“Good morning, Mr. Haswell,” Francis said. “You are looking better.”
“I feel better. For now, at any rate. Tell me, Mr. Baylor, how is our new physician getting on in the village? Lilly’s Dr. Graves?”
She saw Francis wince. His brow pucker. Uncomfortable, Lilly protested mildly, “Father . . .”
Francis glanced at her, then quickly away. “Well enough, I suppose, though you know how it is. Some are slow to accept a newcomer.”
Her father nodded, then eyed the crate. “What’s this, then?”
Fearing her father’s response, Lilly answered, “Mr. Shuttleworth has asked for some of our famed Haswell herbs, Father. That should please you.”
He was incredulous. “You are giving herbs to our competitor?”
“Selling, Father. Selling,” Lilly said, realizing her father had resumed his curmudgeonly temper toward his rival. “And at a tidy profit.” She gave Francis a look, and Francis took the hint.
“It’s dear they are, but Bedsley Priors folk will have Haswell herbs if they can. Shuttleworth has little choice but to pay for the privilege.”
Charles Haswell nodded, apparently satisfied. “I should think so.”
“Well, I bid you both good day.” Lips pulled tight in a resigned line, Francis bowed to Lilly, then to Mr. Haswell, and took his leave.
Her father tilted his head to view the paper before her. “Another order?”
She hesitated. “No, a letter. To Mother.”
He looked stunned. “What?”
“At least to the estate where she is believed to have a situation.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Come, Father,” Lilly bid softly. “Sit down and I will tell you.”
They seated themselves in the surgery, and Lilly explained once more about the discovery of the necklace and what she had learned about her mother in London and since—in review, very little. Not wanting to hurt him more than he had already been, she did not include the details about her mother’s first love.
She asked gently, “Why did she leave, do you know?”
He took a deep breath. “I thought she was happy, at least for a time.” He stared out the surgery window. “When you were born, I thought everything would be all right. She was so delighted with you.” He shifted in his chair. “But I believe she always regretted marrying me. I know she missed London, and I think she always wondered what might have been, whom she might have married had she stayed.”
She squeezed his hand. “You are the best man I have ever met—in London or anywhere.”
He uttered a dry laugh. “Did the Elliotts take you nowhere?” Shaking his head, he said, “No, my dear, I am afraid I am a very flawed man indeed. Perhaps even more than your mother knew. . . .”
He let the words fade away and then leaned forward earnestly. “I caution you, Lilly, in this search of yours. You may not like what you find.”
[The apothecary] is the physician to the poor at all times,
and to the rich whenever the distress or danger is not great.
—ADAM SMITH , 1776
CHAPTER 30
As Lilly and her father lingered over breakfast the next day, Charlie came in and dropped one of their medical cases onto the table before her, nearly toppling her teacup. “Come with me to Marlow House, Lilly. Mr. Timms has a gurt boil and won’t see a doctor.”
Lilly grimaced. She no more wanted to lance that crass old man’s boil than she wanted to manage her father’s shop. “Perhaps Father might,” she said, spooning jam onto her remaining crust of toast.
Charles Haswell looked up from his newspaper. “I don’t think I am equal to it today, my dear.”
How convenient, Lilly thought.
“Come on, Lilly,” Charlie urged. “Man’s hurtin’ fierce.”
“Oh, very well,” she huffed, dropping the toast onto her plate and rising. Seeing brother’s earnest face, she hesitated and added grudgingly, “It is kind of you to think of Mr. Timms.”
Half an hour later, Lilly stood in Mr. Timms’s small kitchen at one end of the Marlow row houses, where several of the oldest servants lived.
“You rest easy now, Mr. Timms,” she advised, repacking instruments and vials.
“Rest? You’ll not see me lolloping about. Think the goosegogs’ll pick their selves? The deer’ll overrun the galley-crow afore the day’s out, and the garden be dry as a gix.”
Sitting beside the man, Charlie said, “I can help, Mr. Timms.”
