“There is one thing you can do,” she said, lifting a finger to indicate he should wait while she walked quietly to her father’s surgery.
She returned directly, an empty bottle in her hand.
His eyebrows rose.
“Can you keep this between us?” she asked.
“Of course. Your father’s?”
She nodded and held out the bottle. “What is it? Can you tell?”
With grim expectation, he accepted the bottle, regarded the unmarked surface, then swiped it quickly beneath his nose, as though assuming the smell would be readily identifiable. Instead he frowned and held it under his nose again, sniffing once, then again.
“I thought . . . But I don’t know. What do you think?”
“I don’t know either.”
“I am no expert at this sort of thing. That is, assuming . . .” He broke off and began again. “I shall take this and see if either Freddy Mac or Mr. Shuttleworth can identify it.”
Freddy McNeal was the proprietor of the Hare and Hounds, the village public house, a tiny place compared to The George on the canal in Honeystreet. “Do not say where it came from, all right?”
“You can trust me, Lill—Miss Haswell.”
Already she felt foolish for insisting on her proper name.
“Are you coming to the coffeehouse?” he asked.
“No. But you go on. I had better stay and see if I can get Father to eat something.”
He nodded, then cocked his head to look at her closely. “It is good to have you back.”
“Not back, only visiting. For a fortnight.”
He continued to study her, and she grew uncomfortable under his scrutiny. Had she changed so much? Was he about to tell her she looked well? “Is something amiss?” she asked.
Grinning a little, he said, “You have a bit of cobweb in your hair.”
Embarrassed, she brushed at her temple. “Where?”
“Allow me.” He reached out and gently drew his fingertips along her hairline. “There.” He held up a wispy web and blew it from his fingers.
Her scalp tingled oddly from his touch. She did not even consider reprimanding him for blowing the web onto the just-cleaned floor.
Aloft in rows, large Poppy Heads were strung,
And near, a scaly Alligator hung. . . .
The Sage in Velvet Chair, here lolls at Ease,
To promise future Health for present Fees.
—SIR SAMUEL GARTH , DISPENSARY
CHAPTER 19
Using some of the money her aunt had given her for the journey home, Lilly hired a laundress to attack the pile of dirty clothes and linens in her father’s room. She placed an order with the coal monger, then visited the chandler to replenish a few necessities—candles, soap, and such. She would worry about meals later. With the amount her father was eating, Mrs. Mimpurse’s stew and Mary’s bread would last a solid week in the cold cellar.
Late that afternoon, Francis returned to the shop and, seeing the surgery door ajar, gestured her over. “Mr. Shuttleworth would like to speak with you.”
“Whatever for?”
“About”—he lowered his voice—“the bottle you gave me. Freddy Mac couldn’t place it.”
“And Mr. Shuttleworth?”
“Said he needed more information before he could hazard an assessment.”
“A guess, you mean.”
Francis shrugged. “You can come by the shop, or—”
“I cannot go there. It will look like I am spying, or worse, disloyal to my father.”
Francis looked uncomfortable.
“And I cannot invite him here, for Father might hear us. Perhaps the coffeehouse?”
“Good. Mr. Shuttleworth frequents it.”
“Does he?”
“He’s a bachelor and keeps no servants.”
For some reason his status surprised her. Still, she did not like the thought of Mrs. Mimpurse serving her father’s rival.
Lilly was ill-prepared for the man who stood to greet her when she entered the coffeehouse and approached the table where he and Francis sat. He was not a tall man, but had a large presence. She guessed he might be as old as thirty, but it was difficult to tell. Though he was of average build, there was nothing else average about him. His black hair stood in three-inch prickles all over his head. His eyebrows formed sharp black peaks over dark eyes that sparkled impishly. His clothes were startling. A gold-and-black waistcoat shone between the lapels of a plush burgundy frock coat with yellow cuffs. His cravat was not white or ivory like every other she’d seen, but gold.
