The Apothecary's Daughter Read online

“We be Wiltshire born and bred, ey?” Roderick Marlow’s exaggerated accent surprised her, yet was music to her ears. “ ’Ow bis en’, my lovely?”

  She laughed appreciatively.

  “Miss Haswell and her father have often been guests at Marlow House,” Roderick Marlow explained to Will, with a pointed look at Dr. Graves.

  Not unless one counted house calls, Lilly thought, but forbore to comment.

  Will shook his head. “She and my sister have been friends for, what, well over a year now, and I had no idea.”

  “Well, Miss Haswell is known for her secrets,” Marlow said, grinning wickedly. “And other crimes.”

  “Mr. Marlow,” Lilly exclaimed. “I must protest.”

  “Very well, Miss Haswell, I shall keep your secrets for you. Though I suppose your Dr. Graves is already privy to all?”

  She felt her lips part, but couldn’t form an answer.

  “No?” Marlow leaned closer but made no attempt to whisper. “P-W here hinted there might be something between the two of you. I am glad to hear that is not the case after all.”

  “I never said—”

  In full view of the other men, Marlow tapped his forefinger against her lower lip. “Shh . . . Your secrets are safe with me, Lilly.”

  He turned and sauntered from the conservatory, Will Price-Winters at his heels.

  She and Dr. Graves stared after them, both bewildered.

  “Lilly?” Graves repeated the name with equal parts distaste and question.

  “Yes,” she said resignedly. “Lilly.”

  “A childhood pet name?”

  She sighed, suddenly very weary. “My name, period. Until my aunt changed it.”

  “You have given that man leave to use your Christian name? Even I—”

  “No one gives that man leave to do anything. He does as he pleases and always has. You need not mind anything he says.”

  He studied her face. “Indeed?”

  WIDOW WELCH’S PILLS

  The particular nature and symptoms of female complaints

  are given with every box of pills,

  and worthy the perusal of every person

  who has the care of young women. . . .

  —THE EDINBURGH EVENING COURANT, 1815

  CHAPTER 16

  When next Dr. Graves called, Lilly decided it was time to tell him all, though she feared the consequences. They were again alone in the sitting room, for Aunt Elliott was sleeping in after a late night at the theatre. Once he was seated, she began in low tones, “At the Bromleys’ rout the other night, Mr. Marlow accused me of keeping secrets.”

  His raised his brows in expectation.

  “There is another secret I should tell you.” She pressed damp palms to her knees to still their trembling.

  He nodded slowly, warily. “Something to do with that man?”

  “No. Only that he knows of it.” She took a deep breath. “It is about my mother.”

  His brow wrinkled. “Your mother is gone, I understand.”

  “Gone. But not dead. At least not as far as we know.”

  He stared at her, clearly stunned.

  “She left us nearly five years ago now. Disappeared without word or letter. We don’t know where she went or where she is.” She glanced toward the door to make sure no one was listening, then said quietly, “My aunt and uncle prefer not to speak of her. They allow those of their acquaintance to believe she is still living in obscurity in Wiltshire— or dead. I cannot blame them. If it were generally known, their name and mine would be besmirched.”

  His expression was incredulous. “Simply because your mother disappeared? She might have been abducted—merely gone on some errand when unspeakable mishap befell her.”

  She raised one brow high. “Are you trying to make me feel better?”

  His mouth drooped. “Forgive me.”

  “In any case, I doubt that.” Swallowing a cinder of shame, Lilly whispered, “She was seen leaving Bedsley Priors with a uniformed man. It is only hearsay, and he may have simply been another passenger traveling on the same narrowboat, but as she was in love with a naval captain before she married my father, it seems too great a coincidence.”

  His expression grew serious, nearly alarmed, the lines deepening between his eyebrows. Still, she steeled herself and continued. “I have recently learned a few things about her. I know she came to London and saw my uncle. I know she lodged off Fleet Street for a time and took in pupils.” A choked laugh escaped her. “I know which library she frequented, but I do not know”—her voice cracked—“why she left us, and if it was my fault, and why she never once wrote to tell us she was all right. . . .”

