“Good, good,” her father said, leading the way with unusual vigor. “I know a father-son from Alton Barnes who can put your roof to rights at a fair price. Shall I give you their names?”
“Most obliging, Mr. Haswell.”
Lilly was surprised by her father’s warm reception. Was he so pleased to learn his rival’s business fared no better than his own? He turned back at the threshold. “And you may have your old room, Mr. Baylor—if you do not mind the tight quarters.”
“Not at all, sir.”
As the two older men disappeared through the door, Lilly smiled up at Francis. “It will be just like old times.”
His gaze lingered on her. “Will it?”
She hesitated. “Here, let me help you with your wet things.” She took his hat while he hung his coat on a peg, then followed her through the laboratory-kitchen and into the stark former pantry. “I am afraid I have not had time to make this bed yet.”
“Then I shall help you.”
She reached down and picked up the edge of the dust cover. A bed of less than a yard’s width lay between them. On its far side, Francis reached down and picked up the cloth’s other edge. He brought up his two corners to meet hers. Their fingers grazed as she took the thin material from him. Then he moved to the foot of the bed and took one end while she took the other, and again they brought the corners toward each other, Francis stepping around the bed to close the gap between them. This time when she tried to take his corners, he held on, their hands touching, his face dipped close to look into hers. Taking a shallow breath, she tugged harder until he let go.
He helped her put on the fresh sheets, tucking the corners and spreading the blanket while she plumped the pillow.
The task accomplished, he thrust his hand toward her, as Mr. Shuttleworth might. “You are very kind, Miss Haswell. Thank you.”
Hesitantly, she put her smaller hand in his. “You are very welcome, Mr. Baylor.”
Instead of releasing her hand, he held it with gentle firmness. His large brown eyes seemed filled with some unspoken message as well as a glint of humor. “How do you make your hands colder than the outside air?”
She said with a shaky laugh, “It is a gift.”
He lifted her hand and brought it to his lips, his eyes focused on hers. Her heart pounded as he pressed his warm lips to her cool fingers. She felt a rush of pleasure and nervous tension at the intimate act.
He straightened, but kept his eyes lowered. Quietly, he asked, “You and Dr. Graves were . . . acquainted in London?”
At the mention of Dr. Graves, Lilly blinked. The pleasure she felt dissolved. She shook her head to clear away the unsettling emotions.
He mistook the gesture and furrowed his brow. “No?”
“No. I mean, yes.”
Tension stiffened his voice and posture. “The physician of whom your aunt disapproved?”
She nodded and gently pulled away her hand. “Well, I hope you will be comfortable. Do let me know if you want for anything.”
He took a slow, deep breath, his broad chest rising and falling. “I want a great many things, Miss Haswell.”
His eyes were strangely sorrowful.
She did not ask what he wanted. She was not sure she wished to know.
The rain and chilly weather of the previous week brought with it summer colds and ague, which kept Mr. Shuttleworth and Francis quite busy into the following week of sunny, warm days.
They had met Dr. Graves a few more times, when he had entered the shop in the company of Dr. Foster. The younger physician was a bit formal and starched, Francis thought, and suspected his stiff demeanor hid insecurities natural to any new medical man. Francis determined to be as kind and helpful as he could be, even though the new man was treating Mr. Haswell, which Francis could not help but consider a vague snub.
While Dr. Foster frequented Shuttleworth’s, his new partner went more often to Haswell’s. Francis knew Mr. Haswell was not the primary reason. Nor could he blame the man.
He thought back to that rainy night spent in his old bed beneath Lilly’s room. What bittersweet memories that had evoked, of all the nights he had slept there before, comforted yet taunted by his awareness of her lying in her own bed above him. Should he have told her how she affected him?
