The Apothecary's Daughter Page 12

  —THE GENTLEMAN’S MAGAZINE, 1769

  CHAPTER 13

  Lilly flipped through the letters on the silver tray on the sideboard.

  “Strange,” she muttered.

  Her aunt peered at her over the half-spectacles she wore for reading. “What is, my dear?”

  “I wrote to my father nearly a fortnight ago and have yet to receive a response.”

  Lilly had at last written a few lines to her father the same day she had finally sent a note to Mary to wish her old friend a happy birthday.

  Her aunt refolded her own letter. “Perhaps he is busy. Or the post was delayed.”

  “I do hope he is all right.” Though she had not seen her father in over a year, they had corresponded regularly. Her planned visit last Christmas had been canceled when her aunt came down with a worrisome fever. Lilly had stayed in town to nurse her, and somehow the visit home had never been rescheduled.

  “Of course he is. He would send word if there was anything amiss, would he not?”

  “I hope so.” Now that Lilly thought of it, his letters had become increasingly infrequent.

  Her aunt slit open a second letter and began to read. She looked up at Lilly again, eyes bright.

  “My dear, you will not believe it!”

  “What is it? I have rarely seen you so animated.”

  “The Bromleys have accepted our invitation to dine with us on Saturday. They must realize Roger has selected you particularly. This is a most telling attention, to be sure.”

  “But we invited them.”

  Ruth Elliott went on undeterred, “Mark my words, Lillian. Roger Bromley will very soon be making you an offer.”

  “Oh, Aunt, I do not think so.”

  Lilly had hoped for such from Mr. Bromley since the end of last season. For beyond wishing to please her aunt by making a good match, she genuinely liked him. But now, with Susan Whittier on the scene, Lilly had all but given up that hope. Depressing though it was to lose the man’s gallant addresses, Dr. Graves’s attentions had served to lessen her disappointment.

  “My dear . . .” Aunt Elliott removed her spectacles. “Tell me you will not reject Roger Bromley in favor of that Graves fellow.”

  Would she? Had she not given him leave to speak to her uncle on her behalf—believing Mr. Bromley lost to her?

  Her aunt leaned closer. “Lillian, if Roger Bromley proposes, promise me you’ll not let the likes of Dr. Graves spoil your chance at an excellent marriage. Your uncle and I are offering a substantial dowry and annual allowance. The Bromleys will have nothing to object to on that account.”

  Though on several others, Lilly thought, but forbore to say so. “That is very generous. I had no idea.”

  “What more can we do to show you our feelings?” Tears shimmered in her aunt’s eyes. “We look upon you as our daughter and desire your every happiness. We will do all within our power to see you well wed.”

  Moved, Lilly reached across and squeezed her aunt’s hand. “Very well. If Mr. Bromley proposes, I shall duly consider.” Though she doubted she would need to, for despite the upcoming dinner, Lilly still believed Roger Bromley would soon be directing his addresses elsewhere.

  “Wonderful girl!” Her aunt beamed. “Oh, you have a bright future ahead of you!”

  On Saturday, Lilly was pacing the hall when she heard a carriage door close. Were the Bromleys early? She hoped not. Her aunt had not yet finished dressing and would want to greet their guests when they arrived. Lilly stepped to the hall window. The sight of the caller was worse than unfashionably early guests. Panicked, Lilly went to the door herself, opening it to the man before he even knocked.

  “Dr. Graves! We were not expecting you.”

  He smiled at her seemingly enthusiastic greeting. “You suggested I call on your uncle. So, here I am.”

  “Did I? Well, I am afraid this is not a good time. We are expecting guests any moment.”

  “Oh?” He raised his brows in expectation, but she did not supply a name.

  “Yes, so if you would be good enough to return another time?”

  He frowned. “But I have spent the day rousing my courage and pressing my best frock coat. I hate the thought of having to start the whole dreadful process over again another day.”

  “I am afraid you must.” She began to edge the door shut.

  “Lillian?” Her uncle appeared in the entry hall behind her. “Where is Fletcher? You needn’t . . . Oh, good day. Graves, is it?”

