The Apothecary's Daughter Read online

  “Father, Haswell’s is not going anywhere. But for now you must regain your strength. Which you won’t do by fretting.”

  “Bossy girl. Sound like a physician.”

  “No. I sound like you.” She grinned. “Worse yet.”

  It has been recommended, to bleed people when they are lying down.

  Should a person, under these circumstances faint,

  what could be done to bring him to again?

  —Mrs. BEETON’S BOOK OF HOUSEHOLD MANAGEMENT

  CHAPTER 25

  Lilly had never seen the woman before, yet there she sat in Haswell’s surgery, boldly giving Lilly detailed descriptions of all her feminine flows and woes.

  “I feel like a good bleedin’ is all I need,” the barge pilot’s wife said. “There’s nothin’ like it to balance the humours, I always say. I’ve been to Dr. Foster, but that man is worse than a cross headmaster. I like the notion of a female apothecary. So much easier to discuss one’s flux without embarrassment, if you know what I mean.”

  Lilly managed a meek smile. She had been the one to insist her father return to sleeping in his bedroom instead of the surgery. She had counted it a small victory when he had finally relented. Not only would he get more rest in his own bed, but it freed the surgery for private discussions and examinations. The idea had sounded appealing. In theory.

  “So you have been bled before,” Lilly began nervously. “Can you tell me if the blood was let from elbow, ankle, or throat?”

  “Had my ankle opened once. If that didn’t hurt devilish bad. Not the neck, either, if you please. Don’t want to spoil my frock.”

  “The inside of the elbow it is.” Lilly’s pulse pounded in her ears. She began to perspire in a very unladylike fashion. Leeches, she could manage. Blisters and plasters, all well and good. But the lancet? Piercing a person? Drawing not a drop of blood but a veritable fount, were she to accomplish it correctly? Or a waterfall, should she use the many-razored scarificator. She winced at the thought.

  She began by washing the woman’s arm—that she could do. She had her recline in the bleeding chair, in case she swooned. Offered her a sip of water. Positioned her elbow on the small caster table for the purpose. Picked up the lancet and the double-handled bleeding bowl. Sat on the stool where her father always sat to do what she was about to attempt. If only her fingers would cease trembling.

  She rose on shaky legs. “Will you excuse me one moment, Mrs. Hagar?”

  The woman nodded, eyes closed. “If you have any blue ruin, I shouldn’t mind a sniff. Takes the sting out.”

  Ignoring the request for strong drink, Lilly quickly padded up the stairs to her father’s bedchamber. He looked up at her from over the top of a book. “Bloodletting, Father. I cannot do it.”

  “Of course you can. Seen me do it a thousand times.”

  “Seeing it done does not mean I can manage it myself.“ She suddenly thought of Mr. Shuttleworth. Perhaps he would perform the procedure for her.

  “And you’ve no doubt memorized the prescribed method from one of the texts.”

  “Yes, but remembering the words is not the same as performing the act.”

  “Lilly, we cannot afford to refuse patients. Nor to send them to our competition.”

  So much for asking Mr. Shuttleworth. . . . “Then you come down and do it yourself.”

  He huffed. “Very well.” He used one elbow to push himself into a sitting position on the bed. His arm shook from the effort. He sat on the bed, catching his breath, steeling himself for the energy and pain required to stand.

  Her heart ached to see it. “Never mind, Father. You lie down. I shall take care of it.”

  He fell back, panting. “You can do it, Lilly. Just remember—”

  “I remember. Now you rest.”

  Retreating back down the stairs, she prayed with each step. Please help me, help me, help me . . .

  She started at the sight of a figure standing in the laboratory-kitchen. “Francis! You startled me.”

  “Forgive me. I hope you don’t mind, but I—”

  “No! I am so pleased to see you. Might you do me a favor?”

  “Um . . . of course. Anything, if I am able.” He grinned, eyes sparkling. “What do you need? Dragons slain, villains dueled? Alembics scoured?”

  Grasping his wrist, she led the way to the surgery door. “Nothing so arduous, I assure you.”

  “What then?”

  “Just one small hole.”

  “Who’s this, then?” Mrs. Hagar asked when they entered.