She was so much the same, yet different too. Her face somewhat thinner, her curves somewhat fuller, though that might be due to the cut of the gowns she now wore. She was as clever and charming as ever, yet she seemed less approachable than before, as though painted with a shiny veneer that kept her true self out of reach. He realized dully that she thought herself above him. She likely always had, but her time in London had served to increase the perceived distance. Maybe it is better this way, he told himself. He could not allow her return to disturb his carefully laid plans. Besides, what chance did he stand against a handsome London physician?
Early one morning, a rap sounded from the shop door below, while Lilly was in her bedchamber. She ran lightly down the stairs to answer the door, dressed, but with her hair still down.
She unlocked the door and opened it to Dr. Graves. He stared at her, then away, clearing his throat.
She pushed her long hair behind her shoulder. “I was not quite finished dressing.”
“No . . . um, your hair is beautiful,” he faltered.
“Thank you,” she said, self-consciously pleased, and gestured him inside. “Are you here to check on Father? I fear he is still sleeping.”
“No. I shall come back later for that.” Again he stared at her.
“Did you need something?”
Glancing around and seeing the shop empty, he went on in lower tones, “Miss Haswell, when I first arrived, I mentioned there was something I wanted to say to you.”
Lilly’s heart began to pound. “Yes?”
“I have been waiting for an opportune time. I did not wish to spring it upon you when I saw how ill your father was.”
She nodded, mouth dry.
“I must tell you, Miss Haswell. I was disappointed when I called on the Elliotts and discovered you gone. Your aunt was rather vague about the reason.”
Lilly could well imagine.
“But considering, well, everything,” he continued, “I believe I understand why you left without a word of farewell.”
“I did not think you would mind, after our last conversation about my mother.”
“It is precisely that conversation I wish to speak of now.”
Oh dear.
“The day after we spoke, I went to see my brother, a solicitor, as I believe I mentioned. He contracted a runner on my behalf to discover information about the former lieutenant James Wells.”
Lilly was taken aback. This was not what she had expected him to say.
Dr. Graves continued, “It seems Wells now works aboard a convict transport ship, and maintains an address in Cheapside, though he can be home but rarely. He . . .”
He paused and Lilly held her breath, trying to guess the thoughts behind his grim mouth, his serious blue eyes.
“He was married two years ago.” Graves extracted a small slip of paper from his pocket and glanced at it. “To a German woman, according to the record. A Gertrude Kistinger, now Wells.”
He handed her the paper and she silently stared at it. He looked at her expectantly, then cocked his head to one side. Clearly she was not reacting as he had thought she would.
“Is that not good news? Your mother is not with Wells, as you feared.”
Was it good news? Just because she was no longer with Wells, did that mean she never was? And where was she now? Her fragile link to her mother, if a link it could be called, had been broken as easily as a spider’s web.
“Thank you for inquiring for me.” She wondered, though, if he had done so to help her, or merely to gauge the threat of scandal for himself.
“I thought you would be pleased,” he said hopefully. “It can no longer come between us.”
She looked up into his warm blue eyes and angelic face
and felt her own face—and heart—warm in response. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps nothing stood between them after all.
The door bell rang and Lilly stepped back. Hannah Primmel timidly entered the shop.
“Hannah, hello,” Lilly said, striding to the counter. She hoped Hannah did not notice her blush, or would at least not read anything untoward in it if she did.
“Hello, Miss Haswell.” The poor girl had the misfortune of skin continually plagued with blemishes and had therefore earned the monikers Carbuncle Face and Hannah Pimples from cruel lads. Seeing Dr. Graves, the girl hung her head, as she habitually did, as though that might keep people from noticing her face.
“I am very pleased to see you,” Lilly said. “I hoped you would come in.”
Hannah glanced up eagerly. “Did you?”
“Yes.” Lilly leaned closer, speaking in confidential tones. “I have something I would very much like you to try.”
Her eagerness faded. “I haven’t much money.”
“This is a complimentary sample. Apply it for a fortnight and report on its efficacy. Will you do that for me?”
Hannah smiled. “Of course I will. Thank you, Miss Haswell.”