  “Yes, sir. I had hoped to speak with you if you can spare a moment.”

  Lilly said, “I have just been telling Dr. Graves that we are expecting guests at any time.”

  “True, true,” Jonathan Elliott said. “But, well, they are not here yet and you are. My wife is still dressing, but I am as good as I get, as you see.” Her uncle chuckled. “Come back to the library, Graves, and tell me what this is about. . . .”

  A quarter of an hour later, Lilly was still pacing the hall, but now for a different reason. She had hoped to see Dr. Graves out the door before the Bromleys arrived, but he and her uncle had tarried too long. Fletcher was just taking the Bromleys’ coats and hats when Dr. Graves and her uncle reappeared in the hall.

  “Graves?” Roger said. “I did not expect to see you here.”

  “Nor I you.”

  Roger turned to his parents. “May I introduce Mr. Graves, a new physician—attended the same college as Uncle Thomas, I understand.”

  Mr. Bromley smiled. “An Oxford man. Excellent.”

  “My parents,” Roger continued. “Mr. and Mrs. Bromley.”

  “Perhaps you would like to join us for dinner, Dr. Graves,” Uncle Elliott suggested kindly.

  “Thank you, sir, but I would not wish to intrude.”

  Awkward silence filled the hall. Finally her aunt filled it, saying dutifully, but without warmth, “Of course you are welcome, Dr. Graves.”

  Mr. Bromley, senior, surveyed her from across the dining table. “Your parents, Miss Haswell. Would I know them?”

  Wariness filled her. “I would not think so, Mr. Bromley. My father did live in London for a time, but that was many years ago now.”

  Her aunt deftly stemmed unwanted inquiries by adding, “And her mother has been gone these several years.”

  “Oh, I am sorry to hear it,” Mrs. Bromley said. “And Mr. Haswell. He is . . . ?” The elegant woman raised her brows in expectation, too polite to ask if her father had a profession or, worse yet, a trade.

  Ruth Elliott sweetly ignored the implied question. “I am sure he is faring as well as can be expected on his own.”

  Mr. Bromley skewered a hunk of roast pork from the nearby platter and set it on his plate. “How does he occupy his time, Miss Haswell?”

  Lillian licked her suddenly dry lips.

  Her aunt answered in her stead. “Missing our Lillian, no doubt. How long have you been with us now, my dear? Two years?”

  “Not quite so long, but above a year, yes.”

  “And do you enjoy London?” Mrs. Bromley asked, taking the bait.

  “Oh yes. The city is fascinating, and I have met so many wonderful people.”

  “The Price-Winters family have taken special interest in our niece,” Ruth Elliott added. “Such close friends the girls are.”

  “Yes, but from where do you hail, Miss Haswell?” Mr. Bromley persisted, sawing at his meat with knife and fork.

  “Wiltshire, sir.”

  “Wiltshire!” the man enthused. “I have been there. I shall never forget it.”

  Lilly smiled. “It warms my heart to hear you say so.”

  “Then you no doubt know of the Wiltshire miracle?”

  Lilly’s smile faded. “I am not sure . . .”

  He set down his utensils and stared off into his memories. “Must be ten or twelve years ago now. Several of us gentlemen went to a house party there, to enjoy a bit of hunting in the country. Well, a bit of gaming, too, truth be known. One evening, after a long day of shooting very ill
, we were all well in our cups and pipes, when the man of the house—my chum’s father—died. Right there in front of us all. Thomas rushed to him, but said the old man was stone dead. Still, the servants scurried about and called for the local apothecary. In this fellow comes, and the servants carry the body away to another room, the apothecary and my chum following behind. Well, I have to admit, the rest of us returned to our cards and quite put it from our minds. Death making one want to eat, drink, and be merry.

  “But then, lo and behold, not an hour later, my chum Marlow rushes back into the room and proclaims the apothecary had worked a miracle. His father was alive and well and asking for his supper! Well, that spoilt the weekend for the rest of us, I can tell you. Nothing like a miracle to sour the taste of port and pipe.”

  He lifted his glass to signify the end of his story. Murmurs of amused approval rose up from the others.

