The Lost Apothecary

by Sarah Penner

  I frowned. I was not sure what monthly course meant, but no matter how Rissa played into the story, I could empathize with her belly pains. “He was the first man to step foot into my shop,” Nella continued, “but he was so desperate! And if Rissa did not have a sister or mother to send, how could I refuse him? So I gave him a tincture of motherwort, an emmenagogue.”

  “Motherwort,” I repeated. “Is it for mothers?”

  Nella smiled and went on to explain that more than a century ago, Culpeper—the great healer—believed it to bring joy to new mothers and remove the melancholy so common in the days after childbirth. “But you see,” she continued, “motherwort also settles the womb and stimulates the belly to shed what’s inside. In doing so, it must be administered very carefully, and only to those who are positive they are not with child.”

  She pulled a stem of hay from the bale and began to twist it around her finger, like a ring. “The next week Frederick returned, vibrant and gentlemanlike, thanking me for returning his sister to her normal, healthy self. I found myself intensely drawn to him for reasons I didn’t understand at the time. I thought it love, then, but now I wonder if it wasn’t simply the emptiness of grief, seeking something to rush in and take away the barren feeling.”

  She exhaled. “Frederick seemed drawn to me, too, and in the weeks that followed, he promised me his hand. With each passing day, each promise, something in my heart came back to life. He promised me a house full of children and a beautiful shop with pink glass windows to carry on the memory of my mother. Imagine how that made me feel... What could I call it other than love?” She looked down at her hand, where the stem of hay was wrapped in a perfect circle around her finger. At once, she let go and it fell to her lap.

  “I soon became pregnant. One would think I knew how to prevent such a thing, but that is not how it happened. Despite my grief, the new life inside of me gave me a great deal of hope. Not everything in the world had given up its last breath, like my mother. And when I told Frederick about our baby on that early-winter morning, he seemed overjoyed. He said we would get married the week after next, following Martinmas, before anyone else could see that I was with child. You may be young, Eliza, but you know enough to see that the sun does not shine so brightly on a child born out of wedlock.”

  Concern bubbled inside of me. Nella had never mentioned a child, grown or otherwise; where was the child now?

  “Well, as you might suspect, I was not with child for much longer. It happens often, little Eliza, but that does not make it any less terrible. I hope that you never have to experience it.” She pulled her legs up closer to her body and crossed her arms, as though protecting herself from what she was to say next. “It happened very late at night. Frederick meant to leave the city for a week to visit family, so we’d spent the entire evening together. He fixed us supper, helped with the repair of several shelves, read me a poem he’d written...a perfect evening, or so I thought. He left me with a long kiss, promising to return the next week.” Nella shuddered and was silent a moment. “Hours later, the cramping began, and I lost my child. No words can describe the pain. Afterward, I needed nothing so much as the comfort of Frederick’s embrace. In bedridden agony, I waited for the week to pass, repressing my grief until he returned and could help me with the burden of it. But he did not show—not after the second week, nor the third. I began to suspect something terrible, and I thought it very strange that the night I fell ill—the night I lost our girl—was the last night he’d shown his face.

  “Frederick was familiar with many of the shelves and drawers at my shop. And as I said, even the most benign remedies may be deadly in great quantity. I checked several bottles against my register, and to my horror, I saw that the motherwort was not at its recorded level. Frederick knew of its properties, since I had dispensed it to his sister, Rissa. I realized, then, that he had used my own tinctures against me. Against our child. We had spent so much time together, and it was not out of the realm of possibility that he had somehow disguised it and tricked me into ingesting it during supper. I felt sure, as the days passed, that the motherwort—meant to remove melancholy and bring joy to a new mother’s soul—had taken the child right from my womb.”

  The back of my throat burned and tightened as Nella spoke. I wanted to ask how Frederick managed to deceive her—how he could have rooted through her things, slipped a single drop into her food or drink without her noticing—but I did not want to turn this against her, to make her feel any worse about it than she must already.