He followed her gaze. “Do you like it?” he asked, touching his cravat.
“Yes.” She hesitated. “I have a gown that very hue.”
“A lady with exquisite taste. How charming.” His teeth, she noticed when he smiled, were quite long.
“Miss Lillian Haswell, may I present Mr. Lionel Shuttleworth.”
She was surprised Francis thought to use her full given name.
She curtsied and Mr. Shuttleworth bowed. His grin, the light in his eyes, communicated deep delight. It gave her an odd feeling of warmth and discomfort at once.
“Miss Haswell. What a pleasure. I have been hearing such wonderful things about you, both from young Mr. Baylor here as well as the Mimpurse ladies.”
Mary appeared, as if she’d heard her name. She set down a basket of breads and a pot of tea. “Chicken and vegetables will be coming out soon.”
Lilly noticed Mr. Shuttleworth’s eyes following Mary’s every move. Her friend’s fair round cheeks were flushed from more than just the kitchen fires, Lilly guessed. Dressed in her blue frock and white apron, with her hair loosely pinned, Mary might not be beautiful, but she made a pretty portrait indeed.
When Mary had disappeared back into the kitchen, Mr. Shuttle-worth returned his attention to Lilly. “I do hope you will come by my little shop sometime. I would be honored to show you about the place. I have a new mounted tiger shark, a shrunken head, and several Egyptian scarabs. The colors, Miss Haswell, are like the finest gemstones. Really, quite exquisite.”
“And do you use scarabs and sharks in your physic?” She did not ask about the skull; she knew all too well that many apothecaries used powdered bone—it was supposed to heal wounds and treat falling sickness. Her own father abhorred the practice, said it was blasphemous somehow. Lilly agreed. And it was certainly not something she wished to discuss while dining.
He ignored this question and went on, “I was right there on the deck when the crew hauled in the shark. No catalogue-purchased prize for me. And the scarabs I captured and lanced myself.”
She could not keep the surprise from her tone. “You have been to Egypt?”
“Egypt, Italy, the West Indies, Africa.”
“My goodness. May I ask how you came to travel so far?”
“Indeed you may.” He leaned his elbows on the table. “I worked as a ship’s surgeon on a merchant vessel for several years. My employer imported exotic things from exotic places. I found it all fascinating. Not only the unusual plants and animals—even people—but especially the healing practices of different cultures. Most interesting.”
“Then I must ask the obvious question, sir,” Lilly said. “How in the world—why in the world—would you choose to set up shop in a little inland village like Bedsley Priors? Have you family here?”
He shook his head. “I have no family.” He stared off over her head, apparently in deep thought or memory. “I grew weary of shipboard surgery and living among coarse men. I quit my post and took passage on one of the canal boats transporting our wares from Bristol to London. There I served with a master apothecary for several months and then decided to stay a few years, London town having such a varied and rich culture.”
“London I can understand, sir. But Bedsley Priors?”
She felt Francis’s silent censure and amended, “It is a lovely place, and I am partial to it, having grown up here and having family here.”
�
��You are fortunate to have family and friends, Miss Haswell. And indeed it is a lovely place, occupied by lovely people. In fact, when I passed Bedsley Priors on my way to London, I saw three reasons which compelled me to decide then and there that I would return to Bedsley Priors one day.”
Lilly raised her eyebrows. “Three reasons, sir?”
Mary came out of the kitchen again, bearing a tray of dishes. Mr. Shuttleworth said softly, “And here comes one of those lovely reasons now.” He rose. “May I assist you with that tray? Looks heavy.”
Mary blushed. “I can manage, sir.”
He beamed at them all. “And strong of limb as well.” His gaze moved from Mary’s face to Lilly’s. “You might be sisters. So lovely are the both of you.”
The platter of chicken clunked heavily onto the table. “Sorry,” Mary mumbled. Biting her lip, Mary set out the bowls of vegetables with a return of her usual grace. Lilly hoped she wasn’t about to have one of her bouts of falling sickness.
