The Apothecary's Daughter Page 26

Lilly shook her head.

  Mary rolled her eyes, took her by the arm, and led her through the door into the coffeehouse dining room. Charlie followed behind. There, at the large center table were her father, clear-eyed and sitting upright, Mr. Shuttleworth, Francis, and Dr. Graves. Maude Mimpurse stood nearby, reaching over to set a platter of food on the table. An iced cake sat in the middle.

  Lilly looked at Mary with surprise and saw her own pleasure mirrored in her dearest friend’s face. She squeezed Mary’s hand and whispered, “Thank you.”

  Mr. Shuttleworth cleared his throat. “In ancient Egypt,” he began, “at least one pharaoh celebrated his birthday by doing away with his baker.”

  “Mr. Shuttleworth,” Mary scolded, though Lilly did not miss the teasing lift of her mouth.

  He winked at her. “No doubt his cakes were not as good as yours.”

  Charlie hurried over and took a seat next to Francis. “Mary’s sit-tin’ next to me,” he said. “But your place is here, Lilly.” He reached behind Francis and patted the back of a chair at the open place—the place between Francis Baylor and Adam Graves.

  Francis met her gaze with a knowing look of his own.

  Dr. Graves stood and pulled back her chair. “Felicitations, Miss Haswell.”

  Walking around the table, she placed her hand on her father’s shoulder as she passed behind him. He reached up and grasped it with his own. She looked down at him, saw his eyes crinkle as he smiled up at her. “Happy birthday, my dear.”

  It was the loveliest gift she could imagine.

  After supper, Maude rose to cut the cake. “Now, this is no ordinary cake,” she said. “It’s an olde English cake, baked with coins and other treasures inside, each one a symbol of something.”

  “Mind you don’t break a tooth,” Mary warned, handing plates with generous wedges to each of them.

  Looking at each other with nervous anticipation and barely suppressed grins, they began to tentatively fork pieces of cake into their mouths and carefully chew. All except for Charlie, who shoveled in big hunks of cake with abandon.

  In a matter of moments, Mr. Shuttleworth held up a coin.

  “But not just any coin. Look again,” Mary urged.

  Squinting, he read, “Italia.” He flipped it over. “Looks familiar.”

  “It ought to,” Mary said. “It is the one I borrowed from you for the occasion. It means travels in your past or future.”

  “Ah . . .” He nodded his understanding.

  “I also have a coin,” Dr. Graves said, holding one up. “A shilling.”

  “Well then,” Mary said, “you shall be wealthy one day.”

  He leaned in, his expression mock-serious. “Might I have that in writing?”

  “I have a sweet!” Charlie triumphantly raised a cake-covered peppermint, then popped it into his mouth.

  “What did you find, Charles?” Maude asked quietly.

  Her father wiped the find with his handkerchief. “An old Roman coin. Plenty unearthed in these parts. Is this from Harold’s collection, or a new find?”

  Maude didn’t respond to the query about her deceased husband, but Mary murmured, “Treasure from the past.”

  Lilly glimpsed the crumb-coated thimble on Mary’s plate, but noticed she made no move to display it. Mrs. Mimpurse glanced over and clearly saw it as well. Looking worriedly at her daughter’s face, she whispered, “I am sorry, my love. It is only a game after all.”

  Mary shrugged and attempted a smile.

  “What is it you have, Miss Mary?” Mr. Shuttleworth asked eagerly.

  Lilly sent him a warning look, but the man apparently did not notice or understand, for his long-toothed smile did not waver. He leaned closer. “A thimble, is it? What does it mean?”

  An awkward silence filled the room.

  Lilly opened her mouth but could not form the words.

  Head high, Mary said briskly, “It means I shall never marry.”

  Mr. Shuttleworth tucked his chin. “What nonsense. You must have Graves’s piece.” He slapped Dr. Graves hard on the shoulder, causing the slighter man to jerk forward.

  Lilly knew most people believed epilepsy rendered a woman ineligible for marriage and motherhood. But she did not agree. Hoping to direct the attention off her friend, Lilly asked, “And what did you find, Mrs. Mimpurse?”

  Maude Mimpurse blushed and held up a ring. “I got the piece meant for one of you girls, no doubt.”

  They all chuckled politely.