“Nay, yer needed at home now, ey? But I sore miss ye. A good tasker ye are, Charlie Haswell, and don’t ye forget it.”
Charlie smiled and hung his head, sheepishly proud.
Lilly said, “I am sorry, Mr. Timms, but my father and I—”
“No need to be sorry, miss. I know how ’tis. Yer father’s ailin’, innum? I know how that is too.”
She shut the case, preparing to take her leave. “I hope you shall be right as a trivet now.”
“No doubt of it. I’m obliged to ye, I am. And glad to be shot of that gurt ol’ boil.”
They bid the wizened gardener farewell and let themselves out the door.
“See, I told you he weren’t so bad,” Charlie said.
“You were right, Charlie. And if he was surly, no wonder! To be in such pain day and night.”
The weather was mild, so they strolled across the lawn to the formal gardens, Charlie pointing out this planting and that which he had helped tend. As they did, Lilly heard a dog bark—first a warning, then with more ferocity. A man called out in a stern voice laced with a telling note of fear.
“Back, I say. Back!”
“Oh no.” Lilly ran down the lane, and around the bend spotted Dr. Graves, his back against a tree. The Marlows’ large-headed mastiff, nearly the size of a pony, stood on its hind legs, massive front paws splayed against the man’s chest.
“Dotty, no!” Lilly called with calm authority. “Down this instant!”
Dotty whined, drooled, and leapt down. Charlie jogged over and grabbed the collar of the brindled brown-and-black dog.
Lilly said, “Tether her in the stables, Charlie, will you?”
“Come on, Dotty-girl,” Charlie urged and led the great dog away.
“Dotty?” Dr. Graves exclaimed. “Who in their right mind would name a monster of that size Dotty?”
“The Marlows have an uncommon sensibility when it comes to humor and most things,” she said, stepping near to look him over. Besides two muddy pawprints on his tawny coat, he appeared unscathed. “Are you all right?”
“You mean beyond my utter mortification and the fact that my heart is beating like a cornered hare?”
“Yes.”
He extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped drool from his cheek. “I was only come to meet Sir Henry. I had no idea the act would prove so perilous.”
She took the handkerchief from him. “You’ve a bit of mud . . .” She wiped the dirt from his neck and collar. His Adam’s apple bobbed and his pupils dilated. Realizing what she had just done, she swallowed and handed back the handkerchief.
His eyes met hers, then darted away. She attempted to keep her expression impassive, lest he guess how forward she felt.
He cleared his throat. “You are a singular woman, Miss –Haswell.”
She licked her suddenly dry lips. An awkward silence followed. To break it, she said, “I am afraid your coat is spoiled.”
In the act of dusting off the pawprints, he paused. “Are you afraid of nothing?”
She considered this. “Everybody is afraid of something. Or someone.”
“What are you afraid of?”
She cocked her head to one side to look at him. “Why? Will it make you feel better to know?”
“Vastly.” He stooped to pick up his hat and attempted to restore its shape. “Or at least distract me from my humiliation.”
“Very well. But I tell you in confidence.”
“Of course.”
She gr
inned wryly. “I had rather face that great dog ten times over than his master once.”
His hands stilled. “Roderick Marlow?”
She nodded.
He did not return her grin. Instead looked quite alarmed. “Has he threatened you? Harmed you?”
“Well, nothing of consequence, but—”
“He hasn’t acted in an untoward manner toward you?”
“Dr. Graves. I meant to comfort you by my confession, not distress you further.”
“But, Miss Haswell!”
“There have been a few occasions when I felt mildly . . . threatened, as you say. But these were long ago. Still, I suppose it is the same for me as for you—one bite and I shall ever be wary.” She hastened to add, “Of course I meant that figuratively. He did not actually bite me.” Again she tried to lighten the moment with a smile, but he continued to look quite stern.
He said, “I understand he all but got a man killed once. In a brawl or duel or some such.”
Had he? She had never heard such a tale.
“In any case, if he ever threatens or harasses you again, Miss Haswell, you must not allow it to pass. You must tell someone. Me, if no one else.”
