The Apothecary's Daughter

by Julie Klassen

  “I . . . I don’t know. I think . . . if I remember correctly, it is a piece your uncle acquired.”

  “Acquired? From whom?”

  The older woman stared at the necklace as though it held the answer, her face stretched in concentration. “I think he said he purchased it at auction. I don’t recall where.”

  “Auction?” Was it possible? Lilly could hardly credit such a coincidence. Unless her uncle had bid on the piece because he had recognized it. “When? How long ago?”

  “You will have to ask your uncle. But it seems to me that piece has been there for several years. I have never worn it. I really do not know what would possess him to buy such a thing, though I have never had the heart to tell him so.”

  Her aunt took her by the arms, concern deep in the lines of her face. “What is it, Lillian? Why do you want to know?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say, It was my mother’s. But she bit the words back. Should she tell her aunt if her uncle had never done so? Had he his reasons? Lilly swallowed. “It is an unusual piece, to be sure. You are right. I shall ask Uncle about it as you suggest.”

  “But—”

  “Forgive me. I had better hurry or I shall never dress for dinner in time.”

  “Very well, my dear.”

  But she felt her aunt’s concern follow her from the dressing room.

  As they sat at the dining table that evening, each spooning spring soup in polite, silent sips, her aunt broached the subject.

  “My dear. Lillian would like to ask you about a necklace in the chest.”

  “Oh?”

  “The unusual black piece with the onyx pendant?”

  Her uncle’s face looked disturbed, his eyes stared at the tablecloth, unseeing. Or was she imagining this?

  “I am afraid I do not have your every bauble memorized, my dear.”

  “Of course not. But you would remember this piece. Black filigree, octagonal pendant? I believe you said you purchased it at auction several years ago.”

  “Did I?” He set down his spoon with a clatter and leaned back heavily against the chair. “Let us finish our meal in peace—then you may show me the article in question. All right?”

  Her aunt looked mildly stunned. “Yes, of course.”

  After dinner the Elliotts disappeared into her aunt’s room, and Lilly retreated to her own, waiting anxiously. She found herself thinking back to the day her mother had disappeared. Of coming home to find her father pacing and Charlie hiding behind the draperies. She had gone into the bedchamber and begun searching through her mother’s drawers and wardrobe, looking for a letter or for some clue as to why she had left and where she had gone. Lilly feared she knew the reason, at least in part. Even now, she couldn’t quite dispel the guilt she felt, the awful notion that their argument had been the cause.

  During her long ago search, Lilly had quickly surmised her mother had taken her jewelry and better dresses. Then she had realized the map was gone. The world map she and her mother had pored over on rainy afternoons—the rectangle of thick creased paper the color of a tea stain. The print dominated by two spheres—the eastern Old World. The western New. As a girl, Lilly could hardly believe the tiny rabbit-shaped island was England, its ears Scotland. How small her world was compared to the rest of the world. Mother had agreed, and together they dreamt for hours, their fingers tracing latitude lines, underscoring names of faraway places—the Canary Islands, Trinidad, Tobago, the Southern Icy Ocean—and imagining aloud what each might be like. Her mother seemed to know how long a sea journey might take to Terra Australis, where convicts were transported, or to the Cape of Africa, or to South America’s Horn.

  When she had left, Rosamond Haswell had taken the well-worn map with her. Where had it taken her? Was she even now using it to chart her course?

  Lilly was pacing her room half an hour later when the housemaid knocked and asked her to join Mr. Elliott in the library. Lilly went down directly.

  Her uncle stood alone, one hand on the fireplace mantel. “Come in, my dear. Be seated.”

  She sat in one of the chairs at the library table, hands clasped. An oil lamp glowed upon the table’s gleaming mahogany surface.

  He stepped quietly toward her, unfurling his palm, and the black necklace uncoiled from his hand. He laid it on the table between them.

  He sighed, his eyes on the piece. “In all honesty, I had forgotten it was there—or at least put it from my mind.”

  She swallowed and whispered, “It was my mother’s, was it not?”

