She found her father alone in the surgery, looking through the newest dispensatory Mr. Shuttleworth had loaned him.
“It is a letter, Father, as I feared. From the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries. It appears Mr. Ackers wrote to them after all.”
“I cannot credit it.”
“Who else could it be? Foster could have nothing to do with apothecaries, could he? When he so clearly loathes the lot of us?”
He shrugged uneasily. She held out the letter, but he waved it away. “You read it.”
She broke the seal and unfolded the fine stationery. “ ‘The Court of Examiners at Apothecaries’ Hall, Blackfriars, London.’ ”
He frowned. “Spare me the friggling and just lay out the worst.”
“Very well. ‘It has been reported that one Charles Haswell III has dispensed an adulterated, potentially harmful drug.’ ”
Her father thundered, “They haven’t even the facts!”
“ ‘Upon receiving any further such reports, the Society will have no alternative but to pursue formal action. Proceedings will then be taken against said person.’ ”
“Said person? Formal action—all the way from London? Fuss and nonsense. What a narration about nothing.”
“I am not so certain it is.”
“Is that all it is to be, then? A threat? A slap on the wrist from afar?”
“I can hardly credit it,” Lilly said. “Can this really be all?”
“I would wish it so.”
“Wishing isn’t enough, Father. We must pray it so as well.”
Her father stared out the surgery window. “Now, if only we could convince Ackers.”
The days passed slowly, and Lilly found the wait interminable. Rarely had she felt so helpless, so frustrated, so afraid. She visited Charlie every day, as did Mrs. Mimpurse, Mary, Francis, and her father, when he was able. And she prayed. But as Charlie’s imprisonment approached a fortnight, she felt her faith flagging. Had she not prayed for her mother’s return to no avail? Her father’s healing? Did it really make any difference?
Then, in a moment, everything changed. One minute she and her father were despondently sitting before plates of food neither saw nor wanted, and the next there was Charlie in the doorway. Dirty, odiferous, and wonderful to behold.
“Enough for one more?” he asked, looking at their breakfast.
Lilly gasped, leapt to her feet, and grabbed her brother in a fierce hug. Her father raised himself on shaky legs and squeezed Charlie’s shoulder before sinking heavily into his chair. His improvement had not lasted.
“Sit down, Charlie. I can barely believe it. Tell us what happened.”
He sat, and they both looked at him expectantly. Charlie eyed her breakfast once more.
“Oh, here.” She pushed her untouched plate before him.
They waited impatiently while he took several bites, and then Lilly prompted again. “What happened?”
Charlie shrugged, and said around a bite of cold ham, “Mr. Ackers comes in and says, ‘Charlie lad, it’s yer lucky day. Mr. Marlow says you work for him and he wants you back. He’s responsible for you now, so no more nanny fudgin’ about.’ ”
Lilly shook her head, stunned. “I cannot believe it. Mr. Marlow! And when he had already released you from your contract.”
“Must need me straightaway for his gurt garden.”
Lilly doubted the garden was in such dire need, but forbore to say so. She did not doubt Mr. Marlow’s influence over the constable as leading landowner and future baronet. Beyond that, the two had been boyhood friends. She fleetingly wondered how she had not thought to request his help herself.
“Well,” Lilly said, relief flooding her, “we shall have to go and thank Mr. Marlow personally.”
After breakfast, she and Charlie hitched up Pennywort and drove the gig to Marlow House. As they drew near, Charlie saw Mr. Timms clipping privet near the fountain and asked to be let down to speak to him. “Very well. But come to the house as soon as you’ve done so.”
She turned the horse toward the stables, but instead of Cecil Briggs coming to take the reins, Roderick Marlow himself strode out, dressed in riding coat and Hessian boots.
Flushed and breathless at his sudden appearance, she burst out, “Mr. Marlow, I have come to thank you.”
A smile slowly formed on his aquiline countenance as he looked up at her. “Your brother has been released?”
“Yes, thanks to you.”
