by Deryn Lake
There was nothing he could say. “Very well,” he managed, and spread his hands.
She went to him and stroked his forehead. “Darling, you look so tired. I shall miss you, you know that.”
“Yes, I know,” he answered wearily.
“Come, let us go to bed,” said Emilia. “You look fit to drop.”
“I am.”
And he followed her up the stairs and got into bed where he fell asleep at once, determined to devote more time to his family and less to his work.
He woke unusually early and half sat up in bed, lighting the candle carefully. It was still dark and very cold in the room. Beside him Emilia slept, deep down in dreams. Raising himself on one elbow the Apothecary looked at her, studying her face. Sleep had etched out any lines she had so that she appeared no more than a girl and this, together with a natural innocence which she had always possessed, brought sudden tears to his eyes. He thought then about Coralie Clive and Elizabeth di Lorenzi and knew that he could never have married either of them. That both, in their individual ways, would have been too wild, too much to cope with. Emilia, though considered by some to be a strange choice at the time, had proved herself an ideal wife.
Watching her, keeping so quiet, John had never experienced anything quite like it, feeling tenderness, love, and a fierce urge to protect her against all harm. Very gently he leaned over and kissed her. She stirred but did not wake. He kissed her again and this time she opened her eyes. Her saw fear in them, saw it turn to recognition and fondness.
“John?” She was asking him a question.
“I love you, Emilia, and I always will.”
“I love you too.”
She put her arms round his neck and drew him close, and he responded quite naturally, swiftly removing his nightshirt and pulling her beneath him as they made love in the light of dawning.
Later that morning, Emilia set off, armed with a trunk and hat box. Irish Tom brought the coach round from the mews, promising his employer that he would be back the next day.
“… it being so snowy and all, Sorrh.”
“Don’t worry, take your time. And Tom …”
“Yes, Sorrh?”
“Go at a reasonable pace. Mrs. Rawlings must be looked after, you know.”
“I’ll be treating her as if she were the royal jewels, Sorrh.”
John put his head and shoulders into the coach’s interior where Emilia was settling herself before the journey began.
“Goodbye, darling. I’ll see you on the twenty- second.”
“Goodbye, Emilia.” He was interrupted by a twitch on his leg and saw that Rose had come outside in the cold, pursued by a frantic nurse. “It’s all right, Polly. She wants to say farewell to her mama.”
“But it’s freezing, Mr. Rawlings.”
“I’ll keep her warm.”
So saying he scooped Rose up and held her beneath the folds of his coat. From this position she leant into the coach and kissed her mother goodbye, very fondly. Then she wriggled out of John’s grasp and went back to her nurse, who took the child indoors.
The Apothecary held the coach a moment longer, taking Emilia’s hand and raising it to his lips. Then he waved farewell, shut the door and, telling Irish Tom to drive carefully, watched the conveyance until it disappeared out of sight, turning into Gerrard Street.
He went back into the house, put on his greatcoat and hat and set off for Shug Lane feeling strangely empty and, yet again, with that odd sense of depression which had so recently haunted him.
Irish Tom returned in the evening of the next day, cursing and swearing as only an Irishman could.
“By God, Sorrh, I wouldn’t like a journey like that again.”
“Well, you’re going to have to do it in a day’s time.” The Irishman pulled a face. “I most earnestly enjoin you to leave tomorrow, Sorrh, and put up for the night at Sir Gabriel’s. It gets dark so early and it is impossible to travel fast in these conditions. If you want to get there on time you really must.”
“But leaving the shop is the problem, Tom. Quite honestly Gideon is just a boy and somewhat forgetful.”
“Then close it, Mr. Rawlings, do. I can’t guarantee to get you there else.”
“Very well, I’ll compromise. I’ll shut the place at noon tomorrow and be gone to Kensington at one. How will that suit?”
“That will suit fine, Sorrh. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to get some sleep.”
And he disappeared, still grumbling and muttering about the dangers of the road in bad weather.
