by Deryn Lake
“Thank you, Sir.” The Irishman searched in his pocket until he found a card which he presented with a flourish. “My ticket.”
“Thank you.” John solemnly handed him a card in return. “That will be one shilling.”
“Expensive but worth it if it does the trick. Good day to yeez.”
And he was gone, cramming his tricorne on his head and leaving the shop with a further jingling of bells.
“Quite a character, Sir,” said Gideon, watching his retreating form through the window.
“Yes.”
John studied the card which read, “Michael O’Callaghan, Thespian and Artiste”. Beneath this bold inscription there was printed an address off Fleet Street. John suspected that it was probably somewhere rather seedy.
“Strange to think of him being on the same stage as Coralie,” he said to himself, then felt a rush of self-annoyance that such a thought should even have presented itself.
The next day found Emilia in a state of extreme nervousness. “John, before you go to work you must advise me on my wardrobe,” she announced at breakfast.
He looked up from The Daily Courant. “Wardrobe?” he asked.
“Yes. It is today that I go to take tea with Priscilla. I really am determined to cut a dash fashion-wise. Supposing I should run into Princess Amelia.”
“Why? Does she wear cutting styles?”
“I have no idea but one must be prepared. The train has made a comeback, you know. Do you think my open robe with the small train would be suitable? That is if I can get into it.”
John smiled at her, thinking how excitement became her, transforming her into someone far younger than her actual age. Indeed, Emilia almost looked childlike as she gazed at him earnestly.
“Let’s go upstairs and have a look at your selection,” he said, cramming a piece of beef into his mouth and chewing hastily.
“Oh good,” she said, clasped her hands together and practically ran up the flight in front of him.
Several of her favourite dresses were lying on the bed and before he could say a word Emilia had slipped off her night-rail and was trying the first one on. After fitting them all they eventually decided on a sacque-backed gown in heavy woven silk, trimmed with lace and flowers, the sacque falling in a slight train as fashion decreed. The stays beneath meant that it could be laced as tightly as ever.
“Phew,” said Emilia, holding her breath.
“You won’t get away with this much longer,” John remarked, noticing the flush in her cheeks.
“Nor would I wish to. I feel like an oyster crushed by its shell.”
“Well, breathe in today and after that, loosen your stays.”
“Yes, Apothecary,” she said cheekily, making a face at him.
John felt another rush of love for her and pulled her close. “Enjoy yourself,” he said, “and remember that you will be one of the most beautiful women there. There’s no need for all these alarms, you know.”
“But I enjoy them,” Emilia said, and kissed him on the cheek. He responded with a proper kiss, a kiss which left them both feeling rather flustered, and it was as much as he could do to tear himself away and walk through the cold to Shug Lane. Which, however, he forced himself to do, slowing his gait as he spied Gideon, running and breathless and somewhat ill-attired, but ahead of him just the same.
Chapter Three
After his day’s work, knowing that Emilia would be late, John made an appointment to see his tailor, a man he held in high esteem. He had been attending the same fellow, whose name was Josiah Bentham, for several years, and now he made his way to Ludgate Hill, where Josiah resided next door to a linen drapers, with whom he had connections. Usually, of course, Mr. Bentham attended to him in his home but tonight, because John had firmly insisted, the client was making his way to see the tailor.
Taking a hackney coach, John travelled with a sense of enjoyment. Not that he needed a new suit, nor even workclothes, his clothes press bulging with garments. But styles were changing. The flared coat skirts which he had been sporting were being cut back, waistcoats were flaunting small stand collars. Indeed, he looked forward to a half hour in which he could talk about fashion with an expert and, if necessary, call Josiah in to alter some of his existing clothes.
The night was extremely cold, the moon frosty and covered by a hazy layer of cloud. As the coach proceeded down The Strand, John was struck by the fact that few prostitutes were out, preferring to lose a night’s trade than to brave the elements, no doubt. Fleet Street, where lay the notorious Fleet Ditch, an open sewer with an indescribable stench, was not as noxious as usual. John noticed as they passed over Fleet Bridge that the Ditch had frozen over, trapping the worst of the stinks within. None the less he applied his handkerchief to his nostrils and did not remove it until they had climbed further up Ludgate Hill.
