by Deryn Lake
A fire had been started and Elizabeth had opened a bottle of wine and lit the candles, placed in wild profusion throughout the place. She looked up as he entered, turning from holding a taper to a sevenpronged candle tree.
“You were very slow,” she said with a smile.
“Yes, I probably was,” he answered, suddenly weary. “May I sit down?”
“Of course. Have a glass of wine.”
She had already poured it out and the Apothecary sank into the comfort of a fireside chair and picked up the glass. He raised it.
“To you, Elizabeth. Thank you for your friendship.” She flung herself into the chair opposite his. “So you have a child. What is she like?”
“Beautiful, intelligent, pleasant. In fact she’s every parent’s dream. Do you know I had to run from Kensington. I had to leave my father to cope with fetching Rose, leave him to tell her that she would never see her mother again. I couldn’t even say goodbye to her.”
Elizabeth looked at him levelly. “You can explain all that to her when you see her again, no doubt.”
“But when will that be?”
“That rather depends on you.”
John drained his wine and held his glass out for a refill. “What do you mean?”
“What I say. You are welcome to stay in Devon, you know that, but I think you should return to town.”
“And get arrested?”
“Not necessarily.”
The amount of wine he had had during the day was beginning to affect the Apothecary, who leant back in his chair. Staring at Elizabeth, noticing the way a strand of dark hair had come loose from the bun she wore for riding, he said, “You’re still very beautiful, you know.” She gave him a cynical smile. “I’m glad you think so. But let us talk of more important things. If you were to return and take lodgings somewhere near Gunnersbury House surely you could find out more about Emilia’s murder.”
“But I couldn’t go into the place. I would be recognised instantly.”
Elizabeth was silent, staring into the flames of the fire which had caught well and was now starting to throw out warmth. “What you need is someone working with you,” she said eventually.
The Apothecary became rigid, wondering whether he was interpreting what she was saying correctly. “Do you mean yourself?” he asked.
Her wonderful eyes, a deep topaz in colour, flashed in his direction. “Of course,” she said. “Who else would I be referring to?”
He sat in wonderment, amazed by her offer. “You mean that you would return with me — a wanted man — and ask the questions I need to know the answers to?”
“Yes,” she replied simply.
“But why?”
She stood up, a certain impatience in her manner, and walked round the room, examining the candles. “Because we are friends.”
“But that exceeds the bounds of friendship by far.” She stopped her pacing and turned to look at him. “Does it? I think not. I told you that I killed the man who stalked me. That was how I got this —“ Her fingers traced the outline of her disfiguring scar. “A woman capable of doing that is capable of asking a few questions to help a friend, surely.”
“Yes, but …”
She raised a hand and John fell silent. “Take it as done. Now, Mr. Rawlings, I would suggest that you stay here in Devon and regain your strength until Epiphany. Then, the day after, we will travel by my private coach to Brentford which, I believe, is near to Gunnersbury. Then I will go off in search of work near to or, indeed, in Gunnersbury House. After that we can confer again.” He stared at her blankly, overwhelmingly glad that someone else was temporarily in control of his life. For once he had no wish to make plans or do anything other than obey orders.
“If you think that would be best.”
“I do.” She laughed softly to herself. “How strange to see you so compliant.”
“I don’t have the energy for anything else.”
Elizabeth came and stood in front of him, leaning forward and brushing his hair lightly with her hand. “Time heals all things,” she said, then she abruptly turned on her heel and went to the window. “It’s starting to snow,” she remarked over her shoulder. “Time we were off.”
“Yes,” the Apothecary answered, getting to his feet. He put the fireguard in front of the fire and turned to her where she was snuffing out the candles.
“Can we take one of those down the stairs?”
“Why? Are you afraid of the dark?”
“In this house,” said John, “I am frankly terrified.”
They arrived back to find Sir Clovelly Lovell awake and moodily staring through the window.
“I thought you’d got lost,” he said and gave a laugh in the depths of which was a decidedly testy tone.
Elizabeth di Lorenzi handled him superbly. “Oh, my dear Sir, I do apologise for our late arrival. Truth to tell the horses went further than we had reckoned on. Please forgive my rudeness in not being here to offer you refreshment. But it won’t take a second to rectify that. A little sherry perhaps to revive you before the evening onslaught.”
He perked up. “Yes, that would be very nice. Mr. Rawlings, will you join me?”
“When I’ve washed myself, yes indeed. But at the moment I feel a little the worse for wear.”
“John, make full use of our closet and other facilities, do. May I offer you the suite in the West wing?”
“I’m afraid I only have the clothes I stand up in. I left my entire wardrobe behind in London.”
“You look splendid as you are. However, should you wish to change for dinner I can arrange for a suit to be brought to you.”
“Really?” said John, astonished.
“Really,” the Marchesa answered firmly, closing off any questions as to the suit’s original owner.
He bowed to her superior force, said, “I would be pleased to change, Marchesa. If you’ll forgive my further absence, Sir Clovelly,” and left the room to make his way upstairs.
