The Apothecary's Daughter

by Julie Klassen

  Adam glimpsed Lady Marlow approaching the foot of the mound. She called up to them coyly, “What are you two discussing, pray?”

  “Not you, Cassandra,” Marlow snapped. “Of that I can assure you.”

  Adam stepped nearer. “Might I offer you a hand up, Lady –Marlow?” “

  Thank you. At least there is one gentleman among us.”

  Adam gently pulled her atop the mound. The wind, even stronger at this height, threatened to loose her hat. Tendrils of red hair escaped from under it, blowing across her cheek. She was beautiful, indeed. No wonder Marlow was perturbed. He felt that man’s glare upon him and turned.

  Marlow looked from the lady to him. “Careful, Graves. That woman can knock the life out of you faster than any fall from Adam’s Grave.”

  “Pay him no mind, Doctor,” Lady Marlow said with a casual smile. “Mr. Marlow enjoys playing the heartbroken lover. But if you were to examine him, you would find he hasn’t a heart to break.”

  “If I did,” Roderick Marlow said, eyes hard, “you can be certain nothing you could say or do would touch it.”

  She seared him with a look that belied her sweet tone. “Indeed? I shall remember that, Roderick. I suggest you do so as well.”

  AGAINST YE FALLING SICKNESS

  Take purple foxgloves and polipodium of the oak. Boil them in bear

  or ale and drinke ye decoction. One that fell with [this disease]

  2 or 3 times in a month, had not a fitt for 16 months after.

  —17TH CENTURY RECIPE, MYSTERY AND ART OF THE APOTHECARY

  CHAPTER 36

  At church a week later, Lilly sat with Mary and Mrs. Mimpurse. As usual, Lilly’s father had not felt well enough to attend and Charlie was nowhere to be found, no doubt off on one of his wanders. Even had the male members of her family seen fit to join her, she thought the Mimpurse ladies might appreciate her company on this, the seventh anniversary of the death of Harold Mimpurse.

  Mr. Shuttleworth, Lilly noticed, was seated on the other side of the church and often glanced their way. Mary’s way, she corrected herself and secretly smiled.

  As Mr. Baisley was winding down his sermon, Lilly noticed something unusual. Mary’s posture, as she sat beside her, was erect yet unnaturally rigid. Even as those around her flipped pages to follow along in the Book of Common Prayer, Mary’s book remained perfectly still in her hands. She stared ahead, pale blue eyes unblinking.

  Lilly reached over and gently squeezed her wrist. No blink, no response. She squeezed again, harder. Nothing. Around them, people flipped pages to find the final hymn, cleared throats, and upon the vicar’s signal, began to sing. Still Mary stared, unmoving. Lilly shuddered. How eerie those unseeing eyes were. As if someone had put out the candle behind them. She reached over Mary’s lap to tap Mrs. Mimpurse, who was singing robustly. Mrs. Mimpurse glanced over and instantly became alert. She set aside her own book and gently removed the book from her daughter’s stiff fingers. She sent Lilly a pleading look, and Lilly believed she understood it.

  The song over, the benediction given, the congregants rose and began to follow the vicar down the aisle. She glimpsed Francis walking out with the Robbins family and Dr. Graves offering his arm to old Mrs. Kilgrove. Only Mr. Shuttleworth showed no sign of leaving, remaining no doubt to greet them. But Lilly knew Mary would not want him to see her in such a state.

  She heard a long exhalation and felt Mary go limp beside her. Using her body, Lilly gently pushed Mary toward her mother, and Maude put her arm around her daughter and pressed her cheek close to hers as though deep in whispered conversation. Lilly rose and stepped across the aisle to distract Mr. Shuttleworth.

  “Is Miss Mary all right?” he asked with concern.

  “She will be. It is the anniversary of her father’s death. I think they are both rather melancholy at present.”

  “I had no idea. I am sorry to hear it. Shall I—?”

  “I think we ought to leave them for now.”

  “Very well. I am sure you know best.”

  Charlie burst through the doors at that moment, the door slamming against the rear pew like cannon shot.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said.

  Lilly noticed mud on his face and straw in his hair. “Church is over, Charlie. Perhaps you could show Mr. Shuttleworth where Mr. Mimpurse lies?”

