The Apothecary's Daughter Read online

  She peeled off her filthy gloves. “I shouldn’t think so. What brings you to Bedsley Priors?”

  She wished the words back as soon as she’d said them. Her heart beat anxiously and her neck grew warm. She thought she had alienated him with the news of her mother. Had she mistaken the matter?

  He ignored her question and looked around the shop, arms behind his back. “So, this is the famous Haswell’s.”

  She sheepishly followed his gaze. “Well, yes. Though Tuesdays are a slow day for us.”

  “It is Wednesday.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  After a moment of awkward silence, a sudden thought came to her. “Might I take you into my confidence?”

  He straightened, eyes alert. “Of course.”

  “My father is ill,” she began quietly.

  His brows rose. “Is he? I am sorry to hear it.” He hesitated. “Is . . . that why . . . you left?”

  When she nodded, he expelled a long breath. “I see.”

  “But he will see neither the village physician nor the new surgeon- apothecary,” she continued, “for fear of his weakness becoming generally known.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “He believes it will steal his credibility. The proverbial ‘Physician, heal thyself.’ ”

  “Ah.” He nodded his understanding.

  “Would you look in on him? There is bad blood, I am afraid, between the local physician and my father.”

  “Dr. Foster?”

  “You have heard of him?”

  “Well, yes. I—”

  “He can be difficult at times, I own,” Lilly said. “He rather resents my father, I am afraid. And Father fears he would spread his plight only too eagerly.”

  “Miss Haswell, I think—”

  “But if I explain that you are only visiting,” she hurried on, “he might be willing to allow an examination.”

  “But I am not.”

  She stared at him, feeling slapped. “Not willing? But—”

  “Of course I am willing,” he rushed to amend. “But I am not only visiting. I am settling here.”

  “What?” Her heart hammered. She faltered, “But . . . oh . . .”

  “Dr. Foster is taking a partner, with an eye to retiring in a year or two. I have accepted the situation. It’s provisional for now, but if all goes well, I shall remain indefinitely.”

  “You and . . . Dr. Foster. Oh, dear. I am sure he is a most capable physician. It is only—”

  “Miss Haswell, you needn’t worry on my account. Your father’s condition and your opinions are safe with me.”

  She sighed. “Thank you. So you are a licensed physician now?”

  “Yes.” He bowed once more. “Dr. Adam Graves, at your service.”

  Three-quarters of an hour later, Dr. Graves emerged from her father’s surgery.

  “Well? Lilly asked, laying aside the blocks of Castile soap she had been wrapping in brown waxed paper.

  He closed the door gingerly and joined her at the counter. “He is resting comfortably. I do not think there is cause for alarm at present.”

  “But what is it? Do you know?”

  “I cannot discuss a patient’s condition without his consent.”

  “He is my father.”

  “And a grown and, may I add, stubborn man.”

  That Lilly knew only too well.

  “I can tell you he agreed that I might attend him now I am here,” he said.

  “I am relieved to hear it.”

  Dr. Graves turned his hat around in his hands. “Miss Haswell, there is something I would speak to you about. . . .”

  Her nerves jingled and she felt a thrill of hope. Had he come to renew his suit? Her thoughts about Francis seemed foolish now.

  He hesitated. “But I can see that you have a great deal on your shoulders, and on your mind, at present. I will not press you.” He cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose I had better go and unpack. I will be lodging in one of Dr. Foster’s spare rooms until things are . . . settled between us.”

  “Us” meaning he and Foster, or . . . ? She felt her palms grow damp at the thought.

  When Dr. Graves had taken his leave, promising to return soon, Lilly knocked on the surgery door and warily let herself in.

  “Father, how do you feel?”

  He groaned and raised himself to a sitting position on the cot. “Like a lump of bread dough that Maude has kneaded while vexed.”

  “Thank you for seeing him.”

  “And to what do I owe such an honor? He said he made your acquaintance in London. Am I to understand he is here to court you?”

