Polly Lippert wrote back promptly, including a kindly penned list of the most popular ladies’ items, toilet articles, and perfumes in their shop. The letter included a few lines written in the shaky hand of Polly’s father, saying he would be happy to offer what advice he could and that his son, George, would write to her directly. A few days later, she received a letter from George Lippert himself.
On his advice, she ordered new exotics, new patent remedies, and even an “electricity machine,” reportedly highly effective in the treatment of epilepsy, gout, and other disorders of the nerves. Following Polly’s list, Lilly ordered French perfumes and cosmetics and other pretty things London ladies liked. She got rid of the jar of putrid bear grease and in its place displayed fragrant Macassar oil from India, which promised to “bestow an inestimable gloss and scent, rendering the hair inexpressibly attracting.”
She updated all the displays, adding feminine touches like a vase of flowers and a fabric runner in the window display. She set out bowls of dried flower petals and cinnamon to sweeten the air. She offered free samples of ready-made items like skin lotions and breath tablets. She prayed as she balanced the ledgers and then, prayed some more.
Francis Baylor opened Haswell’s back door as he had without thought all the years he’d lived at the shop. He supposed he should have gone around to the front, but he already had his foot in the door and wanted to see how Mr. Haswell was faring. Mostly, however, he wanted to see Lilly.
When he stepped inside, he saw her standing before the laboratory-kitchen cupboards. She looked sharply at him over her shoulder. “Oh, Francis! You startled me.”
“I should have knocked. Forgive me.”
“That’s all right . . .” She was clearly distracted, pawing through drawers, crates, and tins.
“What is it?” he asked. “What are you looking for?”
She hesitated, then sighed. He realized she was whispering. “I was sure Father would have plenty of calcium phosphate. I have already searched the drawers and jars in the shop. Have you any idea if he’d begun storing it elsewhere?”
“No. It was always in its jar on the shelves out front.”
Lilly pressed her hands over her eyes.
“Lilly . . . ?” Francis grew concerned.
“A new family in Honeystreet has the ague. All six children. The mother is in the shop now. When I did not find any fever powder, I told her I would just step into the back to prepare some fresh for her. Now I shall have to send her to Shuttleworth’s. Can you help her? A Mrs. Todd Hurst. In those new lodgings on Chimney Lane?”
“I know it.”
Lilly shook her head. “Such a fine prospect. Her husband a trained barge builder. Six children . . . I dare not wait any longer. I must admit defeat and hand the family to you.”
Francis had not seen Lilly so discouraged since the first few days after her return, and he did not like to see her so now. He held up his palm. “Don’t say anything. Get the calcined antimony and sleeves ready.”
“But we haven’t—”
But Francis was already out the door.
Wringing her hands and pacing, Lilly tried to pray but only succeeded in worrying and feeling guilty. Treating the children promptly was so much more important than who provided the remedy. She should have sent Mrs. Hurst to Shuttleworth’s directly. But she was sure her father would have the materia medica. Was it so wrong to want to prove Haswell’s still viable? Make a sale? She chuckled dryly. If her London friends could see her now and witness her thinking like a tradesman! She should simply march back into the shop and explain to Mrs. Hurst that she would not be able to supply her needs after all.
The back door banged open and Francis barged in, pottery jar in arms. “Come on, we’ve powder to prepare. You can box my ears later.”
“I was not going to box your ears,” Lilly whispered. In fact she felt like embracing him. Instead, she turned her attention to the fever powder.
As the two worked side by side, Lilly surveyed his deft motions. “You have become quite good at this.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Well . . .”
He held out his hand for the sleeves. “I should be glad you went away to London.”
The words startled her.
“Turns out your leaving was good for me,” he continued. “I had to learn to do things myself. When you were here, it was easier to ask you rather than haul out those cumbersome tomes and find the answer myself. Took more time, but in the end, I remembered the answers.”
“I am glad someone benefited from my absence.”
“I did not say I was glad you went away. Nor am I sorry you’ve returned.”
How final that sounded. Uncomfortable, she merely nodded.
“If only you were not sorry,” Francis said wistfully.
She hesitated, but thought of no suitable answer.
Francis rubbed his palms together. “Now, what else do we need?”
In short order, they had the medicine in individual paper sleeves ready for Mrs. Hurst. She squeezed his arm and whispered, “Thank you.”
With a faint smile, he covered her stained fingers with his own.
Lilly returned to the front of the shop to apologize for the delay and explain the dosages to the mother. Once Lilly had paid Mr. –Shuttleworth for the calcium phosphate, she would make little profit on the sale, but hopefully Haswell’s had gained a customer who would return often.
The following week, Lilly opened a letter from her aunt with some trepidation. How would she respond to the news that Lilly would not be returning after all?
Dear Lillian,
Your letter was both bane and balm. How your uncle and I feared you would be drawn in to your former life there. All our efforts in vain. I confess this is the second letter I have begun to you since reading yours. The first was a blatant attempt to convince you to return at once. Filled with details of all you were missing, of all that might be. Utterly selfish, I realize now. Well, not utterly—I sincerely believe you could be a success in town yet.But of course you must stay as long as your father needs you. I witnessed that noble quality in you when we first met—when you were so eager for your brother to have every advantage you have since enjoyed. We admired your selfless loyalty then. How could we think the less of you for the same honorable trait now?