  “Little Eliza, at last, there was a knock on my door. And who do you think it was that had come to see me?”

  “Frederick,” I said, leaning forward.

  “No. His sister, Rissa. Except...she was not his sister. She told me, without hesitation, that she was his wife.”

  I shook my head as though this memory of Nella’s was happening now, right in front of my eyes. “H-how did she know where to find you?” I stammered.

  “She knew of my mother’s shop for women’s maladies. Remember, she was the one who first sent Frederick to me, when she badly needed the motherwort. She also knew he had a tendency, you might say, to skirt around. She asked me to share the truth with her. This was merely four weeks after I had lost the baby. I was still bleeding, still in a great deal of heartache, and so I revealed everything to her. Afterward, she told me that I was not his first mistress, and then she began to ask questions of the bottles and brews on my shelves. I told her what I have told you—that in large quantities, nearly anything is deadly—and to my great surprise, Rissa asked for nux vomica, which can be used in very small doses to treat fever, even plague. But it is, of course, rat poison. The same thing that killed your master.”

  Nella spread her hands wide. “Upon her asking, I hesitated but a moment, then dispensed her a deadly quantity, free of charge, and advised her how to best disguise the flavor. Just as Frederick had slipped a poison to me, I instructed Rissa how to do the same. That, child, is how it began. With Rissa. With Frederick.

  “After Rissa left, there was a sense of release within me. Vengeance is its own medicine.” She let out a small cough. “Frederick was dead the next day. I read it that week, in the papers. Doctors blamed it on heart failure.”

  Nella’s coughing grew louder and rose into a full-blown fit. She clutched her stomach, her breath hoarse, for several minutes. At last she leaned forward, gasping. “My mother, my child, my lover. And so it went—like a tiny leak, slow and hushed at first, word began to spread through the city. I do not know who Rissa told first, or who that person told next, but the web of whispers began to spread. At some point they started leaving letters, and I was forced to build a wall in my shop to remain unseen. I had not the heart to close up the place of my mother’s legacy, no matter how I had spoiled it.”

  She patted the hay beside her. “I know what it is to watch my child fall from my body at the hands of a man. And while my story is terrible, every woman has faced a man’s wickedness to some degree. Even you.” She placed a hand on the floor, steadying herself as she began to tilt to one side. “I am an apothecary, and it is my duty to dispense remedies to women. And so over the years they have come to me, and I have sold them what they wish. I have protected their secrets. I have borne the brunt of their burdens. Perhaps if I had bled again after the loss, if my womb were not scarred, I would have stopped long ago. But the absence of bleeding has been a constant reminder of Frederick’s betrayal and what he took from me.”

  In the darkness, my brow furrowed into confusion. The absence of bleeding? I presumed she misspoke on account of her fatigue.

  Slowly, Nella fell onto her side, yawning and weak. I knew that her story was nearly over, but although she appeared exhausted, I was wide-awake.

  “It cannot go on forever, of course,” she whispered. “I am failing. And whereas I thought, long ago, that issuing such pain may ease my own, I was wrong. It has only grown wo
rse, and my bones swell and ache with the passing of each week. I am sure that dispensing these poisons is destroying me from the inside, but how can I tear down what I have built? You heard Lady Clarence... My distinction is well-known.”

  She cleared her throat, licked her lips. “It is a strange puzzle,” she concluded. “For as much as I have worked to fix women’s maladies, I cannot fix my own. My grief has never gone away, not in twenty years.” Speaking so quietly that I could hardly hear her, I wondered if she had not slipped into a sort of peaceful nightmare. “For this kind of pain, no such tincture exists.”

  16

  Caroline

  Present day, Tuesday

  When I stepped into the lobby of La Grande, dread hardened in my chest. Though I’d mulled over the apothecary for most of the train ride to the hotel, now the more urgent concern—my husband’s imminent arrival—pushed aside any thoughts of Bear Alley, the vial or the library documents.

