Dr. Porter glared at Lilly. “You could have killed him.”
“On the contrary, sir.” Adam Graves now stood above them. “He could have died had she not acted.”
“Graves . . . you approved this?”
“Not exactly . . .”
His words trailed off and were lost in Dr. Porter’s mutterings and instructions for a heavy dose of laudanum, which Lilly thought quite more than necessary.
The crisis past, the crowd began to drain away toward their coats and carriages.
Mrs. Price-Winters offered Lilly her hand. “Thank you, my dear.”
Lilly leaned forward and embraced her friend’s mother. “I am only glad he is all right.” Then she added quietly, “Have him rinse with salt water and a drop of laudanum thrice daily and his throat shall heal quickly.”
“Come, Lillian,” Aunt Elliott called. “Let us depart.”
Even as she stepped away, she heard Dr. Porter ask, “What did she tell you?” Lilly did not hear Mrs. Price-Winters’s answer but did hear the doctor call after her, “Who do you think you are? First to operate on a man and then to prescribe treatment?”
Mr. Graves cleared his throat and began weakly, “I must say, Dr. Porter, the young lady acted more quickly than I, but she acted well. Do not abrade her for saving the man.”
Lilly silently wished Mr. Graves had found his voice earlier, when the critical crowd was still around to hear it.
“Saving the man? The chit near skewered him.”
Her aunt took her arm and said between clenched teeth, “Keep walking, Lillian.”
In the carriage, Aunt Elliott sighed emphatically. “Lillian, I know you acted from the heart, but really, could you not have resisted?”
“What would you have had me do? Sit by and do nothing? No one came forward to help, or I would have gladly stepped aside.”
“One of the men would have come forward were you not so . . . forward. That Graves fellow was there, it turns out, and the doctor was on his way. You usurped their rightful position as learned medical men.”
“He might have died.”
“Do not be so dramatic. It was only a peppermint, for goodness’ sake.”
“Probably choked on it when that soprano hit her high note,” Uncle Elliott said dryly. “I know I almost did.”
“Mr. Elliott. There is nothing amusing about this. All the dressmakers and dancing masters, all the hours of language, drawing, and deportment. All our efforts, ruined.”
“Dear lady, now who is being dramatic? It cannot be as bad as all that. Our Lillian will be a heroine, at least among those with brains in their heads.”
“You don’t know what you are saying, Mr. Elliott.”
“Come now. Even if a few mavens look down on her actions of one evening, they shall forget soon enough.”
“I would not depend upon it.” Her aunt’s voice was haughty and defeated at once. “In that regard, society and Lillian have much in common. They both remember everything.”
The art of medicine consists of amusing the patients
while Nature cures the disease.
—VOLTAIRE
CHAPTER 8
On a fine afternoon two days later, Lilly joined Christina Price-Winters for a drive through Berkeley Square in a sleek open landau. Tall trees stood sentry around the square, their trunks ringed by daffodils. The air was filled with low laughter and birdsong.
Christina joked and shared confidences as though the coachman were deaf, or as intelligent as the two horses he reined. Lilly shifted uncomfortably on the fine leather seat.
“Look!” Christina pointed across the square. “There’s William!”
Christina waved and, beside her, Lilly followed suit. William came jogging across the green toward them. She was surprised to see Mr. Graves striding more sedately several yards behind.
“Hold there, Barker!” Will called to the driver, who halted the pair of bays. Reaching them, Will grasped the landau’s door and beamed up at them. “I told Graves we’d find you two trolling the park for admirers.”
“We are doing no such thing,” Christina snapped playfully.
Mr. Graves joined them and appeared decidedly uncomfortable. Will looked at Lilly and teased, “Or has Miss Haswell been saving lives again?”
Lilly glanced at Mr. Graves, then away. “No, nothing of the kind.”
Will did not seem to notice her discomfort. “We’ve just come from Father, who, I am happy to report, is in excellent health and spirits.”
