by Deryn Lake
‘Yes, Nephew, I will.’
In good spirits, John left Petronilla’s Platt, but no sooner had he set foot into the street than he heard a voice call his name, and light steps come running up behind him. Turning, he was delighted to see that the beautiful Henrietta Tireman had come to join him, her clear eyes fresh in the morning sunshine.
‘Why, Mr Rawlings, wherever have you been?’ she said. ‘I sent a letter to The Salutation inviting you to dine but was told that you had mysteriously departed, leaving all your things behind you.’
‘I was urgently called to London and had no time at all to inform anyone.’ He bowed. ‘I am so sorry if I appeared rude. Am I forgiven?’
‘Of course you are.’ Henrietta glanced at the front door behind him. ‘How are you getting on with Mrs Rose?’ she asked in a lowered voice.
‘Well, it so turns out that she is my aunt,’ John answered, amazing himself yet again at the ease with which he lied.
‘Your aunt! But why didn’t you say so?’
‘I wasn’t sure. I suspected but had no proof.’ He attempted to look mysterious and clearly succeeded.
‘What a strange turn of events,’ said Henrietta, shaking her head. She changed the subject. ‘Are you by any chance going to the assembly tonight?’
‘Yes, I am escorting Aunt Elizabeth. And you?’
‘Naturally I am. My future brother-in-law is gracing us with his presence. I could hardly not.’
There could be no mistaking the note of bitterness in her voice and John stole a covert look at her. Momentarily, the crystal-clear eyes had clouded and Henrietta’s beautiful mouth had twisted into a line. Deciding to ignore the fact, the Apothecary smiled at her.
‘Obviously I have to reserve the first dance for my aunt, but would be most honoured if I could have the second.’
Miss Tireman’s good humour restored itself. ‘Alas, I have promised that to Dr Hayman. The third is still free.’
‘Please mark me down.’
‘It will be a pleasure.’ She curtsied. ‘Well, I must be on my way. My Mama has sent me out to buy some extra feathers for her headdress and will not be best pleased if I keep her waiting. Till tonight, Mr Rawlings.’
‘Till tonight,’ replied the Apothecary, and made an elaborate bow.
Never believing in travelling unprepared, John had brought with him a truly elegant suit of evening clothes. In fact so elegant that he wondered briefly about the appropriateness of such garments in a town as small as Winchelsea. Then the Apothecary took heart, reassured by the thought that the Marquis of Rye was to be present and that everyone would be dressed within an inch of their life. For a moment he savoured a vivid image of moths whirling through the air as fine garments were heaved out from the back of clothes presses, and waistcoats, heavy with embroidery, which had rarely seen the light of day, were hung on clothes lines and beaten to remove the dust. Then he turned back to his own reflection, adjusted his cravat and secured his wig, before going downstairs to join Mrs Rose.
The lady had made an enormous effort and was wearing a somewhat old-fashioned gown of silver lutestring embroidered with pearls. The very paleness of this ensemble, together with Elizabeth’s hair and enamel make-up, succeeded in making her look like an arctic queen of ancient legend, and John would not have been in the least surprised to see that she wore icicles instead of earrings. But in the event, the actress displayed sparkling crystals in her ears, which had very much the same effect.
‘You look very beautiful, Aunt,’ said John, helping her into a velvet mantle which had seen somewhat better days.
‘And you are fine beyond belief. Every woman there will be falling in love with you.’
‘That will make a pleasant change,’ the Apothecary answered dourly, painfully recalling Coralie Clive’s most recent rejection of him.
‘Don’t be foolish, Nephew,’ Mrs Rose answered severely as they stepped out into the street.
There were carriages everywhere. Even though the Town Hall was in easy walking distance of all but the most far flung dwelling, it seemed that every citizen of Winchelsea had dragged some aged equipage from the stable and set his boy to cleaning and polishing it. So bad was the congestion, indeed, that the streets were almost impassable, and John and Elizabeth made far better time on foot than did all those groaning along at a snail’s pace.
