The Apothecary's Daughter Read online

  He jerked his thumb toward his father’s bedchamber. “Dr. Foster was here last night and again this morning. It seems that each of you has treated my father—has filled him with potions that together have rendered him unconscious. You have all treated my father in the last week, have you not?” He paused, scorching each of them with his gaze.

  Lilly was flummoxed. Aside from her father, she’d had no idea the others had so recently seen Sir Henry. Why had no one told her?

  “Lady Marlow sent for me three days ago,” Dr. Graves defended. “I did what I could for Sir Henry, which was little enough, but he was still lucid when I left.”

  Her father nodded. “I called on Sir Henry that same evening. I found him weak but stable.”

  Mr. Shuttleworth’s dark eyebrows seemed unnaturally high on his forehead. “Sir Henry’s solicitor asked me to render an opinion two days ago. Said he did not trust his client was getting the best care.”

  Lilly felt her face wrinkle in confusion. She said, “Mr. Withers summoned me—that is, my father—again yesterday. I came in his stead.”

  Mr. Marlow paced before them once more. “And so you each plied him with elixirs that in combination worked to send him into a coma. Now you will work together to revive him.”

  Lilly shook her head in dismay. Sir Henry was already unconscious when she arrived yesterday, but she made no attempt to exonerate herself. In her mind, if her father bore any responsibility, she did as well. When she had last seen Roderick Marlow, he had been looking for someone to blame. Now it appeared he had found his scapegoat. Several of them, in fact.

  “I know you will not endeavor to revive my father for pity’s sake,” Marlow continued. “Nor for mine. Financial reward has not been sufficient motivation to this point, so instead I offer threat. Punishment. I have no power to cure my father, but I have enough to crush each of you. To bring ruination to your practices, your reputations. Is this motivation more suitable, more efficacious, as you say? Will you now heal my father?”

  Dread filled her like bile. Roderick Marlow must be drunk. Perhaps even mad. She had never seen him like this. She barely recognized this furious, desperate man as the same one she had kissed not so long ago in the stables.

  Marlow stopped before her father, shifting his weight to one hip. “Haswell, legend has it that you once raised my grandfather from the dead. How convenient for you—otherwise people would not have been so quick to overlook your fickle wife and idiot son. How the hordes have flocked to you, to lap up your counsel and supposed cures. You have lived off your fame long enough.”

  Marlow turned. “Shuttleworth, you came to town claiming your worldly experience, your remedies brought from distant lands. Here is your chance to show up your rivals.”

  “And Dr. Graves.” Marlow’s lip curled. “You with your privileged Oxford education—about which you constantly remind us. Here is your opportunity to prove your knowledge superior to the less-learned surgeon or apothecary.”

  His hands returned to his hips. “Personally, I do not care which one of you succeeds. But should you all fail, if my father dies without regaining consciousness, your livelihoods die with him.” He looked once more at Lilly. “You should have left, Miss Haswell, when you had the chance.”

  The outer door slammed behind Roderick Marlow, and no one spoke or moved until the echo died away. Then together the four of them quietly entered Sir Henry’s inner chamber and approached his bed. How still the man was. How grey.

  “Good Lord,” her father breathed. “He is far gone indeed.”

  Dr. Graves bent to listen to the old man’s heart. Mr. Shuttleworth lifted Sir Henry’s sagging eyelids and palpated his abdomen. Her father took up his limp wrist. “Rapid, yet weak.”

  Together they discussed how each had treated Sir Henry, what medicines they had given him, and if any of these might have reacted adversely together.

  “I gave him a very low dose of digitalis for dropsy,” Dr. Graves said. “It would not have done this.”

  “Digitalis?” Shuttleworth asked. “When an infusion of juniper or briony would have been much less risky?”

  “Gentlemen, please,” Lilly said. “Let us not place blame. Let us together find a solution.”

  “Solution?” Dr. Graves’s voice rose, incredulous. “The man is dying. There is no solution.”

  Lilly thought, flayed her memory for answers. Could she—could any of them—find a possible remedy for this impossible situation? Neither physician, surgeon, nor apothecary knew anything to do for Sir Henry. Nor for his desperate son.

