The Apothecary's Widow

by Diane Scott Lewis

“I think you know. I’ve warned you to never play coy with me.” She avoided his gaze, removing the vegetables with their sharp, fresh smell from her sack.

  He plopped his bulk in the chair and pulled paper from his waistcoat pocket. “I often hear things that may not always be true.”

  “I’ll take a half pound of oregano an’ a half pound of ginger.” Jenna placed her inkpot and quill on the table. “I’ve dried some spices from my garden, but don’t mind stocking up on others. I like oregano to cook with.”

  Horace dipped the quill in ink and scribbled on the paper. “Cooking more, are you? I’ll instruct my son to send these items right over.” His sly gaze met hers. “What else might you need? Some lavender to perfume your sheets?”

  “I have lavender.” She smiled, acting as if she hadn’t discerned his words. “Aren’t you getting too long in the tooth to be taking orders like a clerk?” She picked up her pitcher and filled a basin on her kitchen worktable with water.

  “I like the fresh air, an’ visiting all the interesting citizens of Truro.” He winked. “Especially you, m’dear.” He tapped the side of his bulbous nose. “Though I have heard you’ve been having another visitor quite frequently.”

  “I’m not ashamed. I’m in love, an’ so is he.” With a slight wince, she started to scrub the potatoes in the basin. She glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t you dare make something ugly of it. I’m certain the town gossipmongers already have.”

  “In love, you say? A subjective emotion, to be sure.” He replaced the quill in its holder and tugged the edges of his straining waistcoat; one of the buttons dangled loose. “And here you’ve rebuffed my charms all the while.”

  “This is serious, what I’m saying.” She sounded defensive and took a deep breath. She softened her reply with another smile. “Not like our playful bantering.”

  “But what of your future? Have you thought of that?”

  “I have, but I’m contented right now.” She dried each potato with a cloth. She didn’t want to delve in too deeply; it tarnished the rest. “Let the future take care of itself.”

  “I’m only concerned for you. When the quality decides to migrate elsewhere to follow the rules of society,” he gave her a reproachful look on his broad face, “you’ll be left in bitter pieces.”

  “I’ll worry about that when the time comes.” What good was it to fret about something she couldn’t change? She was determined to delight in what she had, to hold on with both hands to her passion for Branek—and indulge in his for her.

  “You should ask for an allowance. Make certain you’re taken care of.”

  “I’d never do that. I take care of myself.” She fought down the irritation of being perceived as a helpless woman, or a dirty little secret. She dropped the celery into the basin. “What we have is more precious than what people are no doubt whispering. They will never understand.”

  “That’s been said by women down through the ages. Of course, I’ll be here with a shoulder to cry on.” Horace patted his plump shoulder. “There’s plenty of room.”

  She laughed softly to chase away her annoyance. “I appreciate you, an’ will remember that. You are the best of friends to me.”

  “What about your customers? How is business since the gossip is loose and gnashing all about?”

  “For some strange reason, I’ve had more. Mostly men who act kindly toward me, or they’re only curious.” She slowly washed the long, fibrous celery stalks. But those men purchased items, and that’s what was important. The surgeon who had treated Branek that first night also gave her his trade. A few women had come in and chided her, telling her they’d take their business elsewhere. However, she sensed that a few people sympathized with her and Branek as two people who desperately needed each other.

  The bell tinkled out front, then steady footsteps entered the shop. Branek walked into the kitchen, as if her musings had conjured him forth. His face was full of despair and her stomach twisted.

  “Is everything all right?” She swiped her hands on her cloth, hurried to him, and grasped his arm.

  “Well, I’ll be going, an’ place your spice order with my son.” Horace stood and crushed on his hat. “Good to see you, sir. I hope you’re in excellent health. I am, so no need to ask.” He waved the paper in the air. “Oregano an’ ginger, an interesting mix.” He nodded and left the room.

