The Apothecary's Widow

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “Don’t be bothered about me, sir. We’re all a bit tired these days.” Will knitted his blond brows, his blue eyes searching. “It’s your situation that troubles me.”

  “It does little to alleviate me either. I’ll tell Odgers about the poison.” Any visitor could have poisoned a drink, or the medications. But they’d have to have known the arsenic was available. Branek leaned back gingerly in the leather chair, wincing again. He closed his eyes. “Perhaps you’re right, I should return to bed. I will in a moment.”

  He tried to sort through the conflicting memories of the attack and his brief time with Mrs. Rosedew. He had the most vivid memory of a passionate kiss, which intrigued him. He’d clearly seen the widow’s green eyes, so close, and her mouth near his. The soft feel of her lips. Might he have actually kissed her? Despite his qualms his pulse jumped.

  He pushed the notion aside as bizarre and straightened, regretting the prick of pain. The memory had to have been a delusion brought on by the drugs and his suffering. Even if he hadn’t kissed her, he was behaving too freely with the widow; he’d actually revealed his debts to her.

  He changed course. “I would like to know who wants me dead.” The disturbing question churned through his thoughts. Dr. Treen again came to mind, but he couldn’t fathom the doctor being so—spry.

  “What about the mine workers? They’re a surly lot.” Will had begun to dismantle the pistol.

  Branek was surprised Will would criticize the miners. “Would they go that far? As Nerth reiterated, it’s not their fault a fresh vein of tin can’t be found.” He shoved the stack of bills to the side. “But then Sophie’s death couldn’t be related to the mine’s troubles. Could it? Who else knew about this arsenic stored in the scullery?”

  “Cook, of course, and Mrs. Sandrey, I believe.” His estate manager rubbed oil on the gun’s tumbler, sear spring and mainspring with a cloth. “But neither of them, I wouldn’t think, could have acted in such a devious manner.”

  “Who knows what someone might do given the right incentive.” There were many days, quite early in the marriage, when he’d have been tempted to sprinkle pepper in his wife’s syllabub to put some spirit into her. A reckless act if he had, but…. “I thought if we solved the murder, I could rise above much of my dilemmas. But now I have to find the time to worry over my very life.”

  “Please, just take precautions.” Will continued to polish the gun’s parts, his fingers meticulous, the oil smell sharp. “About estate business, we should remind Mr. Windle of the land lease. And think of other projects to bring in money. Unfortunately, the news from the colonies isn’t good. Have you seen the latest paper?”

  Branek picked up the Sherborne Mercury and read. “Those damn interfering French!” The worst possible news: Admiral Graves’ fleet had been defeated in September by the French Admiral de Grasse at the Battle of the Capes. “This will leave Cornwallis without reinforcements.” He slapped the paper back on his desk. “It does look hopeless. Parliament couldn’t even decide where to put the troops, New York or Virginia. It’s safe to say that my tobacco imports have gone up in smoke.”

  Will gave him a half smile. “Lord Cornwallis and General Clinton may still prevail, we can only pray.”

  “I have thought of other revenue. I hate to run up more credit, but look into purchasing additional sheep since wool remains lucrative. And yes, I’ll strongly remind Windle of his agreement.” Branek’s back throbbed and he needed to start up toward bed. Instead of making that effort, weary of his own ills, he smiled at Will. “I’ve been extremely selfish lately. How are your wife and children?”

  “They are well, thank you. The children thrive, but Anne is much worried about you.” Will still didn’t mention the state of his own health. Sometimes Branek thought his childhood friend too altruistic. Then he wished he could be more like him.

  “Tell her to invite me over for one of her delicious stargazy pies.” Branek shifted in the chair and pain pierced around his back stitches. He stiffened and touched his side. The skin felt hot. “Ahhh.” He tugged out his shirttail and twisted around, but couldn’t quite see. There was a slight rancid stink. “Will, come take a close look at my wound.”

  Will stepped over and peered down. “Damme, the skin is red and oozing. I think it’s infected.” He stared at Branek. “Should I send for a surgeon?”