True to his word, the Apothecary closed the premises in Shug Lane at five minutes past twelve, being delayed by a beau who came mincing in for his Christmas supplies of physic for the stomach, a potion for headache, suppositories, and two condoms of the cheaper washable variety. Having seen him leave, John sent Gideon off to see his parents, lit the lights in the windows and hurried back to Nassau Street to pack a trunk, which included his newly delivered suit. Then, punctually at one, Irish Tom appeared, looking smart and ready for the journey. Kissing Rose hastily, the Apothecary climbed in and they set off through the snowy streets.
It was a bleak journey, John wrapping himself in a fur coverlet to keep out the biting cold. The way to Kensington also took longer because of the bad conditions. Reaching Hyde Park as the sun was going down, a bell was ringing to warn travellers to band together before crossing the open space. Irish Tom duly halted the coach and talked to the other drivers until six conveyances had gathered, including the post. Then they proceeded slowly forward, one behind the other, their sheer weight of numbers being sufficient to scare off any highwaymen. Once through without incident, Tom took the King’s Old Road to Kensington, but beaten by snow turned off and went to the village via the main track.
It was dark when they entered the place, growing bigger as its popularity continued to increase, and made their way immediately to Church Lane. Here, in the house on the end of the row, Sir Gabriel Kent,
John’s adoptive father, resided. Pausing outside the front door while Irish Tom saw to the luggage, John remembered his first encounter with the great man. He had been three years old, begging on the streets of London with his mother Phyllida Fleet. Even now he could recall the brief bleak pain as the carriage wheels passed over them, the moment when Sir Gabriel had lifted them up and carried them inside that same carriage and back to his home in Nassau Street.
At that moment the rest of John Rawlings’s life had changed irrevocably. That Sir Gabriel would fall in love with and eventually marry his mother, that he should be taken on as a proper son, that he should sign indentures with an apothecary and himself become successful, were things the child he had been could not have known. But now here he was, arriving at his country retreat unannounced, but certain of a great greeting as soon as he set his foot over the threshold.
John rang the bell and heard a pair of footsteps come to answer. Forestalling any short-sightedness on behalf of the servant, the Apothecary called out, “It’s me. John Rawlings. Is Sir Gabriel at home?” then paused, amazed, to see his father himself, bearing a candle tree, standing in the doorway.
They stared at one another for a second, John thinking how fine the octogenarian looked in his deshabille of flowing gown and turban fashioned, as always, in black and white. A glittering zircon, a vivid blue in shade, brought a little relief to the stark ensemble, but other than for that Sir Gabriel’s rig-out was dramatic in its darkness.
“Father,” said John and smiled broadly, seizing the older man in an embrace.
“My boy,” answered Sir Gabriel, holding the candles high above his head. “What an unexpected pleasure. Are you alone?”
“Yes, Sir. I’m on my way to fetch Emilia. May I come in?”
“Of course. You are here for the night?”
“I most certainly am. That is if the bedroom is free and you expect no other guests,” he added.
The door opened wide and all the warmth and comfort of the house flowed out into
the dark lane. With a sigh of pleasure, John entered his second home.
A short while later he sat in the dining room, picking over a substantial supper, Sir Gabriel had dined at four as was the custom with the old-school, and had then settled down to an evening of reading, having given the footman the night off.
“So where are you going tomorrow exactly?” he asked.
“To Gunnersbury House. The summer home of Princess Amelia, who has decided, to be contrary, to celebrate Christmas there.”
“Ah yes, I have played cards at her place a couple of times.”
John stared. “You’ve been there?”
“Yes, dressed to the hilt I might add. The Princess, a strange lady, once small and elegant but now grown corpulent, is an inveterate gambler and likes nothing better than to give parties for the purpose of playing cards. Horace Walpole is a regular visitor.”
“And what about her nephew, the King?”
“He goes from time to time, I believe.”
