The Apothecary's Daughter Read online

  “Please come quickly. It’s Mary Mimpurse. She’s having a fit.”

  She half expected him to freeze in the face of an emergency as he had in London, but she silently thanked God when he bent immediately and picked up his case.

  Adam Graves’s heart pounded, but he did not hesitate. Miss Haswell’s practical, no-nonsense commands pushed him into action, and his limbs obeyed her even while his mind struggled to catch up.

  She asked, “Have you valerian, or should I run home for some?”

  He opened his case and checked its contents. “I have all I need.”

  “Good. Hurry.” She turned on her heel, giving him little choice but to follow.

  He had to jog to keep up with her along Milk Lane and then down the High Street. She had somehow learned to run at an impressive pace while appearing merely to glide.

  Rounding the coffeehouse, she opened the back door and gestured him inside ahead of her. Mrs. Mimpurse had swept the utensils from the worktable and managed to lay her daughter upon it. The poor girl convulsed, eyes rolled back, wooden spoon protruding from her mouth. Her mother did her best to hold her in place, with the help of a young maid. He surprised himself by immediately rushing forward to aid them.

  “Father believes valerian to be the best remedy,” Miss Haswell said, appearing beside him at the table. “The trick is to administer it while she’s in this state.”

  “Give me two ounces of the extract, then.”

  “So much? Is not the regular dose one half to one dram?”

  “We shall debate theories later, shall we? With all haste, Miss Haswell.”

  He continued to help the two women steady Miss Mimpurse while Lilly poured the liquid into a glass measure and handed it to him.

  “Help me pry open her mouth.” Using the wooden spoon as a lever, the two managed to open her mouth, pour in the foul liquid, and coax it to the back of her throat. Her swallowing reflex did the rest.

  “Now, help us hold her until it takes effect. If it does . . .”

  “It will. Always has.”

  Already, the young woman’s seizures were gentling, whether from the dosage or the simple passage of time, he could not tell. He did not like that Miss Haswell felt she had to question him, that she could not trust his judgment.

  While they held Miss Mimpurse, he endeavored to explain, “You are correct that the accepted preventative dose is one half to one dram three or four times as day. But more is required to calm an episode in full force.”

  “I see.”

  “In any case, I am not convinced valerian suppresses seizures, and it certainly does not cure the root of the disease.”

  “What is the cure?” she asked.

  He glanced at the white-faced mother, then back at Miss Haswell. “I fear there is none.”

  Later, after he had helped Mrs. Mimpurse put her weakened daughter to bed, and accepted the woman’s gratitude, Adam walked outside with Miss Haswell.

  “Do you think she ought to take valerian on a daily basis?” she asked.

  “Not at this point. I recommend an infusion of scullcap. ”

  “Mad-dog weed?”

  “It works as antispasmodic and relaxing nervine both. Perhaps you would be so good as to prepare it?”

  “Of course,” she said, clearly pleased to be called upon.

  Reaching Haswell’s, she paused to look up at him. How earnest her expression, her heart-shaped face wreathed by that splendid russet hair.

  “May I ask you to keep this episode to yourself?” she began. “Mary is quite self-conscious about her condition. It has been so long since she’s had a fit, the poor dear no doubt hoped she’d outgrown them.”

  He wondered how he could refuse Miss Haswell anything, when she captivated him so. Though she had not asked, she must know she was the reason he had pursued this partnership in Bedsley Priors.

  “Dr. Foster may ask for an account of my time, but otherwise I shall keep it to myself as I would in any case.”

  “Thank you.”

  He thought then of the next call he must make. “May I ask a favor of you in return?”

  At the cottage door, they were greeted by one of the nine Somersby children and a rush of sharp smells. Inside, Mr. and Mrs. Somersby sat at table, a spread of cheese, pickled herring, and mugs of ale before them. Two toddlers sat on the floor, banging wooden spoons against the floorboards. Four others were blowing and chasing a downy feather about the room, keeping it aloft. The family’s cottage was small, their clothes old, but as Mr. Somersby was both poulterer and cheese monger, they always ate well. Perhaps, Lilly thought, too well.