She wondered briefly what Dr. Graves would do. She could not fancy him fighting Roderick Marlow. Dr. Graves would surely lose any duel not fought with lancets or ear horns.
“Thank you. But as I said, it is in the past. Put it from your mind.”
“Have you?”
“Absolutely. As long as he is out of my sight.” She smirked. “Or chained up.”
Blue eyes sparkling, he grinned—then actually laughed out loud. It was the first genuine sound of mirth she had ever heard him utter. She liked it very much indeed.
When the return letter arrived almost a week later from Craybill Hall, Lilly could not bring herself to open it. To face the rejection that might very well be contained within. How many times had she imagined the possible responses? The cool, detached words: “I regret to inform you I have no interest in renewing our acquaintance.” Or “I request that you no longer attempt to contact me; I do not wish to jeopardize my position.” Or even “If I had wanted to see you, I knew where to find you, did I not?”
But dared she hope for a warmer response? “How I have longed to hear of you! But to receive a letter penned in your own hand— My, what a fine young lady you must have become! I would very much like to see you again. I feared to hope you would ever desire to see me. . . .”
Which would it be?
Turning the shop sign, she jogged to the coffeehouse, barely noticing Jane hunched on the garden bench shelling beans. She dashed through the back door, and thrust the letter at Mary.
“Read it. I cannot.”
Mary was grinding coffee beans but paused to study her. She turned to wipe her hands on a cloth. “What is it?”
“From my mother I think. I wrote to the house where she was said to have a situation.”
Setting aside the cloth, Mary took the letter. “It is addressed to you.”
“Please.”
Mary held her gaze a moment longer, then nodded. She slit open the seal and unfolded the letter. As she quickly read the lines, her expression shifted from perplexity to concern.
“She does not wish to see me, does she?” Lilly braced herself.
Mary shook her head.
Lilly winced. I knew it.
“It isn’t from your mother. It is from the housekeeper, a Mrs. Morton. Here, read it yourself.”
Lilly took the letter from her friend and skimmed it quickly, then sank down onto her usual stool and read the critical portion again.
We’ve had no one here by the surname Haswell, but there was a housekeeper by the name Rosa Wells. However, she is no longer employed here, and I am the new housekeeper. I cannot tell you where she went, but I can tell you she left after only a few weeks, without proper notice and without references and that the coachman disappeared on the very same eve. Him, by the name of Stanley Dugan, in case you’re wanting to know. If you find them, be sure and pass on that Mr. Dugan left without returning the livery that is rightly the master’s property, though the master is a forgiving sort and pressed no charges. Rosa took nothing what didn’t belong to her, and Cook tells me she was a fair worker, though not content in her post. This is all I can tell you, as she was gone before I come.
Mrs. Morton, Housekeeper
Craybill Hall
Gone. Again.
Did her mother have some inkling she was being sought? Or was it her nature to move on quickly from situations that did not suit?
“Might it have been someone else?” Mary asked. “With the name Wells, I mean. She could not have married again, could she? With your father still alive?”
Lilly shrugged, feeling numb and empty. “It could be a false name, short for Haswell. Or perhaps she took the name of the man she left us for, and has even now taken another husband. It would explain why she has cut all ties to an inconvenient family hidden away in Wiltshire.”
“I cannot credit it,” Mary said. “More likely it was some other woman.”
Lilly said dully, “Perhaps.” She crumpled the paper and tossed it among the embers in the cookstove. The paper flamed to life, then just as quickly extinguished.
Like her foolish, foolish hopes.
A man of very moderate ability may be a good physician,
if he devotes himself faithfully to the work.
—OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
CHAPTER 31
The next morning, when Lilly entered the coffeehouse by the kitchen door as usual, she was surprised to see Mr. Shuttleworth there, seated in her customary stool at the worktable.
She hesitated. “Oh. Pardon me.”
He rose and bowed. “Miss Haswell.”
