The Apothecary's Daughter

by Julie Klassen

  Dupree looked at her in surprise. “I thought we were going shopping.”

  “We are. Just not for bonnets and ribbons and such.”

  “Are you unwell, miss?”

  “I am quite well. Only curious.”

  She had thought of visiting the street once or twice before, though she had always dismissed the idea. But somehow her discussion with Dr. Graves about physicians and apothecaries—as well as the previous night’s discovery—left her feeling unsettled and missing home.

  When they reached Bucklersbury, near the east end of Cheapside, the two ladies alighted and Lilly paid the driver.

  As she turned, she noticed Dupree craning her neck to look down a narrow street leading away from the shops.

  “What is it, Dupree?”

  “I know this place, miss. My sister lives just up that lane there.”

  “Does she indeed? Then you and she must have a nice visit while I peruse the row.”

  “On your own, miss?”

  “I shall be quite safe and will venture no further. You can find me right here. Say, in an hour’s time?”

  “But the mistress . . .”

  “We shall keep the specifics about how we spent the day to ourselves. Agreed?”

  Dupree grinned. “Very good, miss.”

  Lilly watched as Dupree hastened up the narrow cross street. Then Lilly closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. Smells familiar and foreign reached her. Sounds too. Her father had told her about London’s Apothecaries Street, where nearly every shop housed an apothecary, chemist, or grocer. He had spent a great deal of time on the street during the two years he had lived in London, apprenticed at the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries. She longed to see Apothecaries’ Hall, as well as the society’s garden in Chelsea, but would settle for Bucklersbury for now.

  She began to slowly walk down the street, looking in bowed shop-windows so much like theirs at home. She took in signs advertising the latest patent medicines. She smiled in delight at the displays of the exotic—a shark hanging from one shop awning, a blowfish from another. There a statue of an Indian from the Americas, there a carved rhinoceros—one of the symbols on the Society’s coat of arms. A mother, in fine promenade dress and fruit-sprigged hat, held her toddler atop the wooden creature. The little boy grabbed for the horn on the rhino’s back. A second horn graced its nose.

  Unlike at home, she heard callers barking out their wares, offering free samples, and promising cure-alls. The further down the row she walked, the louder the clamor rose. She was about to turn back when a corner shop caught her eye. Its flaking window trim, its simple sign, reminded her very much of Haswell’s. Stepping closer, she read the sign, L. Lippert, Apothecary, and peered through the window. Very similar indeed—traditional displays, neat counters, even an ancient alligator hanging from its beams. Her heart started at the sight of a young woman bent over a ledger at a tall clerk’s desk in the corner. She was alone; there were neither customers nor an apothecary to be seen. Then, from the back, a man entered in waistcoat and apron. He wore spectacles and was older than her father but had the same competent bearing. When the man paused and spoke to the young woman, reached out and tugged affectionately at a loose strand of her hair, tears filled Lilly’s eyes. She was happy with the Elliotts but suddenly felt nostalgic. How she missed her father. How she missed them all.

  As she pushed open the shop door, the bell jangled, a slightly higher pitch than their own. The woman looked up with a pleasant expression. She had fair, delicate features and appeared to be only a year or so older than Lilly herself.

  “Might I help you?” she asked.

  “I am merely looking.”

  “You are most welcome.”

  The man stepped forward. “If I can answer any questions, do not hesitate to ask.”

  “Mr. Lippert, I presume?”

  “The very same.”

  “I admire your shop. I was quite drawn to it.”

  “Well, you are alone in that, I am afraid.” He stepped to straighten his already tidy counter.

  “It reminds me of my father’s.”

  “Ah! Well, I hope his is busier at least.”

  “Yes. But, after all, he is the only apothecary in our village.”

  “Indeed? And may I ask the name of this village?”

  “Bedsley Priors. In Wiltshire.”

  “I know it!” He turned to the young woman. “Your grandparents live not far from there, Polly.”

  “In Little Bedwyn.” The girl smiled. “Do you know it?”

  “Indeed I do.”

