The Apothecary's Daughter

by Julie Klassen

  Lilly watched from an upstairs window as a post chaise pulled by two matched bays came to a halt before the shop. When the postillion clambered down from his mount and opened the carriage door, a tall, portly man in hat and greatcoat stepped out. He then turned and assisted a dainty woman in fur-trimmed cloak and hat. Lilly hurried down the stairs and peeked through the door of the laboratory-kitchen as Father opened the shop door.

  “Elliott. Ruth,” he said. “Welcome.”

  The man took her father’s measure. “Haswell. You are looking fit, I must say.”

  “Benefit of the profession, I suppose. Do come in.” He took their coats and gestured them inside.

  Taking in her surroundings, Ruth Elliott asked tentatively, “You live here, in your shop?”

  “Why, yes—behind and above it.”

  “Is that common with men of your trade?” she asked.

  “Yes. I believe it is common with men of most professions. Now, please, come into the sitting room.”

  Taking her cue, Lilly hurried to precede them up the stairs. Straightening her mother’s miniature portrait on the end table, she stood nervously behind the settee as her father escorted their guests inside.

  “Here we are. Do be seated—anywhere you like. Oh, there you are, my dear. May I introduce my daughter, Lilly. Lilly, this is your aunt and uncle Elliott.”

  Lilly curtsied. “How do you do. I am pleased to meet you both.”

  “Lilly?” Ruth Elliott repeated skeptically, arranging herself in an armchair.

  “Yes,” Lilly said. “Short for Lillian.”

  “Ah, yes, after Mother,” Jonathan Elliott said, taking a seat. “That is, your grandmother.”

  Lilly smiled. She had not known. “But almost nobody calls me that.”

  “Lillian, a young lady ought to use her given name,” her aunt said. “You are too old for pet names, do you not think?”

  Lilly felt her smile waver. “Well, you must be tired and hungry from your journey. Will you have tea?” She gestured toward the tea service and tray of assorted tarts, scones, and biscuits.

  “You employ a cook, then?” Aunt Elliott asked.

  Lilly nodded. “Mrs. Fowler cooks and cleans, but these were provided by a kindly neighbor. An old friend of Mother’s, actually. Here, let me pour the tea.” Lilly began to serve, hoping to put into practice all that her mother had taught her long ago. She had even rehearsed yesterday, heeding Mrs. Mimpurse’s gentle admonitions, but still her hands shook now.

  She felt her aunt’s gaze upon her every move as she handed her the first cup.

  “And where is the boy?” Uncle Elliott asked. “A young Charles, I believe, you mentioned in your letter?”

  “Yes,” her father answered, accepting a cup from Lilly. “I expect him any moment.”

  “And young Charles is what age now?” Jonathan Elliott asked. “Thirteen? Fourteen?”

  When Father hesitated, Lilly supplied, “Fifteen.”

  “Fifteen,” Uncle Elliott repeated. “And do you plan for him to take over your shop one day?”

  Charles Haswell studied his teacup. “I had hoped, but now I am not certain.”

  The Elliotts glanced at one another, and Jonathan Elliott smiled. “Well, that is good to hear.”

  Her father frowned. “Why on earth would it be?”

  “Well, Haswell. We need to meet the boy first, of course, see how we three get on, but I can say that it has occurred to Mrs. Elliott and myself that it might be time to adopt an heir. Providence has not blessed us with a child of our own, and I at least”—he smiled at his wife—“am getting up in years. One must think of the future.”

  Lilly nearly spilled her tea. “But Charlie has a family,” she said quickly. “Us.”

  “Of course he has, my dear,” Aunt Elliott soothed. “And that would not change.”

  “It is done, you know,” Uncle Elliott said. “Legal adoption for inheritance purposes. Quite common.”

  Lilly murmured, “I had not realized.”

  “It is not as if we would take him from you completely,” Aunt Elliott assured her, then shifted her gaze to her brother-in-law. “Between us, we could determine a visiting arrangement that suits us all. Assuming you and young Charles are amenable, of course.”

  “Have you no other close relatives?” Lilly asked, feeling panic begin to rise.