Strangely, it was a part of the house he had never visited and now he revelled in its peacefulness, the gracious way in which it was decorated. The footman who was accompanying him bowed before one of the doors.
“This is the suite, Sir. If you would like to enter.”
Inside it had been fashioned in shades of green, all soft and soothing to the eye. John gazed round him at the plush wallpaper, so subtly made that it was difficult to tell whether the interior design was grey or merely a darker shade of green. The bed was a jubilation with a gilded headboard ornately carved, and two posts supporting the end. The Apothecary hazarded a guess that it had been designed by Chippendale. Wherever he looked there was understated luxury and his realisation that Elizabeth was a woman of wealth was reinstated at every turn.
John crossed to the washstand and stared at himself in the mirror above it. He had come without a wig and his hair was growing long, springing liberally in all directions. But it was to the face beneath that his eye was drawn. He looked slightly crazed, he thought. Haggard and wild-eyed, his mouth compressed tightly into an almost straight line. He also looked thin and pinched, as if finding Emilia dying had halved him in size. Half-heartedly he picked up the razor and brush, thoughtfully provided by his host, and soaped his chin.
There was a knock at the door which opened to reveal a servant carrying a suit. It, too, was dark green; velvet breeches and a satin skirted coat. It was not the latest fashion admittedly but the main thing was that it fitted. Gratefully, John put it on and went out into the corridor.
And then he saw Elizabeth, wearing a crimson open robe, proceeding towards the staircase in front of him. Hearing him, she turned and smiled.
“Ah, the suit becomes you.”
“Thank you.”
“It belonged to my son. He was more or less your build.”
Reminded then that she, too, had known the pain of loss, indeed twice in her life, the Apothecary made her a small bow, then offered her his arm.
“Madam, may I escort yo
u downstairs?”
“Yes, Sir, indeed you may.”
And with that they proceeded to dinner together.
Chapter Eleven
With a clatter of wheels over the cobbled yard the coach of Lady Elizabeth di Lorenzi drew to a halt outside The Three Pigeons coaching inn in Brentford. The coachman pulled the two-horse team which had brought them from Devon to a panting stop, then climbed down from the box.
“Will this do, my Lady?”
She put her head out, the feathers on her hat swishing as she did so. “It will be perfectly adequate, thank you.”
“Right, Madam,” and with that Ruckley pulled down the step for Elizabeth to alight.
She was followed immediately by John Rawlings, looking slightly less haggard than when he had arrived in Devon but for all that quite thin and gaunt of feature. Together the two of them made their way into the dark and somewhat noisome interior of the coaching inn while the coachman led the animals round to the stables.
It had taken eight days to arrive, with the horses accomplishing twenty-two miles a day. Every night they had stayed at a coaching inn, while the creatures rested and fed. Then in the morning they had been harnessed up and gone again. It had been close to a nightmare but John, realising with every step that he was getting nearer to finding Emilia’s murderer, had made the best of it. However, he was running very short of money and now he turned to the Marchesa with an apologetic face.
“I’m sorry to ask but could you lend me enough to pay the bill?”
“Of course. Tomorrow we will get work. You can repay me when you’re in funds again.”
He loved her openness, her frank approach, but he merely answered, “Thank you.”
They had become rather formal with one another, partly to survive being together in a swaying coach for all those hours, partly for some other inexplicable reason which John couldn’t begin to explain. But the fact remained. In many ways he knew the Marchesa better than ever before; in others she was a complete stranger to him.
The landlord, a ruddy-faced country man if ever there was one, came hurrying to greet them.
“Good afternoon, Sir and Madam. How may I help you?”
Elizabeth rustled her magnificent hat. “We would like two rooms and a third place for my coachman. Will that be possible?”
“Certainly, Madam. If you would like to follow me.” She turned to John. “I personally am panting for a drink.” Then back to the landlord. “If you could take our luggage up to our rooms we can follow later. My coachman will head for the kitchens I dare swear. Please look after him well.”
And with that she swept into The Unicorn, one of the private rooms put aside for travellers. Once inside she pulled her hat from her head and her mass of dark hair tumbled round her shoulders.
“What a journey,” she said, fanning herself with its brim, “I thought we would never get here.”
John chuckled. “It was you insisting on keeping the same horses that caused the problem.”
“That and the fact that it gets dark so early. As it was we set off before dawn each day. Anyway, those beasts of mine are too fine to leave behind. They’re not old country nags, I’ll have you know.”
“Everything you possess is admirable,” John answered.
She gave him an unfathomable look and changed the subject. “Did you write to your father? And to Joe Jago?”
“I certainly did. I told them that I was returning to London and would shortly give them an address at which they could find me.”
“Good.”
A waiter came in and took their order at this point so nothing further was said until they were alone once more. Then the Apothecary sighed.
“I suppose Emilia’s funeral will have taken place by now. I wonder where she is laid to rest.”
“In St. Mary’s, Kensington, I feel certain. You will be able to go and visit her, John.”
He smiled without humour. “Tell me about your husband’s death. How did you feel?”
