The Apothecary's Daughter Page 13
“I’m lucky to recall what I ’ad for tea, let alone something what happened years ago.”
“Was it Quincy, perhaps?” Lilly asked, avoiding her uncle’s startled look.
The woman’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Don’t ring no bells, no.”
“Here is my card,” Uncle Elliott said. “Should something come to you, please send word. I shall reimburse you for your trouble.”
Lilly thought the woman’s murmur of agreement lacked conviction. As they walked away, Lilly’s mind was reeling. Her mother, “married” to another man? She could not credit it. Her uncle strode stiffly at her side, face grim. If this was difficult for her to believe, what a blow it must be for a man such as he to learn that his sister may have sunk so low.
“Perhaps the woman had it wrong,” Lilly began. “She said it herself, she has a poor memory. Perhaps ‘Rosa’ wasn’t Mother at all.”
He shook his head. “Do you now see why I was reluctant to come? Why I have avoided involving your aunt in these affairs?”
“I do see. Still, I am thankful to you. Painful as it was.”
“Shall we speak of it no further?”
“Very well.”
His eyes fixed on a shop across the street. “I know. Let us stop in that library there. I think you’ve read every novel in the one near us. A new book might be just the diversion we need after today’s errand.”
Lilly nodded her agreement. She already had a new book but could always use another. She gathered her uncle needed this diversion as much as she did.
He opened the door for her and she stepped inside. The lofty room was filled floor to ceiling with books. This library was not as elegant as the one they frequented, but it certainly held a wide selection.
In her peripheral vision, she saw a clerk hail her. “Mrs. Wells! How good to— Oh, forgive me.” The thin young man faltered. “I thought you were someone else.”
Lilly was instantly alert. “Who?” she prompted. “A Mrs. Wells, I believe you said?” Who was Wells?
He shook his head, bemused. “You do look a great deal like her. Henry?” he called to an associate who stood on a rolling ladder, replacing a book on a high shelf. “Come here, man.”
The second clerk, somewhat older and rounder, clambered down and joined them.
“Does this lady not look a great deal like our friend Mrs. Wells?” the first asked.
“Indeed she does. Though younger to be sure.”
Lilly met her uncle’s gaze.
“Haven’t seen that lady in some time, though,” Henry said. “Have you?”
“No. Must be above a half year since I saw her. Thank you, Henry.”
The second clerk returned to the shelves, and her uncle excused himself to peruse the history section.
“Now.” The first clerk rubbed his palms together. “Is there something I can help you find, miss?”
Curious, Lilly asked, “What would your Mrs. Wells want?”
The young clerk thought. “Fanny Burney is a favorite of hers. Though she has also borrowed every volume of Scott and Coleridge we’ve had in. Never knew a keener reader. I believe she is a schoolmistress of some sort.”
“And have you records of what she last read?”
He looked at her, clearly perplexed. “We have records, of course, but—”
Embarrassed, Lilly said quickly, “Never mind. I only thought that since I favoured her in appearance, I might enjoy reading what she did. That is all.” She laughed sheepishly.
“Well, normally our records are private. But I do not see any harm in this case.” He crooked a finger, and she followed him to the center desk. There he opened a wooden file box and walked his fingers through the cards inside. “Here she is. Last borrowed Fanny Burney’s The Wanderer.”
How apt, Lilly thought. “Well then, I shall have the same if I might.”
The clerk was still skimming the card. “Oh dear, an outstanding balance of two p—”
Lilly lifted her reticule. “Allow me.”
“No, miss, there’s no need.”
“Yes there is. It is the least I can do for her excellent book recommendation.”
He dipped his chin in acquiescence. “That is very kind. When I see Mrs. Wells, whom shall I name as her benefactor?”
Lilly paused. It seemed unlikely Mrs. Wells, her mother or not, would return here, but even so, she hesitated. “You needn’t say at all.”
Her uncle reappeared beside her. “There you are, Lillian. Are you ready?”
The clerk grinned and made a note on the card.