  “I have a key,” Francis said. “What does it mean?”

  They all looked at Mary.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Couldn’t think of anything else to withstand the oven!”

  Everyone laughed.

  Everyone except Lilly, who was still forking through her piece. And though she looked and looked, she found nothing at all.

  I do not know of any remedy under heaven that is likely to do you

  so much good as the being constantly electrified.

  —JOHN WESLEY, 1781

  CHAPTER 33

  When Lilly came downstairs the next morning, still securing a final pin into the plait coiled at the back of her head, she was pleased to see her father up and about already. Perhaps Dr. Graves’s latest treatments were helping after all.

  “I’ve made tea and toast,” he announced with pride. “Had a taste for blood sausage, as well, so I’m frying a few slices if you’d care for any.”

  She shuddered. “You know I cannot abide the stuff. But tea and toast sounds just the thing.” Watching her father potter about the kitchen, Lilly smiled to herself. “You must be feeling some better, Father.”

  “Indeed I am. And I’ve had a look at the ledgers, Lilly. First time I’ve had the courage to do so in months.”

  Scooping his sausage onto a plate, he joined her at the table. “I cannot express how proud I am. Well done, Lillian Grace Haswell. Well done, indeed.”

  She ducked her head, hiding her smile of pleasure. “Thank you, Father.”

  He picked up his fork. “No, my dear. Thank you.”

  “Shall we thank God, then?” she suggested. “I must say I am feeling quite grateful for His provision of late.”

  Charles Haswell paused, mouth ajar, and awkwardly lowered his forkful of sausage back down to his plate. “As you like.”

  Lilly bowed her head and offered a brief prayer of thanksgiving.

  Afterward, her Father nodded and quickly moved on. “Once we’ve eaten, I’d like you to show me everything you’ve done in the shop. Went out there this morning and scarcely recognized the old place. Smells like a bakery, or a flower shop. But it looks fine, Lilly. Fine.”

  Lilly bit back another smile and echoed, “As you like.”

  “I also wonder if it might be time to ask Mrs. Fowler back,” he said. “You do far too much on your own.”

  Lilly heard these words with great relief and pleasure. “I think that an excellent plan. I shall ask her this afternoon.”

  After they had eaten and done the washing up together, she led him into the shop, telling him about the Lippert family in London and pointing out the new patent medicines, the French perfumes, the ribbons, the rouge pots and other cosmetics.

  “Here’s one I used myself in London.” She picked up a jar of Warren and Rosser’s Milk of Roses and read from its label, “ ‘The most delightful cosmetic in Europe. Recommended by females of distinction for removing freckles and rendering the complexion delicately fair.’ ”

  He glanced at her and coughed. “I’d request my money back, were I you.”

  “Father,” she scolded, but grinned in spite of herself.

  He raised his hands in defense. “I like your freckles.” He then paused before an unfamiliar contraption. “And what, pray, is this?”

  The apparatus, standing on four glass legs, resembled a miniature table. Two wooden uprights stood atop it, holding aloft a cylinder with a crank handle on one side and, on the other, an arm extending to a a small metal ball.r />
  “That is the latest thing in London. Supposed to be all the crack, according to George Lippert.”

  “But . . . what is it?”

  “An electricity machine, reportedly highly effective in the treatment of paralysis, gout, and . . . perhaps even epilepsy.”

  “Indeed?”

  “John Wesley himself called it ‘the most efficacious medicine in nervous disorders of every kind.’ ”

  “Ah, that’s right. The good reverend fancied himself a healer as well as an evangelist.”

  She searched for censure in his expression, but saw only mild incredulity.

  He asked, “How does it work?”

  “The patient holds the ball and, when the arm contacts the rotating cylinder, receives a shock—the strength of which depends upon the vigor with which the handle is turned. I have an explanatory pamphlet, but I own I have not had the courage to try it.”

  He eyed the device warily. “Let us leave it for another day, shall we? Now, what else have you done?”

  They moved on. “Charlie and I repainted the shopwindow. I updated all the displays, as you see. I have also been offering free samples of ready-made items. And . . .”

  When she hesitated, he prompted, “And?”

  “And I prayed. A great deal.”

  Lilly and Mary sat on a bench in front of the coffeehouse, halfheartedly watching a group of young men play a scrappy game of football on the village green, Francis among them.