  Given the time needed to clear customs and catch a taxi, it seemed mathematically impossible for James to already be at the hotel. In spite of this, I hesitated in front of my room door, wondering if I should knock. Just in case.

  No. This was my room, my trip. He was the interloper. I slid my keycard into the door and went inside.

  Mercifully, the room was empty and everything inside was my own, albeit in tidier condition than I’d left it. The crisp white bed linens had been tucked neatly against the mattress, the kitchenette had been refreshed with clean mugs, and...shit. A vase of beautiful, baby blue hydrangeas sat on the small table near the door.

  I pulled the tiny envelope from the center of the flower posy and opened it, hoping it was only an unwitting display of congratulations from one of our parents.

  It wasn’t. The inscription was short, but I knew instantly who sent it. I’m sorry, the note began, and I have so much to make up to you, to explain to you. I will love you always. See you soon. J.

  I rolled my eyes. James was an intelligent guy; he meant to do damage control in advance of his arrival, pulling whatever strings he could to ensure I at least opened the hotel room door for him. But if he thought we could talk this over in a single morning, then share a couple of mimosas and resume our lovebird itinerary as originally planned, he was sorely mistaken.

  I didn’t allow myself to feel guilty about this. I may not have been perfectly happy with our life, but I wasn’t the one who’d thrown it away.

  * * *

  A short while later, I lay on the bed sipping an ice-cold water when there came a knock at the door. I knew instinctively that it was him. I could feel it, just like I could feel the exhilaration in his body when I stood across from him at the altar on our wedding day.

  I took a single deep breath and opened the door, unwillingly inhaling the scent of him: the familiar aroma of pine and lemon, subtle remnants of the homemade soap he loved so much. We’d bought it together at an outdoor market a few months ago, in the days when my free time was spent peeking at fertility tips on Pinterest. Things seemed so much easier then.

  James stood before me, a charcoal-gray suitcase against his leg. He wasn’t smiling, nor was I, and if an unlucky stranger were to walk by at that very moment, they would have believed it the most awkward, unpleasant reunion they’d ever seen. As we stared dumbly at each other, I realized that, until just a moment ago, part of me didn’t believe he’d actually turn up in London at all.

  “Hi,” he whispered sadly, still on the other side of the threshold. Though only an arm’s length separated us, it felt like an ocean.

  I opened the door wider and motioned for him to come in, like he was a bellman delivering my luggage. As he rolled in his suitcase, I walked away to refill my glass of water. “You found my room,” I said over my shoulder.

  James eyed the vase of flowers on the table. “My name is on the reservation, too, Caroline.” He tossed a few travel documents—his passport and a couple of receipts—onto the table next to the flowers. His shoulders slumped and his eyes creased at the edges. I’d never seen him look so tired.

  “You look exhausted,” I said, my voice hoarse. My mouth had gone dry.

  “I haven’t slept in three days. Exhausted is an understatement.” He touched one of the flowers, running his finger along the edge of a silky, baby blue petal. “Thank you for not turning me away at the door,” he said, looking at me tearfully. I’d only seen him cry twice: once at our wedding reception, when he raised a glass of pink champagne to me, his new wife, and once after his uncle’s burial ceremony, as we walked away from the gaping hole in the earth that was soon filled with dirt.

  But his tears drew no sympathy from me. I didn’t want to be around him, could barely look at him. I pointed to the sofa underneath the window, with its round arms and tufted upholstery. It wasn’t meant for sleeping, but for lounging and easy conversation and lustful, late-night lovemaking—all the things James and I wouldn’t be doing. “You should rest. There are extra blankets in the closet. The room service is quick, too, if you’re hungry.”

  He gave me a confused look. “Are you going somewhere?”

  The late-morning sun shone bright into the room, leaving pale yellow streaks across the hotel room floor. “I’m going out to get lunch,” I said, taking off my sneakers and putting on flats.