  She followed and bolted the front door after him, then quickly returned to the kitchen. “Tell me what’s wrong, dear.”

  Branek pulled her into his arms, his heart beating against her cheek when she rested her head. “I found out who murdered Sophie.”

  She lurched back with a gasp. “Who is it?” By the sadness in his expression, and her own suspicions, she feared she knew.

  “It was Will. I still can’t fathom it. I stopped to inform the magistrate on my way here.” His voice was thick with emotion. “Will thought he was ending my misery, the entire household’s misery. Sadly, he was, but to go about it in such a way.”

  “I’m so sorry. I’d never have believed that of him.” Her heart ached for Branek. She brushed her fingers through the hair at his temple.

  “Part of me will never believe it. But he confessed how he managed to slip in to Sophie’s room to be of help to Grace and Mrs. Sandrey. Of course, he never dared to do anything if Dr. Treen was present.” Branek’s face contorted with grief. “How twice he took small packets of arsenic with him in his pocket, to slip into the infusions on her bedside table.”

  “I know you an’ Will were old friends, close since children. A cruel blow this is for you.” She cringed at the horror of a woman being poisoned, but the relief the ordeal was at an end—they were both vindicated—wafted over her like a summer breeze.

  “Perhaps if I’d been a more attentive husband I’d have noticed his activity during her illness.” Branek shook his head wearily.

  “No, don’t blame yourself. From what you’ve told me, you did all you could to make your marriage prosper. It’s over now.” She hugged him fiercely and wondered what this meant for her. He could rightly pursue a proper woman to marry, now that the resolved crime left him free. She bit on her lip and nestled her cheek against the soft wool of his frockcoat.

  * * *

  Shouting filtered up from somewhere. Jenna sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. Branek slept beside her, his breathing deep and even. The shouting continued. Reluctant to leave the warmth of the bed, the feel of his skin next to hers, she finally slipped on her chemise and crawled out. She went to her front window and opened the casement to a gray early morning.

  A man was waving a newspaper about. “Read it here. News just up from Plymouth. The war with America seems lost!”

  “We lost the war?” she cried out in shock.

  Branek groaned, turned in bed, then rose on one elbow. “What is it? What has happened?”

  “Come to the window, there’s bad news about the war.” She motioned to him, then turned back to the street and leaned over the sill. “You there, tell me what you’re bellowing about.”

  “On October 19th, Lord Cornwallis surrendered at Yorktown in Virginia. The Royal Navy was too late to reinforce him. Read it here, in the Sherborne Mercury, November 25th edition. A sad day for us, it be.” The man stood in the middle of the street as the mist off the rivers crept around his buckled shoes. “The rebels an’ the bloody French have conspired to defeat us.”

  Branek threw on his shirt and joined her at the window. “The war seems lost? So what happens now? Has the news reached London? Is Parliament aware?” he called down to the man.

  “Many say the king will want to continue the fight,” the man said. “We await Parliament’s an’ King George’s decision to sue for peace or else.”

  More windows squeaked open. People started leaving their homes and approaching, demanding papers or further information. Women sobbed and men raised angry or befuddled voices.

  “What a blunder this entire affair has been.” Branek smoothed down his hair
and looked at her. “I feared this was coming, but held on to slight hope.”

  “I’m sorry you might lose your tobacco investments.” She shivered in the cold air, watching his face as resignation crossed his features.

  “There’s no changing that if it happens. I’m learning not to lament what is beyond my ken.”

  He picked up his frock coat and draped it over her shoulders. Then he jerked the black armband from the sleeve and tossed it out the window. “As I am one for actions at inappropriate intervals, would you care to marry a man who might not be so prosperous, my dearest Mrs. Rosedew?”

  Jenna absorbed the warmth of the coat that smelled like him. The discarded black material floated in the breeze on its way down into the gathering crowd. The arguments and cries, with more shouting, disrupted her hearing. She turned to him, his intense gaze on her. “You didn’t just say what I thought you did, did you?”

