The Apothecary's Daughter

by Julie Klassen

  “Who is there?” she demanded in an airy croak.

  She took a tentative step backward, toward her father and safety, but an arm grabbed her from behind and a hand cupped her mouth, catching her cry and rendering it useless.

  “Shh . . .” a male voice whispered. “Did you hear something?”

  For one tense second, the arm remained clasped about her waist and the other hand covered her mouth, but then, as quickly as it came, the contact was broken, the hands gone from her.

  Indignation chased away fear. Those had not been phantom hands touching her. “Yes. I heard something. You, no doubt. You enjoyed frightening me, did you not?”

  A door opened nearby; footsteps receded and promptly returned. Roderick Marlow appeared in a doorway, carrying a glowing candle lamp he had apparently retrieved from the nearby room. With it, he lit a wall sconce. In its light she could see that he was taller and broader than he had been when she had last seen him. His hair and brows just as dark. How old was he now—three and twenty? Four?

  “Why are you wandering about in the dark?” He cocked his head to one side, regarding her. “Are you lost?”

  “No. Merely on the way to the kitchen.”

  One dark brow rose. “And where you live, the kitchen is above-stairs?” She exhaled sharply. “Of course not. I was on my way down.”

  “You passed the staircase.”

  “I was looking for the servants’ stairs—”

  “Are you a servant?”

  “No. The apothecary’s daughter.”

  “Ah, I remember. The bran-faced thief.”

  Irritation surged at this ungentlemanly reference to her freckles.

  Before she could respond, he continued. “That explains why you are sneaking about. Perhaps I shall have to search your pockets.” He took a step closer. “See if you have helped yourself to any valuables.”

  She backed away again. “I have never stolen anything in my life!”

  “Except a peony?”

  “Except a peony,” she allowed.

  He parted his lips, then paused. “What is your name? I forget.”

  “Lilly Haswell.”

  “Ah. Haswell. Of course.”

  He continued to step forward while she backed away, as if in some slow, inelegant dance.

  “And do you do miracles, Lilly Haswell, as your father supposedly does?”

  She hesitated, shook her head. “No.”

  “You do not believe in miracles?”

  “I do.”

  “Why? Have you not prayed for your mother’s return?”

  She swallowed the painful lump in her throat. “Yes.”

  “And has she?”

  “Not as yet.”

  He barked a laugh. “Still hoping?”

  “Every day.”

  He stopped where he was. “Such faith . . . such fervency. And yet, nothing. Is it any wonder I do not believe?”

  “No wonder. But sad if true.” She ceased moving as well.

  “I prayed for my mother, too, you know. But that did not stop her from dying. Where were your father’s miracles then?”

  “I am sorry,” she whispered. “We can only do so much.”

  “Which is why we must take what we want in this life, Miss Haswell. Make our own way. Not wait for some fat, hairless angel to deliver our whims on a silver platter.” He lifted the candle lamp and peered at her. “Do I offend you?”

  “Yes. As you no doubt intend to.”

  He laughed again. “True, I am a skilled offender. Whereas my father is a skilled . . . ingratiator. And yours a healer or pretender—I am not certain which. And you, Miss Lilly Haswell, what are you?”

  When she hesitated, he smirked and turned away dismissively, clearly not expecting an answer from a frightened girl.

  “A rememberer.”

  He turned back to her, studying her face in the flickering light. Surprised, perhaps, to see how serious and somber she was.

  “How so?” He asked, his smirk gone.

  She swallowed and answered quietly, “I remember everything. Whether I wish to or not.”

  They stared at one another. He took another step closer. Suddenly a door opened far down the corridor from which she had come. He grasped her wrist and pulled her through a narrow door she had not even known was there. She gasped, but did not scream.

  “This old place is full of secret passages and trapdoors,” he whispered, leading her along a dark narrow passageway, holding the candle lamp to light their way.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “You said you sought the kitchen.”

  He pushed open a timbered door and paused to light the lamp at the top of a steep set of stairs. Growing anxious about being alone with him, Lilly stepped around and preceded him down the narrow stairs, even though her own shadow made it difficult to see. When she reached the bottom door, she lifted the latch but could not make it release. When she turned, he was right there.