“I am pleased to hear it.” He led her horse and gig into the stable yard.
She stood, preparing to climb down. Lifting his hands, he grasped her by the waist and effortlessly carried her to the ground. She felt her cheeks flush anew. A simple hand down would have sufficed.
“You are very kind. Charlie is with Mr. Timms, but I know he will want to thank you. I’ll—” She turned to fetch Charlie, but Mr. Marlow took hold of her wrist, halting her departure.
“Please wait.” Hand still holding hers, he led her into the stable office. “I am glad for your brother, but do not paint me a saint. I confess I thought only of you.”
She inhaled deeply. Her heart beat with heavy thuds. Would he always have such an effect on her?
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Miss Haswell, speechless?” He grinned. “I am all astonishment.” She tried to smile in return, but her awe was such that her lips only managed a tremble.
He slowly shook his head. “What a man would do, to have a woman forever look at him the way you are regarding me.” He reached out and traced a finger along her jawline and chin. “I should very much like to kiss you, Miss Haswell.”
She swallowed.
“I must also own that I have never before asked permission.”
She said shakily, “You have kissed a great many women, then?”
He considered this. “I would not say a great many. But I have never kissed you, Miss Haswell. That I would remember.”
She stared at him, mesmerized by his unusual eyes. One a shade darker than the other. Or was one green and the other brown?
“Miss Haswell?”
“Oh!” She started. “Forgive me.”
He leaned down. “Here, now you may examine me more closely.”
For a moment, she did just that. Studied his eyes, his dark lashes and brows. His prominent cheekbones and pinpricks of black whiskers beneath fair skin.
“Anything amiss?” he asked. “A sty, perhaps?”
She shook her head, still regarding him, his thin lips and sharp nose, the nostrils which seemed to flare at her close inspection.
When she returned her gaze to his eyes, she saw that they gleamed with suppressed laughter. “Have I need of an apothecary, or might a kiss suffice?”
She bit her lip. “I cannot give you leave to kiss me.”
He sighed dramatically. “Which is why I never ask first.”
She squared her shoulders. “But perhaps I might kiss your cheek, Mr. Marlow. For saving my brother.”
His brows rose. “A gratitude kiss? Not my favorite sort.”
Feeling foolish, she began to turn away. “Never mind, then.”
He gently turned her back to face him. “No. Please never mind me. I dearly long for a gratitude kiss from you, Miss Haswell.”
She realized he was likely mocking her, but her thankfulness overwhelmed every other emotion.
He bent low again, face near. She would not have reached him otherwise. His hands, she surmised, were now safely behind his back. Safe enough, she hoped.
She leaned forward slowly, aiming for his cheek. He shifted and she kissed his lips instead. Their lips touched for a lingering moment. One heartbeat, then two. When she pulled away, the laughter had altogether gone from his eyes.
The fashion hails—from countesses to queens,
And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes. . . .
—LORD BYRON
CHAPTER 41
In the coffeehouse dining room, Lilly helped Mary with the heavy task o
f pushing all the tables to one side and stacking chairs, preparing to mop the entire floor. Surveying the open space, Lilly dramatically stood her mop straight, head up, and curtsied before it.
“I would be delighted to dance with you, sir,” she said. With a bend of her elbow, the mop-haired “gentleman” tilted toward her in a bow. Grasping her stick-thin partner with both hands, Lilly performed a spinning dance around the cleared room.
Leaning on a second mop, Mary grinned and shook her head. “You can take the lady out of London . . .” She let the words trail away. She studied Lilly’s whirling steps. “I have not seen that dance before.”
“It is the dreaded turning waltz.”
“No,” gasped Mary in feigned shock. “Not the scandalous dance condemned by all the papers.”
Lilly halted and propped her mop against the wall. “The very same. Might I tempt you into learning it?”
“Never,” Mary said coyly. “I am far too proper for such wickedness.” Lilly raised an eyebrow. “The Mary Mimpurse who spied the cricket team swimming in the Owens’ pond? I think not.”