  “Many a happy hour I spent with my grandparents in that beautiful valley.”

  Lilly smiled at the genuine warmth of her words.

  “When I started out,” Mr. Lippert said, brandishing an ancient pestle, “ I thought I would return to Little Bedwyn. But the opportunities here in London were just too great. But now you see how it is.” He gesticulated toward the window. “My son says that if I am to compete, I must change—update my equipment, displays, and labels; order the latest exotics from the East and West Indies; and stock all the popular patent medicines. Quite a head for business, my son. Unfortunately, prefers the shipping trade to medicine. Unlike Polly here. The draper offered her a position, but she won’t hear of it.”

  “I like it here, Father. Are you wanting to be rid of me?”

  “Of course not, my dear. In any case, I think the draper is in greater need of a wife than a clerk.”

  Polly smiled wryly. “I’ve no interest in that post either.”

  Lilly heard a voice shouting outside and walked to the window. She watched with interest a man with a market cart down the street, lifting a bottle high and proclaiming its virtues like a revivalist. “Who is he?”

  Polly glanced up. “Just one of those irregular doctors.”

  “Irregular, indeed,” Mr. Lippert said. “I’d call him a peddler at best, or a quack.”

  “What is he selling?”

  “Lady Rutger’s Restorative. Won’t tell me what’s in it. Declares it patent pending. Useless—as far as I can tell.”

  “You don’t sell it here, do you?”

  The old man looked chagrined. “I am afraid I do. My son says if customers want it, I should sell it.” He walked across the small shop, selected a bottle from his display, and handed it to her. “The fool stuff is very popular.”

  She looked at the label. “No list of ingredients. No dosage instructions, no warnings.”

  “Just promises. I have done a bit of study on the stuff. It contains opium to be sure. Its aroma suggests rose, and something else. . . .” He opened the bottle and offered her the cork. She leaned close and sniffed gently.

  “Rosemary,” she said. “And peony. I’d know that fragrance anywhere.”

  He raised his brows, impressed. “No wonder Lady Rutger enjoys this restorative. Gets her foxed and fragrant all at once.” He grimaced. “Forgive me, that was crude.”

  “But likely true.” Lilly said. “You know, I believe I will trouble you for some feverfew and willow bark pills while I am here. My aunt suffers frequent headaches, and I have used nearly all the pills I brought from home.”

  “Of course. Though they will require a few minutes to prepare.”

  “I am happy to wait.” She followed him to the back counter. “Have you sea feverfew?”

  “No, only corn and common, I’m afraid.” He glanced at her over his spectacles. “I am surprised you know the varieties.”

  “No matter. Common will do nicely. And white willow bark?”

  “Very good.”

  “My goodness,” Polly said. “You put this apothecary’s daughter to shame.”

  “Not at all, my dear.” Mr. Lippert assured her. Then to Lilly, explained, “Polly concentrates on the bookwork for me. She has no head for herbs and I’ve no head for numbers.”

  Lilly smiled. “Then you complement one another well.”

  The man began retrieving simples and readying his tools. As he work
ed Lilly noticed his gnarled, arthritic hands.

  “I don’t suppose you would allow me. I never thought I’d miss it, but . . . for old times’ sake?”

  “Of course, my dear, if you wish. That I should like to see.” With a flourish of his arm, he invited her into his domain.

  Setting aside her reticule, Lilly stepped behind the counter. In rapid motions she measured the powders and poured them into the mortar Mr. Lippert provided.

  “And for the binding?” he asked.

  “Vegetable gum, if you have it.”

  He handed it to her. Deftly, she added the liquid and picked up the pestle, turning and pressing. When the compound was the right consistency, she transferred it to the work surface, rolled it, then placed it across the grooves of an old gradated pill tile and cut the pills.

  “She’s a dab hand, she is,” Polly said.

  Mr. Lippert asked, “Talc, sugar, or silver coating?”

  “Feverfew and willow bark are both terribly bitter,” Lilly replied.

  “Sugar it is.”