  “I beg your pardon. I am Dr. Graves, paying a call on behalf of Dr. Foster. And this is Miss Haswell.”

  Lilly knew the older physician rarely bothered with house calls now that he had Dr. Graves to send about.

  “But we had no intention of interrupting your repast.”

  “Never ye mind.” Mrs. Somersby, a plump woman of forty or so years, lifted her apron hem and wiped her mouth. “Chester here come home from market leer-starved. Why not sit yerselves? I’ve got a junk o’ cheese, good an’ aged. Chicken livers, too.”

  “Thank you, no,” Dr. Graves said.

  The feather landed on his shoulder, unnoticed by him. Lilly plucked it off and blew it in the air for the expectant children.

  Mrs. Somersby rose. “Well then. Let’s shut us in the bedchamber away from all these peepers. I’m much obliged to you fer comin’ ’ere. Hard to get away with all these young ones aboot.”

  As she led the way to the cottage’s sole separate room, Dr. Graves said, “Dr. Foster described several complaints of a female nature and I have therefore brought Miss Haswell along.”

  “As I see.”

  As soon as the three of them were inside the small bedchamber, Mrs. Somersby lowered herself heavily onto the edge of the bed, and Lilly sat beside her. “Now, tell me,” Lilly asked gently. “What ails you?”

  “I’m just not my old self of late. My poor nerves are givin’ me quiy’ a lot of trouble. My Chester don’t like how I mump aboot. Seems we ’ave a shandy near ever’ night for no good reason. And I’m ’aving pains in my stomach.” She leaned toward Lilly and whispered, “And pains in my breast what don’t bear speakin’ of in a young man’s ’earing.”

  Lilly smiled and said soothingly, “Well, he is a doctor after all, is he not?”

  They gave the woman St. John’s wort for her nerves and stomach, and a decoction of vervain for the breast pain.

  “Now, if that does not bring you relief, you just come by the shop when you can and I shall give you a treatment of tempered figs.” Lilly paused, then turned sheepishly to Dr. Graves. “Forgive me. You might prefer to do that yourself. She is your patient after all.”

  He hesitated, perhaps imagining the awkward scene—pressing figs, tempered as hot as a patient could endure, and applying them to Mrs. Somersby’s breasts. He cleared his throat. “Not at all.” He said to the woman, “Feel free to see Miss Haswell for that procedure.”

  They were packing their things away to take their leave when Mrs. Somersby pressed both hands to her temples. “Wha’s this? I feel right queer all of a sudden.”

  Lilly hurried to her side. “What is it?”

  “My ’ead . . . aches somethin’ awful. Dizzy-like too.” Mrs. Somersby used one arm to prop herself upright and moaned, “Wha’s ’appenin’?” Then she collapsed onto the bed.

  “Dr. Graves!” Lilly exclaimed.

  Acting quickly and with surprising calm, Dr. Graves deftly gave Mrs. Somersby a dose of ipecacuanha, and once it had done its work, administered hawthorn and strong coffee.

  Half an hour later, Mrs. Somersby was quite herself again, though shaken. Lilly prepared a cup of chamomile tea at Dr. Grave’s request, then instructed Mr. Somersby to give another cup when his wife finished the first.

  When they finally took their leave, Dr. Graves accompanied Lilly back to Haswell’s.

  “Do you think it
was the St. John’s wort?” she asked as they neared the shop. “I’ve never known vervain to produce such a dramatic reaction.”

  “Nor I.”

  He opened the shop door for her and followed her inside.

  “A skin rash, perhaps,” she continued, “but not collapse. Good heavens. I don’t know what I would have done had you not been there. Well done, Dr. Graves.”

  In her relief, she forgot herself and held out her hand in a congratulatory gesture as Mr. Shuttleworth might have done. Instead of briefly pressing it, Dr. Graves took her hand in both of his own, his countenance quite serious.

  “When you are with me, I feel as though I might do anything. You strengthen me, Miss Haswell.”

