The ladies exchanged polite greetings, and Lilly warmed to Miss Robbins when she saw how nervous the girl was.
A man on horseback rode up, and Lilly was surprised to recognize Mr. Marlow. Had he not said he would bring a carriage? It would be a long walk. And what of Mary’s hamper?
Beside her, Miss Robbins sucked in her breath and squeaked, “Mr. Marlow!” She turned to Lilly, face stricken, and whispered tersely, “No one told me he was coming.”
Was everyone afraid of this man?
Marlow dismounted. Seeing the girl, he hesitated, clearly surprised. “Miss Robbins?”
“I . . . I did not know you were coming,” she said defensively.
“Nor I you.” He paused, then seemed to recover. “But that doesn’t mean it cannot be a pleasant surprise, does it?”
Her mouth hung loosely. “Oh. No . . .”
Francis stepped beside Miss Robbins and assumed a protective, proprietary posture, shoulders back, hands fisted at his sides. For a moment, Marlow regarded the younger man with cynical amusement, then turned at the sound of a carriage approaching.
Lilly heard Francis whisper to the girl, “Do not be uneasy. You shan’t be alone.”
Her attention was pulled away as a landau, driven by Marlow’s coachman and with a footman in the rear, pulled up and halted in the street. The young footman hopped down and jogged over to open the door and lower the step.
But Lilly’s eyes were fastened on the landau’s sole occupant.
Beside her, Charlie breathed, “Miss Powell . . .” And from the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Francis elbowing him lightly in the ribs.
Lady Marlow was like a print from a ladies’ magazine in a promenade dress with ribboned sleeves and a long green vest laced across her ample bosom. A hat of satin straw trimmed with feathers sat at a smart angle upon her head, showing a wealth of red ringlets at one temple.
Francis leaned close and whispered in Lilly’s ear. “Now who is gaping?”
Mr. Shuttleworth drove up in his curricle, Dr. Graves beside him. At their arrival, Mr. Marlow made the introductions with practiced ease, as though he had socialized with them all many times before. “Well, now that we are all acquainted . . .”
As if on cue, Cecil Briggs drove up in the low four-wheel gill, hampers stacked in back.
“If the gentlemen would be so kind as to ride in the gill,” Marlow said with a sweep of his arm, “the ladies may enjoy the comfort of fine springs and leather seats.”
Francis and Charlie climbed in the back of the low wagon, but Mr. Shuttleworth said he and Dr. Graves would take his curricle.
Marlow nodded, then offered his hand to Lilly. “Miss Haswell.”
Self-conscious at being singled out first, Lilly stole a sideways glance at the other two ladies. Mary looked as though she’d just sold a Rich Bride Cake—Miss Robbins as though she had a goosegog stuck in her throat.
As he helped her up into the landau, Marlow said quietly to Lilly, “What a diverting outing this is proving to be.”
They quickly left the village behind, passing nearby Alton as well. The wild roses were all gone from the hedgerows, Lilly noticed, and the elderberry blossoms had given way to clusters of ripening fruit, which they would pick come October.
A few miles to the north, the carriages halted along the roadside at the foot of Walker’s Hill. Mr. Marlow rode back to speak to his servants while the other men alighted. Dr. Graves offered Lilly his hand. Francis, she noticed, hurried over to help Miss Robbins down. She did not miss his reassuring smile nor the lingering press of hands.
Marlow directed the coachman to stay with his horse, the landau, and Mr. Shuttleworth’s curricle. Cecil Briggs and the young footman would drive the wagon up the hill as far as they could, then haul the hampers and picnic blankets to the top from there.
While Mr. Shuttleworth transferred his telescope to the gill, the others stood clustered about, staring up at the summit.
“ ’At’s a gurt big hill,” Charlie breathed.
Lilly shielded her eyes with a gloved hand. “A fair pitch indeed.”
Miss Robbins eyed the wagon with longing.
“You may ride up if you like, Miss Robbins,” Lilly offered kindly.
“All of you mean to walk?” she asked timidly, her parasol already wavering in the breeze.
Lilly nodded. “I believe so.”
“Walk?” Francis said as though scandalized. He turned to Mr. Marlow. “What say you, Marlow. Shall we peg it? Have a friendly race?”
