by Deryn Lake
‘Sir, you look fine,’ said John in admiration, from the doorway.
His father turned his elegant head. ‘Ah, my dear, there you are at last. I take it your non appearance was in some way connected with the outbreak of food poisoning at Apothecaries’ Hall.’
‘How did you know about that?’
‘It was reported in The Public Advertiser.’
‘Good gracious, news does spread. I wonder how they got hold of that story.’
‘The gentlemen of the press have their methods no doubt.’
‘Clearly they do. But yes, in answer to your question, one of the Liverymen was so ill, a Master Alleyn to be precise, that I accompanied him back to Chelsea, and there, I say without false modesty, I believe I saved his life.’
‘How did you do that?’
‘Let me sit in comfort and I’ll tell you.’ John removed his cloak to display a most extraordinary suit of clothes provided by Mrs Alleyn, which, according to her, had once belonged to one of her sons, and which fitted the Apothecary where it touched and no further.
‘Good gracious,’ said Sir Gabriel mildly.
John winked an eye. ‘Mine was ruined.’
His father quivered. ‘Say no more of it. My mind races.’
‘Then allow it to race on. Let me just tell you that nobody knows quite what happened yesterday. It would seem that the venison, or some other dish, was mouldy and that everyone present was affected, though none, as far as I know, quite so badly as Master Alleyn. Father, I thought at one point that despite all my efforts I was going to lose him.’
‘Describe what occurred.’
John did so, sipping the soothing sherry that Sir Gabriel handed him and going over every detail of all that had taken place on the previous afternoon.
‘And you say Mrs Alleyn paid you well.’
‘She did indeed, Sir. Much put out that my suit was ruined, she gave me more than enough to buy several more.’
‘Then it is your duty to your patient to visit him tomorrow.’
John sighed. ‘You are quite right, of course. Despite the difficulties of the journey, I shall make it my business to be there in the morning.’
‘Then may I make a suggestion?’
‘Certainly.’
‘That you leave the shop in the capable hands of Nicholas Dawkins for a day or two, and that you and I set forth in the coach to Chelsea, where we rest for a night, and then on to Kensington, to which benighted place, it seems, you have every intention of retiring me.’
Sir Gabriel’s tone was playful but John was not amused. ‘Father, really! Kensington is a delightful spot. Not only is there the palace, with a lively community gathered round, but also Holland House. To say nothing of the Bishop of Ely’s residence.’
‘And these delights are supposed to attract me?’
‘It is high time,’ said the Apothecary firmly, ‘that we had a country retreat. Somewhere we can escape to when the pressures of London become too great.’
Sir Gabriel raised a cynical brow, smiling behind his sherry glass. ‘My dearest child, I can envisage it now. I am put out to pasture in a rural backwater while you remain here, sporting with your many friends, particularly Miss Clive I imagine.’
For no real reason, except that he was tired from the night before and in no mood for criticism, however jestingly meant, the Apothecary was deeply stung. He rose to his feet.
‘How cruel and how unjust of you. I had thought to buy a house out of town for the sake of both your health and mine. I believed that the sweet air would be beneficial after the stinks of London, but I see that my good intentions have been entirely misread. Good evening, Sir Gabriel. I shall go and seek the company of Miss Clive as you suggest.’
And so saying John rose to his feet in an extremely grand gesture and swept from the house, despite the fact that he was still wearing an ill-fitting suit which had once belonged to a man several sizes larger than he was and in which, if truth be told, he looked more than slightly ridiculous.
Coralie Clive, the most beautiful and talented young woman presently gracing the London stage, at least in the opinion of John Rawlings, was currently appearing at Potter’s Little Theatre in The Hay Market in Congreve’s Love for Love. But at this time of day, it being the hour to dine, she would certainly be at home so, still seething from his father’s remarks, the Apothecary angrily hailed a sedan chair and directed it to Cecil Street, a thoroughfare running between The Strand and the Thames, where his beloved lived with her sister, the celebrated Kitty.