“Thank me later—if you are pleased with the results.”
When Hannah left, Dr. Graves approached the counter and asked quietly, “What did you give her?”
Lilly sighed. “Neither Gowland’s nor chamomile was bringing about the improvement I had hoped for. I have now given her an ointment of lemon juice, rose water, and silver supplement.”
“Culpeper’s Remedy,” he said.
“Right. Of course, Culpeper also recommended rubbing fresh butter on one’s face of a morning. But that always seemed to worsen the problem when I experienced bouts of the same.”
“You, Miss Haswell? I would have thought you had always been perfect.”
She glanced at him, surprised that his flattery was not delivered with a smile. Instead, his expression was oddly sober.
“By the way,” he added, “you might wish to be careful about prescribing physic.”
The warmth she felt turned to annoyance. “I was not prescribing. It is a simple, known remedy.”
“I am only cautioning you. A woman compounding medicines is one thing, but prescribing is another. If Dr. Foster had seen that just now, he might think you were overstepping. He might . . .” He grimaced. “Just be careful.”
I like dreams of the future better than the history of the past.
—PATRICK HENRY
CHAPTER 29
Lilly received a letter from her uncle, which surprised and mildly alarmed her, for she had received a letter only a few days before. She hoped the Elliotts were both in good health.
My dear Lillian,
I know we agreed to speak no more on the subject of your mother, but still I thought you should know. I have received additional information. Do you remember Mrs. Browning, the lady who let rooms to “Rosa” off Fleet Street? And do you further recall that I left my card? I confess I believed that card would come to tinder and that I should never hear from her again. But, behold, I received a letter from her today—if such scrawl can be called such—and happily paid the fourpence postage.
As I understand it, Mrs. Browning had long ago given your mother—or at least “Rosa”—a letter of reference, and a prospective employer has recently written to Mrs. Browning to verify Rosa’s suitability for the post. I suppose you will struggle to credit it as I did. Rosamond—a housekeeper? In any case, the trail is cold no longer, should you like to pursue it. Of course I cannot say for certain whether Rosa was given the post in the end, but it seems likely, given Mrs. Browning’s confidence that she’d “writ a lettr shure to inpress and pleas.” But perhaps a letter from you to the steward or butler would answer if you are so inclined. I’ve included the directions below. Do let me know if there is anything you would like me to do in this regard.
Most sincerely,
Mr. Jonathan Elliott
Lilly fingered the postscript, the name of the estate and its direction. In Surrey, south of London. Part of her longed to go. Another part said this was not a good time—her father was unwell, and she could ill afford to close the shop. Still, it would not be so long a journey. She could go by post and return in two days’ time.
The hired hackney took her as far as the end of the lane. From there, she walked, through the gates and up the curved stone drive. Craybill Hall was grander than she had imagined. The estate further out in the countryside than she would have guessed.
Lilly clutched her reticule tightly, knowing her damp palms would likely mar the smooth satin but at that moment not caring. She took a deep breath. The nausea she felt, she tried to tell herself, was from the long day of travel—first the long coach journey, then the jarring ride in the old hackney. She pressed one hand to her stomach, hoping to calm her nerves. How would her mother react upon seeing her? At being tracked down when she had clearly made no effort to reconnect with the family she had left behind? Did her mother assume, perhaps, they wanted nothing to do with her? If so, surely her mother would, if not welcome a visit, be relieved to know her daughter wished her well.
Lilly paused at the bottom of the wide steps leading to the main entrance. She prayed for wisdom, for peace, for her legs to quit trembling. She heard a sound in the distance, several voices raised in laughter. Something about the sound was familiar. On impulse, she turned and walked around the manor house, the peals of laughter guiding her like a ship’s bell in the fog.
At the rear of the house, she saw a low garden wall. On its other side, a small table and chairs were arranged on a manicured lawn. Two children sat at that table, a little boy with golden hair, and a girl a few years older with ginger curls. And there, standing between them—smiling—was her mother. She was singing along as the children clapped and sang “Pat-a-cake.”
