The Apothecary's Daughter Read online

  Lilly wore a walking dress of ivory corded muslin with a lilac satin shawl. At her aunt’s suggestion, she wore a large Oldenburg bonnet, perhaps to keep those of Mr. Bromley’s acquaintance from seeing her out with another man.

  Meeting anyone she knew seemed unlikely, however, as Hyde Park was sparsely populated in the early afternoon. The fashionable set did not show up until half past five, when they arrived en masse in fine carriages and finer carriage dress, and raced and ogled and flirted until it was time to return home and change into evening dress.

  Nor were there any military reviews or driving meets to disturb their solitude as Lilly and Dr. Graves strolled along the web of walking paths and around manmade Serpentine Lake. As they did, Lilly did her best to conjure conversation, pointing out flowers in bloom, a chattering squirrel in a tree, and the occasional dandy in a high-perch phaeton. Dr. Graves would nod or murmur assent to whatever she said, but he was clearly distracted.

  Finally he said, “Previously, Miss Haswell, you asked about my fears.”

  “You needn’t—”

  “I do,” he insisted, then exhaled deeply. “I have diagnosed the underlying cause, I believe. Though not the prognosis, nor treatment. I am the youngest of three sons, as I believe I mentioned. We were all sent to a boarding school reputed for its unwavering discipline. But the stern headmaster was nothing to my father. We did as he said or the consequences were severe. To this day I struggle to confront authority or act in the face of opposition. I was five and twenty before I made a truly important decision on my own.”

  She looked at him and asked tentatively, “And what was it, if I may ask?”

  He blinked his startling blue eyes. “Why . . . to court you.”

  She felt her face flush and her heart pound in sweet heavy beats. They walked in silence for several minutes before he spoke again.

  He began abruptly, “I think it only fair to tell you that I was engaged once, but the lady broke it off.”

  “Oh.” She was taken aback. “I . . . I am sorry.”

  He glanced at her briefly, then away. “She was my father’s choice, but I am afraid neither she nor her mother approved of my chosen profession. The thought of hospitals, injuries and diseases . . . all quite disgusted them both.”

  Lilly nodded her understanding.

  “I suppose medicine is rather distasteful,” he continued. “Boils and growths. Infections and bodily fluids . . .” He stopped, turning to her, face stricken. “Forgive me!”

  Lilly said mildly, “Do not be uneasy on my account.”

  “Such talk does not disturb you?”

  “No. Though I own it is not my favorite mealtime topic.”

  “Of course. But you do not swoon nor faint nor sicken?”

  Lilly shook her head.

  He paused on the tree-lined path, regarding her with frank admiration. She was tempted to tell him the reason behind her understanding nature. But her aunt’s cautioning voice whispered in her mind.

  “In that case—” he gave a rare smile—“there is someplace I should very much like to show you.”

  His smile transformed his features. His frown lines disappeared, his eyes crinkled, his dimples deepened.

  Oh my . . . Lilly felt her cheeks grow warm as she gazed at him, glad he could not read her thoughts.

  Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

  What thou among the leaves hast never known,

  The weariness, the fever, and the fret

  Here, where men sit and hear each other groan. . . .

  —JOHN KEATS, POET & LICENSED APOTH ECARY, 1819

  CHAPTER 12

  Dr. Graves hired a hackney to drive them to the southeast of London, to large and impressive Guy’s Hospital.

  “I would like you to see where I have spent my days and sometimes my nights this last year gone. This is where I ‘walk the wards’ as we say, to obtain practical experience. Officially I am a perpetual physician’s pupil and pay handsomely for the privilege. Or rather, my father does.” He gave a lopsided grin, blue eyes sparkling. “I have taken the examination for licentiateship and should learn very soon whether or not I have passed.”

  When they arrived, he paid the driver and helped Lilly down from the hired coach. She relished the excuse to place her gloved hand in his, however fleetingly.

  He led her through the wrought-iron gates into the open courtyard, flanked on three sides by the four-story hospital of grey and drab-brown brick. In the center of the courtyard, they passed the statue of Thomas Guy himself, who founded the hospital nearly a century before.