  Her throat too tight to continue, she bit her lip to ebb the flow of tears. Finally, she continued. “I lied to you when you asked why I was looking at the naval lists. We believe my mother may be living under another name—as a Rosa Wells. It may simply be a false name, short for Haswell. But I wanted to see if a man by the name of Wells had served with the officer my mother once hoped to marry.”

  “And?” he asked, though a quick glance told her he dreaded the answer.

  She exhaled deeply and nodded. “A James Wells did serve with him in at least one commission. I have no real proof he ever met my mother, but still it seems a strange coincidence.”

  “Will you contact this James Wells?”

  She shifted, ill at ease. “I don’t know. The connection seems so unlikely.” She shrugged. “I don’t even know how I would find him.”

  He nodded, and the two were shrouded in awkward silence for several moments.

  “Well,” Lilly said, squaring her shoulders. “I thought you had the right to know. Should my mother’s desertion—or worse— become known, I would be tainted by scandal, as would my aunt and uncle. As would you, should you . . .” She let the thought trail away unfinished.

  “My father detests scandal,” Graves said, as though to himself. “Always has.” He ran agitated fingers through his pale-blond hair and cleared his throat. “Well, thank you for telling me, Miss Haswell.” He rose and eyed the door with apparent longing, his words coming in clipped phrases. “I had better take my leave. Much to ponder. Be in touch soon.”

  No you shan’t . . . Lilly thought sadly, fatalistically, as the handsome golden man turned on his heel and hurried away. Hadn’t she always known it would end this way, with any gentleman of quality? I have finally succeeded in scaring off the last of my suitors, she thought, and the realization pained her more than she would have guessed.

  Fletcher handed Lilly a letter as she passed by him on her way upstairs. She needed to quickly finish dressing, for her aunt would soon be ready to begin paying calls.

  But a quarter of an hour later, Lilly still sat on her bed, dressed only in her white muslin morning dress.

  “Lillian?” her aunt called from the corridor. “Are you ready? I have the carriage waiting.”

  But Lilly remained where she was, the letter in her hands beginning to shake.

  Her aunt let herself into the room, pulling on her gloves. She was fully dressed in striped carriage dress, vest, and cap. “Lillian? We are late, my dear. Lillian! What is the matter?”

  She pushed the paper into her aunt’s hand. Lilly already knew what it said, not because of her keen memory, but because of its cryptic brevity. Come home. Your father is not himself.

  “But you do not know that anything dire has happened,” Ruth Elliott insisted while Lilly paced the room. “Your father is ‘not himself.’ What does that mean?”

  “I do not know.”

  “You do not even know who wrote the letter, if letter it can be called.”

  “I suppose it was Mrs. Mimpurse. Our neighbor.”

  “Then why did she not tell you what the matter is?”

  “I don’t know!” Lilly’s voice rose, and her aunt winced at the unusual sharpness of her tone. “Forgive me, Aunt. I am only very worried. I have had no replies to my recent letters, and now this!”

  Lilly be
nt and drew her valise from under the bed.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Of course I must go.”

  “But . . . what about Mr. Bromley?”

  Lilly exhaled sharply. “Mr. Bromley hopes to engage the affections of Susan Whittier.”

  “Are you certain?”

  Lilly nodded and threw back the lid of the worn valise. It was the only item her aunt and uncle had not thought to replace with a new one, perhaps hoping there would be no need.

  “Oh no.” Panic swelled in Ruth Elliott’s voice and eyes. “There are only six weeks left in the season. Very little time to start again, and by next year they will say you have been passed over—on the shelf.”

  Lilly hesitated. “Is that really the end of the world?”

  “No, my dear. Merely the end of your best opportunity for securing an advantageous match.”

  “I cannot think about that now.” Beneath the brave words, these were the very thoughts plaguing her as Aunt Elliott’s worries fed her own. For in spite of Lilly’s ideals of marrying for love, or of using her skills to aid her husband, the truth was a good marriage was imperative to any woman’s happiness and comfort, not to mention social standing.

