The Apothecary's Widow

by Diane Scott Lewis

  More men muttered, their antagonism sharper.

  “It’s not our fault the tin be scarce in this mine. The shafts need to be dug deeper, an’ that makes it more dangerous, sir.” Nerth scrutinized him with a barely concealed enmity. “We work hard, we do, risking our lives. To have our wages cut ’tisn’t right.”

  “I wasn’t criticizing your efforts. I agree, it isn’t right, but would you rather be out of work completely?” Branek bristled at the insolence of his captain, but he had no one to replace him. Many men of his experience had left the area to find work elsewhere. He looked at the men’s gaunt faces and thought of the wives and children they struggled to support. He’d have to sell a few items at the estate. They toiled long hours under hazardous conditions and should be compensated. “I promise I will do more for you when next I come. But someone recently threw a pickax through my window. I hope it wasn’t one of you.”

  “Naw, sir.” Nerth’s expression didn’t waver, as if this news came as no surprise. “’Course we all have misdeeds we isn’t proud of, but times be desperate, as you say.”

  “Make certain it does not happen again, or, as much as I would regret having to do so, you and I will be discussing your future employment. Good day, men.” Branek wheeled Zeus around to hide his grimace.

  “A pity about your wife, sir.”

  Branek turned his horse back in a crunch of hooves and glared at his captain. The man’s tone had held no sympathy, only mockery. “What do you mean by that?”

  Nerth touched his hat brim. “Nothing, sir. Just a pity, that’s all. Good day to you.”

  Branek gripped his reins, all sorts of replies shooting about in his head. The other miners shouldered their pickaxes.

  “Work safely, men. I want the best for you. Just be aware, I will not put up with any misbehavior.” He rode off down the hill, out of the miasma of hostility, his own thoughts muddled and apprehensive.

  Chapter Nine

  Jenna pressed her fingers over her racing heart and faced the Red Lion Inn. The rows of windows stared arrogantly down at her, their stone pediments engraved with the date 1671, an armorial crest, and a red rose—all so pretentious.

  Chenery’s insinuation about her husband kept her up half the night. Lemuel had kept a fancy woman at the Red Lion? Jenna cringed. The possible reason for the missing money?

  How could he have been unfaithful to her? Hadn’t she kept him satisfied in their bed all those years? But such doubts had niggled at her since Lem died.

  Jenna sucked in her breath, forced herself to pull open the elegant carved door, and stepped into the common room. The grand curving oak staircase rose up before her as if to thrust her back. The place smelled of linseed oil and the slightly sour air of human activity. People moved about the walnut paneled room as they chatted or picked up mail.

  She fisted her hands and darted her gaze around.

  A young man in a snug frock coat and short powdered wig approached her. “Are you here to dine or to secure lodging?” He raised his sharp chin. “You aren’t alone, are you, Mistress? Are you meeting someone, perhaps?”

  “I am not, sir.” Jenna gave him a stern stare to belie her nervousness. “I’m here to inquire…” Now she sounded like the blockheaded constable, “… if you have any women working here, such as—”

  “You’re seeking a position?” His patent smile dipped a little. “The only one open is for a chambermaid, but we usually employ younger girls for that. All the heavy lifting that’s involved.”

  “I’m not seeking a job, young man.” Jenna tried her motherly tone. Surely Lemuel hadn’t been friends with a chambermaid. “Do you have any women in higher positions who’ve been here a few years?” She hoped he’d say no, and she’d hurry back out to the fresh air.

  “Perhaps. Why do you ask?”

  A woman came around the corner, padding over the thick Turkey rug. She looked to be in her forties and had a pleasant face and smile, but she was quite thin, which wasn’t Lemuel’s taste at all. “May I be of assistance?”

  Jenna repeated her question as her stomach began to churn. “You see, I think one of them knew my—brother. An’ I wish to tell her of his death. But I cannot remember her name.” Her rehearsed excuse sounded dim-witted, even to her own ears.

  “I’m sorry to hear of your loss.” The woman touched Jenna’s arm. “There is myself, of course, and Mistress Drake. I am the owner’s wife, and she is the hostess for our female guests, an arrangement graciously offered here at The Red Lion. All the others are young maids.”

