The Apothecary's Daughter Page 34

  How easily she had walked into his trap.

  Adam Graves walked slowly down the High Street to Haswell’s to pick up two prescriptions he had requested earlier. He knew Miss Haswell appreciated that he brought them to her though Shuttleworth’s was nearer his offices. Normally he enjoyed the excuse to see her. But today he dreaded the coming encounter and the news he must impart.

  When Adam had first learned of a possible partnership in Miss Haswell’s home village, he had thought it a godsend. Now it was beginning to seem more like a test. One he appeared destined to fail.

  He hesitated at the door to take a deep breath, then pushed his way inside. At the dispensing counter, Miss Haswell acknowledged him with a nod. He waited until Miss Primmel had paid for her purchases and said farewell to them both before approaching the counter himself.

  Miss Haswell handed him his order without her usual smile, her features strained. She asked tensely, “Have you spoken to Dr. Foster about Mrs. Somersby? Tell me he did not procure the St. John’s wort elsewhere.”

  “He has not. He pursued another course of treatment.”

  She released a breath. “I am relieved to hear it. He understood, then?”

  “I would not say that.” He found himself fidgeting with his parcel. “I did describe Mrs. Somersby’s reaction, but he said it was more likely caused by the vervain you suggested for the . . . other complaint.”

  “But I asked Father, and he agrees. Vervain would not—”

  “Yes, yes, I tried to explain that, but he would not hear me.”

  “You ought to have made him hear you.”

  He looked down at the counter. “Seems I fail at a great many things you believe I ought to do.”

  Her voice rose to a consolatory pitch. “Dr. Graves, I did not mean—”

  “In any case”—he forced himself to continue—“I am afraid he has written to your own society, reporting your refusal.”

  “To the Apothecaries’ Society?” she said. “I can hardly credit he’d waste the ink, so little does he respect the profession.”

  “I believe there you are wrong, Miss Haswell. It is not apothecaries in general he abhors.”

  He saw her bite her lip, clearly apprehending his meaning. “Surely nothing will come of it. The last time we heard from the Society, we received nothing more than a warning.”

  He shook his head. Can she really be so naïve? “The law has changed since then.”

  “What can he hope to accomplish?”

  “I should think that all too evident. He wants to see Haswell’s put out of business.”

  She blanched. “Could you not do something?”

  There it was again. It was his fault. His failure. “What would you have me do?” His voice rose. “Pilfer his letter from the post?”

  A quick glance revealed her chagrin. He took a deep breath and forced himself to speak calmly. “There is little I can do at this point. But I did want to warn you. And I shall apprise you of anything else I learn.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  Feeling defeated and indignant both, he turned on his heel and left the shop. Why could she not leave the criticizing to Foster? It appeared neither of his provisional partnerships was working out as he had hoped.

  On his way back to Dr. Foster’s offices, he saw Bill Ackers leaving. What was the constable doing there? He then saw the man fold what looked to be several bank notes and tuck them into his pocket.

  The following week, Dr. Foster brought two men with him into the office.

  “Graves, come out here, man.”

  Adam did not appreciate the way the elder man ordered him about. Still, he put on his coat and stepped from his private office into the reception hall.

  “Here you are.” Foster addressed his guests, “This is Dr. Adam Graves, the young partner I was telling you about. Not quite seasoned, but working out rather well. So far.”

  Adam managed not to frown and bowed to the newcomers. One was a man near Foster’s own age in dark double-breasted coat and pantaloons, his waistcoat festooned with a lacy cravat. His hair was far too black to be natural for a man of his fifty or more years. He affected both quizzing glass and walking stick.

  “May I introduce Mortimer Allen, a very old friend indeed,” Foster began. The man inclined his head but showed little interest in the introduction.

  “And this is John Evans, his . . . associate.”

  Mr. Evans was in his forties, Graves surmised, and wore a serviceable but plain coat and trousers. He looked exceeding fit, with a wiry strength rather than bulk. His tawny hair was thin on his forehead.

