The Apothecary's Daughter Page 15

  “Thank heaven you’ve come. You’ve seen your father?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you know.”

  “Know what, exactly? That the apprentice he mentored for years has abandoned him? Gone to work for his competitor? Put Haswell’s out of business?”

  “No! It isn’t like that!”

  “Then what is it like? Were you forced to come here?”

  “In a manner of speaking, I was. Your father was unable to pay me—”

  “Fickle loyalty! You had a roof over your head, did you not?” She critically eyed the broad shoulders and chest beneath his fitted coat. “You don’t look to be starving. Nor dressed in rags. Could you not extend a bit of grace?”

  “I did. He hasn’t paid me a farthing in six months. My apprenticeship is over. I am a journeyman now, entitled to wages. I stayed as long as I could, but I must have some means, mustn’t I?”

  “Why? Your mother makes a tidy living as tallow-chandler, I understand, and she and your sister must have got by well enough all those years you earned nothing as an apprentice.”

  A young lady in fine flowered bonnet and gown came out of the shop and walked past, a brown-paper-wrapped parcel in her gloved hand. Lilly recognized her at once.

  “Mr. Baylor. You disappeared before I could thank you. Most helpful as usual.”

  He cleared his throat. “You are welcome, Miss Robbins.”

  My goodness, she’s prettier than ever, Lilly thought, relieved to be wearing her nicest carriage dress and fitted spencer. The girl looked her way and curtsied. Lilly stiffly returned the gesture.

  “Miss Haswell, hello. Do you know what a wonderful dancer Mr. Baylor has become?”

  Lilly dumbly shook her head.

  “I have never enjoyed a village fete as well as I did the last. Well, until next time, Mr. Baylor.”

  He bowed briefly before returning his attention to Lilly.

  Watching Dorothea Robbins saunter gracefully down the lane, Lilly shook her head in disgust. Some things never change.

  She said, “I see why, or shall I say for whom, you are acquiring means.” With that, she turned and stalked away.

  She hurried back up Milk Lane and followed the High Street to the coffeehouse, hoping desperately that it too had not fallen into disrepair. What would she do if it were abandoned? If Mrs. Mimpurse and Mary were gone? Please God, please God.

  She turned the corner and breathed a sigh of relief. Old Mrs. Kilgrove and another matron were coming from the coffeehouse, and candle lamps glowed in the windows. Walking quickly to the door, she pushed it open and stepped inside. She savored the sight of tables filled with customers, the stoked fire, the hum of conversation, the smell of coffee and cinnamon and life.

  “Lilly Grace Haswell!”

  And suddenly Mrs. Mimpurse was there, ample arms around her, floured bodice pressing close, aromas of nutmeg, ginger, and woodsmoke enveloping her. Lilly embraced her in return, feeling tears fill her eyes.

  “I knew you would come, Miss Lilly. I knew it. Thank the good Lord.”

  Mary came out of the kitchen and stood on the threshold, wiping her hands on a cloth. She hung back, eyeing her almost warily. Lilly disentangled herself from Mrs. Mimpurse and walked close to Mary. “I have missed you.”

  “Have you?”

  Lilly nodded and opened her arms, and Mary accepted her embrace. “And I you.”

  “Mary, my lovely,” Mrs. Mimpurse said quietly, “I am afraid I must ask you to mind the place alone for a few minutes.”

  Mary nodded in grim understanding. Mrs. Mimpurse took Lilly’s hand and led her up the stairs into their small sitting room. She moved with youthful energy and grace, though she was a contemporary of her father. “Be seated, my dear. Can I get you something to eat? Coffee? Tea?”

  Lilly shook her head, a lump rising in her throat and hands perspiring at whatever news Mrs. Mimpurse hesitated to impart.

  “You’ve been home?” she asked.

  Lilly nodded.

  Mrs. Mimpurse gave her head a stern little shake. “I would have written sooner, but your father forbade it. Said to leave you be, and not to worry you. But . . . well, have you seen him?”

  Again Lilly nodded.

  “The shop has been all but closed these last days. If you don’t put it to rights, I fear Haswell’s will never recover.”