  He looked at her, sadness heavy in his hound dog eyes. “Yes, it was. Though I am surprised you remember it so clearly. Ah, I forget. Your infallible memory.”

  She hung her head. “Not infallible . . .”

  “I meant no censure. I only wish my memory were half so keen.” He sat down in the chair opposite and sighed again. “Your aunt did not know it was your mother’s. I never told her before tonight.”

  While Lilly was relieved at her aunt’s exoneration, confusion still plagued her. “Why?”

  “Your mother did not wish for Ruth to know.”

  “I . . . I don’t understand. What control would she have over an auction?”

  “It was not a public auction, although I allowed Ruth to believe it so. Your mother came to see me privately.”

  “When?”

  “Must be nearly four years ago now. I did not know then that she had left all of you. I arrogantly assumed your father had fallen on difficult times. Difficult indeed for her to be willing to come to me, to ask for money.”

  Lilly found it hard to breathe.

  “She said she would rather offer the piece to me than some stranger, since I ought to value it more highly. I supposed she wanted to keep it in the family. Honorable enough, though it did strike me as cheeky to ask for money for something that our parents had given her.”

  “What else did she say? Where was she living?”

  “As I said, I foolishly assumed she had merely come from Wiltshire seeking funds. I did not ask questions. Though I am afraid I said a few cruel things.”

  “Cruel?”

  “About your father not being able to support her—how we had all been right in advising her not to marry him. I am ashamed to think of what I said then.”

  “I wonder if she was living in London or passing through . . . Was she alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she asked you not to tell Aunt?”

  “She and Ruth had been girlhood friends. I imagine it embarrassed her to think of Ruth knowing.”

  “Or perhaps she realized Aunt would ask more questions than you did. Questions she did not wish to answer.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Did she ask for money on other occasions as well?”

  He hesitated only a second. “No, my dear. That was the only money she ever asked for. I suppose she had nothing else of value and was too proud to ask for a handout.”

  Lilly shook her head, imagining the awkward scene between estranged brother and sister.

  “I am sorry, Lillian. I never intended to deceive you. It is only that I knew it would upset you. Tell me you understand.”

  “I do.” She stood slowly to her feet. “Does Aunt? Or is she angry with you?”

  He shrugged. “Disappointed, perhaps.”

  Lilly walked to the window on wobbly legs. Outside on the street, lamplight gleamed on the rain-wet cobbles.

  “Will you be all right?” he asked.

  “Of course. Thank you for telling me.”

  Her uncle rose as well. “You are welcome to the necklace, Lillian. I am certain your mother would want you to have it.”

  Lilly was not so sure. Did anyone really know what her mother wanted? “Let us leave it locked away. For now.”

  In the morning, her aunt came to her room while Lilly was still in her dressing gown. She took Lilly’s strong hands in her own delicate ones.

  “My dear, I am sorry. I cannot imagine how you must be feeling.”r />
  “I don’t know how to feel about it.”

  She squeezed her hands. “How can I help?”

  Lilly took a deep breath. “By telling me everything you know.”

  Ruth Elliott hesitated. “Your mother and I confided a great deal to one another as girls, but I know very little about what happened after she married your father.”

  “And before?”

  “Well, I don’t think you . . . I don’t think anyone enjoys hearing a parent’s romantic history—that is, history not involving the other parent.”

  “Tell me anyway.” Lilly seated herself on the made bed and patted the nearby chair.

  Her aunt sat, though she looked far from comfortable. “Your mother fancied herself in love with a man before she met your father. Did she ever tell you?”

  Lilly shook her head, and her aunt continued. “A very dashing man. A naval officer. And she believed he planned to marry her.”

  “What was his name?”

  Ruth Elliott twisted her rings. “I suppose it can do no harm. A Captain Ernest Quincy. But everyone called him Quinn.”

  The name meant nothing to Lilly.

  “She used to tell me that Quinn planned to have ships of his own one day and travel far and wide. And that he promised to take her with him.”