“Morning, Lill,” Mary said pleasantly, looking pretty in a green frock and seeming perfectly at ease. She walked over to pick up the stool beside the hearth, but Mr. Shuttleworth, perceiving her intention, leapt to assist her, carrying the stool over and setting it not far from his own.
Both ladies thanked him at once. He beamed at them, his gaze lingering on Mary. “My pleasure, ladies.”
Lilly perched herself up on the stool, feeling awkward. Mary poured a cup of coffee and placed it before her, then returned her attention to a large basin, stirring its contents with fluid, steady strokes.
“Miss Mimpurse was so obliging as to offer a poor bachelor a bite of breakfast,” Mr. Shuttleworth said. “Though the establishment is not yet open.”
“Mamma is just opening the shutters now, Mr. Shuttleworth, should you prefer the comfort of soft chairs not dusted with flour.”
“And why should I prefer it? Have I not the best seat in the house?”
Lifting the coffee cup to her lips, Lilly said dryly, “I have always thought so.”
“Indeed. I cannot imagine warmer fires nor warmer company in any other place in the world.”
“And that is saying a great deal, is it not,” Lilly said. “Considering all of the many places you have been.”
“You are too kind to remember, Miss Haswell.”
“Lilly remembers everything, Mr. Shuttleworth,” Mary said. “Had you not heard?”
“Dear me. I am obliged to you for the warning.”
He grinned, and Mary lifted her eyes from her work long enough to return the gesture.
Lilly smiled as well, though did wonder that Mary should raise the subject of her memory. Knowing how self-conscious Lilly felt about it, her friend usually avoided mentioning it to strangers. Of course, by all appearances, Mr. Shuttleworth was stranger no longer.
Suddenly a pained look pinched Mary’s usually docile features, and she grasped her left hand with her right.
“Please excuse me,” she said, and Lilly doubted anyone who did not know Mary so well would even notice the tension in her face. “I’ve just been reminded of something I must attend to.”
Mr. Shuttleworth rose, mouth ajar. But Mary had already turned and fle
d the room before he could say anything.
Lilly rose beside him, concerned.
“I have clearly overstayed my welcome,” he said sheepishly. “Do offer your friend a thousand apologies on my behalf.”
“Not at all, sir. I am certain it is nothing you did.”
“I shall see myself out.” He opened the back door and bid her farewell.
As soon as he had gone, Lilly hurried toward the dining room, thinking Mary must have gone upstairs, but a flash of green caught her eye as she passed the pantry. There Mary half sat, half reclined on a ten-stone sack of flour.
“Mary, is a fit coming on?”
Jerking a nod, Mary held her arms tightly, clutching her abdomen as a wounded soldier might hold his innards. Her arms shook and the movement expanded, overtaking her until even her head began to wobble on her neck, tendons corded like angry claws lashing into her shoulders.
Lilly reached for Mary’s apron pocket, for the leather scrap she kept there. Empty. “Hold on. I’ll try and catch Mr. Shuttleworth.”
“No!” Mary cried, voice trembling. “No . . . father.”
“But my father is too ill. He has returned to his bed.”
“My . . .” Mary began, then her body convulsed, rendering her unable to speak.
Lilly hesitated only a second, then dashed into the kitchen, grabbed the first wooden spoon she saw, and ran back with it. Mary winced but opened her mouth and Lilly slid the spoon between her teeth. Stepping to the door, she glanced into the dining room, where Mrs. Mimpurse was greeting a group of timber men and barge builders, Mr. Robbins among them.
Catching her eye, Lilly jerked her head toward the pantry, mouthing, “Mary.” Her pained look must have communicated the rest, for Mrs. Mimpurse quickly but tactfully took her leave of the men and strode toward the kitchen.
Lilly did not wait. With her father ill, and Mary’s clear command not to involve Mr. Shuttleworth, she could think of only one place to go for help.
She would even have asked Dr. Foster if need be, but when she pounded on the office door, she was relieved when Dr. Graves answered.
The Apothecary's Daughter Page 24