She put the hat down. “I’ve told you before. Luciano died in the street, a drawn sword in his hand. I was not with him. No one was with him except for his murderer, the man who for months had been following me. But my case was not like yours. I knew who had done the deed. So I sought my stalker out and killed him. Then I went on the run and came back to England.”
“I shall kill whoever murdered Emilia when I finally track them down.”
“Yes, and you will be justified in doing so. But be careful. First get them to confess in front of a reliable witness or you’ll find yourself swinging at Tyburn.”
She put her hand to her throat and stuck her tongue out, a sight so funny that John gave one of his rare laughs.
“I’m sorry but you looked rather amusing.”
“It’s good to hear you laugh again,” Elizabeth answered. “You don’t do it very often these days.”
“I’m sorry. I expect I’ve turned into a dour companion.”
“No, you could never be that. With all your troubles, with all your sorrow, you still possess that liveliness of spirit which is a vital part of your personality.”
“I’m glad.”
There was a short knock followed by the waiter coming in with their bottle of canary. John poured two glasses, then raised his.
“To you, Elizabeth. Thank you for everything you are doing.”
She looked at him levelly. “Don’t be too previous, my friend. You can toast me fully when we have achieved our objective.”
The Apothecary felt chastened. “Very well. To our success.”
“I’ll drink to that.” The Marchesa drained her glass. “Now, John, you mentioned a disguise. What are you thinking of?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I could don some sort of garb. I’ve no idea really.”
“Um.” Elizabeth considered. “What work are you hoping to get?”
“Again, I don’t know. Perhaps as a labourer. As I told you, I won’t be able to get into the house so something nearby would suit.”
“There are farms scattered around. Perhaps in one of those. Red hair!” she exclaimed suddenly.
“What do you mean?”
“If I can get hold of some henna dye I could lighten your hair colour. That should do the trick.”
“Yes, I’m game. You think that would disguise me sufficiently?”
“Yes, if it’s bright enough. You would be thought of as a redhead. Now where could I purchase some?” John smiled. “You could try the local apothecary.” Elizabeth looked thoughtful. “I’ll send the coachman. I don’t want to be seen around the place, it being the shopping area and market that would serve the big house. You see my plan is to infiltrate Gunnersbury House itself. I shall get a job as a servant.”
John looked shocked. “You couldn’t possibly. It would kill you.”
The Marchesa shook her head. “How wrong you are. I have been as poor as a mouse during my life and have worked accordingly. I’m not afraid of scrubbing floors.” The Apothecary couldn’t answer, lost in admiration for this most remarkable of women.
“So let’s finish the bottle and then I’ll see Ruckley and arrange for him to go to the apothecary’s shop. I’m sending him home tomorrow, by the way.”
“But what will you do without your coach?”
“Walk,” said Elizabeth shortly, and smiled at him over the rim of her glass.
That night they dyed his hair, leaving the henna paste on a long time. When John eventually washed it off, his locks — normally the shade of cinnamon — had lightened several tones and were now the colour of copper. He looked at himself wryly in the mirror.
“I don’t think anyone would know me.”
“That was the general idea,” Elizabeth answered, her own dark hair falling about the place.
They were in her chamber, crouching over the washstand, where the rinsing water had turned the colour of blood. Seeing it, John was once again reminded vividly of Emilia’s stab wounds but thrust the thought away. Yet something in his ma
nner must have revealed what he was thinking because Elizabeth said quickly, “I’ll empty this into the slop pail and take it downstairs. We don’t want to give the maid nightmares.”
And before he could argue she had emptied out the water, scrubbed round the basin and, tucking up her skirts, gone away with the bucket.
Waiting for his hair to dry, John sat before the mirror and tried to formulate a plan. There were several farms surrounding the Gunnersbury House estate, two of which he had noticed on his fateful drive there, though what their names were he didn’t know. A job at either of those would suit him well. Yet this was the time of year when farmers were laying men off rather than taking them on. Casual work, like hay-making and apple-picking, were strictly seasonal. Still, he might be lucky and find something. Hoping that both he and Elizabeth would have good fortune, he sat and watched his hair dry.
It was even brighter than he had originally thought. In fact, in a shaft of the fading January sun it looked as if his head had caught fire. Brushing it forward over his brow the Apothecary stared at himself in the mirror. With his eyes shaded by curls only his nose and mouth were clearly visible and these would hardly give him away. Satisfied that it would take someone peering at him closely to recognise him, John waited for Elizabeth to return.
They set off early the next morning, bidding farewell to Ruckley, who headed his team off on the route taken by the Exeter stage. Then having breakfasted — a meal during which the serving girl stared fixedly at John’s hair — they paid the bill and left The Three Pigeons, starting the walk to Gunnersbury House.
Elizabeth was unrecognisable. She had darkened her skin tone and brushed her long black hair loose, so that she looked a regular working woman. She wore a dark skirt, darned here and there, a white blouse and a red shawl. On her feet she had a pair of old red shoes. “Tell my fortune,” John said impulsively.