  Her brother didn’t seem to find this request at all strange, and if Mr. Shuttleworth did, he was too polite to say so.

  When they departed, Lilly hurried back to Mary and Mrs. Mimpurse.

  She was relieved to see her friend had returned to her senses. “Are you all right?” Lilly whispered.

  “I think so. Just tired,” Mary said wanly.

  Tears glimmered in her mother’s eyes. “Oh, my dear girl.”

  Together they helped Mary to her feet and out into the churchyard.

  “I’ll be all right, Mamma,” Mary said. “Am I not always?”

  Lilly spent an hour with Mary in her bedchamber that afternoon. Mary leaned back against the headboard, hugging a pillow to her chest, while Lilly sat in a chair near the window, reading to her from Byron. Finally Lilly could stifle her curiosity no longer. She lowered the book and regarded Mary until her friend’s eyes rose to meet hers.

  “What is it like?” Lilly asked gently.

  “Hmm?”

  “You know, when it happens?”

  Mary fidgeted atop the bedclothes. “You have seen it yourself.”

  “I know what it looks like, but what does it feel like?”

  Mary exhaled sharply. “Oh, I don’t know.” She looked down at her hands.

  “Come on. I want to know.”

  Mary said brusquely, “Thank the Lord you don’t.” She rose and went to stare out the other window, posture rigid.

  Taking in her friend’s grim countenance, Lilly said, “I am sorry.”

  Mary stood there silently for so long, Lilly wished she had not asked.

  On Tuesday Lilly watched as Mary swiftly chopped several carrots at once. The carrots lay side by side, like logs in a raft, and were each as big around as a man’s finger, yet Mary cut them as easily as if they were fingers of dough.

  “If I could cut pills that swiftly, my father would be rich indeed.”

  Mary barely seemed to look at the vegetables as she made quick work of reducing the roots into even chunks for stewing. And then her hands stilled. “You asked what it was like.”

  Lilly had already determined not to raise the topic again and was surprised when Mary did. “I said I was sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Only . . . I don’t much like to talk about it.” Mary paused, her eyes far away. “I feel as if to even speak the words might bring on . . . well, you know.”

  Lilly nodded.

  Mary returned to her work, chopping in silence for several minutes until Lilly was sure she had said her final word on the subject.

  “It is not always the same,” Mary began abruptly. “At times, like on Sunday, I just . . . go away. I sit there, eyes open, but I am not there. I feel no pain, no sensation. It is as if I am watching myself from a short distance away. Then everything goes white. When I return to myself, I am left feeling weak and tired.” Mary scooped up the chopped carrots and dropped them into a pot.

  Tentatively, Lilly asked, “Do you never cut yourself?”

  Her friend shrugged. “Rarely. I usually have a bit of warning.”

  Mary then moved on to a bunch of leeks. “Other times, like when Mr. Shuttleworth was here that day . . . my head begins to ache and my fingers to tremble—or they might go numb. Either way, I usually have time to call Mamma or get to my bed—so I don’t fall and injure myself.”

  Mary leaned her elbows on the worktable. “But then, when that sort overtakes me, I feel as though I might be sick—hot, then cold. Then everything starts clamping up, shutting down, and I find it difficult to breathe.” Mary straightened and continued with her chopping. “Then my vision goes black and I wake up a quarter of an hour late
r to find Mamma or your father looking down at me.”

  “How dreadful,” Lilly murmured, but she could not stop staring at the long, sharp knife so close to her friend’s pale fingers. She said quietly, “I pray for you, Mary.”

  Mary winced. “For what?”

  Lilly was taken aback. “Well, for you to be healthy—healed, of course.”

  Mary shrugged. “You heard Dr. Graves. There is no cure. And Wiltshire has already had its miracle.” A grin flickered across her face. “We needn’t be greedy.”

  She chopped the leeks, then looked across at Lilly earnestly. “If you pray for me, pray that I would bear this cross cheerfully. That I would be a blessing to my mother and . . . everyone.”

  “You already are.”

  Mary acknowledged this with a nod. “I overheard Dr. Foster once tell Mamma she ought to send me to an asylum. Once. He has not been welcome here since.”

  “Your mother was right,” Lilly said hotly. “You do not belong in an asylum—you belong here, with those who love you.”