  “This is Francis Baylor. Our former apprentice. Now a journeyman at—”

  “At your service, madam.” Francis bowed to Mrs. Hagar and gave her a charming smile.

  “My, my.” The woman placed a hand over her chest.

  “That is, if you do not mind my stepping in? I can understand why you might prefer Miss Haswell—”

  She waved this away. “Oh, that don’t signify. You will suit just fine, young man.”

  “You are most obliging, Mrs. Hagar. Now. Are you comfortable?”

  “I am.”

  “Very good. Let’s just tie a ligament here. Miss Haswell?”

  She sprang to hand him the tie.

  “Thank you.” He tied the linen tape around the woman’s fleshy upper arm. “Firm, but not too tight. How does that feel?”

  “Fine.”

  “Excellent. Now, let us have a look at your veins. My goodness! When have I ever seen such lovely veins? Really, Mrs. Hagar. What a light task this shall be!”

  The woman looked down at her arm with sheepish pride. “Indeed?”

  Isolating the vein between thumb and forefinger of one hand, Francis held out his free hand toward Lilly. “The thumb lancet, I think, Miss Haswell. Only the finest instrument for such a fine vein.”

  The woman fairly blushed.

  Lilly quickly handed him the thumb lancet with the ornate tortoiseshell case.

  “Thank you. And the bowl is here at the ready. Well done, Miss Haswell. Now, Mrs. Hagar, do let me know the minute you feel lightheaded or a swoon coming on.”

  “I own I feel on the verge already, young man, with you holding my hand that a’way.”

  Lilly met his eye and bit back a grin.

  He chuckled. “You flatter me, ma’am. Now, do tell me where you were born.”

  “Stanton St. Bernard, but I don’t see how that signifies.”

  “Not in the least. I just wanted to distract you from the prick.”

  “Ohh . . . I didn’t even know you’d done it.”

  The blood ran in a thin, graceful stream into the waiting receptacle. Not a drop went astray nor soiled her frock. Lilly was impressed indeed. Not only at his skill, but at his warm and charming manner with the worn, plain Mrs. Hagar.

  When the blood reached the first gradient line in the bleeding bowl, Francis asked. “And how are we feeling, Mrs. Hagar?”

  “Floaty. Tingling. Dark.”

  “Excellent.” With swift deft movements, he placed a lint pad on her wound, pressing it with his thumb and lifting her hand in the air. “There. You put pressure on that if you can.”

  “All right . . .” she said dreamily.

  Lilly handed him the linen bandage and sling, and he skillfully wrapped the wound and secured the woman’s arm in less than a minute’s time. “Now you rest here, Mrs. Hagar. Until you are quite yourself again.”

  She nodded and asked, “Mr. Baylor, will you be here next I come?”

  Francis again met Lilly’s eyes. “Perhaps, Mrs. Hagar. But if I am not, either Miss Haswell or her father will be. And I have learned everything worth knowing from them.”

  Leaving the woman to rest, Lilly followed him from the surgery. “Francis,” she called softly.

  He turned.

  “How can I thank you?”

  His smile grew thoughtful. “Quite easily, Miss Haswell.”

  She tilted her head in question.

  Looking at her, he slowly shook his head, li
ps quirked, brown eyes alight with equal parts humor and longing.

  She stared back, eyes drawn to his full lower lip, and felt a shocking desire to touch it with her own. Where had that come from? Thank heaven he could not divine her thoughts!

  I am merely grateful to him, she assured herself. If Aunt Elliott had disapproved of a physician, she would be scandalized to think her niece attracted to an apothecary’s assistant!

  The shop bell jingled, and she self-consciously took a step back, putting a proper distance between them.

  The next morning, Lilly opened the door of the coffeehouse kitchen and stuck her head inside. “Hello, Mary.”

  “Come in, Lill. You’ve caught me elbow deep in flour, I’m afraid.”

  Lilly stepped to the worktable. “I would offer to help, but I know how you feel about my abilities in the kitchen.”

  “Indeed. You with your odd apothecaries’ weights and measures with our recipes . . .” She feigned a shudder.