“But not to play”
“Certainly not.” Sir Gabriel laughed.
“But why were you only invited twice? Surely, Father, you did not commit a faux-pas?”
“My dear child, how could you even think anything so inelegant. Truth to tell, it’s rather a journey from here and, quite honestly, now that I no longer have my own coach it was that which put me off. When the Marquis of Kensington is invited, should I receive an invitation for the same night, then I will gladly accompany him.”
“And what about Walpole?”
“You know how much he enjoys socialising. But even he finds it a strain, I believe. On one occasion he had to send to London for a dress coat and a sword in order to be properly attired.”
“Well, I shall meet the lady for myself tomorrow.”
“She’ll probably take a great fancy to you and add you to her guest list.”
“I doubt it. An obscure apothecary will hardly come up to her dazzling heights.” John was silent a moment, laying a hand on his father’s arm. “Sir, you mentioned being without your coach. Do you miss it?”
“Not at all. Really Kensington is sufficiently small to enable one to walk about. Which I do as it is extremely beneficial to the health. I am much better than I was when in town, don’t you know. I may be eighty but I feel good for another twenty years.”
“At least,” John answered, then impulsively hugged Sir Gabriel. “You are a most remarkable person, Sir.”
The older man laughed. “My boy, you flatter me. You always do.”
“I tell the truth,” said John sincerely, and gave his father a kiss.
The following morning, much refreshed from a good night’s sleep, he set off for his destination. They picked their way through the snow, sticking to the main tracks at which efforts had been made to keep the path clear. Leaving Kensington behind them they headed into the open country, passing through small villages as they went, and stopping to refresh themselves at an inn situated near the battlefield of Turnham Green. Then they pressed on, harried by the ever-present snow and the threat of more from heavy dark skies.
At exactly two o’clock they turned off Brentford Lane through a pair of impressive gates and up a short drive, and there, lying before them, was an early Palladian mansion, its exquisite outline made even more stunning by the winter day. It was a fairy palace, John thought, always a fervent admirer of that form of architecture. Calling to Irish Tom to stop the coach, the Apothecary got out to have a better look.
The house stood almost square in its design, a large pillared balcony on the first floor, the triumph of which was an arched window of enormous size standing between four others, two on either side. Above these pillars was an imposing decorated architrave bearing the design of a classical ribbon surrounding a central disc. The great window stood centrally over the front door which was reached by a short flight of steps, an altogether pleasing aspect to the eye. In short, John thought, it was the kind of house he would like to own but would never be able to afford. Getting back in the coach he instructed Tom to set him down then drive to the coach-house.
A footman was on duty at the bottom of the entrance flight and, having heard John’s name, lowered the step for him and saw him out, directing Irish Tom to go to the stables. At the top of the flight another servant took John’s greatcoat and hat and bowed him into the water closet, a fact which he found a little obsequious. Having made use of the somewhat smelly facilities, the Apothecary emerged ready for the performance.
Before him a grand staircase rose up, peeling off in two directions at the top. Several fine people were slowly ascending, careful of their apparel. John followed two ladies who were mounting ahead of him, studying them as he went. Both had on elaborate white wigs and wore spectacles giving the impression that they were very alike. And, indeed, this illusion was continued in their general appearance, for both had lost their chin line, both were identically wrinkled, and both had hands which flew about like birds as they talked.
“Ah, my dear,” said the bolder of the two, casting her eyes around and taking in the attractive man walking a few paces behind her, “when will this terrible snow vanish is what I demand to know.”
“One could say that it is very picturesque, mark you,” replied the other.
“Picturesque be blowed,” said the first woman with spirit. “It is a wonder we have anyone in the audience at all. Only the most devoted will have undertaken such a journey.”
She smiled at John who gave his best bow and smiled back.
The first woman dropped a very small curtsey. “Are you coming to see our masque, Sir?”
“I am indeed. Allow me to present myself. My name is Rawlings, John Rawlings, Madam.”
