“Mine, or Charles Haswell’s?” At the unusual rancor in Mary’s tone, Lilly winced. She could easily imagine her father putting his precious Haswell reputation—and that of his shop—above anything else.
“It’s very natural you should be upset,” Maude said.
Mary took a deep breath. “I am not. I am glad she knows.”
Lilly stared at Mary, a girl she had always known, but had never really known at all.
“Lill finding out we are sisters is the only good thing this day has brought.”
Sisters.
“That,” Lilly said, “I have always known.”
Mary looked skeptical, brows high. “Indeed?”
“Though I may have forgotten, for a year or two.”
“Lilly Haswell forgetting,” Mary said, smiling tremulously. “A day of firsts all around.”
Maude, Mary, and Lilly sat in the kitchen near the hearth, all three indulging in a rare glass of honey wine.
“It was about a year after your father returned to Bedsley Priors with his new bride,” Maude began. “I had loved Charles for years and, in truth, thought he would marry me when he returned from his apothecary’s training in London. Instead he came home with a beautiful wife.”
Tears brightened Maude’s eyes even all these years later. “I could not blame him. We were not officially engaged. And Rosamond was very lovely, though she seemed to regret the marriage almost at once. I was heartbroken but decided I would go on as best I could. I married Harold Mimpurse, though I’d refused him once before. I had always wanted to open a coffeehouse once my days as a maid were behind me, and Harold promised to set me up. And that’s the one promise he kept. He was a goodhearted man but had the constancy of a hound.” She glanced at Mary. “Sorry, my dear.”
Mary nodded.
“He was gone more often than not, peddling his copper wares once he’d been decommissioned from the army. Met up with a widow in Reading and spent more nights with her than with me. It was during one of these absences that your mother left the first time, before you were born.”
“The first time?” Lilly interrupted. “She’d left before?” Lilly instantly recalled Mrs. Kilgrove’s seemingly delirious words about her mother’s first return.
Maude nodded. “Charles and I were both hurting and lonely, and temptation had its way. I thought perhaps we’d be together after all, Charles and I, after a fashion. But then, Rosamond came back only two days later. As though she’d only been gone shopping. I don’t know that she ever told your father where she’d gone or who she’d been with, but I saw how shaken and repentant she was. Charles and I were mortified over what we’d done and didn’t speak of it for years.
“Your parents had a real marriage after that, it seemed. For a time anyway. Mr. Mimpurse came back as well, though I cannot say with equal repentance. He soon left again, while Rosamond stayed. How could I tell Charles I was carrying his child? When his marriage looked to finally be on solid ground? Especially when Rosamond soon confided she, too, was carrying a child?” Maude paused to drain her glass.
How difficult that must have been for her, Lilly thought. She had always known her father and Mrs. Mimpurse were fond of one another beneath their sharp words and brusque ways, but she’d had no idea how deep those feelings went.
“When Rosamond was in her lying in, I admit I wondered if the child would look like Charles . . . and I wondered if he feared the child would not.” She turned wine-warmed eyes on Lilly. “But one look at you and it was perfectly clear you were Charles Haswell’s daughter, with tufts of his reddish hair already gracing your little head. As you grew older, you came to look more like your mother, but are still so like him in many ways.
“After that, I tried all the harder to be a friend to your mother. Both of us having wee girls so near in age gave us plenty in common we’d not had before. I cannot say I felt no resentment, but I prayed God would give me a love for her, and I think He answered.”
Maude reached over and refilled their glasses, though hers was the only one empty.
“Things went along quite uneventfully until Charlie was born. Such a hard birth it was. Your poor father. He did all he knew how, but it wasn’t enough. He even sent Mrs. Fowler to fetch Dr. Foster. The man was so long in coming, Charles thought he had refused. Foster never gave an excuse for his delay. I don’t think your father has ever forgiven him for it.”
Lilly shook her head. “I had no idea.”
“Finally Foster did come with his gruesome forceps and cold condescension and pulled the child from your mother at last. To his credit, he also revived the babe. Poor Charlie was nearly blue at birth.”