  They needed a miracle.

  The door burst open behind them. Whirling about, Lilly saw Francis Baylor at the threshold, quite out of breath. She felt unaccountably relieved to see him. “Francis! Were you summoned as well?”

  Francis surveyed the room and its occupants. “No. But Mrs. Mimpurse told me about the will. When I couldn’t find Mr. Shuttle-worth, or either of you, I became concerned. Thought I had better come. See how I might help.”

  “Have you some remedy in mind?” Mr. Shuttleworth asked.

  Francis walked across the room and laid his hand on the baronet’s pale brow. It seemed clear the old man was not long for the world. “I am afraid I don’t. Though I may have let Withers believe I did, to gain entry.”

  Dr. Graves asked, “What’s this about a new will?”

  Lilly confided, in low tones, what she had learned from Mr. Marlow about the new will—the primary reason, she suspected, for today’s threats. Unless . . . Could he really be so desperate to gain his father’s forgiveness?

  The outer door banged open again and Roderick Marlow strode in. “What is this about a remedy, Baylor?” he challenged.

  Francis held up his hand. “I am afraid there is little any of us can do for Sir Henry but pray.”

  Marlow threw up his hands in angry disgust.

  Francis said, “But I suggest you stay in here with your father, Mr. Marlow. Spend all the time you can at his side. Talk to him. He may very well be able to hear you.”

  For a moment, Marlow’s eyes lit. “Do you really think he might?”

  Francis nodded. “The rest of us will leave you and Sir Henry in peace.”

  Marlow crossed his arms, eyes narrowed. “None of you is going anywhere. Not until you have accomplished what I summoned you here to do.”

  “We are not leaving, sir. Only withdrawing to the dressing room.” Francis held Marlow’s glare without wavering. “You have my word— we shall not depart until you give us leave to do so.”

  Roderick Marlow hesitated, staring at Francis, sizing up the younger man. Lilly was surprised when he nodded and returned to his father’s bedside.

  The rest of them moved to the door. Dr. Graves took one of her father’s arms, she the other, and together they helped him to the chair in the dressing room. Francis closed the bedchamber door behind him.

  As he helped Mr. Haswell back into the stuffed chair, Adam Graves found himself remembering Lady Marlow’s veiled threat to Roderick atop Adam’s Grave. Was that somehow related to the present threat? Had the new will—her unexpectedly large jointure—been what she had referred to? If so, no wonder the man was incensed.

  Adam forced himself to remain calm and think. Turning to Lillian’s father, he began, “Mr. Haswell. If it is true that you once raised a man from the dead, might we ask for a repeat performance?”

  “Indeed, Mr. Haswell,” Shuttleworth added. “If you could get us out of this muddle, I would be much obliged.”

  Miss Haswell laid a hand on her father’s arm. “We know the truth, do we not, Father? Perhaps it is time we admitted it.”

  Charles Haswell looked as though he might refuse, then sighed. “I don’t do miracles. Never have.”

  “But word of it has spread as far as London and Oxford,” Adam insisted. “It has become the stuff of legends. Dr. Thomas Bromley was here at the time, I understand, and witnessed the event. He attests the man was dead indeed.”

  Mr. Haswell n
odded. “I tried everything I knew, but nothing had any effect. I devised no secret miracle cure. Rather, in desperation, I fell to my knees in this very room and prayed for his recovery.” Haswell looked at his daughter, tears shimmering in his eyes. “My little girl beside me.”

  Miss Haswell took his hand, tears in her eyes as well.

  “Perhaps that is what is needed again,” Mr. Baylor quietly suggested.

  Charles Haswell inhaled deeply. “I own it has been too long since I have done so.”

  Still holding his hand, Miss Haswell helped her father kneel beside the chair. Mr. Baylor joined them, and together the three bowed their heads.

  Adam looked on, feeling sheepish. Beside him, Shuttleworth also looked uncomfortable. For an awkward moment their gazes met. Adam shrugged his response. He considered kneeling beside them, but felt too foolish at the thought. He noticed Shuttleworth had closed his eyes where he stood. He did the same.