She extended a hand with a grandiose gesture. “And I am Frances Featherstonehaugh. Lady Featherstonehaugh. I am one of the Princess’s ladies.”
He kissed the hand, managing to instil a certain reverence into the embrace. Lady Featherstonehaugh looked duly gratified. Not to be outdone, the meeker of the two introduced herself.
“And I am Lady Kemp.”
John took her hand and kissed it with equal fervour. “You are acquainted with Princess Amelia?” It was Lady Featherstonehaugh who spoke.
“Not as yet, I’m afraid. My wife is a friend of Priscilla Fleming and is taking part in the masque. She is Emilia Rawlings. Do you know her?”
Lady Featherstonehaugh gave a merry laugh and her face vanished in a sea of wrinkles. “I have seen her I believe but that is all. A pretty little thing.”
“Yes, she is. Very.”
“And where did you travel from this morning, young man?” Lady Kemp spoke.
“From Kensington. We have a small country place there which we share with my father.”
“And who might he be?”
“Sir Gabriel Kent.”
The ladies exchanged a glance, then smiled simultaneously, endorsing yet again the notion that they were very alike. Was it John’s imagination or had the mention of his father’s name made them approve of him a little more?
They proceeded up the stairs, the Apothecary walking a couple of steps behind. At the top the ladies turned to the left staircase and, having mounted this, made their way along a short corridor, done out in a deep compelling blue. Then they entered a salon in which quite a crowd was already gathered. John, thankful indeed that he was wearing his new suit in that dashing material called Midnight in Venice, surveyed the scene through his quizzer.
Everybody was dressed to kill, men and women alike. He had never seen such a sparkling array of people nor quite so many glittering jewels. John recognised the Prince of Mecklenburg, Lord Clanbrassil, Lord and Lady Southampton and Lord Pelham. Realising that he was in extremely distinguished company, he adopted a nonchalant expression and was just about to stroll amongst the guests when he felt a plucking at his elbow. He saw that it was Lady Kemp.
“My dear Mr. Rawlings, allow me to present you.”
“I’d be honoured, madam.”
She turned to a group of middle-aged ladies who were eyeing John with varying degrees of suspicion.
“Madam,” Lady Kemp addressed one of them, presumably the most senior, “may I submit Mr. John Rawlings to you?” The woman, who had an extremely painful expression, as if her feet hurt, gave a curt nod. “The Countess of Hampshire, Mr. Rawlings.”
“Chawmed,” she said in an affected tone with an underlying accent.
“Madam, the honour is mine.”
As he bowed before her John wondered about her origins, thinking that she had once been extremely pretty; indeed her eyes were still lovely. An inspired guess told him that she had been on the stage at some point in her life. But he had no time to study her further because he was being introduced to a name he recognised.
“Lady Theydon, may I present Mr. John Rawlings?”
“You may,” said a plummy voice.
John looked up from a deep bow and found himself gazing into one of the most vacuous faces he had seen in an age. Eyes big and brown and cow-like were staring into his from a large doughy visage. Suddenly the woman simpered and everything crinkled except for the eyes which continued to look with the same fixed regard.
“How dee do?” she continued, and as she spoke the Apothecary saw that her lips were slightly slack, faintly bedewed with saliva.
“Honoured, Madam,” was all he could find to say.
The other member of the posse was Lady Featherstonehaugh who gave him a wintery smile. “We are all waiting for Princess Amelia, then we can have some refreshment before the masque commences. I trust you are staying in the house tonight. Otherwise travelling back will be a nightmare.”
“I don’t as yet know what arrangements have been made, my Lady. But I assure you I won’t travel once darkness has fallen.”
“Very wise. These great country houses are all very well but at night the areas surrounding them are riddled with highwaymen.” She paused and looked at the doors at which a couple of liveried footmen had appeared. “Here comes the Princess now,” she added in an undertone.
In company with everybody else John gave a deep bow, then looked up, though not daring to use his quizzing glass.