Breaking away from the man’s steady gaze, Lilly asked, “Join us, Mary?”
“Can’t now. Maybe for coffee and pudding later.”
Lilly forked a piece of stewed chicken onto her plate and passed the platter to Mr. Shuttleworth. He stacked several pieces beside his mound of leeks and potatoes. “Well, now the food’s arrived, let’s dive into business, shall we?”
He leaned in close across the table. “The bottle. I extracted a few remaining drops of liquid. Definitely contains alcohol.”
Her heart fell. She felt shame flush her features.
“As well as laudanum.”
She looked down at her plate, all appetite fleeing.
“But I believe its primary purpose is not to intoxicate, but rather to tranquilize.”
She looked over at the man.
“I surmise the bottle is your father’s and is one of many?”
She darted a look at Francis, but Mr. Shuttleworth raised a hand. “Mr. Baylor did not tell me, but it seems fairly obvious. I have been aware of your father’s reclusive state. Have even called in, only to have my concern rebuffed.”
“I am sorry.”
“Never mind.” Mr. Shuttleworth dismissed her apology with a wave of his fork. “I saw him on the street several weeks ago, and his features were quite pinched. I wondered then if he was in a great deal of pain. And I am more convinced now. The mixture is a pain reliever to be sure, but what else it is, I am not completely certain.”
“But it is physic, you think? Not simply . . . drink?”
“I believe so, yes. Perhaps some new patent medicine, or more likely, something of his own creation. You might look and see what simples he leaves about or is running low on.” He leaned back expressively, “Or, you could simply ask him.”
Lilly took a bite of chicken in lieu of answering. Mr. Shuttleworth did not know her father.
In the morning, Lilly observed her father carefully, more objectively, she hoped, now that the shock of so many changes had passed. He was unshaven, his cheeks bristling with a few days’ worth of grey and ginger whiskers. The skin of his neck hung looser than she remembered, his jowls more slack. His hair was somewhat thinner and in disarray, with new strands of silver at his sideburns. His eyes had lost some of their blue color, it seemed, and much of their light. When she looked at him, she felt repelled and tender all at once. Even though she had not seen him for over a year, he was still the only parent in her life—her security, her constant. Her father had always been strong and capable. It unsettled her to see him seem so weak, so . . . diminished.
She approached and greeted him gently. She sat on the cot near his legs, so that she might speak with him nearer to his eye level.
“Morning.” His voice was rough.
“And how are you today?” She found herself speaking to him in a calm, sweet tone one normally reserved for a child. He was no child. Neither was she, but still the thought of losing him filled her with the emptiest quiver of loneliness. She thought of the Chinese kites she had once seen in Hyde Park coming untied and floating away. Like she and her brother would. Oh, Charlie . . . What would poor Charlie do without Father?
She cleared her throat and tried again. “Are you very ill, do you think?”
He looked at her sharply.
“The bottles. I am ashamed to admit, but I at first believed you were foxed. And I doubt I am the only person in the village to think so.”
“When have you ever known me to drink more than an occasional glass of port?”
“Never—before. But a great deal has changed since I’ve been away.”
He looked away from her, shaking his head despondently.
“What is it, Father? Do you know?”
“No. Some days I am nearly myself, and others I can barely rise. The latter have become frightfully frequent. But I know I have only to come up with the correct combination of herbs and elixirs, and I shall conquer this thing.”
“Without a diagnosis? When have you ever been successful treating an illness that way?”
“Rarely, but it does happen. Sometimes we are not sure what the underlying problem is, but we stumble upon a remedy after much trial and error.”
“But this is foolishness! When you have not even consulted with another medical man. Let me send for Dr. Foster.”
“That man! He would be the last I would crawl to for advice. He would waste no time advertising my weakness and failure—that I can tell you.”