  “It sometimes jams.” But he made no move to open it. He brought the light closer to her face. His eyes glinted oddly in the candle’s glow, the right eye appearing a deeper shade than the left. “You know, Lilly Haswell,” he said in a low voice, “freckles or no, you might be handsome one day.”

  He reached around her to give the latch a sharp jerk, the action bringing his hand close to the small of her back and his face near to hers.

  Feeling the door give behind her and imagining the safety of a bright fire and no-nonsense Mrs. Tobias beyond, she smiled sweetly up at him and said, “Well, that makes one of us.”

  She pushed her way backwards into the kitchen. Her smile of triumph immediately fell away. The kitchen was empty, the fire but embers.

  In two strides he was before her, anger in his eyes. She took a step back. He, another forward.

  “Lilly?” Her father came into the kitchen and Roderick stopped midstride.

  “Oh! Father! You frightened me.”

  “Did I?” He looked from her to Roderick and his brow furrowed at seeing the young man looming so close.

  “Are you . . . all right?”

  She swallowed. “I am perfectly well. My flame blew out, but Mr. Marlow kindly lit another and showed me the way.”

  Her father looked at her, then turned to scrutinize the young man. “Did he indeed?” He held Roderick Marlow’s bold stare a moment longer, then clasped Lilly’s hand. “Come, my dear. It is time we took our leave.”

  On the ride home, her father was quiet but obviously not at peace. The wind had died down, but she still had not found the courage to bring up her aunt and uncle’s offer.

  “The Elliotts,” her father said suddenly. “They want you to go to London?”

  Nerves quaking, she forced her gaze to meet his and nodded solemnly.

  But instead of the arguments and cautions she expected, he returned his eyes to the road. He drew in a long breath and said, “Perhaps it is well that you leave for a time after all.”

  She studied his profile for several moments, but he did not explain further. Giving up, she laid her head on his shoulder for the rest of the journey home.

  DALBY’S GENUINE CARMINATIVE

  Superior to all other remedies for the wind. . . .

  This invaluable cordial medicine

  is prepared by Frances Gell, daughter of the late

  Mr. Joseph Dalby, apothecary.

  —THE EDINBURGH EVENING COURANT, 1815

  CHAPTER 5

  On Monday morning, Francis was feeling like his old self again and joined Lilly in the shop. She watched as he worked with the mortar and pestle, ineffectively swishing and tamping the simples within. Must I again demonstrate proper technique?

  “Hold the pestle with a light grip, Francis,” she said. “Like a quill. And press firmly in a circular motion.” The swishing continued. Frustrated, she stood at his shoulder and reached her right hand over his. “Like this.” She held his larger hand beneath her own, guiding his motions.

  Though a year younger, h
e was already taller than she. When he looked down at her, standing close as she was, Lilly felt his warm breath tickling the hairs at her temple. He leaned closer yet, his brown eyes alight, and whispered, “I so enjoy your demonstrations.”

  She pulled away, irritated at his cheekiness, and decided now was a perfect time to tell him of her plans.

  “Leaving?” Francis’s voice rose. “Only two days ago you said, ‘We’ll have you remembering herbals and remedies in no time.’ ” He repeated her words with syrupy sarcasm.

  She had never seen Francis so agitated and was relieved the shop was empty. “I cannot help you forever, Francis. I know you can succeed on your own if you only take your post more seriously.”

  “I try.”

  She huffed, “You spend more time learning to amuse Dorothea Robbins than learning your trade.”

  He ignored that. “Remember what else you said . . . ? Of course you do, for you remember everything. You said, ‘I am glad you will be with us for years to come.’ What about that?”

  “How could I have guessed the Elliotts would offer such an opportunity?”

  “An opportunity for what? To wear silk frocks and drink tea with your small finger in the air—and your nose as well?”

  “No! I want to see the world, or at least London. I want to learn new things. I want to sleep in a room that does not smell of cat mint, comfrey, and rue.” She thought of adding, I want to find my mother, but left those words unspoken. “It is different for you. You want to work here. I do not want to stay here my entire life, forever the apothecary’s daughter, cutting pills and sweeping Father’s shop. I thought you would understand. You left your home to pursue what you wanted. Are you sorry you did not stay in Saltford all your life?”

