Winters’s face was turning blue.
“He hasn’t got a few minutes! Here, help me roll him onto his side.” The servant complied. Mrs. Price-Winters was too hysterical to help, and the others seemed frozen—an audience transfixed. It was left to her. She knew what to do. Had done so for Mary more than once. Inserting the probang, she used it first to fully pry open the man’s mouth, then to peer down his throat. “Step aside, please. I need more light!”
Someone held an oil lamp above her. There it was. A white object lodged in his throat. She gently but quickly slid the device alongside the obstacle, careful not to push it further down his throat. Pressing the top of the device like a lever, she pushed and pulled simultaneously. This, combined with his gag reflex, was enough to expectorate the obstacle.
�
�There,” she announced, as the object—a round peppermint by the looks of it—popped out.
Mr. Price-Winters coughed and gagged and sucked in a breath, quickly regaining consciousness. His wife embraced him awkwardly there on the carpet. “Oh, thank God!”
Amen, Lilly silently added, grateful Christina’s father not been denied life-giving air any longer.
She became aware of murmuring voices, of people staring at her with looks both censorious and amazed. She glanced up, hoping to see her aunt and uncle, but instead saw Mr. Graves. Standing in the back, stone-faced and pale. Had he been there all along? Why had he not come forward?
A distant voice shouted, “Doctor’s here!”
A foppish gentleman in evening attire bustled in, carrying his black leather case. “Make way, make way!”
His eyes widened as he took in the open medicine chest, the probang, and the young woman kneeling beside his patient.
“What has happened here?”
Lilly smelled alcohol on the doctor’s breath. He had clearly been called away from a supper or party.
“Mr. Price-Winters had a peppermint lodged in his throat,” she calmly explained. “He could not breathe.”
Mrs. Price-Winters gestured with a limp hand. “She used that thing and got it loose.”
“A probang? Good heavens, girl, what were you thinking? You might have punctured his esophagus!”
“I am all right,” Mr. Price-Winters whispered hoarsely. “Throat hurts like hades, though.”
“And no wonder!” The doctor turned on Lilly. “Who do you think you are to operate on a man?”
Lilly was stunned. Why was he so angry? Was inebriation clouding his judgment?
“I am sorry, Dr. Porter,” Mrs. Willoughby soothed. “None of us knew what to do.”
Lilly hesitated. Surely she had not done anything so wrong. “I saw no other alternative—”
“Had we known you would arrive so soon,” Mrs. Willoughby continued, sending a cool glance her way, “we might have stopped her.”