  “I would be extremely honored if you would become my wife.” He put his hands on her upper arms and hugged her against him, his fingers spreading up to her shoulders.

  “Are you certain? You will be cut by your peers, no doubt.” Her heart seemed to dance in her chest. She’d wished for more, but never expected this. Her breath rasped. “And you’ll not likely get an heir.”

  “Any peers who cut me weren’t worth anything in the first place. And I have a wonderful nephew to be my heir. Life is so fleeting. I only want to be happy now, and with you.” He bent and kissed her, softly and slowly. “I should have offered days ago, but I wanted to sort out Will’s arrest, the consequences and shock. Forgive me for being foolish.”

  Her mind raced; this would never succeed. She’d never fit in with his station; she’d be mocked, out of her depth like threadbare wool among the velvets. She fought a quiver and stroked his cheek. “I would like nothing better, yet there is so much to think about.”

  “Please, Jenna, I know we’ll have to make many adjustments, and suffer the scorn of blockheads, but I promise you all my love and devotion.” He ran his thumb along her lower lip. “We’ll manage it if we work together.”

  His warm gaze swelled her chest, his smile almost shy. Her pulse fluttered. She’d never been a coward. She’d suffer the malice, for him. “Then I would, sir, most assuredly, be honored to become your wife.” Tears filled her eyes, and she sniffed. She curled her arms around his neck and kissed him back.

  “I would dash away with you to Gretna Green for a quick wedding, but out of respect for you, I think we should call the banns at St. Margaret’s.”

  “That will inflame the congregation. First their deacon arrested for thievery, an’ now their squire marrying the apothecary’s widow.” She smiled through her tears.

  He wiped the dampness from her cheeks, his smile sweet. “They will only be envious of what we share.”

  She’d worry about her shop later, but wouldn’t give up her trade. Polefant Place would be perfect to grow more herbs. But first she’d coddle in love and shower this man with adoration. “I will make you the happiest husband on earth, an’ that is a promise.” Perhaps without the preventive herbs she’d used with Lemuel after her miscarriages, there might be a slight chance of her breeding. Nine and thirty wasn’t that old. She’d been nauseated lately in the mornings—and might already be with child.

  She pulled the casement closed and drew the curtain.

  * * *

  When the curate paused after Holy Communion, Branek held firm to Jenna’s hand as they sat in his private pew. He welcomed what was coming, but not the idea of putting her through any disparagement.

  The curate cleared his throat and glanced at Branek, then at the restless congregation in St. Margaret’s. “Today, I publish the banns of marriage between Mr. Branek Pentreath of Polefant Place, and Mrs. Jenna Rosedew of Truro—”

  Several people gasped; clothes rustled and heads turned as feet scraped the floor. The smell of sour bodies and perfume sifted about the chamber as more people grumbled and one couple stood and stalked out.

  “I apologize for the bad manners of the parishioners,” Branek whispered to her as he squeezed her hand. She winked and leaned her shoulder against his, warming his heart.

  “As I was saying,” the curate continued, “if any of you know cause, or just impediment, why these two persons should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, ye are to declare it. This is the first time of asking.”

  Murmurs and mutters traveled about the pews like the burble of running water, but no one spoke aloud. Dr. Treen cleared his throat in an obvious snort of disapproval.

  “I think they’re all in shock and could use the good doctor’s ministrations,” Jenna whispered. She smiled at Branek; the humor in her expression relaxed him.

  “I love you, my dear. Never forget that.” He laced his fingers with hers. For the first time he felt at home in this hard pew, with her sweet presence beside him, a part of him and not a separate pillar of admonishment.

  “If you love me half as much as I love you, I’m a joyful woman.” Her mouth hovered close to his and he kissed her.

  “Upon my word,” a woman chided from the pew behind them. “This is not the proper place, sir.”

  “Affection should always be proper, Madam, when a couple is in love.” Branek grinned at the pinched-faced matron, who pursed her lips and looked away.