  “No, I am not sorry to be here. At least I have not been, until now.”

  His reaction surprised her. “I do not understand you, Francis.”

  “No, Lilly. Clearly you do not.”

  Mary Mimpurse came into the shop that afternoon without her customary apron. Her mother’s coffeehouse closed at one o’clock on Mondays, giving her the afternoon free. She dragged a stool beside the dispensing counter and watched as Lilly counted liquorice pastilles 51 and packaged them into small paper boxes. Mary reached out and popped a liquorice lozenge into her mouth.

  “These are for medicinal purposes.” Lilly feigned reprimand. “You do not appear to me to have a cold, Miss Mimpurse.”

  Mary blithely shrugged. “Put a fancy label on it and call it medicine. I call it a sweet. Sugar or honey?”

  “Honey.”

  “Delicious.”

  While Mary enjoyed her liquorice, Lilly shared her London plans and the proposed departure after Christmas. Like Francis, Mary responded with less enthusiasm than she had expected.

  Eyeing her friend’s piqued expression, Lilly asked, “What is the matter?”

  “Nothing. I am happy for you. Truly.” Mary’s tone was snappy, her mouth a thin line. “You’ll no doubt have a grand time and forget all about us.”

  “Nonsense. I don’t forget anything and certainly not my oldest friend.”

  Mary would not meet her gaze.

  Lilly laid a hand on Mary’s forearm, strong, she noticed from all her stirring and kneading, much as Lilly’s own were from many hours spent with mortar and pestle. “I shall miss you, Mary,” she said.

  Mary acknowledged this with a nod and briefly laid her hand atop Lilly’s. “And I you.”

  “Come with me, then.” Lilly slid a box toward Mary and began sealing one herself. “Aunt Elliott said I might bring you along as lady’s maid.”

  Mary froze mid-seal. Her small mouth gaped. “Did she? Well . . . I am surprised. Surprised your aunt even knows who I am.”

  “She admired my hair. I told her you had done it—and about your many other talents.” Lilly reached out and tweaked Mary’s nose.

  Her friend did not smile or seek playful revenge. Instead she rose and said officiously, “Then you must have also told her that I am much too busy slaving away in a poor coffeehouse to come to London. In fact, I had better hurry.” She turned toward the door. “No doubt the mistress needs floors scrubbed or potatoes peeled. . . .”

  “Mary! Do not take offense. You know I do not view you as my servant.”

  Mary turned back. “Do you not? I know you’ve always thought yourself above me, when in reality—”

  “I do not!”

  “How ironic.” Mary shook her head, eyes clouded. “That she would suggest such an arrangement, I do not mind, but that you, my own—”

  “Mary. I did not think. I only wished you might come with me. I am sorry! Please forgive me. . . .”

  But sweet, docile Mary had already stalked from the room.

  Ignoring the October chill, Lilly stood on the Honeystreet Bridge, staring far off down the canal in the fading light of evening. A ginger tabby lay curled up on the bridge, enjoying the warmth the bricks had absorbed during the day. Enjoying, too, the occasional scratch Lilly administered to its furry chin. She sighed. If only my day had been as pleasant.

  She could see lantern light gleaming on the water, though she could not make out the shape of the vessel. Was it a narrowboat approaching, or a barge already moored for the night? She would stand there just a little longer in case it came closer. A sudden thought startled her. Perhaps she should not leave. What if Mother finally returned, only to find her gone?

  She sensed someone beside her and looked over to see Charlie, his elbows on the bridge ledge, his eyes trained on the distant light.

  “Were you looking for me?” Lilly asked.

  “I always look for you here.” He glanced at her, then away. “I want you to stay.”

  Father must have told him. “But, Charlie, I cannot always live with you and Father, keeping house for the two of you. I know it sounds selfish, but I want more. I am only going to Aunt and Uncle Elliott’s in London. You liked them, did you not?”

  “Very nice,” he mumbled.