  “So this has been going on for some time?”

  “I am afraid so.”

  “What has brought it on?”

  “I do not quite know. He hasn’t been himself for months. Then the new surgeon-apothecary came, and it seemed to lay him very low.”

  “But, is he . . . Is he really . . . ?”

  “Tippling? I don’t know what all ails him. He refuses to see Dr. Foster.”

  “I know. I suggested it also, but he was quite adamant against it.”

  “Such bad blood between the two of them.”

  “And now Francis has left him. How could he?”

  “Do not judge him harshly, my dear. Your father was very cross toward the end. I think he wanted to be rid of him. Let Mrs. Fowler go as well, so he could sink and stew himself in private. Wouldn’t let anyone help.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, you’re home now.” Mrs. Mimpurse smiled bravely. “And if anyone can set Haswell’s to rights, it’s you.”

  Lilly did not share the woman’s confidence.

  Mrs. Mimpurse insisted on going home with her, carrying a pot of stew while Lilly carried two loaves of cottage bread. They crossed the narrow mews between the two establishments and entered through the garden.

  “Good gracious,” Mrs. Mimpurse said, as they stepped into the laboratory-kitchen. “It is worse than I thought.”

  Lilly took off her hat as she made her way to the surgery. Her father sat on the edge of the cot, head in hands, in the same wrinkled clothes.

  “Father, are you feeling any better?”

  “As I said, I am quite well. Why have you come?”

  She was taken aback by his dour demeanor.

  Mrs. Mimpurse stood in the doorway behind her. “I’ve brought a nice chicken-and-leek stew for your supper.”

  “I’ve told you—don’t fuss over me, Maude.” Her father’s voice was rough and sharp. “I don’t need your charity.”

  Maude sniffed. “Charity, indeed. I’d not waste it on a sour cabbage like you. The food is for Miss Lilly here, home after these many months. And if you were half a gentleman, you would come to the table and take a proper meal with your daughter to welcome her home.”

  “I’ve never claimed to be a gentleman.”

  “As well I know, and no wonder.”

  He looked up at her, irritation and pain in his expression. Still, when Mrs. Mimpurse came and took one elbow, instructing Lilly to take the other, he allowed the two women to help him up and into the laboratory-kitchen. He sat heavily in the chair.

  “Happy?” he asked.

  “Deliriously.” Mrs. Mimpurse matched her father’s sarcasm.

  “Now will you be gone, you meddlesome woman.”

  “With pleasure, you ungrateful ogre.”

  Mrs. Mimpurse hesitated at the door, looking back at them, the pained concern in her eyes not quite concealed by her tart barbs.

  All the bowls were dirty, but Lilly managed to find two mugs that would suffice for their stew.

  “She wrote to you, did she?” her father asked.

  “Yes, and I am grateful she did.”

  “What did she say? Must have been pretty bad to bring you home with the season still on.”

  “She only said that you were not yourself. Which appears to be the understatement of all time. What is wrong, Father? What has happened?”

  “Food is getting cold.”

  They ate a few bites in a silence broken only by the ticks of the clock. Lilly glanced up at the old wall-mounted timepiece. “Where is Charlie? Why is he not home for supper?”

  Even as she asked, she guessed th
ere hadn’t been much supper to come home to for some time. Was he eating with Mary and Mrs. Mimpurse?

  “Charlie doesn’t live here anymore.”

  Her father could hardly have stunned her more. “What? Where is he?”

  “Gone to Marlow House. Works as an undergardener there.”

  Her spoon clanked against the mug. She shuddered to think of her sweet, simple brother under the power of Roderick Marlow or his rough, angry gardener.

  “But why, Father? When you obviously need his help more than ever. Especially with Francis gone.”

  He shrugged and laid aside his spoon.

  “Eat more, Father. You are as thin as I’ve ever seen you.”

  He shook his head, his thoughts clearly far from food. “I am sorry you’ve come.”

  Her heart fell.