  Uncle Elliott shifted uncomfortably on the saggy settee. “I do have one young cousin who might suit—if he were not such a despicable character. But a nephew would be my first choice. And, well, Charles is my sister’s son.” He beamed at them both, as if this would dissolve their disbelief and despair.

  As Lilly looked at the smiling face of Jonathan Elliott, she thought how odd it was that this portly man of middle years was her own mother’s brother. He appeared years older, for Rosamond Haswell had always been so youthful, slender and pretty. Beyond the man’s dark hair and brown eyes, she could find no resemblance to the portrait— nor her memory—of her mother.

  The thought of Charlie leaving them, visits home not withstanding, filled Lilly with dread. Her little brother living in London without their father? Without Mary or Mrs. Mimpurse? Without her?

  She looked to her father for help, expecting at any moment for him to refuse the Elliotts in no uncertain terms. Hoping he would. But then another line of thought presented itself. Might this be the opportunity she had prayed about for Charlie? With her aunt and uncle’s resources, could they not find a specially equipped school, although Father insisted none existed for boys like Charlie? Or even a learned tutor who might help Charlie grasp new ideas, adapt to his limitations, and, well . . . grow up?

  Lilly stood. “Father, might you help me downstairs a moment?”

  “Hmm? Oh, of course.” He rose. “Excuse us a moment.”

  He followed her down to the laboratory-kitchen.

  “I know what you are thinking, Lilly,” he began, speaking in low tones.

  “Do you? I am thinking this might be a wonderful opportunity for Charlie.”

  He looked at her askance.

  “Yes, I know,” she continued. “My first instinct was to refuse them and keep dear Charlie here with us. But that would be selfish, would it not? Should we not give Charlie every opportunity to learn, to improve himself? Mr. Marsh did little for him. You and I try, but in London there might be new schools, new tutors, or methods that will take decades to reach us here in Bedsley Priors. Please do not reject their offer for the sake of revenge.”

  He snorted. “Another man might seek revenge for his wife being cut off from her family simply for marrying him.” His voice began to rise. “Followed by nearly twenty years of cold silence, only to have them show up now and ask for one of his most treasured—” He broke off, ran a hand through his thinning reddish-brown hair, and forced his voice back down to a whisper. “But if I truly thought they would do Charlie good . . .”

  “Father, I know you will worry, but—”

  He grasped her arms. “Lilly. I do not worry about Charlie. Not in the way you mean. I do not worry about him leaving us, for he never shall. Rather, I worry about his hopes being raised and his feelings crushed.”

  “But—”

  “Lilly. The Elliotts will never adopt him as heir. Not once they realize—”

  “Hallo, Father!” Charlie bounded through the garden door, dirt on his sleeves and a smile on his face. “Mrs. M. said I was to hurry home. I was at Mr. Fowler’s. He has a litter of puppies. Are ’em very nice?”

  Lilly bit her lip and smiled gently at her brother. “They are very nice. Now do wash your face and hands and put on a clean shirt. All right?”

  Her father moved to the door. “Then join us in the sitting room.”

  “And Charlie?” Lilly added. “Do your best to remain calm and speak slowly. Let them see how sweet and polite young Charles Haswell is.”

  Her brother wrinkled up his face. “Who’s he?”

  “Here we are.” Lilly brought in another plate of tarts
and currant scones, though no one had touched the first. “May I pour more tea for anyone?”

  “None for me.” Aunt Elliott touched a linen cloth to her thin lips.

  Uncle Elliott held out his cup. “Thank you. I know it must be quite a shock—Rosamond’s family showing up after all this time. If it is any consolation, we both regret having remained distant so long.”

  Father, taking his seat again, nodded. “I will say I was surprised to receive your letter, especially when I had written to let you know that Rosamond was . . . no longer with us.”

  “Yes. . . .” Uncle Elliott looked down at his hands, and his wife studied her own as well, leaving Lilly to wonder if they knew something about her mother or had been in contact with her.

  Father cleared his throat. “I believe your intentions toward Charlie are sincere and honorable, but I must tell you, I do not think an arrangement likely.”