The hackney drew to a halt outside the linen drapers and John, paying the man off, knocked on the door beside the shop. It was opened by a boy, who bowed and said, “Mr. Josiah is waiting above, Sir.” Cautiously, John ascended the steep flight of stairs.
He entered a scene of high activity. Despite the lateness of the hour cutters and stitchers were working feverishly on a whole medley of cloths, while the tailor himself, tape measure round neck, flitted from place to place, overseeing all. He turned as he heard John come in and gave an extraordinary bow.
“Mr. Rawlings, my dear Sir. I do hope your journey here was not too hazardous.”
“No, I took a hackney.”
“Just as well. Far too far to walk, particularly on such a freezing night.” He paused, said, “Excuse me a moment if you would,” and hurried over to one of his assistants.
John looked round him. The room was very long, presumably stretching over the linen drapers shop underneath, and had exposed timbers. There was a large grate in which a coal fire licked halfway up the chimney, throwing out a goodly heat for those nearest to it. In the far corner of the room, however, where the boy who had answered the door sat with a couple of others, there blew a draught which felt as if it had the ocean on its breath. Yet it was the activity in the room that John found exhilarating. For everyone, old and young alike, was working full pelt to finish the garments that lay on the tables stretched out before them. It was like a scene depicting merry dwarves at toil and the Apothecary felt a smile cross his somewhat tired features.
A table near the fire boasted various provisions together with some bottles of wine. Mr. Bentham, without enquiring whether his visitor would like a drink or not, proceeded to pour out a reasonable claret.
Handing it to John, he said, “And now, Mr. Rawlings, let us discuss fashion.”
John took a chair. “What are the latest trends, Mr. Bentham?”
The tailor, who had not partaken, put his fingertips together. “Well, as you will have no doubt observed, the side seams of the coat are increasingly curving backward, bringing the hip buttons closer together. The effect, of course, is to narrow the back. The flared skirts are, alas Sir, going out.”
“Oh dear,” said John, alarmed by the fact that he had several fully flared coats in his press.
“Your present collection can, of course, be modified.”
“Thank heavens for that. What else is going on?”
“Well, the stock has replaced the cravat. But I see you are already aware of that.” He cast an approving eye at the Apothecary’s neckwear.
“Yes. What else?”
“Heels, my good Sir, are getting lower.” He paused once more and refilled John’s glass. “And now, Sir, let me show you quite the finest piece of material that it has been my pleasure to handle in many a long year.” He clapped his hands and one of the boys in the corner immediately got to his feet. “Jarman,” called Mr. Bentham, “bring me a sample of Midnight in Venice.”
“Yes, Sir,” and the boy went rummaging amongst bales of cloth and pulled out one which he carried reverentially towards his master.
It was indeed very fine, made of midni
ght blue with a design of small silver stars. John picked it up and felt the quality between his fingers. “Does it come from Venice?” he asked.
“It does, Sir, it does. It is quite the latest style of fabric. Can you not see it with a shot silver waistcoat embroidered in petit-point with deep blue flowers, thus contrasting with the upper garment?”
“Unfortunately,” the Apothecary answered, clearing his throat, “I can.”
Josiah looked roguish. “Can I tempt you, Sir?”
“I don’t think so. I am a family man now.”
“Of course, of course. Now, when shall I call to remove your flared coats?”
“Tomorrow perhaps.”
“Tomorrow at six?”
“That would be splendid. Now, can you send a lad to the hackney coach point for me?”
“Of course, Sir. At once. Do have some more wine.”