  The cat rose, arched its spine, and rubbed itself against Charlie’s arms. Lilly was grateful for the interruption. When Charlie reached out to stroke its back, she reminded him, “Gently.”

  He nodded, petting and addressing the tabby, “I know you. You’re Mrs. Kilgrove’s puss.”

  The cat relished the attention with purring and half-lidded eyes.

  Lilly smiled. “He likes you.”

  Watching her brother pet the cat, Lilly remembered something she had not thought about in a long while. Perhaps it was seeing the cat and Charlie together, here on the bridge. Here where she searched the boats.

  As if the same memory had also been invoked in him, Charlie said, “I had a cat once. Ran away.”

  Not wanting to dwell on the sad aspect of the memory, she asked, “Do you remember that Christmas when Father gave you the little cat? I think you were eight years old.”

  “Yes! In a bandbox. Holes cut for air. And his little paws pokin’ out, lookin’ to play.”

  Lilly knew her father had mostly wanted a mouser for the shop, but she had rarely seen Charlie as happy as he had been that day.

  Charlie bit his lip. “Then he ate the leg off the Christmas goose, and she was angry.”

  She? It had only been three years since Mother left, but Charlie’s memory was often poor. How much did he recall? “Do you remember what Mr. Mimpurse said, when you showed him your new cat?”

  “Mr. Mimpurse . . .” Charlie suddenly looked troubled. “He’s gone now.”

  “I know.”

  Mr. Mimpurse had died more than six years before. Hoping to divert Charlie, she continued, “But do you remember what he said?”

  When Charlie shook his head, she supplied, “He said, ‘That’s a jolly good puss, Charlie.’ Remember?’ ”

  “ ’At’s right.”

  “And so you named him Jolly.”

  “Jolly,” Charlie breathed, his eyes growing soft at the memory.

  Poor Jolly, Lilly thought. How Charlie
had clung to that cat, always trying to hold it on his lap, to make it sleep in his bed, forever picking it up and squeezing it so tightly, Lilly feared he’d suffocate the increasingly skittish creature. Charlie was not cruel; he merely tried too hard. Cats want to come to you. They need time alone, time to hide away, time for daytime naps and nighttime hunts. But Charlie was young and Charlie was Charlie, and he didn’t understand, no matter how often and gently their parents had tried to explain.

  Lilly started. Is that what we did? she wondered. Did we try too hard to hold on to Mother? Fail to give her the solitude she needed? Suffocate her with affection?

  When spring had come that long ago year, and the windows and doors began to open more often, Jolly had darted outside and was never seen again.

  Not a week had passed before Charlie began bringing home strays with a vague resemblance to Jolly, or sometimes even a neighbor’s cat, to the garden door for Mother to inspect.

  “Is it Jolly?” he would ask, eyes shining with hope.

  “No, Charlie, I am afraid not.” Mother would smile with sympathy and return to the kitchen.

  Soon he was presenting tabbies, then striped cats, then cats with spots. It was clear he no longer remembered what his cat had looked like. But Mother did and continued to inspect and renounce the wouldbe Jollies that Charlie dragged to the door all that summer and fall.

  Lilly remembered wondering what it would really hurt for Mother to lie just once and say, “Yes, Charlie, you found Jolly,” the next time he brought home some stray. But she never did.

  Now, on the canal, the distant boat began to move. As it drew near, Lilly saw it was a narrowboat, its lantern casting flickers and shadows along the canal bank and bridge as it passed beneath them. Lilly watched carefully, studying the crew of work-roughened men talking and jesting with one other. From their boisterous laughter it seemed clear they had been moored at The George for some time, drinking a few too many ales.

  No women were aboard.

  It struck Lilly then. She was as pathetic as Charlie had been back when he was eight or nine, searching out every cat in the village and beyond, hoping to find his lost Jolly. Here she was, eighteen years old, still inspecting the faces of every woman she saw, hoping to find the mother she had lost. But even Charlie had eventually given up and quit searching. Father and Mother had never given Charlie another pet for fear of repeating the drawn-out melodrama. Soon they had all put it from their minds and gone on. Why could she not do the same? She would, she decided. She would go to London. Right after Christmas.