  The hotel room had listed a few suggestions in a binder on the table; there was an Italian place just a few blocks away. I needed comfort food, and maybe a glass of Chianti. Not to mention an Italian restaurant was likely to be low-lit. Perfect for someone like me who needed a discreet place to think, maybe cry. Seeing James now, in flesh and blood, had left a hard lump in my throat. I wanted to embrace him as much as I wanted to shake him, to make him tell me why he’d ruined us.

  “Can I join you?” He ran his hand across his jawline, hidden under three days’ worth of stubble.

  I knew the misery that was jet-lagged heartache, and in spite of myself, I pitied him for it. And hadn’t I decided to stop ignoring the discomfort in looking deeper? I might as well start by getting some things off my chest. I only hoped I could keep the tears at bay. “Sure,” I muttered, then I grabbed my bag and led the way out the door.

  The restaurant, Dal Fiume, was just a block from the River Thames. The hostess took us to a small table at one corner of the restaurant, away from the other patrons; she probably assumed James and I were on a first date given the obvious distance we kept from one another. As though it were late in the evening, several vintage lanterns glowed throughout the dining area, and heavy scarlet curtains wrapped around the room like a cocoon. I would have found it intimate on any other day, but today it was stifling. Maybe this choice had been a bit too discreet, but we were both hungry and exhausted, and we let out a collective sigh as we sank into the leather armchairs on either side of the table.

  The large menus offered a welcome distraction, and for a while neither of us spoke, except to the waitress who brought us water and, soon after, two glasses of Chianti. But as soon as she placed the glass in front of me, I remembered: my period. Still late. Alcohol. Pregnancy.

  I ran my finger along the base of the glass, considering what, if anything, to do. I couldn’t send the wine back—James would suspect something, and I would not share this with him. Not here, not in this godforsaken red room that threatened to suffocate us both.

  I thought of Rose. Hadn’t she had alcohol in the first few weeks of her pregnancy, before taking a test? Her doctor had had no concerns at that very early stage.

  Good enough for me. I sucked down a gulp of the wine, then proceeded to skim the menu, seeing but reading none of it.

  A few minutes later the waitress took our orders and left with the menus, and I instantly missed the protective barrier between James and me; there was nothing left to focus on except one another. We sat so close together, I could hear him breathing.

  I looked directly at my husband, his face even more sunk
en in this light than earlier. I tried not to wonder when he last ate, as he seemed to have lost a few pounds. Taking a fortifying sip of wine, I began, “I’m so angry—”

  “Listen, Caroline,” he interrupted, intertwining his fingers like I’d seen him do on the phone with disappointed clients. “It’s done. We’re having her transferred to another department, and I let her know that if she contacts me again, I’ll inform Human Resources.”

  “So it’s her fault, then? Her problem? You’re the one on partner track, James. Seems to me that Human Resources might be more interested in your involvement.” I shook my head, already frustrated. “And why is this even about your work? What about our marriage?”

  He sighed, leaning forward. “It’s unfortunate things came to light this way.” An interesting choice of words; he meant to diffuse responsibility. “But maybe it’s not all bad,” he added. “Maybe there’s some good to come of it, for us and our relationship.”

  “Some good to come of it,” I repeated, astounded. “What good could possibly come of this?”

  The waitress returned with large pasta spoons, delicately placing them before us, and the silence between the three of us was thick and awkward. She quickly left.

  “I’m trying to level with you, Caroline. I’m here, now, telling you that I’ll do counseling, I’ll do soul-searching, I’ll do whatever.”

  My solo trip to London was meant to be like a counseling session for me—until, of course, James showed up at my door. And his flippant manner angered me further. “Let’s start the soul-searching now,” I said. “Why did you do it? Why did you let it continue after the promotion event?” I realized that despite my desire to know the gruesome what and how, what I most wanted to know right that moment was...why? A question struck me at once, something I hadn’t considered before. “Are you scared of trying for a baby? Is that why?”