Tugging the mop from Mary’s hand and standing it beside her own, Lilly grasped Mary about her waist and pulled and spun her around the room, until they nearly collided with the stacked chairs.
“Please, Lill, stop,” Mary gasped. “I am dizzy!”
Lilly halted abruptly, still holding on to Mary as her friend regained her balance and breath. “Are you all right?” she asked, concerned.
Breathing hard, Mary said, “I am not having a fit, if that is what you mean. Unless you mean a fit of the vapors.”
Assured her friend was all right, Lilly released her.
“That dance will not be performed at Wilcot, I assure you,” Mary said, refastening a hairpin that had come loose whilst spinning.
“Even so, how I look forward to the country dance.” Lilly retrieved her mop and dipped it into the bucket near the hearth. She slanted a glance at Mary. “And I know a certain surgeon-apothecary who looks forward to dancing with you.”
Mary bit back a smile of pleasure. “I own a certain gleeful anticipation of that myself.”
After the trying days of Charlie’s imprisonment, they were all looking forward to Wilcot’s end-of-summer fete, which was to include both a fair and a dance. She and Mary planned to attend with Charlie, Dr. Graves, and Mr. Shuttleworth. No doubt Francis and Dorothea Robbins would attend as well.
But on Saturday, her father awoke with a fever, and Lilly felt obliged to stay with him.
“Then I shall stay as well,” Mary said, though her countenance was decidedly downcast.
“And leave all those fine partners to Miss Robbins alone? I think not. You know Mr. Shuttleworth and Charlie will be exceedingly disappointed if you do not attend.”
Mary grinned. “They would, would not they?”
“Of course. Now go and be danced off your feet, my lovely, as you well deserve.”
Mary’s eyes sparked with mischief. “I shall benefit from your absence in that regard, shan’t I?”
“Oh!” Lilly winked. “I can see how much I shall be missed!”
That afternoon, Dr. Graves called on her father, prescribed fever powder, fluids, and bed rest. He was disappointed to learn she would not be attending the Wilcot fair. “I would not go either,” he said sheepishly. “But Dr. Foster requests it. Says I should make the acquaintance of as many potential patients as possible. But I shall not dance, Miss Haswell—you may depend upon it.”
“I do not wish to depend upon it! I hope you will dance, especially should gentlemen be scarce and ladies be in want of a partner.”
She thought of her own first dance with Dr. Graves and hoped no lady would have to endure such a reluctant performance.
He said quietly, “I did not come all this way to dance with other ladies, Miss Haswell.”
She smiled shyly up at him. “Just don’t enjoy it overly much and I shall be satisfied.”
He grinned. “When have I ever?”
Lilly looked up from her book to the sitting room clock once more. Two hours had slowly passed. It felt like more. Her father was sleeping peacefully and the novel was not engaging. Perhaps she should just give it up and go to bed.
An unexpected knock sounded on the sitting room door. Before she could react, Francis stepped in, looking masculine and handsome in his dark coat and trousers, hat in hand.
She rose. “Francis. What are you doing here?”
“I could not enjoy myself, knowing you were not.”
She was pleased and anxious at once. “You needn’t have come. There is no use in the both of us missing out.”
“I don’t mind.”
“But Miss Robbins mentioned you were quite the accomplished dancer.”
“Mr. Shuttleworth has taught me a few things, I own.” His eyes gleamed. “Now, there’s a sight not to be missed. Mr. Shuttleworth in purple coat and gold waistcoat, prancing the fancy steps of a cotillion.”
She chuckled. “I can well imagine. But I should have liked to see you dance as well. No doubt Miss Robbins was counting on you as a partner.”
He shrugged easily. “She was dancing with Mr. Marlow when I left, Mr. Shuttleworth awaiting the next.”
She wondered if he was disappointed. Was that why he had returned?
He said kindly, “You have had little entertainment since returning, Miss Haswell, and far too much work. I am sorry you had to miss it. I hope your father is better.”