  She began to fold and pack her clothing—Dupree’s job. Lilly knew how distressed her aunt was when she did not correct her.

  But surely all was not lost. She would be back soon. She had not failed her aunt, nor her goal in coming to London. Not yet.

  “Surely twenty or even one and twenty is not too old. Unless— Forgive me. I should not presume you would wish to host me here for another season.”

  For once, her aunt’s perfect posture melted into a dejected slump. “In all truth, I am weary. And to see my hopes fall apart all over again. All the work, the expense . . .”

  Lilly felt chastened. She said quickly, “Please forgive me. I did not realize I had become a burden, but of course I must be. I have been very selfish, and I am sorry for it.”

  Her aunt sighed. “I do not mean to threaten or frighten you, my dear. But with all our failures this season—the gossip, your father’s trade becoming known, Susan Whittier diverting Mr. Bromley—I simply hold little hope for another season, when a whole new harvest of accomplished young ladies will come out to compete for the same string of gentlemen.”

  Lilly ceased her packing long enough to grasp her aunt’s hand. “I am only going for a visit. A week, a fortnight at most. That will still give us the better part of a month when I return. Will it not?”

  Her aunt looked into Lilly’s eyes, her own brimming with unshed tears, as if she very much wanted to believe her, but could not quite succeed.

  The human heart, at whatever age,

  opens only to the heart that opens in return.

  —MARIA EDGEWORTH , 19TH CENTURY NOVELIST

  CHAPTER 17

  If Lilly expected things to be the same as ever in Bedsley Priors, she was much mistaken. During the year and a half she had been gone, the village as well as neighboring Honeystreet had grown with the boom of canal traffic. New businesses and thatched cottages had been built to accommodate additional sawmill workers, barge builders, and their families. Huntley’s Yard, bordering the canal, was now a bustling enclave of saw pits, paint shops, and even a cobbler and undertaker. The two villages had developed and spread until all that divided the once separate communities was the narrow Sands Road.

  All this Lilly took in from the coach window, the startling scene narrated by a kindly passenger who introduced herself as the proprietor of a new millinery shop in town.

  Lilly was too stunned to say much of anything. Was this why her father had not answered recent letters? Had his shop become so busy that he simply had no time to write?

  Stepping down from the coach in front of the Hare and Hounds, she waited until the coachman handed down her valise and carpetbag. Then she walked around the tall coach, her eyes hungry for the first sight of her father’s shop, the Haswell sign, the many-paned window. Eager, too, for the smells and sounds, the pleasant hum of cures discussed and remedies heeded. She walked quickly across the green, and there it was. The bowed window, flaking white paint, the sign hanging from one chain. She wondered when the other side had fallen. She hesitated at the window, noticing the display inside was sparse and dusty. Her brow furrowed. Where were all the customers, all the new villagers she’d heard about? It was not Sunday—why was the place empty?

  Concern filtered through her mind. Her hand on the door latch, she breathed a prayer and then pushed the door open and closed her eyes to absorb the jangle of the bell. Same as always. She breathed in. Smells flooded her senses all right, but something damp and foul overrode the dried flowers and herbs.

  “Hello?” she called tentatively, and then more loudly, “Father? Charlie?”

  No answer. Alarm began pulsing in her veins.

  She walked through the shop, noting with dismay the soiled dispensing counter, and the back counter cluttered with pill dust and used mortars, tools and tiles all in need of a good cleaning. What on earth? Why had Charlie let off with the sweeping and dusting?

  A mouse skittered somewhere in the corner. She shivered. With mounting fear and dread, she opened the rear door into the laboratory-kitchen and private quarters. A foul smell charged out to repel her. Dirty dishes, scummy pots, dank mortars and funnels were piled in disarray on the sideboard. Had Mrs. Fowler given notice? Or been sacked? She had always kept their private rooms clean, if not orderly. She heard more skittering. Rodent or insect, she could not be certain.

  “Fa-ther?” She tried again, her voice breaking. “It’s Lillian— Lilly.”