  “But why?” Aunt Elliott raised her eyes, clearly stunned. “Surely you realize what you are denying your son?”

  “I deny him nothing. You see, my son is the dearest, sweetest-natured boy you will likely ever meet, but—”

  The sitting room door banged open and Charlie strode in, looking quite presentable in a clean white shirt tucked into his breeches and a wide smile on his boyish, handsome face. He had even combed his coppery-blond hair.

  Her father rose. “And this is my son, Charlie. Charlie, say hello to your aunt and uncle Elliott.”

  Charlie stuck out his hand toward Aunt Elliott. She smiled, but eyed it skeptically, finally touching it with gloved fingers.

  “Hallo,” Charlie said. “I’ve never had an aunt and uncle before. Our friend Mary has two of each, if you can believe it.”

  The Elliotts smiled and exchanged pleased glances.

  “So, young Charles,” Mr. Elliott began, “your father has been telling us that you are fifteen years old.”

  “ ’At’s right. But all the lads say I look younger—act it too.” Charlie laughed as though he’d made a fine joke.

  “Well, you have a good many years ahead of you to grow up. Have you given any thought to what you will take up?”

  Charlie tilted his head. “Take up?”

  “Yes, for your profession. The law, for example, or the church?”

  “Oh, no. I can barely fink what I am to do tomorrow, or remember what I did yesterday. But Lilly remembers everyfing.” He turned to her. “Don’t you, Lilly?”

  She began to demur. “Well . . .”

  “ ’Tis true,” Charlie insisted. “Francis—he’s Father’s apprentice— tested her, like. Picked a number from one of Father’s books and she remembered everyfing on the page!”

  “Not everything, Charlie, I am sure,” Lilly said, embarrassed. “Aunt and Uncle Elliott have not come all this way to hear fibble-fable about me. Now, do tell them about your work in the physic garden.”

  He shrugged. “I just do what Father says I ought.”

  “But our garden has never looked as fine as it did this year.” She looked at the Elliotts. “If it were not so late in the season, I would show you.” She squeezed her brother’s shoulder. “You have a way with plants, Charlie. Do not be modest.”

  Before he could respond, Mrs. Elliott asked, “Are you in school, Charles?”

  “I was. But I guess I learnt all Mr. Marsh knows, for he said ’ere was nofing more he could do wi’ me.”

  “Yes, well, Charlie,” Father said kindly, “some lads are gifted at book learning and others at working with their hands. That is where you excel, my boy. I show you how to do something in the garden or in the laboratory, and you work harder at it than any lad I know.”

  Charlie smiled at his father’s praise, and Lilly felt tears prick her eyes. Her father did not praise him often enough. Nor did she.

  Aunt and Uncle Elliott did not smile, however. They looked at each other, then at her father with question—and disappointment—in their expressions.

  Charles Haswell took a deep breath. “Charlie, why don’t you run over and thank Mrs. Mimpurse for her delightful sweets?”

  Charlie eagerly stood. “I had better eat one first if I am to tell her how good ’em are!”

  “Of course. Take the whole tray.”

  “Careful!” Lilly rose quickly and helped Charlie pick up one of the trays, then opened the door for him. When he was gone, she closed the door behind him, shutting in the awkward tension in the small room.

  From the stairwell came the sound of a crash—metal tray on plank floor. Followed by a muffled call of, “I’m all right!”

  When the din faded, Jonathan Elliott cleared his throat. “I am afraid we have been rather hasty. We did not realize . . .”

  “Of course you did not,” Father interrupted. “How could you?”

  When both Elliotts sheepishly lowered their heads, Father hastened to add, “I meant only that, when I wrote, I simply mentioned that Rosamond had left me with . . . that is, left behind . . .” He sighed in frustration. “That she had two children—a daughter and a son. I never thought to mention Charlie’s . . . limitations. Never dreamed you’d need know.” He leaned his elbows on his knees. “You see, Rosamond suffered an extremely difficult lying-in with Charlie. He was far too long in reaching the air he desperately needed. I believe it was this, and no innate defect, that caused his delayed mental development.”

  “But he isn’t, well, an imbecile or anything,” Lilly hurried to explain. “Just a bit slow, I suppose you would say. In time, he might very well catch up.”