“Yes, the fever has broken. He is resting comfortably.”
“Good. Good.”
They stood awkwardly for a few moments, until Francis said, “Mary told me about the dance lesson you gave her. That I was sorry to miss.”
Lilly screwed up her face. “I would never have done so with an audience.”
He smiled, a warm glint in his chocolate-brown eyes. “As you said, there is no point in both of us missing the evening’s entertainment. We might have a dance here.”
“Here?” She looked skeptically around the small room.
“Why not? We could try that turning waltz Mary described. Though I am surprised your aunt and uncle allowed such a scandalous dance.”
Her cheeks heated. “There is really nothing scandalous in the side-by-side position, only in the closed.”
He took a step nearer. “And what is the ‘closed’ position?”
She knew she ought to refuse and back away but felt oddly drawn to him, touched that he would return, surprised to find she wanted to touch him.
She tentatively reached out. “I would place my hands here. . . .” She lightly gripped his upper arms, feeling the firm muscles beneath his coat sleeves.
He looked into her eyes and asked in a low voice, “And where do I place mine?”
She drew in a long shallow breath, nerves tingling, throat tight.
“On my . . . waist.” She was relieved her hands were not in his, for he would no doubt have felt how damp they were.
His large hands pressed warmly around her waist, though his eyes never left her face. She had difficulty holding his gaze at such close proximity. “Then you would step forward, and I back.”
He stepped forward as directed, but his hands held her fast, keeping her from stepping back, keeping her close to him. His jaw tensed, his brown eyes sparked with longing.
She looked away, focusing on her hand on his arm. “Partners must keep a proper distance apart,” she said, parroting the admonition of the Viennese dancing master. “Bodies must not actually touch.”
“Pity,” Francis breathed, his sweet breath warm on her temple, her ear. He leaned close, his face dipped toward hers, but still she averted her gaze. She did not want this, did she? This was Francis—what was she doing? She knew she had but to look up and he would kiss her. Her heart pounded at the thought.
“Lilly,” he urged hoarsely. “Tell me it is not too late for us. That you and Graves are not—”
The door opened behind them, and Lilly pulled away.
“No, Dr. Graves, please come in! I was merely demonstrating the waltz to Mr. Baylor.”
He stared at her, flicked a glance at Francis, then returned cool eyes to her. “Do you think that wise, Miss Haswell?”
The particular dance, or the partner? Lilly thought. “You must forgive us, Dr. Graves. Francis and I grew up together, and find it far too easy to slip back into our former foolish ways.”
He stared at her a moment longer, then cleared his throat. “I see. Well.” He bowed stiffly. “Good evening.”
He did not acknowledge Francis in his farewell.
“Dr. Graves, you needn’t leave,” Lilly insisted.
“Miss Haswell has done nothing wrong.” Francis gestured in vague motions between Lilly and himself. “I instigated this.”
“No, Francis,” Lilly said. “I have acted thoughtlessly. I ask you both to forgive me.”
Her father’s voice called from down the passageway, “Lilly? Everything all right?”
Lilly grimaced. “We’ve woken him.”
Dr. Graves said icily, “I shall go and check on him. If you don’t mind.” He skewered Francis with a look.
“Yes, please do, Dr. Graves,” Lilly quickly replied. “You are very kind to think of him. I thank you.”
Graves nodded and pivoted on his heel. As soon as he had left the room, Lilly turned toward Francis feeling contrite and chagrined. “Francis,” she whispered tersely, “I was wrong to allow this to happen. I don’t know why I did.”
“Because you feel something for me, Lilly. I know you do.”
She exhaled. “Of course I do. But not what you might wish I would feel. Francis, please understand. I do not want the life you do. I do not want to spend mine in an apothecary shop. I never have.”
He ran a hand through his thick brown hair. “It is all I know. All I want to know. Are you suggesting I give it up?”
The Apothecary's Daughter Page 31