  Lilly nodded thoughtfully. She could understand how such a man—and such an offer—might appeal to her mother. Had she not spent hours dreaming over her prized world map?

  “Rosamond was so happy in those days,” Ruth continued. “Then, without warning, Quinn’s betrothal was announced in the Times. He had engaged himself to Daisy Wolcott, a much better match, I suppose, as her father was quite wealthy. Rosamond was devastated.

  “But then, not a fortnight later, she told me she had met another man and that this Charles Haswell was everything Quinn was not. Evidently, he thought Rosamond the most desirable and perfect creature ever to live. Balm to her wounded soul, no doubt. But as you know by now, the family thought Charles not at all suitable. No wealth. No family to speak of. No connections.” She glanced at Lilly with sorrowful eyes. “I am sorry, but there it is.” She took a deep breath. “Of course, Rosamond saw none of this. She argued that he would soon have a good income and good prospects. But more than this, she knew your father would take her from London, the scene of her disgrace, as she saw it, and I think this was his greatest attraction.

  “He proposed in a matter of days, and Rosamond accepted. We all tried to dissuade her from such a course. Had your grandfather lived, he would never have allowed it, but he had already passed on by then. Rosamond begged Jonathan to purchase a special license so that she and Charles might marry as soon as possible. In the end, she married two days before Quinn’s own wedding, with only her mother, Jonathan, and I in attendance. I think Rosamond spent a great deal of time imagining Quinn’s remorse at discovering her wed to another. Several times during the wedding, I saw her glance toward the side door, as if she was sure Quinn would burst through it and object at any moment.”

  Ruth Elliott shook her head ruefully. “Your uncle determined that no one of our acquaintance should learn of your father’s trade. When asked, we spoke in general terms of his ‘holdings’ somewhere in Wiltshire. After the wedding, the two departed almost immediately. Much to Rosamond’s—and everyone’s—relief, I am sorry to say.”

  Her aunt stopped speaking, and the room felt suddenly too silent. The clock above the mantel ticked, a door closed somewhere below-stairs, the faint sounds of hooves and passing carriages bled through the outside walls.

  Lilly said, “I can see why you hesitated to tell me. It is not a romantic story, is it? I wonder if my poor father had any idea.”

  “I do not know, my dear.”

  Lilly rose, agitated, as all the new details struggled to fit themselves into the old and erroneous impressions in her mind. “So . . . did this Quinn ever buy his ships and sail away?”

  Ruth remained seated. “Not that I know of. He is still married to the former Miss Wolcott. Though it does not appear to be a happy marriage. I see Daisy now and again, and she is almost always alone. The gossips claim, and I am among them now, I suppose, that he has kept a string of mistresses.”

  “You don’t think Mother—?”

  Aunt Elliott shifted, glanced at her, then away. “As far as I know, their connection was severed more than twenty years ago.” She paused. “But I confess, when we received your father’s letter telling us Rosamond had left him, I wasn’t as surprised as I might have been, had I not known about Quinn. I had hoped Rosamond would be happy with your father. But I never really believed she would be.” She sighed. “I am afraid I don’t know any more, my dear. I have no idea where she went or where she is now.”

  Lilly stared out the second-floor window, at the passing traffic and the trees of Hyde Park beyond. “I have always imagined her sailing the high seas, or on a grand adventure somewhere.”

  “Have you indeed?”

  Lilly turned and glimpsed some unfamiliar, dark emotion in her aunt’s countenance.

  “Then your imagination is far more generous than mine.”

  But if the young are never tired of erring in conduct,

  neither are the older in erring of judgment.

  —FANNY BURNEY, CECILIA, 1782

  CHAPTER 11

  Thoughts and questions coursed through Lilly all that day and night. In the morning, she felt quite restless. She wanted to run. Needed to run. But where in all of London could she do such a thing? Where were there no eyes ready to censure and report her unladylike conduct?

  No place.

  She sighed, took up the cup of chocolate from the tray on her bedside, and sipped. Chocolate had always helped her moods but did little to soothe her antsy limbs.