  Jenna prayed Mistress Drake was a frumpy old hag. “May I speak to this Mistress Drake?” She gripped her hands together to keep them still.

  “Of course. Please wait in the parlor over here.” The woman showed her into an elegant room where a fire crackled in a marble-fronted fireplace. Red velvet settees and small mahogany tables filled out the area, along with scents of rich pipe tobacco and brandy. This hotel was a lush luxury she could never afford.

  Jenna stood stiffly, her mind tumbling through the hope that this had to be a waste of time. But she’d ferret out the truth, no matter how ugly.

  “I’m Mistress Drake. What can I do for you?” a soft, throaty voice asked. “What was your brother’s name?”

  Jenna turned. The woman who stood there was of medium height with a chignon of bright red hair under a tiny lace cap. Her full face and pouty mouth held an expectant expression. Ample curves pushed out her dark blue velvet open-robe dress; the skirt revealed a quilted pink petticoat.

  Jenna breathed slowly over her disappointment at the woman’s attractiveness. Her chest tightened. “I’m not really here about any brother. I am Mrs. Jenna Rosedew. I won’t bash about the gorse with you.” Her chin lifted high. “Did you know my husband, Lemuel Rosedew?”

  “Oh…my heavens.” The woman’s eyes flashed, cheeks coloring a fraction. “Please, let us sit.” She waved a white hand toward the nearest settee. The garnet ring she wore looked too large for her finger—and expensive for her station.

  This wasn’t the reaction Jenna wanted. She sought outright confusion then denial. In a daze, she lowered herself to the settee, plush beneath her bottom. She wished she could sink deeper, but stiffened her spine instead. “Will you please answer my question?”

  “I will. In a moment. Shall we have tea first?” Mistress—an ironic word, that—Drake also sat, her words crisp. Reeking of stale perfume, she stretched her full lips into a wavering smile.

  “No, I’m not here on a social call.” Jenna’s mouth felt dry, but she had no patience for niceties, not when she was anxious for answers. “In what way did you know my husband?”

  “I’m not certain what you mean. We were acquainted.” Mistress Drake fingered the sheer scarf about her throat, her plump cleavage visible beneath.

  Jenna fidgeted on the settee. “We’re two mature women. I want the truth. How well acquainted were you?” She tried not to picture Lemuel stroking those sloppy breasts.

  “That’s very complicated. I don’t wish to—”

  “I’m certain I can get the meaning if you put it out in plain speech.” Jenna’s frustration crawled farther up inside her. There was that word, “complicated.” The same word Mr. Pentreath had hidden behind.

  “Lemuel and I were friends for a few years before his death.” The woman waved her hand, and the ring glinted in the candlelight. Had she received that ring from Lemuel?

  Jenna waited for more, but none came. “What’s your first name?” she demanded rather than asked. She resisted grabbing the woman’s filmy kerchief to pin her down—or toss her off a cliff.

  “It’s Delen.” Mistress Drake sighed.

  “Well, Delen, just how friendly were you with my husband?” Jenna kept her tone direct—the accusation creeping in. “Did he treat you for any ills?” The French pox, perhaps?

  “I’m quite healthy, I assure you.” Mistress Drake’s words were rushed, nervous. “Perhaps we can discuss this in a less public place.”
<
br />   Jenna’s neck heated, as if someone pressed a hot iron to her flesh. “I only want the truth of it.” She bunched her wool cloak in her fingers. “I’m a forthright person. Were you bedding my husband?”

  Delen Drake raised her plucked eyebrows and darted her gaze about the room. “I realize you’re upset, but please keep your voice down.” She at least had the decency to blush.

  “So you were having an affair with a married man. My man, my husband.” Jenna clenched her fists. All sorts of questions raced through her head. Her heart seemed to clump in her throat—she pushed it down with a swallow.

  “Hush, please. I…I never intended to have an affair.” Delen hung her head for a second. She didn’t appear to be a voracious doxy, which would have made Jenna’s affront easier. But was her shame honest?