  She allowed him to hold her hand but shook her head slowly. “I cannot be your strength, Dr. Graves. That is God’s role. I am not fit for it.”

  “Is it the role you object to, or the man asking it of you?”

  She took a deep breath. “At present, I have all I can do to be my father’s strength as well as my own.”

  He let go of her hand and drew himself up. “Of course you have. I would not blame you, in any case. You know my weaknesses too well.”

  “Have we not all some weakness, Dr. Graves?” Lilly said kindly. “Besides, you seem to be overcoming your weaknesses, as you call them, since coming to Bedsley Priors.”

  He lifted one side of his mouth in a rueful grin. “Which brings me back to my point, Miss Haswell.”

  She untied her bonnet and stepped away to hang it on a peg. “We certainly work well together,” she allowed. “As evidenced this very day.”

  “Indeed, though I would certainly not expect you to work alongside me, were we to . . . That is, unless it were a simple case, or involved a female complaint like Mrs. Somersby’s.”

  “Why? Do you not think a woman capable of grasping medical knowledge and skills?”

  “Well, I do not say it is impossible, were universities to allow women to study. But . . . they do not.”

  “I help my father all the time.” She moved to stand behind the dispensary counter.

  “I understand that. And I admire your abilities.” He stepped to the counter and stood looking down at her. “But, Miss Haswell, once you are— Once you are a married woman, you will no longer have need of such skills. Although, certainly as the lady of the house, a knowledge of basic injury care, invalid cookery and the like, will always be useful.”

  She should have been relieved he would not expect such from her. Had she not wanted to escape such a life? Then why did she feel discounted instead?

  I try to avoid looking forward or backward,

  and try to keep looking upward.

  —CHARLOTTE BRONTË

  CHAPTER 32

  Lilly stood on the back stoop. She looked out over the garden and breathed deeply of an English summer morn. It had rained in the night, and all smelled fresh and green. Grey’s Hill—her hill—was just visible in the distance beyond the garden wall. She closed her eyes, enjoying the warm caress of the sun on her face and arms though she knew she ought not be out-of-doors without a hat. Ah, what is one more freckle. . . .

  Songbirds chirped happily in the hornbeam and lime trees, and beyond her view, a single horse clip-clopped its way along the High Street. The church bells rang, and when their last peal faded away, all was quiet save birdsong.

  She could not help but think back to where she had been and what she had been doing exactly one year ago. She knew she should not let the memory play itself out, knew she should not compare this year to the last, but she gave in and let the memories come.

  Many hooves had beat the busy streets outside the Elliotts’ May-fair townhouse. Carriage wheels and church bells had sounded as well. Dupree brought up a breakfast tray bearing a vase of lemon-yellow lilies in honor of the day. Then she helped Lilly put on a new frock of sprigged muslin and dressed her hair with ribbons.

  There had followed shopping with Aunt Elliott and Christina Price-Winters. Roger had sent a nosegay and a lovely new fan with his compliments. Later they dined at the Clarendon and then attended the Theatre Royal, sharing a box with Will Price-Winters and his then-fiancée, as well as Christina, Toby Horton, and Roger Bromley. There had been a pearl necklace from her aunt and uncle and a new shawl from Christina. She remembered the presents, of course, but it was not the presents themselves she longed for now. It was the feeling of being special she missed, of being cherished.

  She recalled Mr. Marlow’s advice on how to tame unpleasant memories and realized there were times when one might wish to stifle pleasant memories as well—when they dimmed the present by comparison.

  Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Lilly Haswell, she warned sternly. Purposefully, she strode to the clump of lilies near the garden wall and plucked a lemony bloom. She tucked it behind her ear and felt better immediately.

  “You’re up early.” Francis appeared above the garden wall, and her heart lightened further.

  He pushed his way through the garden gate with his hip, his hands full. Spying the wrapped parcel in his arms, Lilly felt foolishly thrilled and bit back a smile.

  “I’ve brought you something. I hope Dr. Graves won’t mind.”

  He would, she thought, but forbore to comment. After all, she’d thought no one had remembered. Her father had not. Nor had Mary said a word. “How thoughtful, Francis. Do come in.”