  “How d’you do?” Evans said. This man took his measure, and Graves felt himself standing up the taller under it.

  “What brings you gentlemen to Bedsley Priors?” Graves asked politely.

  Mortimer Allen parted his full lips, but turned toward Foster in lieu of answering.

  Dr. Foster said, “Merely a visit. They are on their way to Bath to take the waters. I don’t credit the medicinal benefits myself, but I give you leave to prove me wrong, Mortimer.”

  “A rare pleasure it would be to accomplish that, I assure you.”

  “Well, do come upstairs for port and cigars. I have some good cheese and herring as well.”

  “Lead the way,” Mortimer said.

  “Thaht’s all right. You gentlemen go on,” John Evans said. “I’ll leave you two to visit.”

  The man had a mild accent that Graves could not place after such a brief sampling.

  “Are you sure, Evans?” Mortimer Allen asked.

  “Indeed. I’ll do on my own. I expect there’s a public house nearby.”

  “Don’t be out late. We’ve an early start on the morrow.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  The two older men went up the stairs together to Foster’s private living quarters.

  Evans looked at Graves. “If you would kindly point me in the right direction, I shall disturb you no more.”

  “Mind a bit of company?” Graves asked, curious about the man.

  “If you like.”

  As the two walked the short distance to the Hare and Hounds, Graves hit on the origin of the man’s accent. The long vowels, the clipped staccato syllables, the r’s, nearly rolled. “Wales?” he asked.

  Evans smiled. “God’s country, yes.”

  They entered the small, dim public house and took stools at the polished wooden counter. Two old men, one Adam recognized as Mr. Owen, sat in chairs near the fire, their dogs lying at their feet. He was relieved when the curs paid him no mind.

  Once Freddy McNeal had served them each a half pint, Graves asked Mr. Evans, “But you live in London now?”

  “Had to find work, hadn’t I?”

  “And what is your work, if I may ask?”

  The man paused, considering, an odd smile playing about his lips. “I serve a city livery company, like. But I work for Mr. Allen.”

  Before Graves could ask him to explain, Evans asked, “And you? Who do you serve?”

  “I would like to say I serve my patients. But as you said, I work for Dr. Foster.”

  Evans nodded and took a sip of dark ale. “What’s he like?”

  “A man of strong opinions. An experienced physician.”

  Evans grimaced. “No offense, mind, but I’ve never cared much for physicians—and thaht’s the truth.”

  “May I ask why not?”

  “Comes to this. In plague years, when the rich fled London for the country, every physician followed, leaving the poor to suffer and die without care. Surgeons followed. But apothecaries all stayed—to a mahn.”

  “You admire them.”

  “I do. When a body’s ailing, money or no, apothecaries turn up trumps. Which is why it rankles me to . . .”

  “To what?”

  “Never you mind. Thaht’s the half pint of bitter talkin’.” Evans rose. “I’m to bed now.”

  All doctors are more or less Quacks!

  . . . and
what they talk is neither more nor less

  than nonsense & stuff. . . .

  —The First Duke of Wellington

  CHAPTER 45

  The next morning, Adam Graves jogged down the stairs from his third-floor rooms, but when he reached the ground floor, stopped, stunned. There stood John Evans. Gone were the congenial ale-warmed gaze and the unremarkable suit of clothes. In their place the man wore a gown of vibrant blue tufted with dozens of golden tassels. His eyes were stern, hard, and brooked no question.

  What on earth?

  Voices followed him down the stairs. There came Mr. Allen, dressed in an unadorned black gown. Dr. Foster followed him, breakfast teacup still in hand. Foster hesitated at seeing his young partner standing there, but the smile did not waver from his whiskered face.

  “I shall bid you farewell here, Mortimer.” Foster held out his free hand. “Thank you for coming to address the situation as only you can.”

  Mr. Allen shook his hand. “You are quite welcome. Again, I apologize for not being able to respond in person to your first letter. But I trust you will be more than satisfied by day’s end.”

  What did it mean? Adam wondered, suspicion gnawing at him.