  Grinning, Lilly sat and surveyed the assembled mixing bowls and ingredients. “A cake?”

  Mary nodded. “And not just any cake, mind. A Rich Bride Cake.”

  “And who is the rich bride?”

  With a glance toward the scullery door, Mary leaned across the worktable and lowered her voice. “One Miss Cassandra Powell.”

  Lilly felt an unexpected stab of regret. She had enjoyed Roderick Marlow’s brief attentions. She had known he would never ask for her hand, yet could not help being disappointed at the news, for she could not like Miss Powell. “Well, I should be not be surprised. Mr. Marlow intimated they would marry.”

  Mrs. Mimpurse burst into the kitchen from the dining room, her face flushed. “Girls, you will be most surprised to hear what I have just learned. That bonny Miss Powell is going to marry—”

  “Yes, Mamma. I was just telling Lill about the cake order.”

  “But we have had it wrong, Mary.” Mrs. Mimpurse drew near and spoke in hushed tones. “Miss Powell is marrying one of the Marlows to be sure. But not Roderick, as we supposed. She is marrying Sir Henry himself.”

  “No!” Mary’s small mouth fell open.

  “How can that be?” Lilly asked, stunned. “I saw them together in London and at the house party at the manor. And when I spoke to Roderick Marlow, I had the distinct impression he was going to marry her.” Lilly’s mind whirled over their conversations. He had not actually said the words, but what he had said seemed clear enough.

  “Maybe he planned to, but she threw him over,” Mary suggested. “Why be Mrs. Marlow when you can be Lady Marlow?”

  “But Sir Henry must be nearing sixty,” Lilly said. “And not in the best of health.”

  “Still, a charming man,” Maude offered. “Always so kind and attentive to the first Lady Marlow.”

  “Poor Roderick,” Lilly breathed.

  “Poor Roderick?” Mary repeated in wonder. “Now, there are two words I would never have imagined coming from your lips, Lilly Haswell.”

  Lilly ignored that. “I wonder if he is heartbroken.”

  “You allow he has a heart?”

  “Of course he has, Mary,” Mrs. Mimpurse said.

  Lilly amended, “Though one capable of both extreme coldness as well as warmth.”

  “How warm?” Mary quirked a brow.

  Lilly felt her cheeks heat and hurriedly asked, “When is the great day to be?”

  “Thursday,” Mary and her mother answered in unison.

  Lilly shook her head. “Rich bride indeed. Or will be in two days’ time.”

  Mrs. Mimpurse returned to the front room with a fresh pot of coffee, and Mary continued working, sprinkling liquid onto the mound of almonds she had pounded into a fine powder.

  “What is that?” Lilly asked.

  “Orange-flower water.”

  Mary left the almonds and began whisking a bowlful of egg yolks.

  Lilly ran her gaze over the worktable. “Where is the recipe?”

  Mary shrugged. “Around here somewhere. Slice those candied peels for me, would you?”

  “How thin?” Lilly picked up a knife and made a trial cut.

  “Like that, right. Mind you don’t cut yourself.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Mary hesitated, looking cautiously at her. Lilly pulled a humorous face, surprised she could make such a joke without an answering sting of loss.

  Clearly relieved, Mary said, “The Marlows will not want your blood in their cake.”

  “No indeed. What else does a rich bride get?”

  “Five pounds of the finest flour; five pounds currants; three pounds fresh butter; two pounds loaf sugar; one pound sweet almonds; a half pound each of candied citron, orange, and lemon peel; sixteen eggs; one gill each of wine and brandy; two nutmegs; and a titch o’ mace and cloves. And two layers of almond-and-sugar icing besides.”

  “Rich indeed.”

  “The ingredients alone cost us nearly ten pounds.”

  Lilly’s eyes widened, and she popped a bit of orange into her mouth.

  Mary again raised her brows, “Ten pounds tuppence now.”

  “It was only a titch.” Lilly helped herself to a currant. “What is a titch, anyway?”

  “A dessert-spoonful or quarter ounce, if I took the time to measure proper.”

  Two fluid drams. Of its own volition, Lilly’s mind converted to the apothecaries’ system, based on twelve ounces to a pound and eight drams to an ounce. “And you don’t need a recipe?” Lilly asked again.