This night, however, was destined to be fraught with surprises. Alighting from the sedan, John saw to his irritation that a very grand coach was drawn up before the sisters’ house and realised that they must be receiving someone of considerable importance. By now in a thoroughly bad mood, the Apothecary rang the doorbell. Thacker, the ex-actor turned manservant whose job it was to protect the sisters, answered the door with a cheery smile.
‘Ah, Mr Rawlings. How are you, good Sir?’
‘I have been better,’ John answered dourly. He indicated the coach with a jerk of his head. ‘I see that fine company is calling.’
Thacker’s face became inscrutable. ‘Miss Kitty is entertaining in her private drawing-room. Miss Coralie is out, alas.’
With the feeling that the entire world was plotting against him, John sighed grimly. ‘Out, you say? Has she left for the theatre?’
‘No, Sir. Miss Coralie has gone to dine with friends.’
Wishing that the entire afternoon had never taken place, the Apothecary resigned himself to his fate and turned to go. But at that moment there came a burst of music played on a harpsichord and Kitty’s voice soared out from a first-floor window in a rendering of a Handel aria. In response, a delighted male voice shouted out in German, ‘Kitty, my darling, you sing like an angel.’ There followed the sound of a smacking kiss, then silence.
John’s lively eyebrows hit his hair. ‘’Zounds!’
Thacker’s expressionless face became even more unreadable, if such a thing were possible. ‘Shall I give Miss Coralie a message?’
‘Tell her I called and that I shall visit her at the theatre on my return from Chelsea, where I am headed to visit a patient.’
‘Certainly, Mr Rawlings.’
‘Thank you, Thacker. Good night to you.’ The Apothecary started towards The Strand, but once again his progress was arrested by a further sound from the first floor. A distinctly audible groan of ecstasy floated downward. Whoever was upstairs with Kitty Clive seemed to be having a very good time. Wishing it were himself and Coralie, John grimly plodded to The Cheshire Cheese, where he filled his stomach with comforting food and bleakly regarded his father’s complete lack of understanding.
Despite the lateness of the hour, candles still burned in Sir Gabriel’s library when John finally put his key into the lock and let himself in. Still angry, the Apothecary headed for the staircase and his bedroom, too upset even to wish his father goodnight. He was not quite quick enough, however, and the door of the library opened, revealing Sir Gabriel’s figure.
‘John,’ his father said quietly.
The Apothecary approached, suddenly bone weary and not in the mood for further discussion.
‘You’re pale,’ Sir Gabriel continued, his tone very contrite.
‘I’m not surprised after my exertions of last night. I battled to save a man and it was a considerable effort.’
‘I know. I am proud of you, which makes my ridiculous jest even more unpardonable. I think I might do very well in the country, particularly Kensington, well favoured by the beau monde as it is. John, forgive me. There is nothing worse than an old fool, and I behaved very foolishly indeed.’
The Apothecary gave an exhausted smile. ‘Father, please don’t talk about it further. I truly must get to bed.’
‘Then do so. And in the morning we will travel to Chelsea together and call on Master Alleyn.’
John nodded, his earlier feeling of discontent far from abated.
‘As you wish. Good night, Sir.’
‘Good night, my boy.’
Despite his exhaustion, or perhaps because of it, the Apothecary slept badly, his irritable frame of mind combining with the general sense of disquiet which had come over him in Apothecaries’ Hall. Accordingly he was still in a snappish mood when he descended early the next morning to find Nicholas Dawkins, his apprentice, who lived in his Master’s house as was the custom, eating breakfast.
The boy, often referred to as the Muscovite because of an exotic ancestry which could be traced back to the court of Tsar Peter the Great, was now twenty-one, having come to his chosen profession late. That he was going to make a brilliant apothecary, John had no doubt. Full of foibles as regards young ladies, particularly Mary Ann Whittingham, niece of the legendary John Fielding and one of the prettiest, wickedest little things in London, nothing could detract from John Rawlings’s fondness for the lad. However, this morning he merely grunted a greeting at Nicholas as he sat down opposite him and carved himself a large piece of ham which he wedged between two thick slices of bread.