  Using the flat blade, she scooped the coarse pills into the spherical pill rounder, turning it to round the pills and coat them with sugar. After pouring the pills onto a screen to siphon off the extra coating, she scooped the finished pills into a packet.

  “My goodness!” Mr. Lippert said. “If you were a lad, I would offer you a post. Oh. No offense, my dear.”

  She grinned. “None taken. But I should not accept a post in any case. Those days are past for me.”

  “I am relieved to hear it!” Polly said, but her smile indicated she had felt not the least threatened by her father’s praise of Lilly.

  “How much for the pills?” Lilly asked.

  “Doesn’t seem right to charge you full price when you did the work,” Mr. Lippert said. “Shall we say sixpence?”

  “That is very generous. I can see why you are not the wealthiest apothecary in the row—but I venture you are the kindest.”

  “Thank you, my dear. Please do come again.”

  “Oh yes, do,” Polly said. “We close at four on Mondays. Come for tea.”

  “I should enjoy that. Thank you.”

  Slipping her little parcel into her reticule, she bid farewell to Polly and Mr. Lippert and left the shop, pausing once more to absorb the familiar jingle of the shop bell.

  Then she crossed the street to listen to the irregular doctor preach his remedy.

  The rotund man stood on a pallet near his cart. He lifted a paper-labeled brown glass jar before the small crowd gathered near. “Lady Rutger’s Restorative. It restores the blood, balances the humours, brightens the complexion, and eases the mind.”

  “Does it balance ledgers?” a young dandy muttered sarcastically, and Lilly bit back a smile.

  She raised her gloved hand and called out, “May I ask a question?”

  The rotund man looked her way, eyes gleaming. “Of course, lovely lady. I have nothing to hide.”

  “What is the active ingredient?”

  His eyes narrowed, but his smile widened. “Why? Do you plan to open your own laboratory?”

  The crowd laughed.

  “Not I,” she said innocently.

  “Of course not. A jest only. Well, miss, I would happily divulge the ingredients active and binding, but I am afraid such knowledge would be difficult to grasp. The world of medicine is the world of learned men, scientists, physicians, masters—”

  “And which are you, sir?” the young dandy asked, thrusting his walking stick at the man for emphasis.

  The peddler paused, his smile stiffening. “All of the above, I hope.”

  Lilly added, “And where did you receive your training?”

  “The school of life, miss. I have traveled the world, discovered cures not yet known in England. I have treated patients in hut and castle. Farm and court.”

  “You speak very well, sir,” Lilly said in mock admiration. “I should like to hear such a melodious, learned voice list the ingredients of Lady Rutger’s Restorative.”

  “The language of medicine is Latin, miss. Even if I listed the materia medica, you would not understand.”

  “Might I at least try?” she asked.

  “Very well.” He spoke quickly and authoritatively, “This is a patented aromatic confection consisting of Rosar, Poeniae, Anthos, and Bryonia dioica.”

  He shuttered his brows and lifted one side of his mouth in a patronizing smirk.

  She smiled sweetly in return and pronounced, “Or, in plain English—rosewater, peony, rosemary, and common bryony.”

  His nostrils flared and his mouth slackened.

  She felt the stares of the crowd around her but kept her own gaze on the peddler. “In other words, plants these good people might find in their gardens or hedgerows. Or they could purchase from, say, Lippert’s Apothecary for a mere fraction of what you are charging. Is that not so?”

  The peddler stepped down from his pallet, stalked over, and dipped his face close to hers. “I don’t know who you are,” he hissed. “But you are coming dangerously close to irritating me. Who do you work for? Old Mr. Lippert? Is this some last-ditch effort to save that musty shop of his?”

  She felt a prickle of fear and stepped back, but still projected her voice. “I work for no one and have had the privilege of meeting Mr. Lippert on only one occasion, this very day. But I can tell you, sir, there is not an apothecary—or irregular doctor—that I would trust as completely in all of Apothecaries Street.”

  “Hey, Doctor Poole,” an old man called, “I’ll have back my eleven shillings if you please.”

  “And mine as well,” called a well-dressed matron.