“Yes,” Lilly said. “I paid a call this morning and was relieved to find him so.”
Will grinned. “Checking on your patient, were you?”
Again she glanced at Graves, who had remained silent throughout the exchange.
“No. Simply to assure myself he is well.”
“And he is, thanks to you.” Will slapped the edge of the landau. “He confided he was perfectly able to be up and about, but was enjoying Mother fussing over him too much to make the effort. If Father’s throat is sore, it is because he cannot cease singing your praises.”
Lilly felt her cheeks flush.
“Do come down, and let us go into Gunter’s for an ice,” Will urged. “What do you say? Perfect weather for it.”
Christina looked at Lilly, eyebrows raised hopefully.
“As you like.”
Will opened the carriage door and offered a hand in helping the ladies down.
“Wait for us, Barker,” he instructed the coachman. “We shall want the carriage for the return home.”
“Very good, sir.”
Mr. Graves stood awkwardly silent. Will glanced at him, then offered his arm to his sister. “Come, Chrissy. Let us you and I go in and purchase an ice for each of our friends here.”
Lilly began to object. “You needn’t—”
“The least we can do,” Will assured her. “That is, unless you plan to send us a bill?”
Lilly again felt her cheeks burn. “Of course not.”
Brother and sister left—Christina sending a look over her shoulder that was part confusion and part speculation over her brother’s maneuverings.
Lilly prepared for an awkward wait.
“Shall we walk, Miss Haswell?” Mr. Graves asked suddenly.
She inhaled, relieved. “Thank you. Yes.”
Carefully skirting parked carriages and sidestepping horse droppings, they left the paving and walked into the square’s central garden. There they strolled under the scant shade of young maple trees, hands behind their backs.
After several minutes, Mr. Graves said, “You are to be commended for your quick actions the other night, Miss Haswell.”
She looked up at his handsome, unreadable profile. “Thank you.”
“May I ask how you knew what to do?”
Lilly hesitated. Her aunt had long counseled her not to offer details about her upbringing nor her father’s trade. And who knew how this Oxford-trained physician would view an apothecary, let alone his daughter. Besides, her actions during the concert were not informed by her life as an apothecary’s daughter. At least, not directly. Had the man’s heart seized and she’d had to administer digitalis, that would have been another case entirely.
She settled for the most relevant truth. “My dearest friend suffers from falling sickness.”
“Epilepsy?” His quick glance was grim. “I am sorry to hear it. Is she in an institution?”
“Heavens no. Why should she be?”
“It is very common here in London, depending on the severity of the fits.”
“Well, it is not common in Bedsley Priors to lock away a lovely, clever person just because she has been, on rare occasion, seized by fits beyond her control.”
Mr. Graves had to hurry to catch up with her agitated strides. “I did not mean to give offense.”
“How can I not take offense at such an idea? Mary Mimpurse is a blessing to all who know her. She helps everyone and hurts no one.”
He asked gently. “No one
but herself?”
Lilly sighed and forced herself to slow down. “On occasion she has fallen and sprained or bruised a limb. Or has been eating and had something lodge in her throat. Twice I’ve had to pry out obstructions when her mother was not at hand.”
“I see. That explains how you knew what to do for Mr. Price-Winters.” He paused. “But not why you did so.”
Lilly was confused by the question. “My friend’s father needed help.”
He stopped walking, and she halted as well, turning to face him.
“I think, Miss Haswell, that any friend of yours is lucky indeed.”
She studied his expression and found it sincere. With his pale hair, perfect nose, and golden-lashed eyes of delft blue, Mr. Graves had the face of an angel. The only flaw she noticed was a pair of vertical lines between his eyebrows. He evidently squinted or frowned a great deal.
“I would have done the same for anyone,” she said.
“Even someone like me?” Dimples framed each side of his wry grin.
“Even you.” Goodness. If not for the unfashionable moustache, he might have been prettier than she was.
