The Apothecary's Widow

by Diane Scott Lewis

  THE APOTHECARY’S WIDOW

  by Diane Scott Lewis

  ISBN: 978-1-77145-366-0

  Copyright 2015 by Diane Parkinson

  Cover art by Michelle Lee Copyright 2015

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book

  * * *

  Dedication

  To my parents, Carl and Jacque Dahlstrom, for teaching me discipline, decency, and a love for history and books

  Chapter One

  Truro, Cornwall 1781

  Branek stared down, his hands curled into helpless fists. His wife Sophie thrashed on the four-poster bed. Perspiration glistened on her high brow; her damp blonde hair was plastered to her cheeks like a wimple. He reached toward her quivering hand, her skin resembling a faded flower petal next to his. He touched her wrist but snatched back his fingers as if her flesh seared and mocked him. His breath stilled—the strangeness of his pity toward her remained safely coated with anger. He glared at the physician attending her. “Is there nothing more you can do for her, Treen?”

  At his sharp tone, the doctor stepped to the head of the bed. Treen grasped Sophie’s hand easily when Branek had fallen short. “She feels clammy even as her skin grows cold. Such a travesty, the poor dear.” Treen’s raisin eyes, moist with tears, were almost lost in his doughy face. He directed his gaze on Branek in thinly-veiled accusation. “Mr. Pentreath, I thought my treatment for the ague would suffice, but your wife only grows worse. I don’t dare bleed her again, since—”

  “Since she’s lost so much blood through her urine, as you’ve said.” Branek’s eyes remained dry—another shortcoming on his part, he surmised. Had he mentioned “urine” in defiance, as Sophie would have balked and lectured over such vulgar talk? However, she would hardly notice it in her wasting condition.

  Her face, which was normally angular with smooth, porcelain skin, appeared skeletal now—a dried husk of her former self.

  Branek straightened, his stomach clenched. The pungent stink of illness invaded his nostrils. He resisted the urge to stalk from Sophie’s chamber, a place he’d rarely been invited over the years. “So you admit you’re at a loss?”

  “I resent the implication.” Dr. Treen’s frown resembled that of a fat, sulky child. He tucked Sophie’s hand, a hand usually so serene in devotions, under the counterpane. “I’ve been her attentive physician and friend throughout her malady.”

  “As you keep reminding me. Can’t you relieve her misery, man?” Branek lurched to the window and stared out at the rolling green hills and fields of Polefant Place. Sophie would tell him to calm himself and trust in the Lord. But all her prayers to ease this sickness had fallen on deaf ears from her exalted Heaven. He had little confidence in the religion that always comforted her. He believed in the land, the people and animals that worked on his ancestral home, this estate he loved.

  Branek smacked his palm on the window frame, and the edge stung his flesh. “There must be something you can give her.”

  “Today she’s in no fit state to take any liquids. I cannot offer the water-gruel or orange-whey, which otherwise might help.”

  “What about laudanum to calm her?” Branek massaged his sore hand. “When was the last time you administered that?”

  “She refused any opiates last week when her symptoms began, but I did trickle some into her mouth two days ago, when she was less coherent. Now it’s out of the question. She would choke.” Dr. Treen closed his bag with a sharp click of the buckle. His snappish reply grated on Branek’s nerves.

  He motioned the doctor closer to the window. “If you’ve given up, or medical science isn’t up to the task, is this the…end?” He swallowed slowly, careful of his words. “This illness has happened so fast, but how much longer will she suffer?”

  “I’ve done my best, sir.” Treen squinted at him, his thick lips in a sneer. “I’m surprised you care this highly about her suffering.”

  Branek tightened his jaw. What had Sophie discussed with this man with whom she’d often shared a pew? How friendly were they? He grabbed Treen’s sleeve. “How dare you. I don’t care for your insinuation.”

  “Don’t insult my intelligence.” Dr. Treen pulled free and waddled toward the door with his case. “I weep for her. And God usually decides when our time on earth is at an end, but in this case, He may have had assistance.”