“Actually, I have thought of one more thing,” Lilly said. “Have you Steele’s Navy Lists?”
The clerk’s eyes widened. “Why, yes. The new one for this quarter has just arrived. Do you know, Mrs. Wells often had a look at those as well.”
“Did she indeed?” Lilly was struck by the coincidence, if coincidence it was. “Do you keep older editions as well? From five or so years past?”
“I am afraid not. Only the most current editions. And here it is.” He handed her the slim volume.
“Thank you. I shall borrow that as well.”
Her uncle’s eyebrows rose, but Lilly did not explain.
Men have the sword, women have the fan,
and the fan is probably as effective a weapon!
—JOSEPH ADDISON, EIGHT EENTH -CENTURY ENGLISH WRITER
CHAPTER 15
Lilly was surprised when Dr. Graves paid a call a few days later. She had not expected him after their less-than-cordial parting. Her aunt was breakfasting in her own room, so Lilly was alone in the sitting room when Fletcher announced that a Dr. Graves was at the door. She was tempted to utter the socially acceptable prevarication “I am not at home at present” but could not bring herself to do so. While she dreaded seeing him again, she had lied more than enough to the man, even if in omission.
When Fletcher showed Dr. Graves in, he entered top hat in hand. Fletcher held out his hand to take it, but Dr. Graves did not seem to notice.
“Won’t you sit down?” Lilly offered.
“Thank you, no.” His gaze focused on the carpet. “Miss Haswell, I have been thinking. I wanted to say . . . that is, I believe I understand why you were not forthcoming about your background. Of course you would respect your guardian’s wishes in the matter. I want to apologize for my . . . unfortunate reaction.”
“I am sorry for keeping it from you for so long,” she said. She was attempting to form the words to tell him of her other secret when he forged ahead.
“But now I think . . .” He looked at her. “Well, do you not see? It makes such sense. Is it any wonder I think you and I so perfectly suited?”
Lilly felt her mouth gape open and quickly closed it. She stared at him, saw his pale cheeks redden.
“That is . . . I do not view your father’s trade as necessarily a disadvantage. Your experience lends you a level of understanding . . . of the hours and time away required of my profession.”
It was not the most flattering of offers. Was he offering for her? Or merely expressing interest in continuing to court her?
On some level, the idea appealed to her. That she might be able to understand her husband’s struggles and even help him in his work. Might this not make for the best of both worlds? Whom else could she marry and not count those years in her father’s shop as absolute loss? As a physician, Dr. Graves would make a good living and still be considered a gentleman, welcome in her aunt and uncle’s world. If not by Ruth Elliott herself.
“Speaking of my profession,” he said awkwardly, “I had better take my leave. I do not wish to be late for my shift at hospital. But I do hope we might speak further soon. Will you be attending the Bromleys’ rout and card party? They have kindly included me.”
“I believe we will be,” Lilly said. If their invitation was not withdrawn after recent revelations.
“Then I shall see you then.”
Lilly had no interest in cards, but she was interested in the �
�Bromley home, which the family seemed forever to be redecorating or improving— knocking down walls, adding or connecting chambers, retiling floors. Currently the home followed the Greek Revival style, though the gallery and main floor rooms also displayed exotic Egyptian art, Chinese lanterns, Italian oil paintings, silhouettes and etchings, all of which imbued the place with a museum-like atmosphere.
Lilly entered the crowded vestibule Friday evening in time to see Susan Whittier shake her head and turn from Roger Bromley. As the lovely blonde walked away, she slowly fanned herself, the gesture signaling, Don’t waste your time. I don’t care about you.
The pitiful look on Roger’s face worked on Lilly’s heart. She wove her way through the crowd and smiled at him in empathy. “At it again, is she?”
“Miss Haswell. What a delight.” He sighed. “Yes, I am afraid so. If only every woman could be as agreeable as you are.” He bowed deeply. As she curtsied in return, she felt her aunt and uncle’s eager eyes upon them.