  “Yet you did, didn’t you?” Jenna dragged her mind back to the practical, to wall in her confused emotions. Her nails bit into her palms. “I have missing funds. How much money did he spend on you? Did he buy you that ring, or fancy clothes, with the money our business needed?”

  “I’m sorry for any hurt I’ve caused you. But I have nothing of value.” Delen slipped her hand over the garnet ring. “There’s nothing I can do to change what happened.”

  “Why did it happen? Did he say why he would betray me like this?” Jenna regretted that her anguish scrambled back. “No, don’t answer that. I’m better off not knowing.” She scrutinized the woman who must have been six or seven years younger than she. “You should be ashamed of yourself.” She stood, pulse thudding like a hammer; the room seemed to tilt around her. “If he left you any money, it’s rightfully mine.”

  Delen stood as well, her face as pale as bleached linen. “Again, I’m deeply sorry. There’s nothing more to say. I have no money. The man is gone. We should leave it at that. If you’ll excuse me.” She turned and walked away in a rustle of petticoats.

  “You will hear more from me. I will discuss this with a solicitor.” Jenna almost lunged forward, to grasp her shoulder and shake her, but what would that accomplish?

  She hurried through the common room and out the front door. On the street, she gasped for air. Everything she thought she knew about her marriage splashed around her like a raging torrent. How could Lemuel have betrayed her like this? Curse the man! All the nights of loving she’d given him, for nothing. The nasty gossip she’d forced herself to ignore was true. She staggered over the cobbles. Chenery had known about this affair. How many others knew of Mistress Drake, and had laughed behind her back?

  She fumed in fury and hurried toward her shop.

  * * *

  Branek never foresaw the remorse he’d feel for the woman first suspected in his wife’s murder. He wished he could do more for Mrs. Rosedew. But her lack of guilt left the wretched fact that they still had no culprit.

  He walked faster down St. Nicholas Street, his knees burning with the effort. He pulled his surtout close around his body against the unseasonal chill. In Cornwall, winter weather usually arrived later.

  He entered the saddler’s to drop off a harness to be repaired, a task usually performed by one of his staff, but his staff was sadly depleted. Leaving the confines of his house, and spending a little money, gave him a moment of pleasure. He wearied of pinching every farthing.

  Branek stepped from the rich smell of leather back outside. Rosedew’s Apothecary sat across the street. He straightened his cravat, deciding to tell the widow he’d arranged to make matters better for her with his letters. He wove around carts and wagons. He opened the shop’s door—spicy scents replaced the stink of horse dung.

  Open cupboards with blue and cream Lambeth delftware pottery and ointment pots, all inscribed with Latin words listing their contents, lined the orderly dark paneled walls. Mortars and pestles, along with scales, sat on a high table to the left. Beside these sat an open book of Culpeper’s Complete Herbal.

  He touched the smooth wood panels, all nicely polished. The beamed ceiling above was free of cobwebs. A well-cared-for place.

  More guilt dragged at him for possibly having to put the woman out of the building. And where was Mrs. Rosedew? The tinkling bell had brought no one out to greet him.

  “Mrs. Rosedew? Is anyone here?” He walked toward the back hall.

  “In a minute, I’ll be right there.” Her voice sounded subdued.

  He heard a rustling before she appeared, smoothing down her apron. When she stepped into the candlelight, her eyes looked red-rimmed as if she’d been crying.

  “Mr. Pentreath,” her gaze widened, “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Rosedew?” He removed his hat and had asked the logical question, but found to his surprise that he was concerned.

  “Oh, only a bit of pepper in my eyes.” She averted her gaze and half turned from him. “I’m cooking salt pork with pease pudding.”

  “I won’t keep you long.” He sensed she lied, and that somehow disappointed him. “I came to tell you that I’ve written to people in town that your shop had nothing to do with my wife’s death, and they should resume business with you.”

  “I appreciate that, sir.” She nodded slowly, then her eyes sharpened. “So you truly believe in my innocence?”

  “Well, it makes sense that, if you want to keep your shop, you would hardly chase people away by poisoning medications to cause illness.” And now he didn’t believe—after their conversation in the alley—she could have done it by accident, or through any incompetence.