  “Clearly the man was not dead,” Dr. Graves declared. “Merely fainted or unconscious.”

  Mr. Bromley took a drink and set down his glass. “Normally I would agree with you, sir, and take first seat among the mockers, were it not for one fact. My own brother confirmed him quite dead.”

  “But anybody might mistake—”

  “He is a physician, young man, a master at that college of yours.”

  Dr. Graves faltered. “Wait . . . Thomas Bromley?”

  “That is what I’ve been telling you.”

  “He is very skilled, very knowledgeable, I admit,” Graves said. “I sat under him for several courses.”

  Mr. Bromley nodded, sealing his point. He turned to Lilly. “Being from Wiltshire, I imagine you have heard the tale?”

  Lilly had barely parted her lips when she saw her aunt’s eyes flash warning. Ruth Elliott shook her head in the slightest of rebuttals, urging her to do the same.

  “I forget the man’s name,” Bromley went on. “Something with an H, I believe. Howard, or Hatfield . . .”

  Her aunt half rose from her seat. “Why do the ladies not withdraw and leave the men to their port?”

  “Come to think of it, the apothecary had a scrap of a child with him. A little girl.”

  “Miss Haswell?” Dr. Graves turned to her, frowning deeply.

  Lilly swallowed.

  “Do you know this man, this apothecary?”

  “Uhh . . . yes.”

  “Well, it sounds as if everybody in Wiltshire knows the man,” her aunt said, stepping to the door. “Come, Lillian.”

  “But do you remember his name?” Mr. Bromley persisted. “I do so detest not remembering a name.”

  Lilly paused where she stood at her place. She glanced at her aunt, but Ruth Elliott looked away. There was nothing for it.

  “His name is Charles Haswell, sir,” Lilly said. “My father.”

  She glanced over and glimpsed Roger Bromley staring at her and Dr. Graves shaking his head.

  At the conclusion of the unsettling evening, Lilly walked Dr. Graves to the door.

  “Well, a night of surprises all around,” he began. “An apothecary’s daughter . . .” He took a breath. “It all makes sense now. Your actions with Mr. Price-Winters, your familiarity with Latin . . . Why did you not tell me?”

  “My aunt prefers I not speak of it.”

  “Why? So you might capture a gentleman under false pretenses?”

  She turned to look at him, anger and resolution kindling in her chest. “Please do not consider yourself captured, Dr. Graves. You are perfectly free.”

  He opened his mouth but closed it again, saying nothing. He seemed about to try again when Roger Bromley let himself from the dining room, quietly closing the door on the gentlemen still within. Her aunt and Mrs. Bromley were still in the drawing room, her aunt no doubt doing her best to minimize the damage.

  Dr. Graves bowed stiffly. “Then I will bid you good-night. Miss Haswell. Bromley.”

  When the door shut behind Dr. Graves, Roger Bromley took her arm and gently led her to a padded bench near the stairs. Once she was seated, he sat beside her.

  “Sorry about that. I don’t think my parents meant to badger you. Big on pedigree, my mother. Father is actually impressed. ‘The daughter of a real miracle worker,’ he said. ‘Handy to have one of those in the family.’ ” He glanced at her as the implication of his words registered. “I have to say I quite agree.” He took her hand in his. “I don’t care about any of it.”

  But he doesn’t know it all, Lilly thought, or he might care a great deal.

  “I like you as you are, Miss Haswell. So free from all the snobbery and airs of my set.” He grinned. “And not a trial to look at either.”

  Her heart momentarily surged, but then she thought of her unspoken secrets, and his unresolved feelings for another. She smiled gently. “Mr. Bromley, thank you. But you said it yourself. You like me. And certainly I like you. But there is another, I think, whom you love.”

  “Miss Whittier, you mean?”

  She nodded. “You cannot deny it. Your face gives you away whenever you look at her.”

  He grimaced. “But she will never accept me. She has already said as much.”

  “She might. You mustn’t give up hope. She hasn’t married anyone else, has she?”

  He all but groaned, “No.”