It was a little after seven-thirty when John began the journey home. London was freezing and there were few people about. Staring out of the window, wishing that he was already in his house, the Apothecary saw that the streets were almost empty. Then there was a hold-up as he drew level with the King’s Theatre in The Hay Market, into which one or two souls were still hurrying. He stared, feeling he recognised one of them, then as she turned her face was caught by light so that he saw it quite distinctly. It was Priscilla Fleming. But it was to the person accompanying her that John’s eyes were drawn. For it was none other than the Irishman who had come to his shop earlier that day. Michael O’Callaghan was, surprisingly, taking a young lady of some standing to the theatre that night.
“Did Priscilla mention a man called Michael?” he asked Emilia, who was sitting opposite him in the study, reading a book.
She looked up. “No, I don’t think so. Has he a second name?”
“Michael O’Callaghan. He’s an Irish actor who came to my shop earlier today. He was slightly injured in a stage fight but making heavy weather of it. Anyway, I saw them going into the King’s Theatre together.” Emilia stared. “How odd. When I left she said she was going to retire early; that she was feeling fatigued.”
“She obviously revived,” said John drily.
“Clearly,” Emilia answered, and gave the smile that her husband adored. “She seems very taken up with theatre people so perhaps she felt she should risk going out.”
“I wouldn’t have thought he was her type somehow.”
“Why?”
“Because, frankly, he’s down-at-heel. He only crowds and fights. He seems ambitious enough but as yet certainly hasn’t made the climb to better things.”
“Perhaps he’s a secret admirer.”
“Obviously he is. But I’m surprised she didn’t mention it to you.”
“Oh, she has a lot on her mind,” Emilia answered vaguely. “This theatrical presentation she is putting on for the Princess is quite an undertaking. She has even asked me to take a part.”
“Really?” John lowered his paper and stared at his wife.
“Yes. It is apparently to be held at Curzon Street because that is where the Princess wants it. Anyway, poor Priscilla can’t get hold of enough young women. In short, she’s desperate for them. So, Husband, she has asked me if I will consider it.”
“And will you?”
“Yes. That is if you don’t mind.”
“My only worry is that you are three months pregnant.”
“Well, I shall have to be wedged in a little longer. May I do it?”
“My darling, you may do as you wish. You knew that when I married you. I am not a man to follow convention and you have total freedom — within limits of course.”
She got up and crossed over to him, lowering herself onto his lap and giving him little kisses round his eyes and nose.
“And what limits might they be?”
“That you go on loving me and don’t take a fancy to anyone else.”
Emilia wound her arms round his neck. “How could I when all I ever wanted is here, now.”
It was an unforgettable moment and one that he would treasure. “Darling Emilia,” he said, and gave her a kiss full of the sudden rush of an inexplicable emotion which beset him.
Waking suddenly in the middle of the night, John realised that he had been dreaming of Midnight in Venice, of all things, and had to admit that it was the most wonderful piece of material he had seen in an age and fit to dream about indeed. And now, he realised, he had the perfect excuse to order a suit made from it, cut on the most fashionable lines. As Emilia was to take part in the royal entertainment, the theatrical performance organised for the benefit of Princess Amelia, it would be beholden on him to attend. And what better to wear than a coat and breeches fashioned in that divine material.
Cautiously, John lit the candle by his bed. Emilia stirred but did not wake. Taking a paper and pencil he kept handy on his bedside chest, the bottom half of which contained a chamber pot, the Apothecary did some sums. He could afford it — just — without depriving Rose and the forthcoming child of anything. But he would have to work hard. And Gideon would have to pull his weight. Deciding to put an advertisement in a newspaper to ginger up business, John roughly drafted one. Then, at last, he blew out the candle.
But sleep would not come. Memories of that uneasy sense he had had when he had held Emilia close, together with a general sensation of disquiet, plagued him to the point that he finally rose and went downstairs to the library. Even this old, familiar, well-loved room seemed eerie in the moonlight, which flooded in round the shutters. Pulling them back, John stared out into the garden. Then he froze. There was somebody out there, he felt positive. He watched the shape, which stood quite still beneath the trees, looking towards the house.