  “What do you mean by that? To what assistance do you refer?” Branek spoke to Treen’s retreating back. The remark sounded like more religious nonsense to absolve the doctor of his incompetence.

  Branek followed him from the chamber that smelled of sweat and the Attar of Roses that Sophie preferred. He overtook Treen and urged the doctor downstairs to the central hall.

  His housekeeper Mrs. Sandrey drifted toward them in her sack-like dress. “Can I do anything for you, sir, or for Mrs. Pentreath?” she asked in her reedy voice, her mobcap lappets wavering around her mousy brown hair. “How is my lady?”

  “I will let you know if I need anything, thank you. I’m not very hungry, so tell Cook not to go to any trouble.” Already Branek had dismissed Sophie as beyond anyone’s aid. The idea sent a twinge of guilt through him.

  Who would manage the household with cool efficiency now? His wife’s firm hand had held rein over domestic affairs for the last eighteen years. At the thought of her loss, Branek blinked and pushed his emotions deeper. His confusion over her illness, his feelings of weakness because he couldn’t save her—or cope with his mounting debts— threatened to overwhelm him. He struggled to steady himself.

  “Mrs. Sandrey, what exactly had Mrs. Pentreath eaten right before she fell ill, or before this extreme change in her condition?” Dr. Treen asked.

  “Only what the household ate, then the small wine-whey, sharpened with lemon juice, as you prescribed, Doctor.” The housekeeper moved forward, her brow wrinkled in thought. At close to sixty years, the deep crinkles around her eyes had finally given character to her bland face.

  “And who prepared the wine-whey?”

  “Why, I did, sir. Only me.” Mrs. Sandrey put her hands together in the habitual pious entreaty that Sophie had encouraged from the staff. “I tended her well, I did.”

  “I’m certain you did, my good woman.” Treen nodded thoughtfully. “Please give me the bottle of wine, if there is any left. And the last bottle of medicine.”

  Mrs. Sandrey left the hall, her dress sweeping the floor as if she floated and had no feet.

  “What is this about, doctor?” Branek demanded, growing hot under his cravat. “Stop speaking in vague allusions. Did my wife eat tainted food?”

  “In a moment, sir.” Treen averted his gaze but held up a hand to forestall him.

  When the housekeeper returned, she handed Treen a large clear bottle and a small green one.

  “Was the milk fresh, and skimmed properly in the wine-whey?” he asked her.

  “Yes, sir. I tasted it beforehand, and all was well.” Her usually complacent gaze narrowed into one of concern.

  Branek jerked open the front door and hurried the doctor out onto the porch with its wide stone steps. “Explain what you are implying this instant.”

  “Mr. Pentreath.” Dr. Treen paused before descending. “Though I’m hardly an expert on poisons, it seems to me your wife might have ingested something dangerous, and it was not the ague that has caused her illness.” His fleshy face wobbled with each word.

  Branek stiffened. “Ar
e these more excuses as to why she can’t be cured?” He never liked Treen, but tolerated the man’s haughty attitude only because he was the closest physician and Sophie’s “dear” associate in church. “And if you’re not an expert, who would be?”

  “I mean she seems to be suffering from symptoms related to poisoning.”

  “Are you insane?” Branek almost staggered. He felt like someone had punched him in the gut. He glared at the doctor in astonishment. “Why haven’t you mentioned these suspicions before?”

  “I wasn’t certain. But I did some reading on the subject these last few days. She exhibits several of the symptoms of arsenic poisoning.” Treen eyed him as if Branek were his prime suspect. “I’ll admit that the ague has a few similar symptoms. I would like to call in someone to consult before I say any more. A man I know down in Plymouth.” He tapped the two bottles. “Don’t give her anything until I return. Good day to you, sir.” The doctor continued down the steps to his curricle.

  Branek turned. The façade of the small Elizabethan manor loomed above him with its buff-colored limestone—his sanctuary and prison. He stumbled back into the hall and leaned his hand against a paneled wall. Who would want to harm Sophie? She was well-respected, generous to the church, a woman of impeccable character—or so most people believed. Treen had to be mistaken.