“Will you walk with me?” He indicated the long gallery with a sweep of his hand.
“Very well.”
He offered his arm and she took it. She hoped Susan Whittier was watching.
He led her along the gallery, pointing out two new paintings his parents had purchased during their last holiday in Rome. “You are right, of course,” Roger began quietly. “I cannot deny I have long and ardently admired Susan Whittier. I suppose everybody knows it and pities me. Including Miss Whittier herself, who seems to enjoy tormenting me.”
Lilly could not contradict him.
Progressing further along the gallery, he paused to show her a primitive wood carving brought back from Jamaica by his mother’s brother, Admiral Roth.
He then led her into the library, where woodwork and leather spines gleamed softly by the light of suspended oil lamps as well as two candle lamps on the desk.
He turned to face her, keeping hold of her hand. “But I do have a strong regard for you, Miss Haswell,” he said in plaintive whisper. “I don’t suppose you would accept my suit while my heart is fettered elsewhere?”
How kind he was. How gentleman-like. For a moment she was tempted, but then she thought of her mother and Quinn and felt a chill run up her neck. Sadly, she shook her head. She would not marry a man who would always pine for another.
“Roger, there you are.”
Roger’s mother stepped inside the library. Behind her, Susan Whittier entered the room and, seeing Lilly, hesitated. Lilly could well imagine the tableau she and Mr. Bromley made, standing hand in hand in a candlelit tête-à-tête. She hoped the scene had a desired effect.
Mrs. Bromley smiled thinly. “Susan and I wondered where you had gone.”
Miss Whittier passed her fan from hand to hand. I see you are looking at another woman. Did Roger notice this expression of jealousy as well?
Mrs. Bromley begged Lilly’s pardon, but insisted Roger come and stand with her to greet guests, as his father had already abandoned his post for a game of faro in the saloon.
Roger Bromley smiled apologetically and excused himself, both of them knowing that his mother was relieved to have reason to call him from her side.
Alone, Lilly slowly walked the perimeter of the library, pausing to admire a beautiful globe on an ornate wooden stand. As usual, the sight of a globe brought to mind the spheres on her mother’s creased world map.
Moving on, she scanned the impressive collection of volumes, which would rival any subscription library, and was astonished to see an entire shelf of Steele’s Navy Lists. Would the Bromleys mind if she perused them? She could not think of any reason why they should. Running her fingers along the narrow spines, she found the dates she was looking for. She pulled several from the shelf and carried them to the candle-lit desk. Opening the first volume, she skimmed the listing of commissioned officers of first one edition, then a second, then a third. In the last she found the name, Captain Ernest Quincy, and a number. Paging through, she found the corresponding ship name and its list of officers. Captain, Lieutenant, Paymaster, Surgeon, Gunner, Boatswain, Midshipman . . .
She returned the volumes to the shelf and pulled an older edition and repeated the process. Again she found the name Ernest Quincy and the corresponding ship upon which he had served. And there it was. Captain: Ernest Quincy. Lieutenant: James Wells.
Was this the Wells? Or was it merely coincidence that a Wells had served under Captain Quincy? Lilly was not sure she believed in coincidence anymore.
Footsteps startled her, and she closed the book as though a thief, caught.
“Miss Haswell.” Dr. Graves bowed, looking quite dashing in his black tailcoat and white waistcoat. “Mrs. Bromley said I might find you here.”
Lilly could well imagine the woman’s eagerness to send another man to divert her attention. As she curtsied, she pressed the book against the folds of her skirt, hoping to conceal it.
“What is that you are looking at?” he asked. Reaching out, he turned the volume in her hand to better read its title, his fingers brushing hers.
She lifted it as though just remembering the book was there. “I was just curious,” she said and backed away from him, returning the book to its place on the shelf. “Admiral Roth is uncle to Roger Bromley, you know.”
“And what, may I ask, is Roger Bromley to you?”