  Enjoying the fading afternoon sun, as well as the cheers and shouts of male camaraderie, Lilly and Mary discussed their plans for the coming Sunday.

  Across the green, the door to the Hare and Hounds opened and a beefy young man wobbled out.

  “There’s Nick Clark,” Lilly said quietly. “Still won’t speak to me.”

  “No wonder,” Mary said, giving a little snort. “He’s not likely to forget how you laid him flat before the entire cricket team.”

  “It was only that once.”

  “Twice.”

  “Well, he should have learned the first time.”

  Lilly had first slugged the loud-mouthed lad for saying Mary’s fits meant she was a witch. The second time occurred when they were girls of fifteen, and Nick Clark had said Lilly’s mother was a doxy who had run off with the gypsies.

  A few minutes after Nick Clark had gone, Roderick Marlow stepped out of the Hare and Hounds. Lilly knew villagers were shaking their heads, agreeing that the baronet’s son had been spending too much time in that establishment since his father’s marriage.

  Lilly was relieved to see him walk quite steadily across the green, adroitly skirting a near collision with ball and player.

  “Hello, Mr. Marlow!” Mary called before Lilly could silence her with an elbow in her side.

  He crossed the High Street and bowed before them. “Miss Haswell. Miss . . .”

  “Mimpurse.”

  “Of course. How fares your mother?”

  “She is well, sir. I thank you,” Mary said.

  “Gentler on you than she was on me, I hope.”

  Mary bit back a grin. “I am sure my mother meted out whatever each of us deserved, sir.”

  “Ah, Miss Mimpurse, you wound me,” he teased. “You are your mother’s daughter.”

  Mary smiled, then turned to Lilly. “Perhaps Mr. Marlow would like to go along with us?”

  Lilly gave a start. “Oh. . . . um. Well . . . yes,” she faltered. “That is an . . . excellent . . . idea, Mary.”

  He raised his brows in mild expectation.

  “We are to have a picnic, Mr. Marlow,” Mary supplied, elbowing Lilly.

  Lilly hastened to say, “I doubt it will be of a fashion you are used to, but you would be most welcome to join us.” She stopped, but he still looked at her expectantly. “So . . . ?”

  “When is it to be?” he asked.

  “Oh.” How foolish of her to leave out that detail. “Sunday afternoon. We are to climb Walker’s Hill.”

  Mary added warmly, “And Mr. Shuttleworth is to bring his telescope, so we may determine if one can truly see the spire of the Salisbury Cathedral from there.”

  “And Mary is bringing along her famous cakes and sweets,” Lilly said.

  “Plenty for another,” Mary assured him.

  Mr. Marlow addressed Mary, “If I were sure Miss Haswell wished me to attend . . .”

  They both turned toward her. Lilly swallowed. “Well, I . . . of course would be pleased. After all, you showed such kindness in inviting me to join your guests not long ago.”

  “True. And so I shall return the favor and accept, though clearly not your original intention nor, I daresay, preference.”

  “Well, I—”

  “In fact, I shall bring a hamper,” he interrupted. “I am sure it has been far too long since Mrs. Tobias has had the pleasure of preparing a proper picnic. What shall it be? Cold chicken? Roast of beef? Lobster salad?”

  “All of the above!” Mary clapped her hands like a delighted child.

  Mr. Marlow laughed. “All of the above, it is. How many shall I ask her to prepare for?”

  Lilly answered, “We will be a party of seven or eight, I suppose. Mr. Shuttleworth, of course. And Francis Baylor.”

  “And Dr. Graves, I presume?” he added in exaggerated nonchalance.

  She paused. Why did she feel awkward at his mention of Adam Graves? She lifted her chin. “If he is free.” Lilly hurried to add, “And you are welcome to bring someone along if you like.”

  Charlie suddenly appeared in the open coffeehouse window behind them. “Bring Miss Powell, do. She is ever so nice to look at.”

  “Charlie,” Lilly gently scolded. She had not even realized he was near. “She is Lady Marlow now, remember.”

  Marlow’s jaw worked a few seconds and she feared Charlie had angered him. “Perhaps I shall,” he said pleasantly enough. “I shall also bring round the landau—and the gill for the hampers and lads. Just name the time.”