  * * *

  Jenna Rosedew mixed the dulcified spirit of nitre with an ounce of rosewater, two ounces of water, half an ounce of simple syrup, then poured it into a bottle. Outside, a light September rain pattered on the apothecary shop’s windows. A candle flame flickered in the sconce near the door.

  “This draught is all you be needing, Mr. Thorne.” She smiled and spoke in the soft voice she reserved for men. If they mistook her pretence for meekness, all the better to satisfy her patrons.

  “Your husband sold me two bottles for this price.” Thorne scrunched up his wizened face.

  “Ess, but prices have risen. This will do for your wife’s fever.” Jenna patted his shoulder, an excuse to steer him toward the door. “A few drops every four hours. Make certain she has fresh air to cool her blood an’ that she drinks plenty of apple tea. Good night to you, an’ may your wife recover quickly.”

  Jenna’s husband was two years dead, and some of his clientele still complained about the way she’d changed the shop.

  Mr. Thorne muttered his way out onto St. Nicholas Street. Jenna shut the door, and the bell above it tinkled. She picked up her broom and swept dried herb debris across the wide plank floor. The piquant smell of cotton lavender and thyme that rose up pleased her.

  Setting the broom aside, she ran a dust cloth over the plain and fluted bottles on the back wall shelves. The glass shone in colorful blues and greens—the jewels of her trade. She arranged the bottles of Maredant's Drops, good for sea or land scurvy. Below this was her cabinet with its rows of knobbed drawers that held leaves, seeds and roots.

  The silence settled around her. Her late husband’s apprentice—hers now—had gone home already. She was relieved the boy had proved to be a helpful assistant, and never scoffed about being trained solely by a female.

  The door’s bell tinkled again. “Good eve, Mrs. Rosedew, an’ how is the most beautiful woman in Truro?”

  Jenna turned. Horace filled the doorway, a huge grin on his chubby face—as if he could swallow all of Cornwall in joy. He looked like a bulldog stuffed in a brown frock coat that strained at the buttons. His nankeen breeches stretched in protest across his wide thighs.

  She smiled. “Oh, stop your flummery, you sly devil.” She’d at last shed her mourning clothes, even the dull shades of the second year. She no doubt appeared as formidable in her blue, wool, open-robe gown. Her large chest pushed out her bodice, which matched her ever-widening hips accentuated by small panniers. “Come on in an’ share the news of the world with me.”

  Horace clomped in, letting the door slam behind him. “You still turn my eye, Mrs. Rosedew. Does this town realize what a rare orchid of a woman resides here?” He came forward and hugged her, smelling pungent like sage, though his breath reeked of whisky.

  “An’ what a silver tongue you blather with.” She hugged him back. If she gave him an extra squeeze, he might help her move the trunks down from upstairs. She intended to sell her husband’s clothes at the slops shop. In her busy running of this enterprise, she’d forgotten they were still there. “Have you any new spices for me?”

  “Merrick’s spices are always the finest imports. But since the navy has commandeered so many merchant ships to fight against the colonies, shipping from the Orient is erratic. Let’s sit and discuss what you might be needing.” He winked.

  “I’ll brew you a pot of my chamomile tea, since you act like you need calmin’. ’Tis about closing time.” She went to the door, threw the bolt, then blew out the candle to discourage any latecomers. The dark paneled room fell into shadow. “How is your shop faring?”

  “My sons manage it well enough, but I still like to get about among the people.” Horace pulled off his hat and slapped it against his dusty boots. “I know you must get lonely here, all by yourself. Do you still miss him?”

  Jenna missed her late husband’s ministrations between the sheets. Of course, she couldn’t tell Horace that. She did regret not hearing another voice in the nights, and someone to share the burden of managing the shop. At age nine and thirty, she didn’t have the energy she used to have. “Sometimes I do. I’ll put the kettle on.” She walked down the short hallway toward the kitchen.