John felt his blood run cold. It stood so still he could almost believe it was a ghost. But he must have made the slightest move because suddenly the figure, voluminously cloaked so that it was impossible to guess its gender, took off to the back of the garden and must have climbed the wall leading to Dolphin’s Yard where the horses were stabled and the coach kept.
The Apothecary toyed with the idea of running into the street and giving chase but realised, even as the idea came to him, that the notion was doomed. Dressed only in a nightshirt and adding the extra minutes it would take to fetch his pistol, he would have already lost the intruder. Deep in thought he returned to bed, having first checked all the locks, determining to say nothing to Emilia.
Chapter Four
Throughout the first week of December it remained just as cold, then, in the second week, snow fell on London and refused to go away. Ordering the path outside number two Nassau Street swept, John struggled down Gerrard Street on his way to work, then encountered another snowdrift in Shug Lane.
“Come along, Gideon,” he called and set to with his apprentice, sweeping for all they were worth, until he had cleared the alley a goodly way on either side of the shop.
Then, rosy-cheeked and blowing their hands, master and pupil went into the compounding room and brewed tea.
John stared mournfully outwards. It was very grey and the first few flakes were starting to fall again. “I doubt we’ll get much custom today,” he said. But even as he uttered the words a shopkeeper from next door appeared and, pushing his way in, set the bell jangling.
“Good morning, Mr. Rawlings,” he said through chattering teeth.
“Good morning, Mr. Colville.”
“Have you something for my apprentice? The boy has a streaming cold and today seems totally devoid of energy. Unless he’s putting on an act, of course.”
“I’ll come in and see him as soon as I’ve finished my tea. Would you like some?”
“I’d appreciate a cup. Thank you.”
They all three went into the compounding room and Gideon poured for Eustace Colville, whose shop John feared going in to for the temptation to buy was so great. Stacked almost to the ceiling with books, it contained ancient works as well as those of a more up-to-date nature, and had everything from heavy t
omes of maps to the latest novel. It also imported books from Europe which were aimed at those emigres living in London, amongst whom Mr. Colville had a thriving clientele.
Tea drunk, John put on his greatcoat before walking the few steps to the next door shop where he found the apprentice in a sorry state. Eyes streaming, nose pouring, the boy had a fever and a distillation upon his lungs.
John turned to the bookseller. “This lad needs to go home to bed. He has a severe attack of ague and really should rest.”
Mr. Colville looked slightly daunted. “Well, I can’t leave my shop to walk him back. Oh dear!”
“I’ll send Gideon to get a chair, if that’s agreeable.” Eustace pulled a slight face but agreed and a few minutes later, looking terrible but clutching two bottles, one made from the fresh leaves of Colt’s Foot to relieve his cough, the other a mixture of distilled water, again of Colt’s Foot but mixed with Elderflowers and Nightshade for the ague, Mark the apprentice was on his way. Gideon stared after the retreating chair.
“I’ve a sore throat, Sir.”
“Right,” answered John. “Let’s have a look.”
He peered down the chasm but could see nothing untoward. However, he decided to play the game.
“Um, that will need watching. I recommend the juice of the leaves of Birch Tree. Every hour on the hour. Wash your mouth out with that and I’ll keep an eye on you. Here’s some. Start now.”
He ran his hand along the shelves and handed the wretched boy the bitter-tasting concoction. Then he grinned as from the back room came the sounds of Gideon enthusiastically starting to rinse his mouth then hawking at the terrible taste.
The Apothecary’s feeling that trade would be slow turned out to be justified and at three o’clock he shut up shop and walked back through the dying day, Gideon trotting alongside. As always, when he turned into Gerrard Street, John felt his heart lift, knowing that Emilia and Rose would be waiting for him, that the house would be warm and welcoming. Yet despite its obvious comfort there was today something slightly threatening about the place, a feeling caused by the strange sexless figure in the garden, staring so silently. He had almost thought it to be a spectre. Yet it had been human enough when it took off in fright towards Dolphin’s Yard.