  “You are a true gentleman, Mr. Bromley. Any woman would be blessed to own your heart.”

  “Miss Whittier would not agree with you.”

  “At least not yet.”

  She squeezed his hand before extracting her own. “Perhaps there is something we can do to help things along.”

  The recipient paid dearly . . . there was a fourpenny charge

  for the typical letter consisting of one large sheet of paper

  folded several times and sealed with wax.

  —SHARON LAUDERMILK AND TERESA HAMLIN, THE REGENCY COMPANION

  CHAPTER 14

  Her uncle came into the library the following Monday and sat in the chair opposite her. His shoulders were hunched, elbows on his knees, and his face was wrinkled in deep thought.

  She lowered The Family Robinson Crusoe, which she had acquired from the nearby circulating library, and steeled herself for another reprisal of Saturday night’s failures.

  For several moments, he seemed to study his clenched hands. “Lillian, when we spoke about the necklace, you made it clear you would like to know everything possible about your mother, even if it were . . . unpleasant?”

  “Yes.” Lilly leaned forward. “Have you heard something? Did she contact you again?”

  He shook his head. “What I have to tell you happened some three years ago now.” He held up his hand, forestalling her protest before it could form. “I know—but until the business with the necklace I never considered telling you.”

  He met her eyes directly. “I told you the truth, my dear. Your mother came to see me only that one time, but—”

  “She wrote to you?”

  “No, Lillian. If I had a letter from her in my possession I would not keep it from you. She did not write to me, but I did receive a letter concerning her. That is, concerning lodgings she was hoping to let. The landlord required a reference, and she must have given my name.”

  “Did you supply a reference?”

  “I did. I made it clear I had no knowledge of her recent occupation or conduct, but that in her younger days she was a good girl from a respectable family.”

  “And that was all?”

  He shrugged. “I assume she secured the lodgings but, of course, had no way of knowing.”

  “Have you the address of these lodgings?” Lilly’s voice rose in excitement.

  “I am getting to that, my dear. Before I brought this to your attention, I thought I had better see if I still had the letter. I could not find it, but my clerk did find, in an old ledger, a listing of the postage he paid to receive the reference request.”

  He handed her a slip of paper. “The street name and number of the lodging house.”

  Lilly stared down
at the few numbers and words inked on the page in her uncle’s small precise hand.

  Her own hand trembled and her heart pounded. Could she really go and knock on her mother’s door? Pay a call as to an old friend? Would she even be received? Her hand began perspiring at the thought of it, and she laid the paper on the table to keep from spoiling it.

  “Will you go with me?” she asked in a voice she barely recognized— the voice of a very young girl.

  The address was in a court off Fleet Street, in an area of narrow, modest houses.

  Her uncle used his umbrella handle to rap on the door, as if he feared touching the surface would soil his gloves. Lilly held her breath. After a few tense moments, the door opened and a woman with silver-streaked black hair answered, dressed in a gown that had once been fine but appeared to Lilly to be nearly a decade out of fashion.

  “Yes?”

  “Good day, madam. We are looking for a lodger of yours, a Mrs. Rosamond Haswell?”

  “No one ’ere by that name.”

  “Perhaps she used her maiden name, Elliott?”

  “Look, this ain’t no tenement slum, mind. We just has the one lodger at a time, see, in the rooms upstairs. Helps us live comfortable, now the children are gone.”

  “I understand, but you wrote to me and asked for a reference for Rosamond—”

  “Oh, mayhap you mean Rosa? She is long gone. It’s Tommy Baker now.”

  Rosa? Disappointment tinged with relief washed over Lilly. “How long ago did she leave?”

  “Must be above two years now. Maybe more. Couldn’t keep up with the rent, see. She took in pupils while she were here—merchants’ daughters and the like—but the pay weren’t much. She ain’t in any trouble, is she?”

  “Not that we are aware of. Do you know where she went?”

  “Heavens no.” The woman’s brow wrinkled. “She got herself married, I believe. To some officer, I think it were.”

  Married? Then it cannot be her. Can it?

  “This husband of hers,” her uncle asked through gritted teeth. “Do you recall his surname?”