  John Evans opened the door for Mr. Allen, but once they were outside, Graves saw that John Evans preceded the older man down the lane.

  “It is going to be quite a day for medicine, Graves. Quite a day.”

  Adam turned from his place at the window. “How so?”

  “Justice, my boy. Justice for the common man and the Royal College both.”

  “I have no idea what you mean, sir. Has this something to do with your friends?”

  “Indeed. Though I count only one as friend. Mortimer and I have known one another since boyhood. His father would have gladly stood him at Oxford, as did mine. I suppose Mortimer had a taste for power—enjoys being a big fish among small. One would think he knew all along he’d end as Master of those beetle crushers and potion pushers.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. Mortimer is Master of Wardens for the Apothecaries’ Society.”

  Adam felt his stomach clench as alarm pulsed through his body.

  “We both have well-placed friends in Parliament,” Foster continued,“and have helped one another over the years, when a letter to a friend might sway the vote on one medical issue or another. Very broad-minded the both of us, I’d say. That other man is only the beadle of the beetle crushers, who does my friend’s bidding.”

  “Mr. Evans seemed quite well-spoken. A gentleman, I’d say.”

  “A gentleman? A hired henchman.” Foster all but shuddered.

  Adam swallowed, his mind reeling. “What are they about?”

  “Oh, merely righting wrongs left too long to fester. Really, when one thinks of it—the negligence, the arrogance. Refusing to dispense a physician’s order? Unpardonable—as the new law makes quite clear.” He chuckled into his teacup.

  “If you are referring to the Haswells and that order of yours, you know very well they were justified in not filling it.”

  “So you say.”

  “I have the patient record to prove it.”

  “I have the law. And the Master of Wardens of pompous Haswell’s very own society.”

  “The letter of the law, sir, perhaps, but not the spirit. Does not our Hippocratic oath rank supreme? To save a life must be the primary mandate, not the law.”

  “That’s radical politic, young man.”

  “You brought them here for this purpose, did you not? Journey to Bath, indeed. They stray quite far afield from their jurisdiction, would you not agree?”

  “Now who’s holding to the letter of the law?”

  “It isn’t right. In this case, the Haswells have done no wrong.”

  “Do you not mean she has done no wrong? I have not missed your interest in the Haswell girl. But perhaps I did miss some new law allowing women to diagnose and dispense physic?”

  Adam turned toward the door.

  “Hold there, Graves. I advise you—do nothing to interfere. I promise you a bleak future if you do.”

  Adam Graves reached for the door latch, and felt its cold metallic reality in his hand.

  Lilly opened the door to Shuttleworth’s and leaned across its threshold. The surgeon-apothecary was alone with his ledgers.

  “Mr. Shuttleworth, do you know where Francis might be? I have not seen him these two days gone.”

  He looked up at her blankly. “Do you not know?”

  Her senses became instantly alert. “Know what?”

  “Mr. Baylor has taken his leave. Quit my employ.”

  She was stunned. “But why?”

  “He has other plans. Did he not tell you?”

  “He told me nothing.”

  “Well . . .” Mr. Shuttleworth awkwardly straightened his cravat.

  “They’re not my plans to tell.”

  “Lilly!” Charlie ran up Milk Lane toward her, arms windmilling. “Francis is leaving.” He paused when he reached her, bending over and panting to catch his breath. “I just seen him . . . carryin’ his bag to the canal.”

  Lilly stared at her brother, yet hardly saw him nor her surroundings as he spoke.

  Charlie straightened. “Remember when he first come ’ere? And spoilt Father’s shoes?”

  Lilly ran.

  She arrived at the canal, out of breath, lungs heaving, as much from emotion as the exertion of the run. There was Francis, stepping down onto the stern of his cousin’s narrowboat, moored near the Honeystreet Bridge.

  “Francis!”

  When he saw her, he left his valise and hat on the deck and climbed back up the bank to where she stood, still trying to catch her breath.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “London.”

  “London?” She stared at him in confusion, her mind whirling.