  “No. I want no prying doctor hovering over me.” Branek sighed and tried to stay still to ease the pain. He hoped Odgers could keep Chenery from sniffing around him over this incident as well. But he couldn’t ignore the inflammation. He thought of a caring voice and gentle hands and his agitation soothed a little. He had a mad notion, and wanted to know exactly what had happened between them. “Send a footman. Or are we out of footmen these days? Send someone to fetch Mrs. Rosedew.”

  * * *

  Jenna dipped her quill in the ink and scribbled the information about Deacon Tregere being accused of embezzlement, and then Nerth kissing Mrs. Sandrey. She waved the paper to dry it. She’d give the note to Luke to take out to Mr. Pentreath at Polefant Place.

  How could she ever face him again after their behavior that frantic night? He had fallen back to sleep after she’d pulled away and encouraged him to rest. And he seemed not to remember the kiss the next morning—but she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  She sighed. The opiate must have brought on his ardent actions. The man probably had a mistress somewhere and had mistaken Jenna for her. After hearing about his frigid wife, she almost couldn’t blame him for trying to find affection with another woman.

  Recalling his lips on hers, she tingled once more with the sensual heat that had soaked through her. But it could never happen again. She refused to be any man’s mistress, and that was the only way the squire would lower himself to her.

  “I’m an addle-pated jade.” She snatched up a rag and dusted off the gallipots, the small earthenware jars she used to store her ointments. Remaining here, in her shop, was her first order of business. And she’d hate to use enticement to hold on to her living. Her fuddled seduction of Farmer Kernick had been embarrassing enough.

  Dropping the rag, she glanced through her account book. Trade had resumed a little, but she prayed for more. Why was everything such a burden? Perhaps she should have sold Lem’s hat instead of burning it.

  With a groan, Jenna grabbed and crumpled the note. If it got into the wrong hands, and not directly to Mr. Pentreath, the information could make matters worse. There was no help for it; she’d have to speak to him herself. She couldn’t avoid the man indefinitely.

  She started shredding the paper, walked to the kitchen and tossed the pieces into the grate. She must dismiss Mr. Pentreath from her heart—because he’d begun to nestle there—and keep her mind sharp.

  She glanced in her ookener, the wooden box where her fuel was stored. The turf and furze looked sparse; she needed to pay the boy who brought it the next time he came. She dropped the lid with a thunk.

  The garnet ring worn by Mistress Drake came to mind. Had Lem bought that for the whore from whom he sought affection? Could she demand the jewelry back in return for not ruining the woman at her place of employment?

  She returned to the front of the shop.

  Mr. Pentreath had once asked if she was a vengeful person. She hadn’t been, but so much had changed that she now teetered on a brittle edge. Desperation twisted the way a person traveled through life, revealing its ugly turns.

  The bell tinkled and Luke walked in.

  She couldn’t wait for Horace to return from Plymouth to visit the Red Lion. She grabbed her cloak. “I’m going out to Middle Row, an’ don’t know how long I’ll be. There’s a syrup to prepare, an’ other instructions I’ve left for you.”

  “Yes, Mistress. Did you hear the newest? They still don’t know who shot Mr. Pentreath. My father visited him again last evening.” Luke shed his coat and put on his apron.

  “I pray they find the brigand soon.” She arranged her cloak over her shoul
ders. “But the squire’s doing well, isn’t he?” Her worries surged up again. “Did your father say how he was yesterday?”

  “He was in a lot of pain.” Luke tilted his head, his gaze curious. “You look very disturbed, Mistress.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m only concerned about…never you mind. I must be off.” She left the shop, the cool air outside fanning her hot cheeks. Her foolish reaction almost caught her out. She must remember to keep a firm grip on her emotions.

  * * *

  “I’m not certain we should talk again.” Delen Drake stared in suspicion at Jenna. They stood in the corner of the Red Lion’s elegant parlor with its smells of expensive perfume and tobacco. “What else is there left to say?”

  “I can think of much to say to a woman who carried on with my husband, but I’ll be blunt as to why I’m here.” Jenna kept her voice low, anxious to get this over with. “Do you like your work here at the Red Lion? A hostess for the women guests should remain respectable, shouldn’t she? You wouldn’t care for fresh, nasty comments to be spread about the affair, now would you?”