  The service was over and people rose. They nodded to them or avoided their gaze and hurried for the doors.

  “Congratulations, Branek, Mrs. Rosedew.” Odgers approached and shook his hand. He tipped his hat to her.

  “I have scandalized the parish, and feel quite satisfied over it.” Branek stood and chuckled, then tugged Jenna close beside him. “But I expect people to treat my betrothed with all due respect.”

  “It will take some time, I know that,” Jenna said, her voice reassuring. “I will have to earn my ‘proper place.’”

  A few other merchants congratulated him, nodding to Jenna, though one or two of their wives acted decidedly uncomfortable. Branek smiled at each one, hoping to alleviate any discord. After the miners unearthed the new vein of tin at Wheal Marya, his value had risen in the community once more, and he’d acquired additional investors, relieving his debts.

  He’d also settled a sum on the Bodmin pewterer so he wouldn’t press charges against Grace for stealing the candlestick. The girl was sent home to her parents. Plus, he gave a monthly stipend to Lew Polwin’s wife for her support.

  “Sir Richard, Sir!” Odgers’ clerk scurried down the center aisle. He lowered his voice. “I am most flummoxed, sir. It seems that we’ve had an escape.”

  Branek’s jaw muscle twitched, though he wasn’t surprised, only concerned about the details.

  The clerk sidled toward a wall, urging the magistrate with him. “It seems that Will Fenton has managed to escape the gaol sometime in the night. No one knows where he’s gone. The constables have been sent out to search.”

  “How did that happen?” Odgers grumbled, his fists clenching. “This is terribly embarrassing. Just when I’m retiring from this thankless position.”

  Branek heard their words but watched Jenna. Will had been held in prison these last weeks, awaiting the assizes. He’d already given over a full confession in writing.

  “Where do you think he would go?” Jenna asked, her eyes full of worry. They walked together from the nearly empty church, and out the carved double doors. “What about his family?”

  “His wife and children departed days ago, for where, I don’t know.” He’d assumed France, with a little help from a friend.

  The cold but fresh air caressed his face as he clasped her arm and they moved away from the church. The morning mists drifted around the buildings. Smoke billowed from the townhouses’ chimneys.

  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you don’t seem stunned by this.” She scrutinized him, eyes narrowed, and he patted her hand.

  “Let’s go to your shop for a hot cup of tea, with a dram of brandy, of course.” He hated ke
eping secrets from her, but it was necessary in this one case. Some friendships go beyond explanation, and this endeavor had soothed his conscience. He understood only too well about a man pushed too far. “I hope you will trust me if I don’t say too much as yet.”

  She sighed, but again rubbed her shoulder against his. “After what we’ve been through, I think you can trust me enough to keep all your secrets, sir. This escape had an extra hand other than providence.”

  “You are astute, as always.” He laughed as they walked along Middle Row with its silent malt and trade shops. Her figuring it out did not surprise him, as she seemed to know and accept him so well. Not to mention their steamy nights in bed, which fulfilled them both. Soon they’d be married and share his bed, his life at Polefant Place. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her gloved fingers. “I should trust you, my love. Accept my profound apology. I will make it up to you in our many years to come.”

  The End

  Diane Scott Lewis books published by Books We Love:

  Betrayed Countess

  Miss Grey’s Shady Lover

  The Defiant Lady Pencavel

  Ring of Stone

  A Savage Exile: Vampires with Napoleon on St. Helena

  About the Author

  Diane Parkinson (Diane Scott Lewis) writes book reviews for the Historical Novel Reviews magazine and worked at The Wild Rose Press from 2007 to 2010 as a historical editor. She is a member of the Historical Novel Society and the Napoleonic Historical Society. Most of her novels are set in late eighteenth-century England. She lives is western Pennsylvania with her husband.

  For further information about the author, visit her website:

  http://www.dianescottlewis.org