“Race?” Marlow’s lip curled distastefully.
“What—afraid you’ll muss your cravat?”
Lilly winced. Careful, Francis.
But Marlow retaliated only with words. “No, afraid you will foul the air.”
Francis said easily, “I do not plan on perspiring. Do you?”
Mr. Marlow held his gaze and loosened his cravat.
Francis turned to his employer. “What about you, Mr. Shuttle-worth. Are you in?”
“Good heavens.” He rubbed his palms together. “Sitting about the surgery all day as I do, I haven’t a chance. But why not? I shall be a buck about it.” He smiled shamelessly at Mary. “Am I not a jolly buck, Miss Mary?”
She smiled indulgently. “Indeed you are, Mr. Shuttleworth.”
He took off his fine coat, folded it, and laid it neatly atop the hamper. Cecil Briggs clicked the horse into action and the gill pulled away. Miss Robbins watched it go with regret.
“If I am very lucky,” Mr. Shuttleworth said, “I shall swoon at the top and have four lovely ladies falling to their knees beside me, waving their fans over me and I know not what.”
“What a schemer you are, Mr. Shuttleworth,” Mary teased.
Stuffing his cravat into his pocket, Marlow challenged, “What about you, Graves?”
Dr. Graves shook his head. “You may count me out. I shall escort the ladies.”
“I for one look forward to the climb,” Lady Marlow said. “I believe exercise is beneficial for the female figure. Do you not agree, Dr. Graves?”
Dr. Graves cleared his throat.
Lady Marlow surveyed the hill once more. “Pity my husband could not join us. Sir Henry is meeting with his solicitor today, or I know he would have enjoyed this.”
Lilly would not have guessed Sir Henry equal to the climb. His health must be greatly improved. Evidently marriage suited him.
Lionel Shuttleworth rolled up his sleeves. “Come on, Graves, don’t be a fribble. Give me someone to beat at least.”
“I shall walk up and so you shall handily beat me,” Graves said.
“Indeed I shall,” Shuttleworth agreed with boyish earnestness.
“And I as well, Dr. Graves,” Charlie said, adopting an awkward runner’s crouch. “I own I’m hudgy, but even I can beat a fellow on a wander.”
Lilly bit her lip. She hoped her brother was right.
Mr. Shuttleworth urged, “Start us off, Miss Mary.”
“Very well. Ready?” She held up her handkerchief, then sliced the air with a flourish. “Let the race begin!”
The men scrambled forward, Marlow nearly losing his footing on the loose rock at the bottom of the hill. Francis shot forward into an early lead. Shuttleworth ran with an upright, rooster-like stance that threatened to topple him as the pitch steepened. Marlow’s long loping strides quickly overtook him. Charlie ran behind, arms windmilling, gait awkward.
“Careful, Charlie!” Lilly called after him. “Mind you don’t fall and wrick your ankle!”
The three other women accompanied by Dr. Graves began a leisurely pace up the circuitous path, which climbed the hill more gradually.
Watching them stroll languidly away, Lilly thought, Fiddle! She hiked up her hems and ran straight up after the men. She caught up with Charlie easily and had nearly reached Mr. Shuttleworth when she heard Charlie stumble and let out an “Oomph” behind her. She stopped and helped him up, keeping a hold of his hand, thinking to jog the rest of the way side
by side. But Charlie pulled away and started off once more, on his own. It stung Lilly, though she knew it should not have.
Reaching the summit first, Francis called down, “Come on, you lollopers!”
“Go, Charlie, go!” Mary shouted her encouragement from the path below.
At that, her brother gave a great burst of speed and reached the top well before her. When she did reach the ridge of flat rocks between her and the summit, Francis reached out his hand to her. Their eyes met. She wondered what he had been thinking to challenge Roderick Marlow. She wondered, too, at the strange mixture of triumph and irritation and something else in his eyes now. Still, she took his offered hand and allowed him to help her safely up and over. Charlie was dancing an ungainly victory jig. Marlow and Shuttleworth were twin bookends, panting figures with hands on knees. She walked slowly over to join them, struggling to catch her own breath. It had been too long since she had run or climbed. Her heart pounded, her lungs burned, her side ached. She felt . . . wonderful.