  Had he told her and she’d forgotten? Was this what it felt like to forget something? This disorientation, this disturbing, irrational dread?

  He continued, “It is my turn to see something of the world, I suppose. Learn a few things. Better myself.”

  “Without saying good-bye?”

  He nodded, sheepish.

  “But I’ve wanted to talk to you, to thank you.” She swallowed a rising wave of panic. “How long will you be away?”

  His grin was rueful. “Do not fret, Lilly. You’ve not seen the last of me.”

  She thought of her mother’s vain promise to Charlie. She thought of Mr. Lippert, the apothecary from Little Bedwyn, who had stayed in London where the opportunities were too great to give up for village life. “You cannot know that, Francis.”

  He tilted his head to the side, studying her.

  She took a deep breath, forcing herself to remain calm. “If you are determined to go to London, I should like to give you the name of a kindly apothecary I met there.”

  “An apothecary? At one of your fine London balls?”

  “No. In Bucklersbury, where every other shop is an apothecary’s or chemist’s.”

  Again she felt his inquiring look.

  “I went there a few times, when I was feeling lonely, I suppose. Missing home.”

  “I am surprised you had the time to miss Bedsley Priors.”

  “Well, not only the village itself, but my father, of course. And Charlie and Mary and . . . you.”

  Eyes intent on hers, he took a step forward. “Lilly—”

  “Mr. Baylor!” a feminine voice called. Glancing over, Lilly saw Miss Robbins smiling and waving from the lawn of Mill House. “Bon voyage!”

  He waved back quickly before returning his attention to Lilly. It stung to realize he had shared his plans with Dorothea Robbins instead of her. Had the two an understanding? She felt her chin begin to tremble.

  “In any case,” she hurried on, determined not to cry, “the apothecary’s name is Lippert. He and his son were very generous when I needed advice on reviving the shop.” Lilly darted a glance at the retreati
ng figure of Miss Robbins. “And he has a charming daughter as well.”

  He raised a skeptical brow. “What is that to me?”

  “She is a lovely young woman who adores everything about an apothecary’s shop. There is no place she would rather be.”

  He frowned. “And you wish me to meet her?”

  Do I? Lilly hesitated. “Well, if you are ever in need of a friendly face in London.”

  He looked at her, slowly shaking his head. “Is that what you really want, Lilly? For me to find myself a charming London girl and never return?”

  “No. I . . .” She faltered, confused. Of course she wanted him to come back—though not for Dorothea Robbins. Have I mistaken the matter? Did Francis not renew his attentions to Miss Robbins after I refused him? Tentatively she asked, “Do you plan to return?”

  He expelled a dry puff of air, a bitter pull at his lips. “I don’t know. Not until you . . . That is . . .” He ran a hand through his hair. “This is why I thought to leave without trying to say good-bye.” He cleared his throat. “Lilly, I know Dr. Graves is a physician, and that he—”

  “Come on, Francis!” his cousin called up from the narrowboat. “Must shove off and sharpish. The lockkeeper Reading way goes to bed at eight bells.”

  Francis lifted a hand to the man, then looked once more at Lilly. “I’ve got to go.”

  “But—”

  “Francis! We can’t wait any longer!”

  Francis took Lilly’s hand and pressed it with his larger one. “No matter what you decide, I hope we shall always be friends.” He turned away and jumped aboard. The crew immediately began casting off.

  “Write!” she called as the boat moved away from the bank.

  But Lilly knew Francis had never been one to write. His poor mother had received a letter at Christmas and another on her birthday only when Lilly had been there to remind him.

  She watched as Francis faded away. He lifted his hand in farewell, and the sight of it caused her chest to ache and tears to burn and well in her eyes. The canal had claimed another dear to her.

  She felt bereft. Muddled. Aching. Was he implying what she thought—hoped—he was implying? But why did she—when she never wanted any part of the life Francis would likely lead? But she did hope. Too late, she realized she did. But what about Dr. Graves? He had uprooted himself and come to Bedsley Priors to pursue her. Had she not an obligation to him?