They resumed their stroll, walking in silence for several moments, relishing the sunshine and the fairlike atmosphere of the popular park.
He cleared his throat. “You were kind not to expose me.”
“You were kind to defend me.”
He breathed in through his nose. “I am not kind, Miss Haswell. I felt morally compelled to speak. Still, I almost did not, fearing recrimination for my inaction. I believe Dr. Porter was too angry with you to realize.”
Or too intoxicated.
“Why was he so angry?”
“I fear most physicians are defensive these days. You are not likely aware, but there is a great deal of contention between the various branches of medicine—physicians, surgeons, apothecaries. Physicians are the most qualified to treat and prescribe, but that does not stop the others from horning in on physicians’ rightful domain.”
Lilly bit down on her lip, hard, to keep from speaking up, from defending her father’s rights and skills.
“Even now,” Mr. Graves continued, “Parliament is debating who should be allowed to do what. If men like Dr. Porter have their way, apothecaries will be able to do no more than fill the scripts given them by physicians. They can throw in their lot with the chemists.”
Anger rose up in her, but she held it in check. “And do you agree with this assessment, sir?”
He lifted a shrug. “I am not yet certain what to think. Physicians alone are university-educated. Why, anyone with a mortar and pestle can hang a shingle and call himself an apothecary.”
She shook her head. “But there are long traditions of apprenticeship, and training with a master at the Apothecaries’ Society, which has its own laboratory and physic garden. . . .”
He stopped walking and stared at her.
“Or so I understand.”
Quickly, she walked on and changed the subject. “May I ask . . . why did you not act when Mr. Price-Winters fell?”
He sighed. “Fear again—my old nemesis.”
“Fear of what?”
He shrugged. “Fear of authority, fear of failing, fear of consequences . . . even fear of dancing with a beautiful woman.”
Her stomach fluttered. “Goodness,” she said breathlessly. “I wonder you want to be a physician at all.”
“It is what my father wants. He determined each of our professions. My elder brother will take over the running of Father’s estate, though he would have preferred the church. My second brother is a reluctant solicitor here in town. And I shall be a physician.”
He took a deep breath before continuing. “I am not yet licensed, Miss Haswell. I resolutely grasp the hope that when that document is in my hand, proclaiming for all the world that I am a fully qualified, capable physician, I shall finally be just that.”
Oh dear. She asked gently, “And if not?”
“It does not bear thinking about. My family, my father . . . No. I must overcome and succeed.”
Dipping her head, she said, “Then I shall pray for you, Dr. Graves.”
She saw him wince.
“Is it the prayer you object to, or the form of address?”
“Forgive me. You may address me as doctor if you like, but I fear it will be some time until I am accustomed to it.”
Will Price-Winters hailed them, and she and Dr. Graves turned to join brother and sister, each bearing two glass licks of red barberry ice.
The following week, Lilly attended a rout with her aunt and uncle, and again wore the jonquille dress and topaz jewelry. The affair was grand, but her aunt was suffering from a headache, and Lilly from speculative and often cold glances, so they did not stay long. There seemed little point, as Roger Bromley was not in attendance.
Upon their return home, Lilly helped her aunt to her room before slipping downstairs to prepare a remedy. When she returned several minutes later, Dupree was just coming out, her aunt’s dress in arms.
“Is she still awake?” Lilly asked.
“Yes, miss.”
Seeing the tray in Lilly’s hands, the maid knocked on the door for her. Lilly smiled her thanks and entered.
Ruth Elliott sat at her dressing table in her nightdress and dressing gown, brushing her long brown hair, which bore only a few strands of grey. When she laid down her brush and stood, Lilly swiftly set down her tray and took her aunt’s arm to help her into bed.
“Thank you, my dear.”
“How is your headache?”
“I shall be fine by morning.”
“I hope you do not mind, but I have taken the liberty of preparing the Haswell remedy for headaches.” Peppermint, blessed thistle, feverfew, willow bark. How long had it been since she’d thought in such terms?