Thoughtfully, Maude shook her head. “Rosamond was cast down after that. Not even your sweet face could cheer her.”
Lilly felt the familiar ache of rejection stir in her breast.
“By Charlie’s first birthday, it was evident that something was not right with the lad. Very little could hold his attention. He did not want to be held or petted. Was slow to creep, stand, and walk. But still she stayed.”
Maude sighed. “Harold did not. When Mary was twelve years old, he announced he would not be returning. I told no one. I confess I was tempted to announce that he had died on one of his trips. The status of widow so less shameful than abandoned wife. When I received a letter from the Reading widow a few months later, I thought I had brought his death down upon him. Killed in a fall from his horse. Can you imagine? Him, a war hero. I’d have sooner believed the pox.” She took another sip and stared at the embers in the hearth.
“Rosamond did not leave until some three years later. I saw her walk away with her carpetbag, dressed for travel. I knew your father had gone to see Sir Henry, so I ran next door, to make certain Charlie was all right. You and Mary were already at Mrs. Shaw’s. I asked Mrs. Fowler where your mother had gone, but she said the missus hadn’t told her a thing, just bid her look after the lad till Charles come home. I hurried after Rosamond in the direction she’d gone. I did not actually see her on the narrowboat that was heading east on the canal, but Mrs. Kilgrove did. Said Mrs. Haswell had embarked with a tall, dark-haired man in naval dress. Of course, Mrs. Kilgrove’s sight wasn’t keen even then.”
Quinn or Wells? Lilly wondered and shifted in her chair. “In London, I learned that Mother hoped to marry a naval captain before she met Father. But the man married another.” She thought of what Dr. Graves had told her. Had first Quinn, then Wells disappointed her?
Mrs. Mimpurse nodded her understanding. She looked exhausted from the telling, eyes bleary and troubled. She glanced back at the letter, almost forgotten in her hand. “I always wondered if your mother knew, or guessed, about your father and I. If it had something to do with her leaving. But with so much time passing between, I hoped I was not to blame.” She reached over and grasped Lilly’s fingers with her free hand, eyes intense. “I promise you, Lilly, your father and I were together those two nights twenty years gone, and never again since.”
Lilly nodded, feeling sick and dazed about the whole affair. “I always feared I was to blame.”
“Oh, my dear, why?”
Lilly took a deep breath, trying to keep her voice steady. “We argued, you see, a few days before she left. She received a letter, which was rare for her, but would not tell me who it was from. She became angry when I kept asking her. Of course, now I wonder if the letter was from a man. This officer.”
Mrs. Mimpurse considered this. “A letter might very well explain why she left when she did. But it wasn’t your fault.” Again she squeezed Lilly’s hand. “Why, if every woman left after an argument with her daughter, there wouldn’t be a mother left at home in all of England.” Mrs. Mimpurse glanced at Mary, and mother and daughter shared a knowing look.
Lilly felt as if a stone had been lifted from her chest. She gently retrieved the letter from Maude’s hand and reread its few lines. “It is as if she expected you and Father to marry. But how could you?”
Maude Mimpurse too
k a deep, shuddering breath. “How could we, indeed.”
On a crisp autumn afternoon, Lilly saw Roderick Marlow standing before his father’s grave, black mourning cloak about his shoulders. They had buried Sir Henry a fortnight before. The villagers had turned out in great numbers for his funeral, Lilly and her father among them. She had already given her condolences, which were civilly if awkwardly received. Still, seeing him standing there now, alone, she felt compelled to speak to him.
When he glanced over and noticed her beside him, he acknowledged her with a silent nod.
She stood there with him for several moments, looking at the freshly turned soil. The headstone would be several weeks or even longer in the making.
“What will you do now?” she asked gently.
He wiped his nose with a handkerchief and inhaled deeply. “I suppose I shall go forth and find a wealthy wife,” he said archly. “So I can afford the widow’s jointure and somehow manage to keep the place up. Father would no doubt haunt me if I let the place fall to ruin.”