  “Please. You know full well I would not. And neither should you,” Delen whispered, glancing around, cheeks flushing. “I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but I’ve never behaved so immodestly before.”

  A group of men playing cards sat at one of the tables not too far away, their voices loud and humorous. Smoke drifted up from a pipe.

  “I will suffer the gossip.” Jenna didn’t want to believe Delen was so pure before Lemuel came along. “Answer my question from the first time we met. Did my husband give you that ring?”

  Delen tucked her hand beneath her bosom and fingered the stone. “I had no idea he was spending needed money. I asked him, but he promised….”

  “You’d trust a man who would betray his wife of many years?” Jenna eyed the red stone that sparkled in the candlelight from a wall sconce. The woman’s face reddened even more. Jenna forced her advantage, even as nerves prickled her shoulders. “I’m not one to complain, but he left me with very little.”

  “He said you no longer loved him.” Delen twisted the ring back and forth and averted her gaze. “Or I would have never have allowed it.”

  “Every married man says that.” Jenna bristled, and straightened her spencer jacket as if that might make her feel more formidable—like a soldier prepared for battle. “I loved him until he started to treat me foul. His time with you explains his behavior.” She leaned forward. “Give me that ring, if he did buy it for you, an’ I won’t bother you again.”

  “How could I be sure?” Delen’s eyes narrowed with more wariness. “Lemuel said you were a very…brash woman with little tenderness.”

  “He did, did he?” Jenna didn’t flinch. She shoveled more layers of dirt over her marriage, burying her naivety deeper. She almost reached out to grab the other woman’s hand. “I’ve had to be brash to survive. But I never once fooled with somebody else’s husband.” She thrust out her hand, palm up. “Please, we can end this now.”

  “I don’t trust you.” The woman backed up a step, her too-bright red hair framing her round face like a ring of fire. The fear in her eyes almost made Jenna pity her. “You’ll come back if you aren’t satisfied. You’ll demand more from me.”

  A well-dressed couple came down the grand oak staircase and walked past them, talking in harried tones.

  “Is there more? The least you can do to atone for your sins, is to make things right with me.” Jenna had never sounded so holier-than-thou in her life.

  “Don’t think I haven’t felt guilty.” Delen pursed her wide lips, salaciously crimsoned with rouge, like blood. “But Lemuel was a determined man.”

  “I know that. Still, you could have complained to the staff here and sent him on his way.” Jenna glanced toward the common room. “Maybe I should speak to the owner’s wife. She seems a good woman who might be shocked by your deeds.” She hated to resort to such tactics, but started to turn.

  Delen gasped behind her, and Jenna looked back.

  The woman was wriggling the ring from her finger. “You must swear you won’t speak to anyone about this, if I can trust in your word.”

  “Was there a necklace that went along with this ring? Or any other baubles?” Jenna couldn’t let the woman off that easily, the stakes were too high. She moved close, her sturdy blue wool gown pressing the harlot’s ivory silk robe a la francaise. “The money from this jewelry will keep me from the streets, an’ I don’t intend to be a beggar.”

  “Very well!” Delen lurched back and stumbled against the newel post. “There is a necklace. I’ll bring it down, but I never want to see you here again.”

  The ring, now loosened, slipped off Delen’s plump finger and dropped with a rattle onto the polished wooden floor.

  Jenna waited, shoulders squared so hard it hurt, for the item to be scooped up by the Drake chit’s soft, white hand, and given to her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  In his chamber, Branek lay on his right side in bed to give his injured back relief from the mattress’s pressure. His wound throbbed, and he took another sip of the brandy Will had given him to dull the ache. Almost three hours had passed. What if Mrs. Rosedew couldn’t be found? Was he daft to want to see her again? He was embarrassed to admit how much he needed her friendship.

  “Sir.” Will opened the bedroom door, his mouth in a dismal line. “I’m afraid Mrs. Sandrey sent word to Dr. Treen about your malady. She said she was in a fearful muddle and couldn’t help herself.” Will gripped the door jamb. “The unfortunate news is, the man is here.”