  She shrugged. “He did once speak to Uncle on my account. But—”

  “I thought as much.” He chuckled. “I noticed your handprints on his coat.”

  Face burning, she hurried to change the subject. “I am not here to talk about me, rather you. Dr. Graves would not divulge a thing.”

  “I should hope not.”

  “Father, please.”

  “There isn’t a great deal to tell. He spent most of his time diagnosing what it is not. Not brain fever, nor typhus, nor several other fates worse than death. He doesn’t believe it is anything contagious, although he has not ruled that out completely. So you still need to keep your distance.”

  Is that why he’s been so aloof? she wondered. “What does he think it might be?”

  “Perhaps a compound of two fevers—lung fever and glandular.”

  She sucked in a breath. “Not lung sickness?”

  “He does not think it the consumption, no.”

  “I am relieved to hear it.”

  “Don’t go planning my sixtieth birthday party yet, my dear. Lung fever itself can be can be quite serious. But yes, there is reason to hope.” He looked at her shrewdly. “And here I feared your London season in vain. A physician, ey? Ah well, as long as he is nothing like Foster.”

  A tincture of sage will give old men

  the spirit and the advantages of youth.

  —DR. HILL, THE OLD MAN’S GUIDE TO HEALTH AND LONGER LIFE, 1764

  CHAPTER 27

  On Thursday morning, before beginning her jaunt up Grey’s Hill, Lilly stopped in at the coffeehouse to tell Mary the surprising news about Dr. Graves coming as prospective partner to Dr. Foster. She knew Mary was not fond of Dr. Foster, either, but whether out of loyalty to Mr. Haswell or for reasons of her own, Lilly could not say.

  “Are you certain it’s Foster he’s come to partner with?” Mary asked, suggestively raising a brow in a manner that brought Christina Price-Winters to mind.

  Lilly made no attempt to hide her bemusement. “I am not at all certain. I had thought things ended between us in London.” Promising to tell Mary more later, Lilly continued on her way.

  She reached the top of Grey’s Hill and stood catching her breath, looking down at the village below. The church bells rang. She could see several fine carriages in front of the church, the first of which began to pull away. This was the morning Sir Henry and Miss Powell were to be married, she knew. Few had been invited to attend the wedding breakfast, which she supposed was not surprising. Considering Sir Henry’s advanced years, a private affair was more dignified.

  “Miss Haswell.”

  Lilly started and turned. “Mr. Marlow! I did not see you there.”

  He rose and dusted off his breeches. “Seems I am quite invisible these days.”

  “Is the wedding finished already?”

  “It is finished. My role in any case, which was to appear publicly in full support of my father and his new bride. They shall now return home for the wedding breakfast, but I find I cannot stomach it.”

  “I did wonder how you must be feeling.”

  “Did you? Well, then you are the only one considering my feelings these days.”

  She took a tentative step closer. “You . . . did hope to marry her, then?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps.” He added acrimoniously, “I certainly did not hope she would marry my fa
ther. Devilish humiliating.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Never fear, Miss Haswell. I will forget by and by.”

  “Will you?” she asked, studying his dull expression.

  “Yes, with concerted effort and time, I shall.”

  “Perhaps you might teach me that trick.”

  She had only been jesting, but he looked at her quite earnestly.

  “It can be learned. I am quite the master of forgetting unpleasant things. When the memory raises its head, you force it down. It rises again, you supplant it with new and more vibrant memories. It tries once more, you intoxicate the mind, drown it out. You do not allow such thoughts to revisit themselves upon you.”

  “But then, do we never learn from our past mistakes? Is that not one reason God gave us memory?”

  “I do hope not. Pleasant memories are well and good, but I prefer to banish the others. With practice and constant diligence, one may train a memory to remain cowering in the dark reaches of the mind, where it can no longer prick one’s conscience. It may not be quite the same as truly forgetting, I grant you, but a near enough imitation.”

  “You sound as if you have had long practice. What is it you strive so hard to forget, I wonder?” She nodded toward the church below. “Besides recent events.”