  “Sorry and glad together,” he amended. He reached across the small table toward her hand, then hesitated short of touching her. He pulled back and rose shakily from the table. She hurried to her feet and took his elbow to steady him, helping him back to his makeshift bed in the surgery.

  “Father, I—” She determined to leave any judgmental words unspoken. “I have never seen you like this.”

  “I wish you had not. Or anybody else for that matter.” He sat heavily on the cot. “I shall master it by and by. I must.”

  “Is there anything you need?” she asked.

  “Just quiet. And time alone.”

  Lilly went to the door, then turned back to look at him. She saw him bring a new bottle to his lips, recork it, and hold it close to his chest as he lay back on the bed. The terrible act sliced at her. He embraced that bottle like a treasure. While he had not embraced her at all.

  The greatest pill taker on record appears to have been one Jessup,

  who died in 1814. He is stated to have swallowed 226,934 pills and

  40,000 bottles of mixture, all supplied by an apothecary of Bottesford.

  —C. J .S. THOMPSON, MYSTERY AND ART OF THE APOTHECARY

  CHAPTER 18

  Lilly tossed and turned for hours, unable to sleep. At least her chamber was reasonably tidy, although she doubted anyone had dusted or aired the bed in some time. Still, she could not get comfortable. She had been spoiled, she supposed, by the high, luxurious feather bed she’d enjoyed in London. Or perhaps it was only that her mind could not rest. What was she to do about Charlie? About Father? About the shop—her father’s only livelihood? If she spent a fortnight cleaning and restocking it, would it only fall to shambles again when she returned to London? Even if Charlie helped and she somehow convinced Francis to return, could they compete with the new surgeon-apothecary and his modern, fully stocked shop?

  She sighed heavily, overwhelming dread filling her. There was just too much—too much uncertainty and too much to accomplish in too little time. A floor-to-ceiling cleaning of the shop and living quarters was needed, and who knew what shape the garden was in. There were many orders to be placed, but was there even money to pay for stock? Or had her father drunk it all away? It was too much for one person to manage. Too much for her at any rate. Finally, the heavy weight pressed down on her, and to escape it, she found sleep at last.

  In the morning, she arose early, dressed in her simplest frock, pinned up her hair in a plain coil, and went downstairs. First things first. A great deal of hot coffee for her father and hot water for a bath and shave.

  She walked quietly across the shop in the dim light of dawn. Again the enormity of the task ahead weighed on her. Hopeless.

  She gingerly pushed open the surgery door. Her father lay sprawled on the cot, much as she had left him the night before. The bottle she had seen him clutch now lay empty beside him in bed. She crept closer. And in the light beginning to seep through the window, she noticed that the bottle bore no label. What is his poison of choice? she wondered. She bent low, gently tugged the bottle from his grasp, and brought it to her nose and sniffed. She knew little of liquor, but this biting acrid smell baffled her.

  She heard a sound, the rattling of a door, and started. She was not ready to face any would-be patients yet—and the embarrassed explanations that would certainly follow. The door rattled again.

  “Father? Father, wake up.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Father, time to get up. Someone is at the door.”

  He did not respond.

  Sighing, she stepped from the surgery into the shop, rehearsing the words to turn whomever it was away. Through the shopwindow, she saw Mrs. Mimpurse standing there. Why had she not come to the garden door as usual? As Lilly crossed the shop, she was surprised to glimpse two others, no three, no four others with her. Was Maude trying to help by bringing customers? Did she not realize neither the shop nor her father were in any condition to serve anybody?

  She opened the door. Before she could say anything, Mrs. Mimpurse bustled in, followed by her kitchen maid, Jane, each carrying a mop and bucket. Behind them, Mary bore a basket of biscuits and muffins. Then came sharp-tongued Mrs. Kilgrove; Mr. Baisley, the vicar; and old Arthur Owen with a hen under his arm.

  “Put that bird in the garden, Mr. Owen,” Mrs. Kilgrove ordered. “We are here to right the place, not foul it with fowl.”

  Lilly was too speechless to say anything at all.

  Then came her brother, bounding through the door.

  “Charlie!”

  He stretched his arms as though he might embrace her, but ended by awkwardly patting her shoulders instead.