  “Do you know anything about Thomas Guy, Miss Haswell?”

  She shook her head.

  “I cannot but admire him. He was a man of humble beginnings— the son of a coal monger. He became a bookseller, and amassed his splendid fortune from the sale of Bibles, among other things. The list of all he did, all he gave, would run the length of a man’s arm.”

  Passing between columns and beneath an archway, they entered the building. Dr. Graves seemed to come to life within its walls. Gone was the reticent man she had met at the ball. Eagerly, he led her on an enthusiastic tour of the main hall, the chapel, the lecture theatre, and two of the twelve wards.

  “This is a teaching hospital,” he explained. “Apothecaries, surgeons’ apprentices, physicians’ pupils, and dressers come here for courses of study.”

  Her attention was piqued by the mention of apothecaries, but this time she kept her mouth closed.

  A young man bearing a stack of books and papers whipped around a corner and collided with Dr. Graves. Graves reached out his hands to prevent a blow, but still the young man’s books and papers fell and scattered to the floor.

  “I say, Keats, have a care.”

  “Sorry, old man.” Young Mr. Keats sank to his haunches and began picking up his papers. Lilly did the same, picking up the sheet that had landed on the toe of her boot. She glanced at it, surprised to see, in a lovely hand, stanzas of a sonnet. A few phrases leapt off the page. O SOLITUDE! . . . climb with me the steep . . . flowery slopes . . .

  As he rose, Lilly saw that the man, near her own age, seemed distracted and flighty as a sparrow.

  She held out the paper toward him. Eyeing it, his frenetic movements stilled. He lifted his gaze to hers, warily. Without comment, she handed him the paper. He tucked it under the book on the top of his stack.

  “Thank you, fair miss.”

  “Miss Haswell, may I present Mr. John Keats.”

  The young man bowed. “How do you do.”

  “Mr. Keats is training to become an apothecary. Are you not, Keats?”

  He ducked his head. “Yes . . . and other pursuits as well.”

  Graves peered at the book Keats bore. “A volume of lyric poetry . . . I do not recall that in the curriculum.”

  “No, sir. Only in my spare time, sir.”

  Bowing again to Lilly, John Keats strode quickly down the corridor.

  Watching him retreat, Dr. Graves shook his head. “Keen student. But a bit of a dreamer, I’m afraid. Fancies himself a poet. Writes such nonsense in the margins of his work . . .”

  Graves then led her up two flights of stairs. “I would not bring you up here were any operations scheduled. But you might find the theatre itself interesting.” He pushed the door open and ushered her inside. The air that met her held a sour, cloying odor, which she recognized instantly as blood. The theatre was horseshoe shaped with three rows of benches rising high on two curved sides.

  He led her down the steep stairs to the operating pit below. A narrow wooden table stood at center. Light from a skylight and two gas lamps suspended from the ceiling illuminated the scene. Beneath the table was a box of sawdust for collecting blood, she guessed. Beside it was a common dining room chair and a sideboard of instruments. A mop and bucket stood at the ready against the wall.

  From this lower vantage, Dr. Graves pointed up to the rows of benches rising around them. “The first two rows are for the dre
ssers, and behind that partition sit the other pupils. All are required to attend, whether future surgeons, physicians, or apothecaries.”

  Suddenly the door above them, from which they themselves had entered, burst open, and a stream of young men rushed in, filing into the rows with friendly shoving and jocularity.

  Graves frowned and looked at her apologetically. “Must be an operation after all. An emergency perhaps. Let us take our leave.”

  Before they could, the side door opened and two aproned men came in, carrying a draped figure on a litter.

  Lilly climbed the steps quickly, but midway up, glanced back. Behind the two assistants came a man she identified as a surgeon by the old frock coat he wore, stained with blood, dried and fresh.

  “Miss Haswell,” Dr. Graves urged from behind. “Please.”