Two aging spinsters entered the library, sparing her the need to reply. The four exchanged polite greetings and praised the Bromleys’ collection for several moments, until Dr. Graves cleared his throat.
“Miss Haswell, I understand the Bromleys are eager for their guests to walk their maze. Would you like to give it a go?”
Understanding he wished to speak with her alone, she agreed. “Indeed. It sounds fascinating.”
They excused themselves, then walked without speaking into the gallery and down a second corridor. While cards were being played in the saloon, in the other rooms—dining room, sitting room, and both drawing rooms—the furniture had all been taken away or moved to the walls, to allow hundreds of people to stand and mingle about. As they passed the open doors of the dining room, Lilly saw Roger Bromley hand Susan Whittier a glass of punch and stand close to her in intimate conversation.
When she and Dr. Graves neared their destination, they passed a couple just leaving, the man whispering in the lady’s ear, the latter giggling. Dr. Graves frowned at the oblivious couple and ushered Lilly into the gothic conservatory. A dozen wax candles flickered in the darkness, reflecting back on the windows and illuminating the maze of red and black floor tiles.
Lilly looked with fascination at the pattern. “Where does one begin?”
“I am not certain. You begin there and I shall try from this point. Mind your gown near the candles.” He walked around to the opposite side.
Lilly began tiptoeing the narrow path outlined by black tiles amid the red, arms gracefully extended as though she traversed a circus high wire. Dr. Graves’s polished shoes filled the width of the path, and he took the corners none too neatly.
Lilly bit back a smile. “They say it is a rectangular version of the Hampton Court hedge maze. In miniature, of course.”
He narrowly missed kicking over a candle lamp. “Do they. I say it is a colossal waste of time.”
Keeping her focus on the tiles, she began, “I have thought about what you said, Dr. Graves. That with my background I might be of some help to you as you treat patients and seek to establish yourself in the medical profession.”
“Well—dash it.” He came to a dead end in the tiles and had to turn back around. “That is, of course, an agreeable, suitable wife can only help a man—medical or otherwise.”
She felt an odd flutter at hearing him say the word wife.
She continued to delicately walk the line, reaching the center of the maze before he did. He retraced his steps, then chose another path. Realizing she had halted, he stopped where he was, a few steps away. He stood there, considering the tiles of the maze between them.
He looked at her intently. “Mustn’t we?” He took a step closer.
Around them, the candles flickered, casting shadows on the perfect planes of his face and light on his golden hair and bottle-blue eyes.
Drawing near, he looked warmly at her, his gaze lingering on her hair, her eyes, her lips. She expected him to kiss her at any moment. Willed it. For though the lines of the maze were merely flat tiles on the floor, she felt something very real between them.
“What unusual eyes you have,” he whispered. “Green and brown both.”
He leaned closer still, and she felt her eyelids flutter closed of their own volition. What would it be like to kiss a man with a moustache? she wondered fleetingly. Or any man, for that matter?
A throat cleared. Lilly turned her head and saw Will Price-Winters in the doorway, watching them with marked interest. Lilly felt her entire face heat in a blush. Beside him was a tall, dark-haired man she recognized with a start.
“I thought I saw you passing by with golden boy here,” Will began, barely suppressing an amused smirk. He turned to his companion. “May I introduce Sir Roderick Marlow.”
Sir was his father’s title, but Roderick did not correct him.
“This is Dr. Adam Graves,” Christina’s brother continued, and the men nodded to one another. “And this lovely creature is Miss Haswell.”
She curtsied and Roderick Marlow bowed, though he kept his eyes on her all the while. “Miss Haswell and I are already acquainted.”
“Well, dash it,” Will said peevishly, “Then why did you insist we find her and beg an introduction?”
“I thought my eyes deceived me,” Mr. Marlow said. “She is far more handsome than I recall.”
“But how are you acquainted?” Will asked him. “You are not a London man, I understand?”
“Indeed no. I make it to town but rarely. Miss Haswell and I grew up together in the same village.”
Together? Lilly thought incredulously. Hardly that.