  He hesitated, and a shadow of remorse flickered and quickly disappeared, replaced by a cavalier grin. “I am sure there must be something, Miss Haswell, but I do not remember.”

  Lilly found herself wondering if she ought to attempt the same method with her own memories that brought such disquiet. Of coming home and finding her mother gone, her father pacing and desperately pretending all would be well, that she would return in a few days. Charlie sitting behind the draperies in Mother’s bedchamber, running his small fingers over the roses in the pattern, mumbling the same numbers over and over again—“Seventy-four, five, six, seven . . . ty-four, five, six . . .”

  “In any event,” Mr. Marlow continued, “I am certain there is a woman out there who will not throw me over for a man twice my age.”

  “I have no doubt there are many.” She had only meant to console him, but a sudden gleam in his eye sent warning bells ringing in her mind.

  He reached out and touched a tendril of hair against her neck. “You are a balm, Miss Haswell. A sweet balm.”

  She backed away. “I had better go.” She turned and made her way down the hill at a rapid clip.

  He jogged beside her. “May I walk with you?”

  “I am on my way to visit a family recovering from the ague. I do not think you—”

  “How noble you are.” He captured her hand and tucked it beneath his arm.

  Once they reached the village, she pulled away gently, putting a proper distance between them. As they passed the churchyard, now deserted, he suddenly veered through its gate, pulling her in his wake to stand behind the tall privet hedge. He pulled her close, one arm draped diagonally from her shoulder to waist, his jaw to her temple.

  He was tall and strong and wounded, and for one brief moment she allowed herself to enjoy the warm strength of his arm around her, before pulling away once more. With his free hand, he tried to capture her chin, to angle her face toward his, but she turned away. “Mr. Marlow, please!”

  “You are right. Forgive me.”

  “I realize you feel betrayed. But do you really think toying with a substitute will remedy your pain?”

  “It would dull it, at least.”

  “For how long? And at what cost to me? If someone had seen us, just then—”

  “Your brother, for example?”

  She had been thinking of Dr. Graves. “Actually, I meant—”

  “For there he sits.”

  She turned and stared, and there was Charlie reclining against Grady Milton’s headstone. “Hallo, Lilly. Hallo, Mr. Marlow.”

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  Charlie shrugged casually. “Countin’ dead men.”

  Lilly sighed and thought, It’s the live ones I have to worry about.

  Still, she was relieved to see her brother there. Something told her Roderick Marlow would not have been as easily dissuaded had he not been.

  True to his word, Dr. Graves returned late that afternoon to check on her father, promising to stop in regularly and oversee her father’s progress. In fact, he seemed to relish the prospect. She supposed if Dr. Graves had come to Bedsley Priors to continue courting her, he could not have invented a more plausible excuse to see her so often. In any event, she was exceedingly grateful to him for taking over her father’s care.

  Charlie came in from the garden, and Lilly introduced her brother to the new doctor.

  “Graves, is it?” Charlie repeated, confused. “I like graves. Queer name for a doctor though, innum?”

  She was relieved when Dr. Graves took no offense.

  Afterward, Dr. Graves asked her to recommend a hostelry where he might dine. She immediately suggested the coffeehouse, explaining the proprietress was a dear family friend.

  He hesitated at the door. “Perhaps you would be so good as to show me the way?”

  She bit back a smile. “Happily, sir.”

  Even taking the time to tie on her bonnet and retrieve her shawl, she stepped out onto the High Street as he held the door for her. He walked beside her across the narrow mews and progressed several steps before realizing she had already stopped at the next establishment.

  “Here it is.”

  She smiled at him, and he smiled back. There were those dimples she remembered so fondly and the blue, blue eyes brightened by the afternoon sun.

  She led him inside and introduced him to Mrs. Mimpurse and Mary—her friend studying the doctor with more than customary interest.

  Mr. Shuttleworth was enjoying an early supper, and Lilly introduced Dr. Foster’s new partner to him as well.