“And what will become of—” she hesitated—“the former Miss Powell?”
He shrugged. “She was my father’s wife, no matter what else she be. She will have a place at Marlow House for as long as she wants one. Though I doubt it will be for long. Once she receives her portion, she will no doubt move on, perhaps even remarry. I wish her no ill will.”
“You surprise me,” she said. “I never took you for a merciful sort. Except when you secured my brother’s release, of course.”
He looked at her for a moment, then away, off into the distance. “That was your clever Mr. Baylor’s doing. He brought to my attention how my old friend Ackers was having his ribbons yanked by Foster. Never liked the man. I suppose Baylor knew that and used it to goad me into action. Anything to put a fly in that man’s ointment.” He looked at her again. “Though had I known you’d kiss me for it, I might have done so anyway.”
Francis.
“Truth is, I owe Cassandra a debt. I wronged her long ago and believe she married my father as revenge. She never admitted it, but . . .” He left the thought unfinished.
“What happened? How did you—?”
He tapped a finger against her lips. “Tut, tut, Miss Haswell. Have I taught you nothing? That memory is long gone, and I intend to keep it that way.”
He glanced down once more at his father’s bare grave beside his mother’s ornate headstone. “I still regret my bitter words to him. How I wish I might see him again.”
She said quietly, “But you can see him again someday. After all, you know where he is.”
He shrugged. “I confess I have never shared your faith, Miss Haswell.”
“I am sorry to hear it.”
“I suppose I lost it when I lost my mother. Did not you?”
Lilly took a deep breath, considering. “For a time, perhaps.”
He turned to her and gently gripped her shoulders. “Still, might we not share other things?”
Shaking her head, she pulled away. “Let me go, Sir Roderick. And I will do the same of you.”
A week later, Lilly hatched her plan for a long-belated gift for Mary.
“It is all settled,” she announced as soon as she stepped into the coffeehouse kitchen. “You and I shall go to London. It isn’t right that I have been while you have not.”
Mary’s lips parted, but she quickly resumed her work. She kneaded the dough, turning the lump over and pressing it down with the butt of her palm. “No, Lilly. I don’t need—”
“Yes you do. You deserve a holiday in London. My aunt has sent a far too generous gift of funds which will see us there in fine fashion.” “I don’t know. What about the coffeehouse?”
“Father is doing well enough and has said he will help, as will Mrs. Fowler if need be. We have all conspired against you, Mary, so further objections will only prove futile.”
As she separated and placed the dough in pans, Mary seemed lost in thought and Lilly was afraid she was formulating another argument.
Instead she asked, “Could we eat somewhere very fine?”
Lilly smiled. “Of course.”
“And see a palace or two?”
“Or three! And anything else you’d like.”
“I would dearly enjoy that, I think.”
“And I would dearly enjoy being there with you. Perhaps we might take in a play, or visit the museums, or the shops.”
“And Francis?” Mary suggested.
The mention of his name turned Lilly’s stomach into a ten-stone sack of wormwood and regret. “Oh. I am sure he is very busy . . . doing whatever it is he went to London to do.”
“You’ve had no word?”
Lilly shook her head and forced a light tone. “I don’t even know where his lodgings are. He did send Charlie a letter on his birthday, but it bore no address.” Upon admitting she’d checked this, Lilly felt her ears burn and fiddled with her gloves.
“Never mind,” Mary said. “We shall have plenty of other handsome sights to see, shall we not?” She grinned, and Lilly could not resist mirroring the gesture.
They settled on Friday of the following week for their departure, and Lilly posted a letter to her aunt and uncle, letting them know of their coming visit and asking to call at their convenience. She went through her wardrobe and pulled out two gowns she had barely worn since returning home, and two others she thought would do nicely for Mary.
They visited the new village milliner for hats and gloves and the dressmaker in Devizes for warm autumn cloaks. Together they planned an itinerary and packed.