My dear, what balm your kind words of affection delivered.I know I said this would very likely be your last season, but I certainly do not want you to imagine that you have spent your last days here with us. You are ever welcome, Lillian. We hope that when things with your father are in hand, you may yet return to us, if not for securing a suitor, then for enjoying the felicity of society with those here who love and admire you—your uncle and I chief among them.
What is the situation with your father? You were quite vague, my dear, and if that was your intention, I shall pry no further. But if there is anything we can do to help, you have only to ask.
In that light, I am enclosing a bank draft. Please do not refuse it. In all truth, I had every intention of sending this amount home with you to help address whatever situation you found there. But at the last, I withheld all but a token amount, scheming again, I confess, to keep you on a short tether in hopes of hastening your return. You see how we depend on your company! Please forgive my foolishness and gratify me by using the funds as will do you and your father the most good.
Do write back and keep us apprised of your situation there.
We remain,
Your loving aunt and uncle
How kind they were! How the affectionate words—even the admission of machinations—brought warmth and longing to Lilly’s heart and made her miss her dear aunt and uncle all the more. And with the much-needed funds they enclosed, she could pay Francis back for the things he’d procured for them, place new orders, and begin chipping away at her father’s other debts.
She would be so relieved to fulfill past obligations and start anew. Still, she could not deny that her aunt�
��s letter stirred embers of longing for all she would miss in London. Besides the Elliotts, would anyone in London miss her?
A skillful leech is better far than half a hundred men of war.
—SAMUEL BUTLER, ENGLISH SATIRIST
CHAPTER 24
Lilly was surprised a few days later when Mr. Shuttleworth knocked on the shop door with his walking stick—an affectation she knew to be all the crack in London.
“Mr. Shuttleworth! How do you do?”
He cleared his throat. “As a matter of fact, Miss Haswell, I am . . . concerned.”
“Oh? Is there some way I might help?”
“Indeed there is.” His signature smile was noticeably absent. “I understand Mr. Baylor has been securing powders and other simples for you from my shop.”
She swallowed. “Yes, on a few occasions. When the need was urgent.”
“Well, I do not like it at all. Quite insupportable.”
She had never known the man to be so somber. Hadn’t Francis told her his employer would not mind? “We did pay for the items—full price.”
“Yes, yes. I am not accusing anyone of stealing. However, I cannot allow things to go on in this manner.”
She felt truly chastened. A sneak—caught. “Please forgive me, Mr. Shuttleworth. You are quite right. I should have asked you first.”
“Indeed you should. For I should never have allowed it.”
She bit her lip. She had never seen this side of him before. She hated the thought of losing the man’s goodwill. Of jeopardizing Francis’s position. “It will never happen again,” she assured him.
“I should hope not. Next time, come to me and I will give you whatever you need at wholesale. Full price indeed. Are we not colleagues? Part of the same professional society?”
There, she saw it. Just a hint of a twinkle in his dark eyes.
“Yes, I suppose we are.”
He took a step closer, and grinned almost sadly. “Moreover, are we not friends? I had rather hoped we were.”
She nodded. “You are right, Mr. Shuttleworth. Again, please forgive me.”
“I shall. On one condition.”
“Yes?”
“I have a proposition for you.” He held up his hand. “A business proposition. You acquire what you need from me at cost—assuming you don’t empty the crockery. And, in return, you sell me the herbs, flowers, and other garden stuff I need. I understand from Mr. Baylor you have an excellent physic garden.”
“Not as fruitful as it once was. But we are working to revive it. In fact, we have been harvesting all week.”
He pushed up his hat brim with the tip of his walking stick. “I own I have never been much of a gardener myself. I like clean hands and fine clothes too dearly. I must go to market for everything. It would be a great boon to have fresh Haswell herbs on hand.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.” He held out his hand. A gesture rare among unwed ladies and gentlemen, but common enough among tradespeople. Among business associates. “Have we a bargain?”
With a rueful grin, she smartly shook his hand. “Indeed we have.”
The next day, her father did not even get out of bed. A fortnight had passed since she had made him promise to see a doctor, and still he refused. But she couldn’t bring herself to force him against his wishes.
“I think I need to draw off some blood,” he said. “Would you mind bringing the leech jar?”
Lilly felt uneasy. “Are you sure that is the best course?”
“I believe so. I would do it myself, but it’s a dashed bother to position them from a supine position.”
Lilly went to find the leech jar. The simple white pot had a tight-fitting lid and tiny air holes. Hirudo medicinalis were known to squeeze through the smallest of openings. An apothecary needed to take care when placing them on a patient’s face that none found its way up a nostril.
She pried open the lid. A strong rotten fish smell rushed out and repulsed her. The water was dry. The leeches quite dead. How had she missed it during cleanup?