  After breakfast, Lilly received a letter. She took it with her into the sitting room, planning to keep her aunt company while the dear woman did her daily hour of needlework. Her aunt smiled up at her, and Lilly smiled in return. No conversation was required. They were now comfortable enough with one another to enjoy silence as well as chatter.

  The letter was from Mary. As she opened it, Lilly realized mildly that it was the first she had received from her old friend in several weeks.

  When Lilly had first come to London, Mary had dutifully written every fortnight, if not weekly. And Lilly had written back, though not always as promptly as she should have. It was difficult that first year, when she was always so busy with her studies. And now . . . Well, she had time in the early mornings, surely, before the day’s round of calls began, but then with taking exercise in the park, then tea, then endless evening and late-night social obligations, somehow she rarely made the time to write home.

  She skimmed the few lines in Mary’s small practiced hand, and experienced the pleasant warmth she always felt upon reading cheerful reports of new biscuit recipes, the topic of the Sunday sermon, or the latest village fete she had attended with Charlie, Francis, and Miss Robbins.

  Lilly knew she should write back, but what could she say? She did not wish to describe the new gowns, the balls, shopping with Miss Price-Winters on Bond Street and Pall Mall, the museums, the concerts. She could not describe Roger Bromley nor his kind attentions— not when Mary had never known a suitor’s regard.

  “From home?” Aunt Elliott asked, eyes on her embroidery.

  “Yes. From Mary.”

  Lilly would not demur and pretend her days were as ordinary as Mary’s countrified life no doubt was.

  She sighed.

  Her aunt, pulling a thread of bishop’s blue through the canvas, glanced up at the sound. “Everything all right?”

  “Oh yes. The usual niceties.” She began refolding the letter. “I like that blue.”

  I shall write back tomorrow, Lilly decided. Or the next day.

  “Mr. Adam Graves,” Fletcher announced and backed from the sitting room.

  Startled, Lilly stood abruptly, the letter falling to the floor.

  Dr. Graves
entered and bowed. “Miss Haswell.”

  She curtsied and awkwardly swiped up the letter as she did so. “You remember my aunt, Mrs. Elliott?” Lilly hoped he would not mention their recent encounter on Apothecaries Street.

  “I do indeed. Ma’am.” He bowed again, a wave of blond hair falling forward and then returning to place as he straightened.

  Her aunt nodded but remained seated with her needlework.

  “By your leave, ma’am, I have come to ask if Miss Haswell might accompany me for a drive in the park. Perhaps tomorrow afternoon?”

  Her aunt’s expression was pleasantly bland, but the eyes she turned toward Lilly were full of both meaning and inquiry.

  “I was certain we had an engagement for tomorrow afternoon. Are we not expected at the Langtrys’, my dear? Do you recall?”

  Lilly recognized her aunt’s clever phrasing. She was giving Lilly an excuse—if she desired one. Lilly knew her aunt would prefer she not encourage the man, but she would not forbid her either. He was, at least, an Oxford man, and must therefore be from a family of at least modest wealth.

  She swallowed. “I believe you are thinking of Friday, Aunt. I recall nothing on the schedule for tomorrow.”

  “Indeed? Well, you would know. That memory of yours. Sometimes I am not sure I should like to have one so keen.”

  Dr. Graves cleared his throat. “Excellent. I shall hire a carriage straightaway. I’ve not my own in town.”

  Aunt Elliott’s eyebrows rose.

  “I have use of my brother’s, but it is engaged for the morrow.”

  Lilly bit her lip. Did he not know hacks were not allowed in Hyde Park? “Dr. Graves, you needn’t bother. I would just as soon walk.”

  “Indeed? Are you quite sure?”

  “Quite. At home there was only one thing I liked better than a country walk.”

  “And what was that?”

  She glanced at her aunt, then changed the subject. “What time shall I expect you?”

  Dr. Graves arrived promptly to take Lilly for the promised walk in Hyde Park, only a short distance from her aunt and uncle’s home. He wore a morning coat of claret with a patterned waistcoat and buff trousers. Her aunt could not complain that his attire was not de rigueur.