  “Lilly, we do not know that,” Father admonished. “It would be unfair to offer that hope to others, however dearly we cling to it ourselves.”

  “But with education, and special tutoring . . .” Lilly looked imploringly at the Elliotts. “I am certain in London, there must be many opportunities for a boy like Charlie.”

  “I doubt that is the case,” Uncle Elliott said, his expression sober. “And even if it were, I must be honest and tell you that I do not feel I can name your son as my heir. While he would no doubt reap some benefit, I have my own estate to think of. I must choose someone who can manage it well.”

  It was Lilly’s turn to hang her head.

  “My dear.” Her aunt’s voice was surprisingly warm. “May I say your concern for your brother is most admirable and touches me deeply. A lesser girl might have begrudged her sibling such an opportunity.”

  Looking up, Lilly slowly shook her head. “Never.”

  “I promise you this,” Ruth Elliott said. “If we hear of any special school or teacher for boys of Charlie’s, well, special qualities, I shall write you directly.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her aunt’s gaze lingered. “Do not take offense, my dear, but I cannot help but wish that you were a boy.”

  They shared a rueful smile.

  “Now, are you really as bright as your brother boasts?”

  In Bartholomew Lane, the drink called coffee—

  which closes the orifice of the stomach, fortifies

  the heat within, and maketh the heart lightsom . . . is to be

  sold both in the morning and at three in the afternoon.

  —LONDON PUBLIC ADVERTISER, 1657

  CHAPTER 3

  In the coffeehouse the next morning, Lilly sat on her usual stool in the kitchen. It had been her place for as long as she could remember, which was long indeed. From the adjacent scullery came the rhythmic rustle, rustle, rustle of scrubbing and an occasional tinny clang as the kitchen girl, Jane, went about her work. Over this mild clatter, Lilly recounted the Elliotts’ visit to her friend Mary, who stood at the worktable, cutting ginger biscuits. Paying no heed, Charlie hunched at the little table in the corner, picking out the caraway seeds from a piece of seedcake. He counted each seed and laid it neatly on a plate beside the others.

  “If you don’t like it, Charlie, you needn’t eat it,” Mary said. Her voice and round, pale blue eyes emanated irritation and affection both.

  “Ninety-seven
seeds, Mary. ’At’s fine, fine.”

  With the back of her hand, Mary pushed a strand of dull strawberry hair from her milky round face. “You know I don’t like to see my good baking wasted. At least feed it to the birds, all right?”

  Charlie nodded. “Birds likes seeds.” He put on his coat, then carried the plate out the door to the kitchen garden.

  “Mind you bring back the plate,” Mary called after him.

  Though it was an autumn day, it was always warm in the kitchen, so the window stood ajar. Lilly realized her brother had settled himself on a bench beneath it, for through it, they heard him begin counting all over again. “One, two, tree . . .”

  Lilly shook her head, chagrined.

  Mary said quietly, “Don’t fret about Charlie. Probably find a post in a counting house one day and end up richer than the Marlows.”

  From the open window, Lilly heard quick footsteps on the stone garden path. A female voice, in tense, pinched tones said, “Charlie Haswell, you are a sneak and a spy.”

  Lilly’s mouth fell open and she turned toward the door. But Mary placed a staying hand on her shoulder and shook her head, finger to her lips.

  “If you tell anybody what you saw—”

  “I saw nofing,” Charlie said. “I was behind a tree.”

  “Heard then. Or thought you heard.” The girl attempted to whisper, but in her agitation her voice rose. Lilly recognized it as Dorothea Robbins’s voice. “I will have you know I did not allow him to so much as kiss my glove. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “And you must promise that you won’t say anything. That you will not even mention my name.”

  “All right, miss.”

  Frustration heightened her pitch. “What were you doing in the wood anyway?”

  “Nofing. Just sittin’ and countin’.”

  “Counting? Counting what?”

  Lilly and Mary exchanged knowing looks.

  “Red leaves on the trees.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “Just like to is all.”

  Miss Robbins sounded incredulous. “But it’s not natural.”