‘You are not in spirits, Sir?’ enquired the Muscovite, his russet-brown eyes anxious in his naturally pale face.
‘No,’ John answered shortly.
‘May I enquire why?’
‘I have an uneasy feeling about me.’
‘Is it anything to do with the food poisoning at Apothecaries’ Hall?’
‘How very acute of you. Yes.’
And John proceeded to tell his apprentice all about the incident involving Liveryman Alleyn and the wonderful properties of herb true-love.
‘But you saved him, Sir,’ Nicholas said when his Master had finished. ‘Why are you still distressed?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps I am over-tired.’ John hesitated. It was beyond the code of conduct between a Master and his apprentice to discuss personal matters, and yet Nicholas was only six years younger than he, and they had been through much together. Longing to tell someone about his disagreement with Sir Gabriel, John threw caution to the winds.
‘There’s something else as well.’
‘What is it?’
‘I quarrelled with my father last night about the country home I want to buy in Kensington. He more or less accused me of trying to get rid of him – putting him out to pasture were his actual words.’
‘He jested no doubt, but perhaps the jest hid a real fear.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He has always been such a leader of fashion that I expect he dreads leaving town. But more than that, he will miss you, Master. And me. And Mr Fielding. And all the things that go towards making his old age interesting and exciting.’
John nodded. ‘You’re probably quite right, yet I have never suggested that he should spend all his time in the country. He can live here during the week, just as I intend to do.’
Nicholas looked wise beyond his years. ‘In his heart of hearts I expect Sir Gabriel knows that once he gets away from town he will find it harder and harder to return. Master, he is growing old in body but not in mind. A hard dilemma.’
John leaned across the table and patted his apprentice’s head. ‘You’re a shrewd young fellow, aren’t you? I shouldn’t have reacted so badly.’
‘Exhaustion makes us all behave out of character. And to spend a night with a vomiting, purging patient must have been tiring beyond belief.’
‘It nearly killed me, let alone the poor old man. I just hope that I find him much recovered when I call.’
‘And when will that be?’
‘Later this morning. Sir Gabriel is taking me to Chelsea in the coach, then we are going on to Kensington to look for a house. Which reminds me. Can you take charge of the shop for a couple of days?’
‘Certainly. Do you want me to alert Master Gerard?’ Nicholas smiled fondly at the very mention of the ancient apothecary who willingly came out of retirement to help John when the younger man was called away.
‘Only if there is an emergency. You are more than capable of compounding for ordinary ailments.’
Nicholas looked duly gratified and rose from the table. ‘Then I’ll be on my way, Sir. I hope you find a house that Sir Gabriel likes.’
‘Is that a hint that he should do the choosing?’
‘It is not fitting that you and he should fall out. You have always been so close. Perhaps the best way to heal the breach is for him to decide where you will live. After all, I feel certain that he will spend more time in Kensington than you.’
John’s crooked grin reappeared at last. ‘Were you born old and wise, or is it something you learned along the way?’
‘Both, Sir,’ Nicholas answered seriously, then he bowed and left the room.
They left London by one of John’s favourite routes, wending their way south of St James’s Park to the somewhat infamous Tothill Fields. From the Middle Ages onwards, the fields had been used for all kinds of nefarious activities, from bull- and bear-baiting, to duelling and dumping rubbish. During the Great Plague of 1665 the dead had been buried there in an enormous pit. Now the entire area had been turned over to good works donated by Christian citizens and looked innocent enough as Sir Gabriel’s stunning equipage, jet black and drawn by snow-white horses, edged round the perimeter, passing along the road that led to the Horse Ferry as they did so.