On the night before their departure, they sat down to supper together. Her father looking younger than he had in months, Mrs. Mimpurse, rosy-cheeked and cheery. And Mary pretty in a new frock, her hair curled and pinned high on her head in a fashion they had seen in La Belle Assemblée. Even Charlie came, late and mussed, straight from the garden, and they had to send him to the well to wash.
“Goodness, Mary,” he said upon his return. “You’re as pretty as the portraits hangin’ at Marlow House.”
Mary smiled with no hint of blush. She clearly felt as lovely as she looked.
They dined on vegetable-marrow soup, fried soles, veal and ham pie, and all manner of vegetables, breads, sauces, and jams. The Mimpurse ladies had truly outdone themselves. But the biggest surprise came after, when Mary carried out a beautifully frosted Rich Bride Cake. Or, Lilly mused, was it a Christening Cake?
“What’s this?” Maude asked, perplexed. “Is there something you are wanting to tell us?”
Now Mary blushed. “No. I have not gone and got myself a husband. Or a babe.”
“Thank the good Lord for that,” her mother murmured.
Mary remained standing at the table before them, and made the first speech Lilly could ever remember her giving. “But I do feel there is cause for celebration. For thanksgiving. For God has added greatly to my family, and I am thankful indeed.”
“Here, here,” Lilly said as she lifted her small glass. She glanced at her father and glimpsed tears rising to fill his blue eyes. She saw him glance at Maude, and answering tears brighten her eyes as well.
“I have always had the best of mothers . . .” Mary began.
Lilly found herself nodding to this. She too had gained the best of mothers. In many ways, Maude Mimpurse had long been a second mother to her.
“But now I have a brother—”
“Now, Mary, I ain’t really.” Charlie could still not grasp the change in their relationship, and Lilly could barely blame him, so recently had the facts come to light.
“And sister.” She smiled at Lilly, eyes shining. Mary’s voice was hoarse when she added, “And Father.”
Tears spilled down Charles Haswell’s freshly shaven cheeks. Lilly was distracted by Charlie, however, his face bunched up into a grimace of confusion and working himself up to a question. Hoping to divert him from asking about Mr. Mimpurse, Lilly said to him, “You don’t like cake, do you, Charlie?”
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He looked nearly indignant at this. “Indeed I do. You know I do. Father! Lilly forgot I like cake. Why, it’s my favorite.”
Sharing a knowing glance with Lilly, Mary said, “Then you shall have the first piece, Charlie. Would you like a little piece or a large one?”
“A gurt big one, Mary, if you please.”
The moment was saved.
The evening was the most delightful in recent memory. They all stayed and did the washing up together, and then Mrs. Mimpurse shooed the girls off to bed, saying she would finish putting the dishes away on her own. She reminded them they had a big day ahead of them, and the London coach would not wait, should they oversleep. At the kitchen door, her father gently embraced Mary before bidding her a good night. Lilly wanted to throw her arms around her friend . . . no, sister . . . too, but Mary was already backing away, waving goodbye on her way up to bed. Ah, well. They would have a whole week together in London.
The next morning, Lilly awoke early, taking a great deal of time with her appearance. She felt unaccountably nervous about returning to London. Her gowns would no longer be the latest, and her hands were calloused from long hours with the pestle. Thank goodness for gloves. She wished she might have thought to ask Mary to come over and help her with her hair. Not as a servant might, but as sisters might help one another. She felt giddy at the thought, and at the adventure ahead. She packed the items she had just used—brush and comb, tooth sponge and alum—into her valise and checked once more to make certain her money was in her reticule. Putting on her hat and cloak, she slipped the reticule onto her wrist and left her bedchamber, descending the stairs with no effort to be quiet. If her father was not yet awake, he ought to be rising. He insisted he wanted to be there to see them off. But it was not her father who stood in the laboratory-kitchen, awaiting her noisy descent.
Mrs. Mimpurse stood there, a shawl thrown hastily over her nightdress, hair down, face . . . broken. Tears and anguish marred her countenance and Lilly froze in shocked horror. She knew the truth even before Mrs. Mimpurse could form the world-darkening words.
The Apothecary's Daughter Page 36