At the Town Hall itself there was a further bottle-neck as everyone arrived at once and attempted to mount the stairs together. Eventually, though, after a long and patient climb, Mrs Rose and her escort reached the top and were greeted by Sir Ambrose Ffloote, who appeared to have set himself up as official Master of Ceremonies.
‘Ha ha, Mrs Rose,’ he bellowed. ‘You’ve met up with the young man, I see. He was asking about you on the journey but I was damned if I could remember you name. Memory like a watering can these days.’
She curtseyed charmingly. ‘Sir Ambrose, Mr Rawlings is my nephew, as it turns out.’
‘Is he by God,’ said the Squire, looking puzzled. ‘I thought that was somebody else. Ah well.’ He turned away to greet the next arrivals.
Elizabeth looked conspiratorial. ‘Now, whom do you want to meet?’
‘Everyone you know. I’ll have to find out about the rest by other means.’
‘Very well then, we shall start with the Finches, who are standing just over there. She is very rich and therefore considered of some importance.’
They made their way across the room towards the far end where a band of musicians were working up a mild lather in preparation for the exertions yet to come. For at the moment nobody was dancing, presumably waiting for the arrival of the Marquis before allowing themselves to commence festivities.
A fat fair woman, quivering with flowers and gems, was clearly their quarry, but as they drew closer John saw to his amazement that round her stood four more females, all very similar in appearance. A coterie of daughters flanked the redoubtable Mrs Finch, and the Apothecary’s heart sank, certain that he would instantly be placed on the mother’s list of eligible men.
‘My dear Madam,’ said Mrs Rose, clearly relishing the role she was playing, ‘may I introduce to you my nephew, John Rawlings, who has but recently arrived from London.’
Mrs Finch grew fairer and fatter before the Apothecary’s very eyes. ‘Honoured Sir,’ she said archly, a little bright spot appearing in either cheek, ‘I am utterly charmed. Now, let me present my daughters. My eldest, Sophie. Make your curtsey, girl.’
The wretched creature, larger than her mother if anything, bobbed awkwardly, not raising her eyes from the floor. John felt so sorry for her that he kissed her hand, then regretted it when she went puce.
‘And now my second, Sarah.’ Not even blessed with one redeeming feature, another lump bobbed down.
‘And my twins, Agatha and Augusta.’ These two plump little madams had extremely knowing expressions which quite shocked John, who considered them far too advanced for their age.
‘I do hope that you have some dances free, Mr Rawlings,’ said the mother, patting his hand with hers.
‘I am partnering my aunt,’ John replied swiftly.
‘Ah, but she cannot claim such a very handsome young man all the evening,’ stated Mrs Finch roguishly. ‘Now promise me you will lead one of us out as soon as you are free.’
‘Gladly,’ the Apothecary replied, and bowed his departure, horribly aware of the mother’s heavily ringed hand still clinging to his.
‘Best beware,’ warned Elizabeth, laughing. ‘Mrs Finch is a rich widow and is just as keen to get a husband for herself as she is for her daughters.’
John mopped his brow with his handkerchief. ‘Where do they live?’
‘In a large mansion right next door to the Town Hall. Yet they came by coach. I saw them.’
‘What pretension.’
‘It was ever thus. Now, Mr Rawlings, here are three interesting people. The doctor together with Mr and Mrs Gironde, the apothecary and his wife.’
John b
owed as Mrs Rose made the formal introduction, studying the trio in the few brief moments while greetings were exchanged. Mr Gironde looked a typical Frenchman, he thought, with mournful dark brown eyes, a large mouth full of formidable teeth, and what appeared to be a bald head beneath his wig, for not a trace of hair was showing anywhere. This was in marked contrast to the doctor who had a mop of marmalade-coloured curls which refused to be tamed by a lump of horsehair. John, who by now desperately needed to visit a barber, felt every sympathy with him. In accordance with all people of his colouring, Dr Hayman ran to freckles, fair brows and lashes, and eyes the colour of sun-ripe gooseberries. The third member of the trio, the inquisitive Mrs Gironde, was very small in stature but to compensate for this had a wildly high coiffure, decorated with imitation birds. This merely enhanced her generally avine appearance, which consisted of bright darting eyes, a beaky nose and underfed sparrow’s build. Had she moved forward in a series of hops, John would not have been at all surprised.