  She passed the narrow chamber where Francis slept and peeked inside. Her heart lurched. The cot wore no bedclothes, the wall pegs were bare, as was the chest of drawers.

  She called up the stairs but heard no answer. Remembering the surgery, she returned through the shop and pushed open the surgery door. Papers, bills, and parcels were piled high and obliterated the surface of her father’s desk. Soiled plates and a half-eaten roll sat atop the highest stack.

  Lilly stopped, hand over her breast. She had found her father at last. Lying on the surgery cot in shirtsleeves and rumpled breeches, jaw unshaven. His mouth hung open, drool forming rivulets at its corners. One arm was flung over his eyes, the other arm hung to the floor, hand clasping an empty bottle.

  Dear Lord in heaven . . . “Father?” She tentatively touched his shoulder. She shook him gently, then with more urgency. “Father!”

  He jerked. “What? What is it?” He wiped his mouth, then mumbled, “Be right with you.”

  His eyes were blurry slits, which opened wider at the sight of her. “Lilly?”

  “Yes, of course it is me. What has happened, Father? Are you ill?”

  He groaned. “Just a nap.”

  “It is more than that, clearly. Shall I call for Dr. Foster?”

  “No. Not Foster.” He rolled to his side and pushed himself up, only to fall back against the thin mattress.

  Lilly’s heart ached to see him in such a state.

  “Just need to sleep.”

  To sleep it off? she wondered.

  Her father had never been given to drink. What had happened to drive him to it? She hoped it had not been her long absence. But if so, why hadn’t he written? Unbidden, she thought back to Mr. –Bromley’s declaration of “the Wiltshire miracle.” Famed for having once raised a man from the dead, Charles Haswell could now not even raise himself from the bed.

  “Where is Charlie, Father? And Francis?”

  He mumbled something, his eyes halfway open and eerily unfocused. “Where is Francis?” she repeated.

  “Old tailor’s shop.”

  “What?” Why would her father’s apprentice be at the old haberdashery? It had been closed for years. Perhaps it had reopened during her absence. But even so, why would Francis be there?

  Realizing she would get no more answers from her father for a few hours at least, she left him in the s
urgery, replaced her hat, and stepped back outside, careful to turn the shop sign to Closed.

  She saw the coal monger walking on the green and hurried across the High Street to speak to him

  “Pardon me, Mr. Jones,” she said. “Have you seen Francis –Baylor?”

  “I did. In the apothecary’s.”

  He must be mistaken, Lilly thought. She had just come from there.

  Dipping her head politely, she walked on across the green, passed the coal merchant, and rounded the butcher’s shop. Behind it, she turned down narrow Milk Lane, which housed the old haberdashery— and stopped midstride. Hanging there on two sturdy chains was a shiny new sign declaring, Lionel Shuttleworth, Surgeon-Apothecary.

  Heart pounding, she forced one foot in front of the other until she stood just to the side of the big front window. She felt like an awkward spy as she leaned and peered inside. The scene that met her was very like the one she had imagined seeing at Haswell’s. Ladies reading labels on blue bottles and brown jars. Men standing around the center counter, waiting to be advised or bled. The shelves spotless, the displays overflowing with patent medicines. From the ceiling hung a shark and a blowfish, glistening in magenta and gold.

  She saw the back of a tall gentleman wearing a green fitted coat and buff trousers. He wore his brown hair short at the sides and back, his sideburns neatly trimmed. He cut a dashing figure, this man, who must be the new surgeon-apothecary. He turned, and she saw his profile was handsome indeed. . . .

  Lilly put a hand over her mouth, catching a gasp. For the man was Francis Baylor—older and taller and better dressed—helping a customer as though he were a doctor himself.

  She spun around, but not before she saw him glance up and his eyes widen. She strode away even as she heard the shop door open and rapid footfalls follow her. “Lilly! Miss Haswell!”

  She’d wanted to see him, had she not? But perhaps what she had seen answered her questions without a single word being spoken.

  Still, she took a deep breath and turned to face him. “Francis,” she said coolly.