Lilly groaned. “I find we need to purchase some, Father. I shall help you as soon as I return.” She did not wish to rile her father by admitting she planned to acquire the leeches from his competitor. She was relieved when he did not ask.
She went to find her reticule. “Aaron Jones is bringing a load of coal today,” she called. “If he comes while I am out, tell him I shall settle up later.”
“Very well. Don’t be long.”
Stashing a few bank notes into her reticule and sliding the small bag onto her wrist, Lilly hung the new hand-lettered Returning Soon sign on the door and let herself out. She walked briskly up the High Street and down narrow Milk Lane to Shuttleworth’s. She did not like going there in the middle of the day, but it could not be helped.
“Miss Haswell!” Mr. Shuttleworth greeted her, looking up from his splendid central desk. “What a lovely surprise. Mr. Baylor is out, I am afraid.”
“I came to see you, actually.”
“Wonderful. How can I help?”
She took a deep breath. “I am in need of leeches.”
“You and the entire medical profession. Did you know there is a shortage on? I had to order this last batch all the way from Germany. The French, it seems, are going through them by the barrelful.”
“I had no idea.”
“It does not signify, lovely lady. My leeches are your leeches.” He chuckled. “Now if that is not the most gallant thing I have ever said.”
She laughed. “Chivalrous, indeed.”
Mr. Shuttleworth stepped over to his compounding counter, where stood an impressive leech jar nearly two feet tall and decorated with elegant floral and scroll work.
He paused to ask, “Have you milk at home?”
She nodded.
“Excellent. Encourages them to bite. Sometimes they seem capriciously determined to resist all attempts to adhere. If you ever have a great deal of trouble, you can always prick the skin with a lancet and draw a little blood. They cannot resist it. Has never failed me.”
She hoped it would not come to that.
Seeing her stare at the ornate jar, he explained, “The most exquisite leech jars are made in Staffordshire. I can order one for you if you like.”
“Oh. Thank you, no. I shall content myself to admire yours.”
Mr. Shuttleworth opened the lid, extracted one wet leech, and held it aloft for her inspection. The wormlike body was murky green with yellow stripes and as thick and long as her forefinger.
“Humble but hardworking creatures like these deserve the most elegant of raiment.” He gave a wink and a tug on his waistcoat. “Like me, ey? Now, how will you transport your new friends home?”
Chagrined, she lifted her reticule. “This is all I thought to bring.”
He chuckled again. “Why not? I shall just pop a few into a small jar, and you can transfer them to a proper one at home.”
“I am afraid our poor jar is nothing to yours.”
His long teeth gleamed at her praise. “You are very kind to say so.”
A quarter of an hour later, Lilly walked into her father’s surgery with their own leech jar, cleaned and filled.
“Here we are. Five fat H. medicalis.”
“Only five?”
“There is a shortage on. The French cannot get enough of them. Leeching is all the crack there—doctors using fifty at a time, then salting them.”
He shook his head in disapproval. “Makes them regurgitate the blood so they can be used again. But kills them if you salt them too heavily.”
“Right. So, we shall make do with five very hungry German leeches, shall we?”
“Very well.”
He had already washed and rinsed his chest during her absence. She removed the leeches from their damp jar and let them crawl about on a cloth for a few moments to dry. At the surgery side table, she had a pot of milk, wine glasses, and a lancet at the ready.
She laid the first leech on her fath
er’s chest, then a second. She turned to pluck a third from the cloth, only to return to find the first two crawling away. One was heading for her father’s neck, the other for his waistband.
Oh dear. The glasses. Right.
One by one she captured each leech under a small upturned wine glass, trapping it in the desired area. She felt as though she were performing a circus act in Astley’s Royal Amphitheatre, hurrying to keep the plates spinning before they fell.
Finally, she stood still, both hands splayed. “There.”
“Yes, as long as I don’t make any sudden moves,” her father said. “Or cough.”
“Or talk. Steady on.”
“Tickles devilish, but no bites.”
Frowning, she removed the first wine glass and dabbed a bit of milk on the spot before replacing it.
No good. She hoped she would not need to resort to the lancet. The thought of drawing blood from her father, cutting him even superficially, made her queasy.
Remembering something she’d overheard in Mr. Lippert’s shop in London, she turned and hurried to the door. “Don’t move.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the tea set.”
“Tea . . . now?”
She returned with the sugar bowl and mixed a spoonful into the milk. The sugared milk did the trick, and one after another the leeches bit her father, evidenced by his five successive winces.
When she was sure they had each adhered, she removed the wine glasses, returning them to the side table.
“We’ll let them take their fill,” he said. “Let them fall off by themselves.”
“Very well. Are you warm enough?” She picked up a lap rug hanging over a chair and laid it over his legs.
“Thank you, my dear.” He sighed. “If only you had been a boy. The son I might have left my shop to.”
“Shh. You will be back on your feet, running the shop in no time.”
“For how long? For what reason? What good is a legacy with no one to leave it to? There has been a Haswell in this shop for nearly a hundred years. But now . . . ?”
The Apothecary's Daughter Page 20