Tears are often the telescope by which men see far into heaven.
—HENRY WARD BEECHER
CHAPTER 35
Lilly and Mary directed the arrangement of blankets and provisions atop Walker’s Hill.
“Join us, Mr. Briggs?” Mary asked the groom who helped carry the hampers.
“I thank you no, mum.” Cecil Briggs jerked his thumb toward the waiting horses. “My place is with the gristle and rub.”
“And mine is in the kitchen,” Mary said matter-of-factly, and Lilly felt a pang at her friend’s humble self-regard.
“Go on now, miss,” Cecil urged. “Enjoy yourself.”
Mary’s eyes twinkled. “You would not refuse a leg of roast chicken and an apple crowdy, would you?”
He smiled and self-consciously tugged on the brim of his hat. “That I would not.”
Mrs. Tobias, the Marlows’ cook, had outdone herself. There was enough food for thirty, Lilly guessed. A joint of cold roast beef, four roast chickens, two ham and veal pies, two pigeon pies, and stewed fruit in glass bottles, as well as a basket of fresh fruit, lettuces, cucumbers, and the promised lobster salad. There were also cheeses, bread, butter and jam, three pots of tea, and another hamper filled with bottles of ginger-beer, ale, lemonade, and claret, which Roderick Marlow helped himself to early and often. In her hamper, Mary had brought a large plum pudding, lardy cakes, apple crowdies, jam puffs, and a tin of mixed biscuits.
After they had eaten their fill, the ladies sat primly on the wide blankets while the men lounged at their leisure with legs outstretched.
Francis groaned with satisfaction. “I do not think I can move.”
“A fine meal, Miss Mary, Marlow,” Mr. Shuttleworth acknowledged, patting the buttons of his snug waistcoat.
“Yes,” Lilly added. “Do thank Mrs. Tobias for us.”
Marlow nodded and lifted his glass.
Mr. Shuttleworth set up his long telescope, mounted on a tripod of poles, on the ridge facing south.
Mary leaned down, her cheek bunched up as she closed one eye to look with the other through its lens. Mr. Shuttleworth hovered close, a hand lightly on Mary’s shoulder to position her just so for the best viewing, clearly enjoying his role as scientific explorer—as well as the excuse to stand so near the ladies.
“There it is!” Mary exclaimed, “At least I think it must be the Salisbury Cathedral, although I have never seen it before.”
“I have. Allow me.” Marlow bent at the waist and peered through the lens. “Indeed. The spire of Salisbury Cathedral. It is above twenty miles from here. I would not have believed it.”
As Mr. Shuttleworth and Mary stood near one another, Lilly noticed his gaze resting upon Mary’s profile. He frowned slightly and peered closer yet. “I have never noticed that before.”
“What?” Mary asked self-consciously.
“That little scar along your jaw. A burn, was it?”
Lilly saw her friend nod, before looking away disconcerted. Lilly felt embarrassed on Mary’s behalf. She was not certain of the burn’s origin but could well guess.
“Forgive me, I did not mean to give offense,” he said. “Why, it is barely noticeable. It is only my being a surgeon, you see.”
“That’s all right. It was a long time ago.” Mary stepped away. “Who is next?”
They all took turns looking through the telescope—Lady Marlow, Miss Robbins, Charlie, Francis. Lilly hung back, watching the surprise and delight on each face. Charlie likely had no real idea what he was seeing, but he seemed as caught up in the moment as everyone else.
Dr. Graves paused before taking his place at the scope. “Miss Haswell? Will you not have a turn?”
“You go on. I do not mind waiting. I am enjoying seeing it through everyone else’s eyes.”
Finally it was Lilly’s turn. She stepped close and leaned in. She was small enough not to have to lean down very far. “I don’t—no . . .”
“Here.” Mr. Shuttleworth stepped in very close, nearly cheek to cheek with her, as she tilted her head away so he might take a look. “Must have been jostled. Now, try again.” She felt his hand touch her shoulder, much as he had Mary’s, but did not mind. There was something likeable and comfortable about Mr. Shuttleworth. And there it was. Britain’s tallest spire. Could it really be twenty miles away? She remembered a few years gone, standing on Grey’s Hill, wanting to come here, to see this sight, wishing she could actually travel there— travel anywhere. Now she had. She had traveled far more than twenty miles. Had lived in magnificent London. What joys she had imagined in the great out there. Had she found them?