  She continued to the top, Dr. Graves at her heels. By now, the pupils were packed in as tight as pills in a bottle and pushing each other and maneuvering to see below.

  Whenever their views were blocked, whether by fellow pupil or by surgeon below, calls of “Heads, heads,” rang out. The air was filled with anticipation, laughter, and whistles to chums across the theatre— all of which seemed to belong not to this grave occasion, but to some macabre sporting event.

  Once the door was closed behind them, her escort said earnestly, “Miss Haswell, please forgive me. If I had any notion they were operating today . . . I . . . I never meant to expose you to such sights.”

  Moved by the concern in his eyes and voice, she took a deep breath and considered what she had just seen. “I own I was relieved not to witness the operation itself, but I found the theatre, the wards, the dispensary . . . why, the entire hospital, quite interesting.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yes.”

  He shook his head, eyes wide in amazement or disbelief, she could not tell.

  As they walked on, leaving the din behind them, Lilly remarked, “Had I to require surgery, I should not like it above half to be observed by such a crowd.”

  “Nor I. It is mostly the poor who come here. They are willing to bear spectators because this is the only place they can afford treatment. Wealthier patients are operated on in their own homes. Usually on their kitchen tables, I understand.”

  She nodded without comment. In Bedsley Priors, people had to call upon the surgeon in Wilcot for such services. Her father did only minor procedures himself.

  “Sadly the death rates are shockingly high. Therefore such operations are usually only performed as a last resort. I will be pleased to limit my practice to physic, if I may—though I suppose in smaller villages a medical man might need to do a bit of everything.”

  They descended the stairs and were once again in the long main corridor.

  “Do you plan to establish yourself in a small village somewhere? I had not thought it of you.”

  He shrugged, then asked shyly, “Does the thought displease you?”

  “Not at all. Why would it?”

  He paused, examining her countenance closely. “Can you really be so perfect?”

  Lilly felt her cheeks heat. She darted a look at him and saw his face redden as well.

  “Hardly perfect, no.” She was again tempted to disclose her father’s trade and even her mother’s disappearance. Certainly her aunt would not wish her to withhold the truth once a man was courting her, would she?

  As they returned to the welcomed fresh air of the courtyard, he said, “If your father were alive, I should ask to meet him.”

  Confusion puckered her brow. “But he is alive.”

  He stared at her. “Is he? Well, dash it, what a blunder. I was given to understand that you were a ward of the Elliotts.”

  “I suppose I am. But not an orphan. My father is alive and well in Wiltshire.”

  “I see. Well, this changes everything. Do you think a letter would suffice?”

  Here he was again, the timid man full of self-doubt.

  She did not want to mistake his meaning. “What . . . sort of letter do you mean?”

  Again, his face reddened. “I suppose a letter of introduction and, well, to . . . express my interest.”

  “In courting me?” she asked bluntly. How far afield she was from the subtle language of fans and flirting her aunt had paid so dearly for her to learn!

  “Well, yes. For now.”

  “Then perhaps my uncle is the person to speak with in my father’s stead.” She thought once more of revealing her secrets. But if her uncle withheld his approval, might they both be spared the telling? ”However, I must warn you that my aunt prefers I keep my distance from medical men.”

  “Why?”

  “I am afraid in that, you will not find her much different from the mother of your previous fiancée.”

  “I see. I take it your aunt would be quite shocked to learn where you spent the afternoon?”

  She shook her head. “Shocked, no. But certainly disappointed. I shall tell her the truth—” she grinned up at him—“that we enjoyed a most interesting walk.”

  He smiled back at her and again his features were transformed. He truly was a lovely man.

  The shop bell jingled as Lilly and Dupree entered Monday morning. Polly Lippert looked up from her books and exclaimed, “Miss Haswell!” She rose, smoothing her apron over a patterned muslin frock. “How good of you to come again.”

  “I hope you don’t mind my calling unannounced.”

  “No, you are most welcome. Any time.”

  “This is Miss Dupree. Dupree, this is Miss Lippert.”