‘And now for poor little Faith,’ Elizabeth murmured.
‘Lady Ffloote?’
‘The very same.’
Around the room had been placed a series of couches and chairs, these intended to accommodate the older ladies and those plainer girls not invited to dance. Seated upon one of them, her head limply supported by a hand, was a faded beauty of yesteryear, these days muted to tones of cream and caramel as regarded her hair and skin. Even her eyes, John thought, looked as if they had once been bright and sparkling but were now reduced to sad little orbs of dullish tan.
With a swish of skirt, Mrs Rose sat down next to her. ‘My dear Lady Ffloote, how are you this evening?’
Faith gave the kind of smile that could only be interpreted as brave. ‘I’m afraid the headache is plaguing me again.’
‘I am so very sorry. Perhaps my nephew might be of some assistance to you.’ Lady Ffloote looked perplexed and Elizabeth continued, ‘Pray allow me to present him. Mr John Rawlings, Apothecary of London.’
Faith frowned. ‘I seem to know that name. Did you not travel to Winchelsea with my husband, Sir?’
‘Yes, Lady Ffloote, I did.’
‘He seemed much taken with his companions on that occasion. In fact he wants you and Dr Hensey to dine with us.’
‘I saw the doctor in London on a brief trip to town. He asked me to tell you that next Friday will be most agreeable.’
‘Then you must come too.’ Faith looked wan. ‘Even if I do not have the strength to join you at table, I am sure you gentlemen will find a great deal to discuss.’
‘I trust you will be recovered by then,’ John answered. ‘But in the meantime I will take the liberty of calling on you to see if I can help cure your pain.’
Lady Ffloote looked wistful. ‘Do so by all means. But I must warn you that so far no physician has succeeded.’
‘I can but try,’ the Apothecary replied cheerfully, then gave a polite bow as a man approached the couch on which the two ladies were seated.
Mrs Rose got to her feet and swept a dramatic curtsey. In fact, John thought, she was becoming more and more the actress with every passing second. Even through her enamel some colour had finally appeared in her cheeks and her eyes had started to sparkle.
‘Madam,’ said the newcomer, and gave a bow which included a click of the heels. He kissed Elizabeth’s fingers and she glowed, and John, observing this, smiled to himself.
Lady Ffloote, too enfeebled to rise, held out her hand. ‘Captain Pegram, how nice to see you here. I thought you did not enjoy such occasions as these.’
‘I don’t,’ the Captain answered honestly. ‘In fact I detest them. But the temptation of seeing the future bride and groom proved too great. Put my presence down to idle curiosity.’
He was a tall man with the straight back and military stance of a professional soldier, and the dreamy blue eyes of a scholar, this contrast giving the impression that Captain Pegram was at odds with himself. Remembering Elizabeth’s words that though trained for the battlefield the Captain preferred his own company, the Apothecary conjectured that the fellow was probably something of a misfit, and this was borne out by the uneasy way in which Captain Pegram kept glancing round the room, as if he felt out of place in such gawdy surroundings. His hair, what John could see of it beneath an ancient army wig, was brown and inclined to be long. Obviously Captain Pegram wore it tied back when he was at home and did not bother with such fripperies as following fashion. Yet there was something honest and open about him that was difficult to resist. As John was presented by Mrs Rose, he found himself warming to the army officer.
It was at that moment that there was a stir in the doorway and conversation suddenly became hushed. One or two voices could be heard whispering, ‘They’re here,’ and every eye turned towards the entrance. John stared along with everybody else, and found himself frankly amazed at the sight of the couple who had just come in. The man, who could only be the Marquis of Rye judging by the amount of bowing and scraping going on, stood at least six feet tall and carried himself with that inner ease that comes through years of good breeding and privilege. His face, too, bore all the characteristics of a true member of the aristocracy, with its long aquiline nose, thin mouth and dark brilliant eyes. And the features, though inclined to be hawkish, could only be described as arresting. The Apothecary let his eyes wander over the Marquis’s clothes, which the aristocrat wore with a negligence which was to be envied, and tried to put an age to the man. Rather to his surprise, John came up with forty, a little old for the future husband of Miss Rosalind Tireman, he would have thought.