  “Dr. Foster speaks highly of you, sir,” Graves said to him.

  “I am much obliged.” Mr. Shuttleworth smiled. “He honors me with his trust.”

  Francis walked in, hat in hand. He drew up short at seeing the well-dressed man beside her.

  “Mr. Baylor, will you join me?” Mr. Shuttleworth enthused. “You come here far too rarely.”

  “Many thanks, Mr. Shuttleworth, but I am only here to give you a message. Mr. Robbins asks you to call when you can. One of his workers injured his leg. May have broken it.”

  “I shall go directly.” Mr. Shuttleworth rose, shook hands with Dr. Graves, and turned toward Francis. “Have you met Mr. Baylor here, my young right hand?”

  Francis greeted the newcomer politely, but Lilly did not miss the speculative concern in his eyes as he looked from the good-looking stranger to her.

  GOWLAND’S LOTION

  Eruptive humours fly before its power,

  Pimples and freckles die within an hour.

  —ACKERMANN’S REPOSITORY ADVERTISEMENT, 1809

  CHAPTER 28

  The rain was relentless. A smoky grey sky poured leaden sheets of water on Bedsley Priors for three days without ceasing. Dr. Graves called on her father, who seemed to be steadily improving, but otherwise the shop and High Street were silent but for the pounding of rain on roof and cobbles. Rivulets streamed down the shop’s windowpanes, and only occasionally did Lilly see some brave soul dash past on his way to the coffeehouse, where, by all appearances, half the men of Bedsley Priors were taking refuge.

  Late on the third afternoon, the shop door burst open, startling Lilly as she sat at the dispensary counter reading a worn volume of Sterne’s A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy. Francis rushed inside, carrying a canvas-wrapped bundle. Water streamed from his coat and the brim of his sodden hat.

  “My goodness,” Lilly said, closing the book. “What has happened to bring you out in this?”

  Instead of answering, he asked, “Are we quite sure God has promised never to flood the earth again?”

  She smiled. “Quite sure. Not the entire earth.”
r />   “Only Bedsley Priors, it seems.”

  Her father appeared at the surgery door and leaned against the jamb. “Hello, Mr. Baylor. Communing with the ducks again, are we?”

  Francis held up the bundle. “I am returning the text you lent me. I did not wish it to get wet.”

  Charles Haswell’s face wrinkled in confusion. “And so you carried it outside in this . . . ?”

  “It’s the roof, you see. Now I understand why the old haberdashery remained vacant so long. The roof leaks during any hard rain. But after this storm, the ceiling has more holes than a sieve. I’ve had to roll up the carpets and pack away the bedding and all my clothes and papers. Mr. Shuttleworth is doing the same.”

  “And the shop?” her father asked.

  “We’ve employed a score of basins and buckets abovestairs, and so far the shop below is fairly dry.”

  “Ah.” It wasn’t clear whether Charles Haswell was relieved or disappointed. He said, “You must bring over anything else you don’t wish ruined. And you are more than welcome to stay here tonight.”

  Francis darted a look at Lilly. “I should not like to intrude, sir.”

  “No trouble. Unless you relish the prospect of sleeping in a puddle?”

  Francis shook his head. “I was wondering how I would balance the stew pot on my abdomen all night. . . .”

  “It’s settled, then. You shall spend the night here.” He hesitated, then added, “And do invite Shuttleworth as well. You are both welcome.”

  Three quarters of an hour later, both men rushed into the shop, bumping into each other with cases and bundles in their arms, hat brims pulled low and coat collars high. Their boots left a glistening trail of water on the floorboards.

  “Not fit for man nor water buffalo,” Mr. Shuttleworth panted.

  Her father gingerly took the man’s valise. “Come, Shuttleworth, bring your things up to Charlie’s room. He’s gone to Marlow House to help batten down the place. Can’t say we’ve needed him here these last few days. Sold two liquorice draughts and one plaster. How is business for you?”

  “Quiet as well.”