  Poole took a menacing step closer to Lilly, and she stifled the urge to run. She risked a hopeful glance at the dandy, but saw that he and his jaunty stick were backing off in retreat. Stupid girl, Lilly silently remonstrated. Why had she dared such a thing alone?

  From out of the crowd, Dr. Graves appeared as if by magic, his face a mask of cool confidence. “Come now,” he said officiously, “we really must go.” He took her arm and led her smartly away from the peddler and the crowd.

  Lilly did not resist.

  When they had crossed the street, she whispered, “That will do, I think. Thank you.”

  He paused and released her, expelling a huff of breath. “I must say, Miss Haswell, that was a most foolish thing to do. Safer to stand between a wild dog and his bone. He will only be back again in an hour, and tomorrow and all next week. Do you plan to stand guard at every show?”

  “No. But I could not stand by and let those people be taken in by that quack.”

  “As I saw. I had only come to purchase a few items for the hospital when I glimpsed you nose-to-nose with that mongrel. I could barely believe my eyes.” He regarded her speculatively. “Nor my ears. I heard only a few scraps of what you were saying, but your Latin, Miss Haswell, is impressive indeed. I am surprised your tutor included the subject.”

  She hesitated. “I have learned a great many things since coming to London,” she said, which was true enough. Though Latin had not been among them.

  He glanced up the street, at the few waiting carriages. “You are not here alone, I trust?”

  “No. I came with my aunt’s maid in a hackney. She should return any moment.”

  He looked at her, eyes alight. “Then might I have the honor of delivering the two of you safely home?”

  She smiled, relieved. “That you might, Dr. Graves.” She cocked her head to one side to regard him. “For someone who owns numerous fears, may I say you acted very bravely today. I thank you for coming to my rescue.”

  His fair cheeks reddened with pleasure, and she thought his thin frame stood the taller for her praise.

  “Well then,” he said, “I am excessively glad I roused myself to the task.”

  Give me an ounce of civit, good apothecary, to sweeten my imagination.

  —SHAKESPEARE

  CHAPTER 10

  When Lilly entered h
er aunt’s room later that afternoon, Ruth Elliott smiled at her expectantly from the dressing table. “There you are, my dear.” She patted the chair beside her. “Come. Show me what you have bought.”

  “I am afraid I found little I could not live without. Shopping was not the same without you. And you—how are you feeling?”

  “A great deal better.”

  “I am relieved to hear it.”

  “Sleep is a powerful elixir. One they don’t sell in shops. I think I shall even dress for dinner.”

  “Aunt, may I ask . . .” Lilly’s heart began pounding at the mere thought of the black necklace. It was an effort to speak calmly. “May I ask about something I saw in your jewelry chest?”

  Her aunt’s eyes glinted. “Ah . . . Saw something that caught your fancy, did you?”

  “Well, in a manner of—”

  Her aunt rose. “Let us have a look. I am sure whatever it is, you shall be welcome to wear it. What is our next engagement? I forget. Dinner at Caldwells’?”

  Thoughts elsewhere, Lilly vaguely replied, “I am not sure.”

  Ruth Elliott selected a key from the ornate chatelaine. “Here we are.”

  Lilly followed her into the dressing room and watched as her aunt opened the chest. “Now, what is it that has caught your eye, hmm?”

  Lilly’s palms were damp as she reached into the case and pulled open the compartment. Would it still be there, or had she dreamt it?

  There it was. Black filigree. Black onyx. She lifted it reverently and turned to her aunt. Ruth Elliott took it from her gingerly, her brow furrowed. “I would not have guessed. This is rather severe, is it not? Elegant for mourning, I suppose. But not suitable, really, with any of your gowns. . . .”

  “I do not wish to wear it. I wish to know how it came to be here.”

  Ruth Elliott looked at her, confused. Did her aunt truly not know this had been her mother’s? Or was she hesitating, trying to figure out a plausible explanation?

  “What do you mean, my dear?”

  Lilly did not want to believe her aunt capable of deception, and the innocent question seemed genuine enough.

  “Where did it come from?”