Looking out of the coach’s window, John gazed on all the assembled charity. The Reverend Palmer’s Almshouses for Six Poor Old Men and Six Poor Old Women sat rather grimly beside the Gray Coat School, complete with the figures of an orphaned boy and girl attached to the frontage. Close by stood Lady Dacre’s Almhouses established for the purpose of bringing up children in virtue. But this was not all. Next door to the Green Coat School, yet another haven for orphans, stood Bridewell, like its counterpart near Fleet Street, a house of correction for women who sold their bodies for cash. John musingly thought as they drove past that he was yet to see a house of correction for the men who hired the poor wretched creatures.
But the feature that the Apothecary loved most of all was the one that he could now glimpse out of the window. The imposing Chelsea Water Works was lying directly in front of them. Created earlier in the century, the Works were fed by the Thames and supplied Westminster with water. Magnificent as its reservoir and streams were to look at, however, John was made more than uneasy by the fact that the river was also used as a sewage outlet and no provision at all had been made by the builders for separating the human discharge from the human drinking product. Not a thought he cared to dwell on.
‘You’re very quiet, my dear,’ said Sir Gabriel, who had been a little over-solicitous following their argument.
‘I was just thinking about the water we drink.’
‘What about it?’
‘If only there were a way of bottling a spring, so that at least we could be sure of its purity. The Thames is full of dead dogs and dollops of dung …’
‘Please!’
‘The essence of which we drink regularly.’
‘Dear God.’
‘It’s a fact, Father. There’s no escaping it.’
‘But wouldn’t spring water be a little tame?’
John’s uneven smile appeared. ‘Obviously, if you compare it with the rich mixture you’re imbibing now.’
‘Perhaps if it could be made to sparkle it would become more interesting.’
‘Now that,’ said the Apothecary thoughtfully, ‘is a very good idea indeed.’
The carriage turned right, taking them along a tree-lined path which hugged one of the reservoir’s many man-made tributaries. This led, in its turn, to Chelsea Bridge which crossed the southern end of the reservoir close to the point where it was fed by the Thames. Looking back, John could see the Neat Houses, quaint dwellings deriving their name from the word neyte, more commonly called eyot or ait, meaning a small river island.
Now came the most delightful part of the drive, down Strumbelo and Jews Row, passing both Ranelagh Gardens, the most fashiona
ble and the most expensive of all London’s pleasure gardens, then the famous Chelsea College or Hospital. Built by Charles II to look after retired or wounded members of the royal bodyguard, it had been Christopher Wren who had created The Hospital of Maymed Soldiers, the first residents of which had been admitted in 1689. John stared with delight at its beautiful proportions as the carriage finally turned towards the river and the home of Master Josiah Alleyn.
Approaching the house from the land and in daylight, the Apothecary was once more struck by the spaciousness of the place.
‘A goodly dwelling,’ commented Sir Gabriel, reading his thoughts.
‘I never knew apothecaries could become quite so wealthy.’
‘I believe Master Alleyn owns several shops,’ answered John’s father. ‘Perhaps, my dear, you should emulate him and buy another when we get to Kensington.’
‘It would stretch my resources to the limit.’
‘I was hoping that you would allow me to have a share in the enterprise.’
‘But you bought me Shug Lane.’
‘That is beside the point. Ours is a family concern.’
‘It seems you are resolute,’ said John, patting Sir Gabriel’s hand.
‘Totally. Any further protest would be a waste of valuable breath.’
‘I see.’
They were drawing very near the house and it was now apparent that the front had been built to face the extensive grounds belonging to the pleasure gardens, the back to face the river. There was, John could see, gazing down the length of the estate, another barge beside Master Alleyn’s riding at the mooring jetty. And it was then that he noticed many of the curtains in the house had been drawn and that a swathe of black material had been hung round the door knocker. ‘Stop!’ he called to the coachman, sticking his head out of the window. ‘Stop here. I must get out.’