Her aunt closed her eyes and released a breath. “My dear, you cannot have failed to notice the coolness, the speculation and gossip about your actions at the Willoughbys’ last week. You know I would prefer—”
“I know you wish me to set aside that part of my life, but certainly it can do no harm here at home.”
Her aunt looked up at her.
“Here in your home,” Lilly awkwardly amended.
“No, my dear. I like hearing you saying that. This is your home now, for as long as you like.”
“Thank you, Aunt. You are most kind.” Lilly kissed her aunt’s cheek. “Now, please, drink this.” She handed her a teacup from the tray.
Accepting it, her aunt eyed the cup speculatively. “Dare I ask?”
“Merely peppermint and blessed thistle tea.” Lilly held out two pills as well. “It is these you need worry about. Rather bitter, I am afraid.”
“What are they?”
“Better not to know,” Lilly teased. “Don’t fret, I have put plenty of treacle in the tea to help you drink them down.”
While her aunt swallowed the pills and sipped the tea, Lilly retrieved two cloth bundles from the tray. “And I’ve brought some wrapped ice.”
Lilly arranged one bundle on the pillow and her aunt lay back against it. “There you are. One for your neck and another for your eyes.” She settled the second iced cloth over her aunt’s eyelids and temples.
“Heavenly,” Ruth Elliott murmured.
Standing there, Lilly silently asked God to ease her aunt’s pain. Touching her fingers to her throat and finding the necklace there, she said, “I had thought to return the topaz pieces to the jewel chest, but shall we leave it till morning?”
Her aunt’s voice was drowsy. “Would you mind setting your things in there yourself, my dear? I prefer not to stir again this night.”
“Of course. You rest. Shall I put your rings away as well?”
“If you would not mind. Thank you, Lillian. If you have any trouble, ask your uncle.” She waved a limp hand toward the key on the bedside table. “He will likely be awake for some time yet.”
“Very well. I shall.”
Walking
casually through her aunt’s dressing room, Lilly opened the jewel chest with its many tiers of velvet-lined drawers—opening one, then another, looking for an empty compartment. Her hand froze. Her stomach lurched. What on earth?
Gingerly, she laid aside her jewelry and picked up what surely was a mirage. A specter of her imagination. Her fingers touched the cool metal, the glossy black onyx, and trembled. Her eyes widened and her heart pounded as she lifted the necklace with its unusual webbed, burnished chain and octagonal onyx pendant. She would have known it anywhere. It was the necklace her mother had always worn. The very one she was wearing the last time Lilly saw her. How had it come to be in the chest?
She longed to rush to Aunt Elliott and demand answers, but her aunt was feeling ill. Taking the necklace with her, she went to find her uncle, but contrary to her aunt’s prediction, she found him asleep in his favorite chair in the library. Retracing her steps to the dressing room, she carefully returned each piece and locked the chest—its contents now more valuable and bewildering than before. Her questions could wait.
But not for long.
Run into Bucklers bury, for two ounces of
Dragon-water, spermaceti, and treacle.
—WESTWARD HO, 1607
CHAPTER 9
In the morning, her aunt was no better and stayed in bed. “But you must still go shopping as we planned,” she said. “Take Dupree with you.”
“Shopping can wait.” Lilly set aside her gloves and sat on the edge of her aunt’s bed. “I shall stay and read to you.”
Her aunt patted her hand. “Sleep is all I want, my dear. And I shall feel better if you are out enjoying yourself.”
“Are you quite certain?”
“Yes, my dear. I am afraid your uncle has taken the carriage, but—”
“I shall hire a hackney. I do not mind in the least.” In fact, she was relieved. This way only one servant would know where she’d spent her day.
With her aunt’s maid to accompany her, Lilly climbed into a hackney coach and directed the jarvey to take them to Bucklersbury, to a row of shops known as Apothecaries Street.
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