  Kneeling there beside her father, Lilly felt her legs begin to stiffen and guessed her father must be growing uncomfortable as well. She glanced over, but her father’s eyes were still closed, his face wrinkled in concentration. On his other side, Francis also had his eyes closed, forehead resting on clasped hands. As if sensing her scrutiny, Francis looked at her. In silent agreement, they rose and, with a few whispered words, encouraged Mr. Haswell to rise and rest, and together they helped him regain his seat.

  “What is happening here?” Lady Marlow asked, startling them all. She had entered without any of them hearing her. Wearing a reserved day dress, her red hair simply fashioned, she stood regally inside the dressing room door, looking from one face to another. Her gaze landed on Dr. Graves.

  He cleared his throat. “We were each of us summoned by Mr. Marlow. To see what might be done for Sir Henry.”

  “Then what are you doing out here?”

  When Dr. Graves hesitated, Francis answered, “Praying.” He added gently, “I am afraid, Lady Marlow, there is little else to be done for your husband.”

  For a moment the woman froze, her mouth forming a pink oval of surprise.

  “Mr. Marlow is in with Sir Henry now,” Francis explained. “Saying his farewells.”

  Lady Marlow sighed as if suddenly weary, her face drooping into lines that added ten years to her apparent age. “Poor man,” she murmured bleakly. And Lilly wondered which man she referred to.

  The bedchamber door opened and, as one, they warily turned. Roderick Marlow appeared at the threshold, tears on his cheeks. Ignoring the others in the room, his gaze sought out Lilly’s.

  “I begged his pardon . . . and he . . . squeezed my hand.” His face contorted with emotion. “He knew me. . . .”

  Tears of understanding trailed down Lilly’s own cheeks as her eyes held his.

  The rest of the assembly were equally moved, as well as relieved, to realize Roderick Marlow had returned to his senses. In a matter of minutes, he gave them all leave to go, visibly chagrined at his reckless and irrational behavior. Given the distress of his father’s condition, all seemed ready to forgive the future Sir Roderick, Baronet.

  Sir Henry did not regain consciousness.

  There had been no miracle, no answer to their prayer.

  Or had there been? Lilly remembered the look of wonder, and relief on Roderick Marlow’s face when he said, “I begged his pardon and he squeezed my hand. He knew me.”

  So perhaps there had been a miracle, after all.

  What is a weed?

  A plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered.

  —RALPH WALDO EMERSON

  CHAPTER 44

  In the busyness that followed, getting her father home to bed, telling Mary and Mrs. Mimpurse all that had happened, and checking on Charlie, Lilly did not see Francis again. She wanted to thank him for coming to Marlow House and to talk over the events of the day. She had hoped he would come by the shop that evening, but now it was late and he no doubt thought she had already retired for the night. Or had he stayed away in deference to Dr. Graves?

  When Lilly finally slipped into her nightdress and into bed, she still could not sleep. Beyond the stress of the day, she could not stop thinking about Francis Baylor. Though the youngest man there, he had been the one to take charge, and the one to suggest praying together. She thought back to his quick actions after Mary’s fall and his many kindnesses to her since then.

  She thought, too, of his tall, athletic figure, his strong jaw and cleft chin, his chocolate-brown eyes. As she had come to realize, Francis Baylor had changed a great deal since her return to Bedsley Priors. Or was it she who had changed?

  She now understood what Miss Robbins had long seen in Francis, and felt that same admiration herself. When she thought of how she had so soundly rejected him, she was filled with wistful regret.

  Lilly rolled over in bed. Still, he was only an assistant—a journeyman—in an apothecary shop. Dr. Graves was a physician and therefore a gentleman. Might he not move his practice elsewhere in a few years? Perhaps even return to London? Somehow, the inner arguments rang hollow now.

  Even so, Lilly wondered why she should suddenly feel shy at the thought of seeking out her old friend. Francis would certainly come by the shop on the morrow, would he not? She would thank him then.

  In the morning, someone did enter the shop and Lilly hurried out to greet him. But it was not Francis. Nor even Adam Graves. It was Dr. Foster.