  Horace followed and sank into the leather wing-backed chair before the hearth. The fire’s light glowed warmly over the small room with its hutch and rough-hewn table. She lit another candle on the long table against the back wall where her mortars, pestles and scales sat. The smell of mutton fat along with a tinge of smoke permeated the air.

  Horace propped his boots on the fender. “You want news of the world, you said? The war is draining us all. But there’s interesting gossip right here in Truro. I heard Squire Pentreath’s raising the rent on his properties in town due to bad investments in America. He may be ruined by the loss of his profits in tobacco shipping. He owns this building, doesn’t he?”

  “Fie, he does. His estate manager sent me a letter of his intentions over two weeks ago.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth and suppressed a sigh. “The quality seems set on taking advantage of a helpless widow.” Jenna lowered the iron kettle over the flames in the gaping brick fireplace.

  “You, helpless? I’ll never believe that, m’dear.” Horace laughed, wheezing like a rusty iron gate. He reached over and patted her bottom.

  “Now, now, watch your fingers. You are a naughty one today.” Swaying her hips away, she pulled the key through her skirt slit from her tied-on pocket and opened her tea caddy. She enjoyed a man’s touch, and she and Horace always took pleasure in “flirting,” but she held fast to her scruples. “How is your wife, by the by?”

  “She’s well, as always.” Horace slumped in the chair, his bulldog face folding to disgruntled. “My Mary’s busy with good works; she told me she visited Polefant Place a time or two. Of course, you must know that Mrs. Pentreath is terribly ill and isn’t expected to live.”

  “That be truly sad, though I’ve never met her. I’ve prepared many an infusion and tincture for the poor woman during her affliction. Their housekeeper brought me the list of what was needed.” She glared at his dirty boots resting on her well-shined fender. “The lady is suffering from the acute ague.”

  “St. Margaret’s will certainly miss Mrs. Pentreath if she dies.” Horace nodded solemnly, though his lips twitched.

  “An’ her husband won’t?” Jenna had heard the servants talk of the strict, if not stingy, manner of Mrs. Pentreath—except when it came to the church. A snobbish woman who was overly devoted to her faith.

  “’Tis not for me to judge my betters.” Horace unbuttoned the most strained button on his frock coat. “I suppose our venerable Dr. Treen is attending
her?”

  “That fidfad of a man. He tries to tell me how to perform my work, as if I learned nothing from Lemuel in all those years.” She put tea leaves in her blue and white ceramic teapot. “Treen should take my advice and not eat like a glutton.”

  “And I thought you revered him.” Horace snorted. “Don’t deny it. You enjoy the company of men. I know you’ve been seen around the Kernick farm. You taking an interest in old farmer Kernick? The codger’s half in his grave.”

  “He’s a good friend. An’ ess, I have many men friends.” Women didn’t fare well in commerce without acting kindly toward men. Unfortunately, Kernick wanted to be more than friends. She glanced up at the rafters where a small ham hung in a canvas sack near the bread car that kept her bread safe from the mice. “I have no sweets to offer you. Would you like a slice of bread?”

  “Naw, don’t bother, and you’re sweets enough.” Horace raked her with an amused gaze. “You are still a comely woman, with hair the color of polished chestnuts.”

  “I’m ‘sweets enough,’ am I? You’re being quite poetic with the polished chestnuts.” She raised an eyebrow and resisted touching her hair. “How much tippling have you done this eve?”

  “I had but a few drams at the Blue Anchor during a business conversation.” He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his bulbous nose.

  Jenna wagged her finger. “I think you’ve imbibed too much. You know I’d never fool with a married man.”

  “Well, Lemuel kept you on a very short string.” His mischievous smile slid back. “You may not understand freedom yet.”

  “There’s no need to discuss that.” She fought down a wince. She’d married so young. At sixteen, she’d been quick to fall for the honey-coated words of the Apothecary Rosedew. They’d thrown their lives into this shop, and raising their son. The short string had grown shorter and tighter the longer they were married. “I’m too busy being a successful tradeswoman to bother much with you men.”