She looked up and realized she was alone with Mr. Shuttleworth. Chagrined, she said, “I did not mean to monopolize it. Here. Have a go.”
“If you will stay and keep me company.”
“As you like.”
The others had wandered back to the picnic blankets. Cecil Briggs and the footman had carried the food hampers away, but the beverage hamper and Mary’s sweets hamper remained. Shoulder to shoulder at the scope, she and Mr. Shuttleworth turned their heads to regard the rest of the group.
Mary was handing Charlie the biscuit tin, and Mr. Marlow was opening another bottle of claret. Dr. Graves and Francis sat near one another, forearms resting on raised knees. Though both men stared out at the horizon, they were deep in conversation, the light of the westerly afternoon sun turning their faces golden and causing them to squint as they spoke. Miss Robbins and Lady Marlow sat together on the opposite end of the blanket, talking and laughing like old friends. How very unexpected. What a strange party they were.
Quietly, Mr. Shuttleworth said, “We stand apart, do we not?”
She turned to look at him, to search his countenance for the meaning of his odd statement. But he turned as well, so that they faced one another, noses too close together. He did have a prominent nose. She backed up a step, leaving him at the telescope. “What do you mean?”
“We are here but not here,” he said softly. He turned away from her to stare out to the west, past Milk Hill to the ridgeline diminishing into the distance, the narrow canal cutting through the vale, and the horizon beyond. He looked without aid of telescope, his hand resting on its surface, chin resting on his hand.
She spoke as quietly as he had, “What do you see?”
He stared without speaking, then took a slow, deep breath. “Tomorrow. The next day. Next year.”
She studied him for several moments, then asked gently, “Are you leaving us, Mr. Shuttleworth?”
He inhaled again, seeming to return to himself. “Why would I? I have my work here. I have settled here. I like life in Bedsley Priors. It is what I wanted.”
Still he looked off into the distance, and she felt she understood him.
She understood that he spoke to convince himself as well as her. She understood he spoke a truth beyond his grasp.
Adam Graves felt restless at the sight of Miss Haswell and Mr. Shuttleworth in such intimate conversation.
He believed the man harmless but still resented him for monopolizing Miss Haswell. He would not be so obtuse as to join them, but nor could he sit there any longer, no matter how decent a chap Baylor seemed. He rose to stretch his legs and for respite from the incessant chatter of Lady Marlow and Miss Robbins, two lovely but vociferous creatures.
As he walked away from the group, a voice called after him. “Graves.”
He looked back and saw Roderick Marlow rise a bit unsteadily to amble after him. Reaching and then passing him, Marlow climbed the steep incline to the ancient burial mound atop Walker’s Hill.
He called down, “Do you know what this mound is called?” The man did not wait for a response. “Adam’s Grave. Did you know it?”
“I have heard that, yes.”
“Climb up with me, ol’ boy.”
Adam was instantly wary. “Why?”
“I want to show you something.”
Adam frowned but climbed up anyway, his boots slipping on the grassy slope.
Atop the mound, Roderick Marlow flopped a heavy arm across his shoulders and laughed. “Adam Graves atop Adam’s Grave. Is that not ironic? Mind you don’t fall.” Marlow crooked his arm around Adam’s neck, an embrace bordering on a headlock. “What does Miss Haswell see in you, I wonder?” He leaned in close, nearly nose to nose with him. “You are a pretty quiz, I own.”
How much claret has the man had? Adam wondered.
“You are devoted to her, are you not?” Marlow asked.
Adam pulled away, disgusted. “And you are devoted to claret.”
“I am. It is my own prescription. Purely medicinal, I assure you.” Marlow again peered at him. “Do you love Miss Haswell?”
The cheek! “That is none of your affair.” He was affronted as well as perplexed. Was Marlow implying feelings toward Miss Haswell? When every patient gossiped about how the man pined for the former Miss Powell? Still, Marlow’s question rang in his mind. Did he love her? He believed so. Did he not hope to marry her once he had established himself?
The Apothecary's Daughter Page 27