  The maid bobbed a curtsy, then turned to Lilly. “Mind if I have a look around?”

  “No. Go on.”

  Miss Lippert led Lilly back to the kitchen—far neater than theirs at home. Lilly realized the Lipperts must keep a separate laboratory.

  “I am sorry my father is not here,” Miss Lippert said. “He and my brother, George, have gone to the Docklands.”

  Lilly would have liked to meet George Lippert. A person like herself, skilled in physic but wanting little to do with it.

  “Two colliers are just in from the Cape,” Polly continued as she set a pot of water to boil. “The advertisement promised an immense shipment of new exotics and a live rhinoceros.”

  “I should have liked to see that.” Lilly said, though she could just imagine how her aunt and uncle would cringe at the thought of her venturing to such a rough, dirty place.

  Polly pulled two teacups from the cupboard and set out a pot of tea—infused with mint from their shop stores—and a plate of butter biscuits. The two young women enjoyed tea and half an hour’s visit. As Lilly and Dupree prepared to take their leave, Polly wrapped up a new bottle of Warren and Rosser’s Milk of Roses, which Dupree insisted Lilly use daily to diminish her freckles. Lilly was just tying the ribbons of her wrap when a startling crash rang out, quickly followed by the shattering of glass. Polly rushed to the shopwindow, and Lilly and Dupree hurried to join her there. Through the wavy glass, Lilly saw a man in a blue gown standing in the threshold of a shop on the other side of the street. In his arms he held a crate of Lambeth pottery.

  Lilly cried out in shock as he heaved the jars into the street.

  The pottery exploded into pieces. Oils and syrups spilled like jeweled blood onto the beginnings of a pile in the street—wood from a broken medicine chest, perhaps, and shards of blue and brown glass.

  “What is he doing?” Lilly exclaimed.

  “Dash it. Father told Hetta to be careful.”

  A woman of middle years ran hysterically into the street, shrieked, then grabbed hold of the man’s sleeve as he carried out another load. He did not even seem to notice her. This time he held a decorative blue and gold apothecary jar, nearly half his own height.

  “No!” the woman cried.

  The man seemed to hesitate for a moment, but perhaps it was only an illusion of the wavy glass. His expression stern, he heaved it onto the pile, the priceless piece shattering in a shower of blue and gold.
/>   Lilly ran to the door and opened it. But Polly caught her arm and held her back. “Don’t, Miss Haswell.”

  “Can we not do something?”

  “What can we do? He is the beadle, and the man there”—Polly nodded toward an officious-looking man in black watching the proceedings with cool detachment—“is the master of wardens for the Apothecaries’ Society.”

  Stunned into silence, Lilly watched from the open doorway.

  “They are within their rights,” Polly went on. “Everyone knows Hetta diagnoses and dispenses physic. Last week a boy nearly died from mislabeled medicine.”

  “Oh no.”

  “And it isn’t the first time. There have been charges of selling inferior and adulterated medicine before.”

  “But why would they?”

  Polly shrugged. “Mistakes. To save money. I don’t know. Her poor husband.”

  Lilly looked at her, brows raised.

  “He’s under the cat’s paw, that one is,” Polly explained. “He’s never been able to manage Hetta. Always insists she is as qualified as any man in the row.”

  The woman named Hetta covered her face and disappeared back into the shop. Finally the beadle brought out a large armful of dried herbs, stuck bunches in crevices among the rubble, and heaped the rest on top. A few seconds later he returned once more from inside the shop, this time bearing a smoldering stick of tinder, which he put to rapid use. The herbs smoked for a few seconds and then, fed by the alcohol in several of the syrups, leapt to angry life, the fire devouring the wood and filling the narrow street with pungent smoke.

  Lilly stared. The flames and smoke rose to both frame and obscure the sign hanging above the desecrated shop. J. W. Fry, Apothecary. Though the heated air touched her skin where she stood, Lilly shivered.

  A certain noble lord had brought his health into a very critical state

  and the physicians recommended marriage

  as the most certain method of restoring his constitution.