  “I know, but . . .” Mary set down the knife and wiped her hands on a towel. “There are times I think it would help to talk with someone who knows how it is. Is my experience the same as theirs, or different? Am I really as strange as I feel?”

  Realizing she needed to return to the shop, Lilly rose from her stool. “I can answer that myself.” She said mischievously, “You are strange indeed, Mary Helen Mimpurse.”

  Mary grinned and swiped at her skirts with the towel.

  We must trust to the Great Disposer of all events

  and the justice of our cause.

  —ADMIRAL HORATIO NELSON

  CHAPTER 37

  Later that day, Lilly was busy in the laboratory-kitchen preparing a strong decoction of chamomile, which they sold as a hair rinse and, separately labeled, as a wash for ailing teeth and gums. She heard Charlie rattling around in the shop, playing with the cavy most likely.

  “Charlie!” she called, opening the large pot on the stove to see if the water was boiling. “Remember to take Mrs. Kilgrove her tablets. They are on the front counter.”

  “All right, Lilly.” A moment later Charlie called, “Cavy likes chamomile, does he not?”

  “What?”

  “The cavy. Likes chamomile?”

  Replacing the pot lid, she called back, “Yes.”

  Just that morning, she had pressed a bottle of chamomile tablets for Mrs. Kilgrove—they soothed her stomach and helped her sleep. Most people made a tea of the herb for this purpose, but Mrs. Kilgrove could not abide the taste. “Smells like tobacco, tastes like fodder,” she always complained. Lilly did not ask the old woman how she knew.

  “Give him some?” Charlie called.

  “Yes, all right. Only a few tablets. From the drawer.”

  Since she had used the last of the dried chamomile they had on hand, she and Charlie had harvested a batch of chamomile flowers from their garden early that morning. Her back still ached from the tedious chore.

  Lilly checked the stove. She added more coals to the fire to keep the water steaming. Now she would allow the tiny blossoms to steep for half an hour.

  Just in time to give over the stove to Mrs. Fowler to prepare their dinner. She was so relieved to have the dear woman back in service. She not only cooked but also took in the laundry and cleaned their living quarters.

  While the blossoms steeped, Lilly spread the remaining flowers on stretched-linen screens. Then she carried the first of them up the three flights of stairs into the stifling hot herb garret, where the flowers could dry out of direct sunlight. Later, she would store the dried blossoms in tightly sealed jars.

  As she came back down the stairs, she heard the shop bell ring. Wiping her hands on her apron, she stepped into the shop. Glancing around, she was surprised to find the place empty. That was not Charlie just leaving, was it? She had imagined him ten minutes gone. She checked her memory—no, she had not heard the shop bell ring earlier. What had the lad been doing since she’d asked him to take Mrs. Kilgrove her tablets? Surely it hadn’t taken so long to feed a bit of herb to a caged cavy.

  Though she had not wanted the animal, Lilly actually enjoyed tending and feeding it. She grimaced wryly. Now she had three males in her care. Thinking of this, she turned and walked out the garden door, striding to the plot of carrots. The cavy would need more than a few bites of chamomile for his supper.

  Francis’s head and shoulders appeared over the garden wall. Eyeing the dirt-encrusted root in her hand, he asked skeptically, “Hungry?”

  “I am, actually, but this is for that rodent you foisted upon me.”

  “Aww. Warms my heart to see you taking such good care of him.”

  She rinsed the carrot in the water pail. “I must. It would not help business should I fail to nurture life in any form.”

  “I see. Still. If you really don’t want it, I suppose I could always give it to Mrs. Kilgrove. She has a cat who is ever hungry.”

  “You would not dare.”

  She shook the carrot in his direction, the wet greens splattering him with water. He ducked behind the wall and she returned to the house, swinging the carrot, humming as she went.

  Undaunted, Francis followed. “Mind if I pop in and greet your father?”

  She held the kitchen door open behind her. “You don’t fool me. I know you really only want to see the cavy.”

  She thought of Charlie again. She hoped he had not gotten sidetracked on his way to Mrs. Kilgrove’s. The woman would want her chamomile before supper.

  “I have been reading up on lung fever,” Francis said. “I trust Dr. Graves has ordered nitrate of potash or spirit of nitre?”