  Branek grimaced. “The hound has come to sniff at my carrion.” Treen was the last person he wanted sticking a pudgy finger into his wound. “Can you send him away? Tell him I’ve already perished?”

  As if on cue, the doctor barged in, face impassive, his case in hand. He ran his unsympathetic gaze over Branek. “What is the nature of this injury, Mr. Pentreath? A gunshot, or so I’ve heard?”

  Of course, by now, everyone in Cornwall, perhaps even London, probably knew what had happened. Will withdrew, closing the door.

  “It is indeed a gunshot. I no doubt deserved it, you might say. Nevertheless, the stitches in my back seem to be infected.” Branek tried to sound matter-of-fact, even though his jaw clenched.

  Treen walked around the bed and swept aside the four-poster’s left-side bed curtains. He set down his case. “So where exactly is the wound?”

  Branek folded back the blanket and lifted his nightshirt, exposing his injury. He cringed at the movement. “Here, for your expert perusal.” Would his sarcasm be lost on the good doctor?

  “I see. It is infected. Who stitched you up, may I ask?” The doctor touched the inflamed skin.

  Branek bit down on his lip to suppress a groan. “I didn’t get the surgeon’s name. My mood was somewhat confused. What would you prescribe?” He tried to keep his words even.

  “I’ll prepare a cloth of styptic water to place on the area.” Treen opened his case. “Have you any idea who might have shot you?”

  Treen’s sardonic tone proved he believed Branek had deserved it.

  “I thought perhaps it was you, doctor. You do have a grudge against me.” Branek craned his neck to catch the man’s scowl. “But, alas, my assailant was quite thin.”

  A swishing sound out in the corridor drew his attention. The door opened.

  Mrs. Rosedew entered, her cheeks flushed. When her gaze met his, Branek’s thoughts spiraled back to the night in her shop—her tears over his wound, and the erotic dream, if it was a dream, of kissing her. His chest felt full to bursting.

  “Ah, I have reinforcements,” he said with an exaggerated air to mask his pleasure at her arrival. “Welcome, Mrs. Rosedew.”

  “I came as quickly as I could. I’ve brought a poultice for you, sir.” After a wary glance at Dr. Treen, she set an apothecary box on Branek’s bed. “An’ my infusion of Peruvian bark to keep down any fever.” She put her hand on his for
ehead.

  “I don’t believe I’m feverish.” Branek fought back a contented sigh. He wished she’d leave her cool hand there, but not in front of Treen.

  “Another adulterated tincture, Mrs. Rosedew?” Treen straightened, his raisin eyes cold. “You needn’t bother, as I am in attendance.”

  “That’s uncalled for, doctor. The poison no doubt came….” Branek swallowed down the words it appears from someone here in my home. He’d keep that revelation from Treen for now. He smiled at the widow and she blushed with a returned smile. His heart twitched. The deep compassion in her gaze warmed him. The wrongness of these feelings—and the constable’s insinuations—was beyond his care at the moment. “The poison did not come from Mrs. Rosedew’s shop. I’d like to hear about her suggested treatment.”

  Branek flinched when Treen pressed a cold cloth against the infection.

  “My remedy should clear up the problem, sir,” Treen insisted as if scolding a child. “This woman and her tainted infusions are far from needed.”

  “My infusions are not tainted, Dr. Treen. An’ I’d thank you not to bandy about such accusations.” Mrs. Rosedew opened her mahogany box with its many slots filled with bottles, and small drawers in front. She pulled a tiny pewter bowl from a drawer. “I think a poultice of bread an’ milk, softened with sweet oil, will help. I mixed some up before I left the shop.” She removed a cloth cover from the bowl, releasing a yeasty scent.

  “As I said, as the licensed physician here, Mrs.—”

  “Leave her alone, Treen. I appreciate the extra assistance. At least she tends me with a smugless air.” A satisfying emotion washed over him as it had the night of his shooting: this woman cared for him. What had he done to deserve her kindness? He should do more. The memory of kissing her remained so vivid.

  “You should partake of a cool vegetable diet; also some roasted apples or stewed prunes.” She carried the bowl to the other side of the bed where Dr. Treen stood. “With your permission, Mr. Pentreath, I’ll apply the poultice.”