She knew old Dr. Foster had often resented her father for visiting and treating his patients. But bad blood notwithstanding, he was a professional, was he not?
“Mr. Shuttleworth, then.”
“My new competitor? Shall I help him drive me from business once and for all? Shall I hand him the shovel to bury me?”
“I have met the man. He seems very decent. Besides, he is a fellow apothecary. He spent several months with the Worshipful Society, just as you did.”
“I spent nearly two years there, between my time with the society and my summer working in the apothecaries’ garden. Several months indeed.”
“Father, please. I insist you see a doctor. If you refuse the two at hand, then I shall . . . I shall write to my uncle and ask him to bring a man from London.”
“Your uncle? Who already believes me a useless failure? I’ll not prove him right.”
“You are not useless. Merely ill.”
“Same thing.”
“It isn’t! Now, Father, I insist—”
He pinned her with an ice-blue gaze. “I am afraid, lass, that you have no right to insist upon anything.”
“Do I not?” she asked, refusing to be cowed. “Is my father not acting irrationally? Damaging himself and his beloved shop, passed down from father and grandfather before him? A shop he would once have done anything to protect?”
“I am trying to protect it!”
“No, you are trying to protect your pride. And it is too late for that. I am calling for Dr. Foster or Mr. Shuttleworth—you have your choice.”
“Just . . . just give me a little more time. I know I can get back on my feet. Just another month. By then I shall figure out what treatment I’ve overlooked . . .”
“Two days.”
“A fortnight.”
“A week—and no longer.”
He sighed. “Very well.”
“Good,” she said briskly. But she wondered if they had that long.
J. & A. PEPLER, beg respectfully to inform the Ladies of DEVIZES
and its vicinity that J.P. is returned from London,
where she has selected a choice assortment of
MILLINERY DRESSES, Straws, & Fancy Bonnets.
—DEVIZES & WILTSHIRE GAZETTE, 1833
CHAPTER 20
In the morning, Lilly was just making up a breakfast tray for her father when a rap on the shop door startled her, causing her to spill hot tea on her hand. Blowing on the scorched skin, she walked from the laboratory-kitchen through the shop. She was surprised to see Francis at th
e door. She opened it and saw that he carried a crate in his hands.
“This is heavy. Might I . . . ?”
“Of course. Come in.”
He carried the crate back and settled it gently on the counter.
“What is this?” she asked, eyeing the array of jars and packets.
“Bare basics. Hopefully enough to keep you going here until you can place and receive an order.”
“But . . . how?”
“I made a second list for myself when I completed that inventory for you. I pulled this from Mr. Shuttleworth’s stock.”
“But we cannot accept this.”
“This is not charity, Miss Haswell. It has all been accounted for. You will pay it back as you can.”
“But I won’t . . .” Why could she not finish the sentence, I won’t be here? Dread and cold realization sifted through her. Orders to place, debts to pay, a shop to repair . . . but what of her plans for a stay of only a fortnight?
“Of course I shall see you are repaid,” she said officiously. “Thank you.” She turned abruptly and retreated to the laboratory-kitchen so he would not see her brave face fall.
The next day, Lilly and Charlie attended services together. How inviting the church looked that bright morning, sunshine streaming through colorful stained-glass windows, candles lit, happy voices filling the chapel. It felt good to be there, sitting in her old place, listening to the fine Kentish voice of Mr. Baisley.
During the singing of a hymn, Lilly was distracted by a deep male voice coming from somewhere nearby. The pleasing baritone filled in the reedy melody carried by so many women and old men. Lilly glanced discreetly over her shoulder and was surprised to see Francis Baylor two rows behind her, eyes on the vicar, singing intently and with feeling. His voice has changed as well.
After the service, many villagers made a point of coming over to greet Lilly and to welcome her home.
Undeniably handsome in his Sunday coat, Francis bowed briefly to her. “Miss Haswell. Charlie.” He would have turned away without lingering had Charlie not called after him.
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