  “Mrs. M. sent word you’d come home, Lilly. It’s happy I am to see you.”

  “And I you, Charlie. How you have grown!”

  “ ’At I have. And I am to see what I can do to right the garden. I’ve only my half day, but I’m a fast worker, I am.”

  There was so much she wanted to say to him, to ask him, but he was already walking through the shop on his way back to the garden. As he passed, Mrs. Kilgrove greeted him, her voice full of rare warmth.

  Lilly was about to shut the door when one more caller approached. It was a sheepish Francis Baylor, hat in hand.

  “Might I help as well?” he asked.

  Again she marveled at how changed he was. Gone were the wild waves of hair in constant need of cutting. Gone the gangly limbs, the ill-fitting clothes. In their place stood a handsome, well-turned-out traitor.

  She asked in her haughtiest voice, “What about Shuttleworth’s?”

  “I’ve asked for the day off. Mr. Shuttleworth is very obliging.”

  “Is he?”

  He bit his lip. “I am sorry, Lilly.”

  “It is Miss Haswell, if you please, Mr. Baylor.”

  He tilted his head in question.

  “We are too grown for Christian names.”

  “I do not expect you to call me mister.”

  “Why not? Miss Robbins did.”

  “You are not Miss Robbins.”

  “I am quite aware of that.” He had never treated her with such gentlemanly deference. Nor such foolish awe.

  “I meant only that you and I are old friends. At least I hope we are.”

  “Yes, well,” she huffed. “I am in no position to refuse anybody’s help, so do come in.”

  They worked steadily for several hours, Maude directing and Lilly answering questions as best she could as to where things went and what could be salvaged and what must be thrown away.

  At one point the vicar asked quietly, “Your father, Miss –Haswell. Is he ill, I wonder? He assures me he is perfectly well whenever I call but we have not seen him in church these many months.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.” Though who was she to judge when she and her aunt and uncle had rarely attended church either, save for holidays. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to pray for my father, Mr. Baisley.”

  “Indeed I have. Is he here that I might pray for him now?”

  She hesitated. “Well . . . Let me pop in first, to see if he is . . . dressed for callers.”

  She walked to the surgery door, then pause
d to paste on a false smile. “Father! It’s wonderful,” she said as she stepped inside. “Several of our neighbors have come to help tidy the place. Charlie is working in the garden, and Mr. Owen has even brought us a hen!”

  “Has he an outstanding bill he cannot pay with coin?” he asked dully.

  “No. Just being neighborly. And Mr. Baisley is here and would like to pray for you. May I send him in?”

  He pulled a grimace. “I don’t need some cleric mumbling incantations over me. I only need a few more days to get my strength back.”

  “But—”

  “No.”

  She bit her lip but saw it was futile to argue further. She took a deep breath and let herself from the room.

  She stepped toward the vicar. “He is not dressed for callers, I am afraid. But please, do include him in your prayers.”

  “Indeed I shall, Miss Haswell.” He looked at her kindly. “And you as well.”

  After a long day of cleaning, sorting, and disposing of spoiled remedies and stale herbs, Lilly’s back and neck ached. Mrs. Mimpurse invited the volunteers to the coffeehouse for an early supper, and they all filed out. Francis worked on, taking inventory and jotting in a small notebook. If she did not know him so well, Lilly might have thought him stealing the Haswell recipes.

  Eyeing his list, she asked, “How bad is it?”

  “You’ll have several large orders to place, to bring the simples up to par—not to mention the patent medicines you’ve run out of.”

  “I have run out of nothing. It is not my shop.” Still, she held out her hand, and he placed two sheets of paper on her waiting palm. The list was long indeed.

  “So much?”

  “The first column are necessities, I think. The second might wait if you don’t have . . . if you don’t have time to order all at once.”

  She understood his meaning. “Thank you.”

  “If there is anything else I can do, you need only ask.”

  Such as return to work here? she thought, but she could not ask it of him. She did intend to get Charlie back to the shop, however. He’d returned to Marlow House before she’d had a chance to talk with him at all.