How young and pretty her mother looked. She wore a blue-and-white walking dress, and her dark hair was swept back in a high, fashionable coil. Where is her hat? Lilly wondered. She ought not be out-of-doors without one. Lilly chided herself for her inane observation at such a time. In the midst of their game, her mother looked up from the children and clearly saw her standing there. Saw someone standing there, at any rate. She ceased singing, and her expression sobered.
Taking a deep breath and fisting her hands, Lilly walked slowly to the garden wall. Would her mother recognize her as she drew near? Letting the reticule dangle at her wrist, Lilly laid both hands on the waist-high stone wall.
“Yes?” Rosamond Haswell asked, her tone officious.
“Hello, Mother,” Lilly said quietly.
She only stared in response.
The little boy asked in an endearing lisp, “Who is da lady?”
The little girl hung her head, so Lilly could not make out her features.
“Sit up straight, dear, and greet our guest,” her mother said to the girl. But the girl made no sign of hearing her. She was either very shy or very rude.
Swallowing hard, Lilly said the next thing that came to her mind. “I thought you were the housekeeper here?”
Her mother continued to survey her person, hat to waist and up again. “I was. The governess took ill.” She shrugged. “Besides, I like children. Well, some children . . .”
Lilly felt as though she’d been struck in the chest by a heavy mallet.
The little girl looked up then, revealing a face eerily identical to Lilly’s own at that age. The girl scowled and stuck out her tongue.
Lilly sat up in bed, breathing heavily and perspiring as the dream faded. Feeling ill, she arose, wrapped her dressing gown around herself, and stepped gingerly to Charlie’s door. She opened it inch by creaking inch. In the moonlit chamber, Charlie slept soundly, hands clasped beneath one cheek, fair hair splayed on his pillow and over his brow.
Lilly tiptoed across the room and leaned low. She reached out and gently brushed the hair from his eyes.
She needed to touch som
eone real.
In the morning, Lilly went in search of her mother’s miniature portrait. She found it in a drawer in the sitting room, shrouded in brown paper. Unwrapping it, she blew off the paper dust and looked at the lovely face, so like the one in her dream the night before. It had been painted before her marriage more than twenty years ago. Lilly wondered how much she had changed by now. And knew she would go on wondering.
Lilly slipped the small frame into her apron pocket, wanting it near. She would act upon the information her uncle had sent. She would write a letter to start. After that, she did not know.
An hour later, she was already in the shop, bent over stationery and quill, when Francis came by for the Haswell herbs Mr. Shuttleworth wanted. She had the herbs bunched, tagged, and ready in a crate.
“Excellent. This everything?” Francis asked.
“Hmm?” she murmured, distracted.
“Is this everything. For Mr. Shuttleworth . . . ?”
“Oh.” She glanced up at him, then at the crate. “Yes.” She looked back at the few lines she had written. “Francis, you never met my mother, did you?”
He wrinkled his brow, no doubt wondering why she had asked a question when she already knew the answer.
“No. She left not long before I arrived.”
Lilly nodded, tapping the quill against the inkpot as she thought.
“I do remember a little portrait of her,” Francis said. “You used to carry it about with you, until your father asked you to put it away.”
Lilly nodded again, thinking how she had found the portrait wrapped and tucked in a drawer. Out of sight.
“I remember thinking she was quite lovely,” Francis continued. “And that you were very like her.”
Silently, she pulled the framed miniature from her apron pocket and slid it across the counter toward him. He leaned down and peered at it. “Very like her indeed.”
She told him about her mother’s necklace and Rosa Wells. As she spoke, he took her hand in his and pressed it, his brown eyes warm with compassion. The laboratory-kitchen door creaked open and Francis stepped back. Seeing her father in the doorway, Lilly slipped the miniature under her writing paper.
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