  Mary shrugged.

  “But you cannot make this cake very often.”

  “Indeed not. The last one I made was for the christening of the Robbins boy.” Mary gave her a shrewd look. “Of course, then I called it a Christening Cake.”

  “How do you remember—not only what goes in it, but the mode of preparation?”

  Mary tucked her chin. “An odd question coming from you, of all people.”

  Lilly chuckled. “We are alike in that ability it seems.”

  “True. But my concoctions don’t save anybody’s life.”

  Grinning, Lilly snitched another currant and popped it into her mouth. “Oh, I would not be too sure.”

  BITES OF DOGS

  Keep the wound open as long as possible. This may be done by putting

  a few beans on it, and then by applying a large linseed-meal poultice.

  —Mrs. BEETON’S BOOK OF HOUSEHOLD MANAGEMENT

  CHAPTER 26

  Her apron and gloves already black from cleaning the stove and alembic, Lilly decided she might as well clean the shop hearth also. She thought about her recent encounter with Francis, when he helped her with Mrs. Hagar, and realized she had never felt so flustered, so . . . feminine, in his presence before.

  As she knelt to her task, she heard a dog barking outside. She thought little of it at first, but then the barking grew louder and more fevered.

  “Down, I say!” She heard a man holler in false bravado. “Down!”

  She hurried across the shop and unlatched the door, just as a man pushed it open, causing him to nearly topple into the shop, his hat dropping to the floor. She put out her hands to stop his fall—and to keep the man from falling into her.

  The Fowlers’ wolfhound tried to bound in behind the man, but Lilly forcibly shut the door on the long muzzle of the shaggy creature, which likely weighed more than she did. The dog raised itself on its rear haunches at the window and continued to bark.

  “Go home, Bones!” she shouted. “Go home!”

  The grey dog whimpered but dropped to all fours and trotted away.

  She turned from the window to look at Bones’s latest victim and started.

  “Dr. Graves!” She was stunned to see him again. Especially here in their shop.

  He cleared his throat. “Miss Haswell.” He bowed awkwardly, and she belatedly curtsied. They both reached for his fallen hat at the same moment, their foreheads nearly colliding.

  “Forgive me.” She straightened. “Oh! Forgive me!�
�� she repeated more vehemently. “I have blackened your coat!”

  He looked down at his tawny frock coat, one shoulder and sleeve now marked with smeared black handprints, like the claw marks of a wild animal.

  “My tailor admonished me to choose the dark green,” he said dryly, “but I would have my way.”

  “I shall have it cleaned for you. I know an excellent laundress.”

  His blue gaze swept her person. “Take no offense, Miss Haswell, but you are in more need of a laundress than I.”

  She looked down at her own attire, the sooty apron, the blackened gloves. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her. “You have some—ash, is it?—along your cheekbone.”

  She held up her soiled gloves. “Thank you, but I do not wish to blacken your handkerchief as well.”

  He hesitated. Was he about to wipe her cheek? Instead, he tucked the piece of fine linen back into his pocket.

  “Could be worse,” she said feebly. “At least it isn’t on my nose.”

  “Actually—” he winced apologetically—“there is a smudge there as well.”

  She began to put a hand up to shield her face, but remembered her soiled gloves just in time. She rushed on nervously, “I am sorry about Bones. He is usually harmless but isn’t fond of strangers. He did not bite you, I trust?”

  “No. All bark and no bite, as they say. Although I rarely find solace in that morsel of wisdom.”

  “You have been bitten before?” she asked.

  “Yes, and still bear the mark to prove it.” He pointed to a scar above his upper lip and extending, though faintly, beneath his moustache and nearly to his nose. “It is why I’ve taken to wearing a moustache, unfashionable as it is.”

  She nodded, taking in the short golden hairs, a shade darker than the pale blond hair of his head and eyebrows. She had wondered.

  “It isn’t very noticeable,” she said.

  “The scar, or the moustache?”

  She smiled to cover her embarrassment. “Neither one.”

  He chuckled dryly. “I must say, this is not at all how I imagined meeting you again.”