  They settled the arrangements, and when he had left them, Mary snorted back a giggle.

  “Mary Helen Mimpurse!” Lilly reprimanded.

  Mary burst into laughter.

  Lilly shook her head, biting back a grin of her own. “You are too bad.”

  A few minutes later, as Lilly knew he would, Mr. Shuttleworth came along after closing up the surgery for the day. Francis had the afternoon off, but he left the game and jogged over to join them as well, clad in grass-stained trousers and shirt-sleeves.

  “We’ve invited Mr. Marlow to join us on Sunday,” Mary announced.

  “Roderick Marlow?” Francis was incredulous. He was still breathing hard from the game, and his damp white shirt outlined a well-formed chest.

  “Take heart,” Lilly said. “He may bring the new Lady Marlow you are always gaping at.”

  At the sound of her name, Charlie bounded outside. “I hope so.”

  Ankles crossed, Mr. Shuttleworth leaned on his walking stick and looked over at Francis. “Graves, and now Marlow as well. I cannot say I like our odds, Mr. Baylor.”

  “Nor I,” Francis said. “What say you we invite another lady to improve our ratio? Miss Robbins would no doubt appreciate a little variety of society.”

  “Excellent idea, my boy,” Mr. Shuttleworth agreed.

  Francis gave Lilly a meaningful look. “And an invitation from Miss Haswell would no doubt come as quite an unexpected pleasure. Unless—is there some reason you would prefer she not come?”

  Lilly felt trapped. Indignant. “What reason could I possibly have? Of course she may join us.” Francis knew Lilly was now being courted by Dr. Graves. Why should she be surprised he had returned his attentions to Miss Robbins?

  Francis nodded his approval, then clapped Charlie on the back. “Come on, Charlie. Come and join the lads.”

  “Aww. ’Em lads don’t let me play,” Charlie said.

  “They do now.”

  Francis crooked his arm around Charlie’s shoulder and led him to the green.
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  Lilly watched them go with a warmed heart, ready to forgive Francis his irritating habit of foisting unwanted creatures on her. Ah well . . . she could understand why Francis admired Miss Robbins. She was undeniably a lovely, accomplished girl.

  “My, our little party is growing by the minute,” Mary said, rising from the bench. “I had better bake another cake.”

  If thy heart fails thee, climb not at all.

  —QUEEN ELIZABETH I

  CHAPTER 34

  On Sunday morning, Lilly greeted the vicar outside the church doors after the service.

  “Good morning, Mr. Baisley.”

  “Miss Haswell. How fares your father?”

  “A little better, I thank you.”

  Mr. Baisley nodded and cleared his throat. “You no doubt noticed my blunder this morning.” He leaned closer. “I believe it startled you awake.”

  Lilly felt her neck grow warm. “Forgive me. It was only a slight misquotation. I happen to have learned that Scripture as a girl.”

  He shook his head in wonder. “What it must be like to remember everything you have ever seen or heard or read . . .”

  Lilly fidgeted. “Not everything, really. Only what I truly attend to.”

  “If I had such a gift, what I would store away.” He thumped a broad finger against his temple. “Scripture, hymns, my wife’s birthday . . .”

  She acknowledged his joke with a polite smile.

  He studied her closely. “And what do you store away in that pretty head of yours, Miss Haswell?”

  She shrugged dismissively, her discomfort increasing. “Whatever comes my way, I suppose.”

  A perplexed frown flickered across the kind man’s features. “But whatever you take in or, as you say, attend to, it stays with you forever?”

  “It seems so.”

  He shook his head solemnly. “Then, my dear, I hope you will be most careful what you allow in.”

  Lilly swallowed and attempted another smile, one she feared was quite stiff. Well, she bolstered herself, what is church without a dose of conviction?

  At the appointed hour, Lilly, Mary, Charlie, and Francis were waiting before the coffeehouse when Miss Robbins arrived from neighboring Honeystreet in a lovely white-and-pink gown, French bonnet of tulle, and a parasol. Lilly bit her lip. That parasol would not withstand a half minute atop the wind-whipped pitch. She and Mary had settled for simple bonnets tied securely under their chins and long-sleeved spencers—for even on a summer day, the windy hills of Wiltshire could prove chilly.