  “’Tis a fact. Thank you so much, sir.” She stared at him, her dark eyelashes damp, her tone distracted.

  “Business here should soon return to normal.” He settled his hat back on, but didn’t wish to rush out. She appeared vulnerable, something he’d never expected from her. However, how well did he know her—even with her obvious upset? “If everything is fine with you, I suppose….”

  “Which one of us is fine these days?” She shrugged, but then scrutinized him once more, her expression softer. “Forgive me for being forward again, sir, but,” she raised her hands, then clasped them in front of her, “I’m about to partake of—have you eaten?”

  He’d expected her to say good evening to him so she could continue with whatever troubled her. Her question surprised him. “No, I haven’t. But I…don’t wish to impose.”

  “No imposition at all. Come back an’ see if you like what I’ve prepared.” She turned quickly and disappeared down the hall.

  At an awkward loss, Branek remained still for a moment, and then followed. The narrow passage opened up to a kitchen. The stone hearth to his right sparkled with a welcoming fire. Mrs. Rosedew stirred something in a large iron pot. The smell enticed his stomach.

  “I don’t want you to go to any bother.” He didn’t know if he should stay, but the thought of sitting alone at his table, or more likely having a rushed meal in his office, sounded lonely suddenly.

  “If you have no prior engagement, I’d be honored if you would join me.” She went to a cupboard and pulled out two creamware plates.

  “If you have enough to share, I suppose I could stay.” Branek removed his hat again and hung it on a peg near the hearth.

  “I don’t usually eat so fine, alone, but a good friend of mine raises pigs.”

  “Was that your friend at the church?” He remembered the stout man with the glib air.

  “No, that was Horace Merrick. He’s a spice merchant. Another good friend of long standing.” She bit on her lip. “A widow needs steadfast friends.”

  “Ah, I’ve heard of Merrick’s Spices.” Why did it annoy him that she seemed to attract male friends?

  “My husband enjoyed this meal.” Her words turned brusque, and oddly defiant. “I cooked many a meal for him here.” She dished up chunks of pork with onions, turnips and carrots. Celery, leeks and parsley swam in the broth. She removed the lid of a smaller pot and served a portion of pease pudding. “Please be seated, sir.”

  She didn’t sound as if she m
issed her husband. As one with similar feelings, he could think of nothing to say. He sat in the leather chair, cracked with use, but soft beneath him, at a small table in front of the hearth. The fire sizzled, warming him. She set the plate before him, the steam rising up and blurring her face.

  “This is very kind of you, Mrs. Rosedew.”

  “A person gets tired of cooking only for themself.”

  He tasted the pudding, peas, bacon and onion, a delicious mixture. The pork was tender, the broth just salty enough. “The food is excellent, my compliments to you.”

  Mrs. Rosedew smiled, but her eyes still looked disturbed. She was an attractive woman in her simple gown of green wool. Her full-cheeked face had a healthy sheen—no ghostly pallor like Sophie’s—her auburn hair wavy and lush.

  “Do your legs pain you? I see the way you walk. I can brew a cup of ginger tea that will ease those aches.”

  “I don’t wish to trouble you any further.” He rubbed his knee, embarrassed she’d noticed his ailment.

  “’Tis no trouble, sir; this is what I do.” She brought a tin down from a high shelf. She sifted leaves into a teapot with the spice and poured in boiling water. Soon he had a steaming cup in front of him. “I’ll put a dram of brandy in it, if you want?”

  He nodded and she brought over a bottle and poured a small amount in the cup.

  He sipped the pungent tea. “Very warming, thank you.” No one had tended to him this well since his mother was alive—God rest her soul. He suppressed a sigh. Was the widow trying to soften him up with hospitality? Yet he shouldn’t be so distrustful. “I only wish I could defer the rent, or the possible sale. I would, if it was in my power.”

  Mrs. Rosedew set a trencher with a loaf of bread and a slab of butter on the table. “We all have money difficulties, don’t we?” She served herself and sat down across from him. “An’ other problems we didn’t expect.”

  “Oh? What else has happened?” He longed to see her smile again. Then he ate a few more bites of the food, savoring the flavors, to wipe away that thought.