  He removed his hat and said, “I know it is early and you are no doubt recuperating from a trying day yesterday, but I am afraid I need you to dispense an order for me.”

  His tone was surprisingly polite.

  “Of course.” She moved to the dispensing counter and picked up her quill. “What is it you need?”

  He fiddled with his hat brim. “A fortnight’s worth of St. John’s wort, powdered, five grains per day.”

  She nodded. “For?”

  He looked up at her. “I am sure you, being a dab hand yourself, know what the herb is used for, Miss Haswell.”

  “I do, but—”

  “Good. Now, can you figure the sum, or shall I?”

  “I meant, who is the patient? For our records.”

  “My, my. Records too. Haswell’s is better managed than I knew.”

  Was the man being sarcastic? She wasn’t certain. “Thank you. We do our best.”

  He inhaled, then paused. “It is for Mrs. Chester Somersby of Honeystreet. Do you know the family?”

  Lilly lowered her quill. “Indeed I do.”

  “She suffers from nerves, poor creature. Have you sufficient powder on hand, or shall I call round for it later?”

  Lilly stared at the man. Did he really not know what he was asking?

  “I don’t mind stopping back,” he said.

  “You cannot.”

  “I can quite easily. It isn’t far.”

  “I mean, you cannot give Mrs. Somersby St. John’s wort. She had a violent reaction to it once before.”

  He regarded her placidly. “I know of no such reaction.”

  “I do. And Dr. Graves does as well. Ask him if you don’t believe me.”

  His eyes met hers boldly. “Dr. Graves follows my directives and keeps me informed of all irregularities. You needn’t trouble yourself, Miss Haswell. Shall I pick up the order at say, four o’clock?” He replaced his hat smartly, turned without awaiting her response, and strode from the shop.

  She stared after the man. Anger and fear and dread balled in her stomach. He was either ignorant or pretending to be for his own ends. Either way, Mrs. Somersby was not the only person about to be hurt.

  The shop had been so busy that, when four o’clock came, she’d had no time to ask anyone for advice. Now Dr. Foster again stood before her, the dispensing counter between them like a futile shield.

  “Are you refusing to fill my order?” he asked.

  “You have not had an opportunity to confer with Dr. Graves, I see. If you will only speak with him—”

  “Yes or no?” His
voice rose. “Will you dispense my prescribed medicine for Mrs. Somersby or will you not?”

  “I have no wish to quarrel with you, Dr. Foster. But I cannot in good conscience do what you ask.”

  “Once more, girl. Do you or do you not refuse to dispense the physic I ordered?”

  She swallowed. “Yes. I refuse.”

  He nodded, clearly angry yet not surprised. And apparently satisfied as well.

  Leaving the shop untended, though it was before five, Lilly hurried up the High Street and down narrow Milk Lane to Shuttleworth’s. She wanted to make sure Dr. Foster did not turn there for the prescription he wanted for Mrs. Somersby. She found Mr. Shuttleworth standing at his large central desk, drying glass measuring jars with a clean white cloth. When she asked about Dr. Foster and learned he had not been there all day, she sighed with relief. She leaned her elbows on the high desk and confided her confrontation with the old physician.

  Mr. Shuttleworth winced. “Oh dear. I am not certain that was wise.”

  She jerked back, stung. This wasn’t the empathy she’d expected. “What was I to do?”

  “But to refuse him?” Lionel Shuttleworth whistled under his breath.

  “I had no choice.”

  “Do you not read the newspapers?”

  “I barely have time to read bills of lading and ledgers, let alone news.”

  “You have heard about the recently passed Apothecaries Act?”

  She frowned. “I believe Francis may have said something, but I own I paid little attention.”

  Mr. Shuttleworth leaned forward, sober concern in his dark eyes. “Among other things, a clause of this new act imposes severe penalties on any apothecary who refuses to dispense medicines on the order of a physician.”

  “You are joking.”

  “I am deadly serious.”

  “How long has this been generally known?”

  “It’s been before Parliament for quite some time, but came into effect the first of August.”