  “Mmm . . .” she murmured noncommittally, too distracted to be impressed.

  Striding back into the shop, Lilly examined the dispensing counter. The small jar of tablets she’d labeled for Mrs. Kilgrove had been taken—all seemed just as it should be.

  Francis paused in the threshold. “Is your father in his surgery?”

  She pointed without looking up. “Bedchamber.”

  Her eye was drawn to a new bottle of silvered pills at the end of the counter. The late afternoon sun shone on the glass and glimmering metallic pills. Then she noticed it. The lid askew, a disparate yellow tablet among the silver.

  Dear Lord, no . . .

  She turned toward the cage on the back counter. Frowning, she stepped closer. Shock drove a cry from her lips, and her hand flew over her mouth.

  The cavy was dead.

  Lilly ran.

  Pausing only long enough to shout for Francis and grasp a vial of emetic tartar, she dashed down the High Street as fast as she could.

  “Charlie!” she cried as she ran. She crossed the Sands Road and followed the narrow dirt track leading to Mrs. Kilgrove’s cottage. “Charlie!”

  She had to catch him before he delivered those tablets . . . before the woman took them, at any rate. She recalled the labeled dosage: two tablets with supper. Two tablets. Two chances. How long had she stood there, speaking foolishness with Francis, while Charlie may have carried the wrong remedy to an unsuspecting woman? Lord, please. Please. . . .

  Francis caught up with her as she reached Mrs. Kilgrove’s gate. There was Charlie just outside the door. How was it he was just now arriving? Had he stopped to visit Mary on his way? Normally, she would scold him for such. Today she thanked God.

  “Charlie. Wait. Don’t—”

  Charlie spun toward her, pale-faced. “Lilly! Somefing’s wrong. Mrs. K. is pigged. I don’t know what to do. I was coming to find you.”

  Panic seized her. “Did you give her the tablets?”

  He nodded. “She were waiting for ’em like you said.”

  Oh, God. Oh no.

  “What did she take?” Francis asked, still panting from the run.

  Lilly pushed through the cottage door without answering or knocking. Mrs. Kilgrove was on the settee, holding her abdomen and groaning. Lilly hurried to her side, a
nd in the woman’s pained and confused eyes there was not one spark of recognition. Was she already experiencing delirium?

  Lilly opened the vial of prepared emetic tartar and tried to press it to Mrs. Kilgrove’s mouth. The old woman batted at her hands, nearly knocking the fragile vial from Lilly’s grasp.

  “Away!” she cried, waving her hands wildly. “Yellow smart— away!”

  “Mrs. Kilgrove,” Lilly said officiously, “there are no bees in here. It is Lilly Haswell. You need to drink this. Now. Do you understand?” Francis knelt beside the woman and put his arms around her in a firm but careful hold. This done, Lilly succeeded in administering a generous dose of the vomit-inducing preparation.

  Francis rose and disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Charlie, run and fetch Dr. Graves,” Lilly said. “Or Dr. Foster. Tell him Mrs. Kilgrove’s taken digitalis not meant for her.”

  Francis, returning with a basin, nearly tripped at the words. He quickly laid the vessel on the floor. “I’ll go,” he said soberly. “I’m faster.”

  She nodded and laid Mrs. Kilgrove back on the settee, holding the groaning woman on her side at its edge, knowing she would be sick any moment. Lilly prayed desperately. She prayed Francis would find Dr. Graves. Or even Dr. Foster, though the old man could not run and would take far too long in hitching his gig. Only later did she consider that in coming he would have to know everything.

  Several minutes later, Francis ran back in, followed by Dr. Graves, bag in hand. Both men were breathing heavily.

  “I’ve already administered emetic tartar,” Lilly said. “Though likely she would have been sick enough without it, poor creature.”

  “How did it happen?” Dr. Graves asked.

  “I am still trying to work that out for myself.”

  An hour later, Lilly gazed mournfully down at Mrs. Kilgrove. The woman’s lined face was grey, her body so lifeless on the bed where Dr. Graves and Francis had lain her. With remorseful tears in her eyes, Lilly slowly lifted the blanket over Mrs. Kilgrove’s legs, her torso, then under her chin.