But then the Apothecary stopped looking at the Marquis and gave his full attention to the girl on his arm, aware that he was staring as hard as every other red blooded male in the room. For she was more than beautiful, she was exquisite, a fabulous creature, almost inhuman in her perfection. A mass of hair, the colour of spun gold, tumbled round her head, its very wildness attractive. Mermaid’s eyes, neither green nor blue but a shade somewhere between the two, were set widely apart in a superbly boned face. Yet though all this loveliness could have been marred had the girl’s figure been poor, this, too, was incomparable, small and supple yet with full and shapely breasts. As she walked forward Rosalind glittered with emeralds, clearly a gift from her future husband, which she unconsciously stroked with loving fingers.
‘The fair bride?’ whispered John to no one in particular.
‘Yes,’ replied Captain Pegram, and there could be no doubt that his voice came through gritted teeth. Mentally the Apothecary took note, though he said nothing.
The enchanted couple, for that is how they appeared, entered the room and the entire company paid their respects. Stealing a glance while he bowed, John saw that Rosalind’s mother, coming in just behind her daughter adored all the adulation whereas the Reverend Tireman looked decidedly ill at ease. As for Henrietta, bringing up the rear, John could easily understand how much in her sister’s shadow she must feel. For to be brought up with someone as lovely as that, to have to live with daily comparisons, must be difficult indeed.
The music for the first dance struck up and sets were formed. Then everyone stood and watched as the Marquis and his fiancée opened the assembly. From nowhere the terrifying Mrs Finch appeared with a wretched young partner and joined the set in which John and Elizabeth found themselves.
‘Gorgeous, is she not?’ she said to the Apothecary, her eyes following every move Rosalind made.
‘Perfectly lovely.’
‘So sad for poor dear Henrietta.’
‘It can’t be easy to have quite so beautiful a sister, though Henrietta herself is very good looking and need have no cause for jealousy.’
Mrs Finch made a little moue as the dance began. ‘Oh, it wasn’t to their appearance that I was referring.’
John bowed to Elizabeth Rose and they prepared to step off into Portsmouth, a longways dance for eight couples.
‘Then what was it?’ he asked over his shoulder.
Mrs Finch giggled. ‘Why, to the fact that before her sister came on the scene it was Henrietta who was betrothed to the Marquis.’
‘Good God!’ exclaimed the Apothecary, and went whirling off down the length of the room before he could say another word.
Chapter Nine
It had been a remarkable evening in many senses of the word. First, because John had really enjoyed himself despite the bizarre carnival atmosphere. For underlying all the gaiety, the music, the dancing and the noise, had been his strange conviction that somewhere in the crowded room, the Frog and the Moth had been present, hiding their true identities, laughing and smiling as if they had never contracted to spy for France; as if one, or possibly both, of them, had not stabbed a man to death and hung his body on a crucifix to be eaten away by predators. Because the Apothecary, the more he thought about it, was becoming more and more convinced that the Scarecrow, sent to England to awaken two sleeping spies, must have met his end at the hands of one of them. Why else should an unknown Frenchman be killed in a foreign country where nobody knew him at all?
The other reason why John had found the evening so exceptional was personal. For as he and Henrietta Tireman had met for the third dance, he had felt a welcome glow in his heart which had put an answering smile on his face. With Coralie Clive firmly out of the way, the Apothecary was convinced that he was falling in love.
The admiration in his eyes had brought an immediate response from her. ‘Why are you staring at me like that?’ she had asked, but almost suspiciously, not with her usual humour.
‘Because you look so lovely.’
‘Are you serious? Haven’t you seen Rosalind?’
John had cast his eyes over to where the Marquis and his beloved sat out from the dancing, taking a cooling drink.
‘Yes, of course I have.’
‘And?’
‘She might be an angel, my dear, but you have a devilish streak which makes you irresistible.’
The words had come from nowhere but he clearly could not have said a better thing. Miss Tireman squeezed his hand warmly as they passed each other in a grand chain. ‘Thank you,’ was all she said, but her glance was eloquent.