  He followed her inside, and Lilly gestured uncertainly toward the kitchen table. “Here, or . . . ?”

  “The shop, I think.”

  She led the way and stood aside as he laid the large parcel on the dispensing counter. He urged her forward with a sweep of his hand. “Go on.”

  Smiling, she gently ripped back the brown paper. She felt her eyes widen as she stared at what lay beneath. Not a gift box, but a cage. A cage inhabited by a hairy rodent.

  She frowned. “It is a rat.”

  “Not a rat, a cavy. Cavia porcellus.”

  “Looks like a rat.” She darted a glance at him. “Though more handsome, I grant you.” This long-haired animal had white and caramel markings and close-set eyes.

  “Dr. William Harvey himself used several in his research.”

  “Harvey . . .” Lilly thought. “The first to correctly describe the circulatory system?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I do not recall any mention of . . . What did you call it—a cavy?”

  “I believe he referred to them in his writings as ginny-pigs.”

  She peered into the cage. “This little thing is hardly a pig. How odd.”

  “Mr. Shuttleworth kept one in his ship’s surgery. He believed in feeding it new remedies—especially materia acquired in foreign lands—before offering them to the ill among the crew.”

  “And you thought I could . . . ?”

  “Well, since he was working on his own—without colleague to discuss treatments or dosages—he thought it a wise precaution.”

  Lilly felt herself growing piqued. “And has he a cavy now in that fancy shop of his?”

  “No.” Francis smiled ruefully. “He has me.”

  “You know perfectly well many poisons do not show up immediately.”

  “I do not suggest it as a foolproof measure. Only a precaution against the most harmful of substances.”

  She huffed and balled the paper tight.

  “Come, Lilly, do not take offense. I only thought . . . I know you pretend otherwise, but you are essentially alone here. I know you remember everything you once learned, but some things have changed. There are new exotics, new materia, new methods.”

  Now she doubted Francis had remembered her birthday at all, but was too self-conscious to ask. Likely he had no idea, the date and the gift coming together in pure coincidence.

  He tried another tack. “Mostly I thought he was a sweet little mite. Queen Elizabeth herself kept one as a pet.”

  “Did she indeed?”

  He nodded.

  She looked from him to the cavy, then bac
k again. “I would have preferred a cat.”

  “But cats do not—”

  “As a pet I mean. Not a royal taster.”

  “I did not think Haswells went in for cats.”

  “That was a long time ago. These days, Haswells are doing all sorts of things we never imagined we would.”

  His rueful smile returned. He reached out and gently touched her arm. “Well, happy birthday anyway.”

  Lilly closed the shop as usual that evening and retreated to the laboratory-kitchen to see what she might find in the larder to scrape together for supper. Very little, it appeared. A quarter loaf of bread. A scrap of Stilton. A jar of goosegog conserve and another of sardines.

  She took herself upstairs to check on her father and ask if he felt up to eating. Lately, his condition seemed to vacillate by the hour. She knocked, but he did not answer. She opened the door to find the bedchamber empty, the bed made, if haphazardly so.

  Where had he taken himself off to? Had he wandered down to the surgery without her noticing? She paused in her own room, to splash water on her face and check her hair in the small mirror. Still reasonably neat. She took off her apron, laid it in the laundry basket, and returned downstairs.

  Her father was not in the kitchen, nor the surgery. Had he gone to see Dr. Graves? She stepped out the back door to check the garden. The air was still as warm and sweet as it had been that morning, and she took a moment to inhale it.

  Charlie’s head appeared over the garden wall, startling her.

  “Lilly! Come quick.”

  Trepidation shot through her. “Is it Father?”

  “Father too. Mary says hurry.”

  What now? Lilly rushed out the garden gate and across the mews to the coffeehouse. She burst through the kitchen door and hesitated in the threshold. Mary looked up at her from the hearth.

  “What is it? Charlie said you and Father needed me.”

  “We do. We’re missing something.”

  “Missing what?”

  Mary straightened. “The guest of honor, you goose. Surely you guessed?”