The Apothecary's Widow

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “We’ll talk later. Once we have time to sort all this out.” He gathered her in his arms and kissed her on the mouth.

  She shivered, but contained herself instead of crushing him to her. “I will look forward to that.” Did she want him to beg to remain her lover?

  “Your servant, Madam.” He hugged her against him, his heart beating fast in rhythm to hers, then stepped back. His gaze dug deep inside her, his confusion evident. They walked hand in hand to the corridor near the stairs.

  “I’ll let you out the back. Just open the gate to the left,” she said as she unlocked the door. “Take special care of yourself.” Would he ask now for another visit?

  “And you. Have a good afternoon.” He slipped on his coat and hat, then touched her on the cheek. Opening the door, after one backward glance, he walked out into her physic garden, the noon sun high in the sky.

  Jenna gulped down a sob. Was his touch a caress goodbye, as it should be? He was a man who needed her badly, but he no doubt valued his place in society. Her words of warning had been a challenge, and perhaps they’d both failed in the aftermath.

  Relocking the door, she relished in his scent on her chest, the memory of his hands and lips. Her body trembled as she moaned, her eyes blurred with tears. She swiped the tears away—she could not behave like a crack-brained hussy.

  * * *

  Branek reached the main road, glanced about, and walked toward the stables. The street was quiet, as a Sunday afternoon should be. If Chenery still watched, he’d wonder how Branek spent his time at Mrs. Rosedew’s. He nearly chuckled. How formal to think of her like that after their ardent coupling. In what capacity should he think of her? His mistress? She didn’t seem the type of woman who would stand for such a position for long. The term mistress seemed crude, when their union had been both empathetic and passionate.

  He couldn’t help a smile as warmth filled his body. Tender loving were the correct words! He had no idea such fervor was left in him.

  Branek massaged his lower back, where his healing wound smarted. He increased his stride and sought distance, to think. He hadn’t experienced such ardor since the first weeks of his marriage, and even then, he’d never loved Sophie; she’d never given him the chance.

  He sighed, his thoughts returning to Jenna. He must elevate her to a first-name basis now. The look in her eyes when he left showed she was proud, yet extremely susceptible to him. Still, she hadn’t invited him back, insisting on a portion of his time. No, she wasn’t like that, and he respected her more for it—though he craved to hold her again.

  He stepped around a cat that nibbled on fish remnants discarded in the kennel in front of the fishmonger’s.

  Blast! Every ounce of intelligence warned him not to pursue such a liaison with Jenna, a woman not of his class. He must sort out his life, help solve his wife’s murder, and enrich his estate, before he did anything else.

  Ah, but the experience had been magnificent! And so sweet, despite their awkward parting. He suppressed a groan and admitted he’d longed, just now, to hear her need for him.

  A rock struck his shoulder and plopped to the ground near his feet. He turned in time to see a figure scuttle into the Blue Anchor Inn.

  Branek rubbed his shoulder then clenched his fist. He crossed the street and pulled open the tavern door. The town’s taprooms were usually open after church service, much to the disdain of the more pious people. Men sat at various tables, or slouched against the back wall. The smell of beer and smoke enveloped him as their conversations halted. Several patrons stared at him, while others buried their noses in pewter tankards.

  “Mr. Pentreath, come in for a dram?” The proprietor, Mr. Bates, hurried forward with a broad smile. “Or I can have a small beer before you in an instant.”

  “Who just came in here? Someone threw a rock at me outside.” Branek didn’t bother to lower his voice. Whereas some of the customers nodded to him in respect, the surly atmosphere in the taproom thickened. Disgruntled tinners—miners in their dirty blue drill coats—grumbled to one another.

  “I didn’t see it, sir. I was busy givin’ orders to a pot boy. I’m that sorry it ’appened.” Bates frowned and glared about the room. “A most grievous act.”

  Men shuffled their feet beneath their chairs and hunched their shoulders.

  “It had better not happen again. I won’t stand for such an insult.” Branek scowled at the imbibers; one could be the person who’d shot him. Will had advised him to carry the pistol, but Branek hadn’t brought it with him. He was faced with a room full of drunken louts and there was no sense getting himself killed on the day he finally felt alive again. “Cowardly actions never solve anything. If any of you men have a problem with me, come to speak with me.” He scanned the taproom again, only a few met his eyes, then Branek nodded to the proprietor. “I’ll leave you to your business, Mr. Bates.”

  Branek strode out and down the street; he entered the stables, into the smell of hay and sweaty horses.

  As he rode out of town, he pushed aside his anger. He mused again on more pleasurable topics: his tryst with Jenna, and their self-conscious conversation in the shop.

  She was right. They couldn’t afford the suspicion of being seen together. They must be cautious.

  He smiled again and relived the way their melded bodies had felt, the torridness shimmering through him, so different from his perfunctory—and reluctant on her part—relations with Sophie.

  However, would this one time result in a pregnancy? He stiffened in the saddle. Several times hadn’t worked with Sophie. Perhaps he was the one incapable. His qualms over so many issues churned inside him.

  Branek kicked Zeus into a canter, the movement, the cool air, clearing to his brain. He cared for Jenna deeply, much too deeply.

  * * *

  In Odgers’ dark-paneled dining room, Branek waved away the fruit and cheeses offered. “I couldn’t eat another bite, but thank you.” He leaned back in his chair. “The meal was delicious. My compliments to your cook.”

  “Hester prepared the oyster pie.” Sir Richard smiled at his daughter, who sat across from Branek at the long table. Past fifty, Odgers had a gaunt, lined face under his powdered wig. “She is quite skilled in the kitchen. For a widower like me, she is an asset.” He turned his cloudy hazel eyes back to his guest. “I apologize. I didn’t wish to bring up….”

  “Unpleasant reminders that I’m in the same position? It’s quite all right.” Branek wished to move beyond his failed marriage, but the poisoning aspect tainted everything. He forced a smile on Hester, a rosy-cheeked young woman with honey-gold hair tied up in a twist. She looked fresh and warm with her own smile. “Then I commend you on your skills, Miss Odgers.”

  “You are too kind, Mr. Pentreath.” Her hazel eyes sparkled at him, but tonight he yearned for smoldering green eyes and wasn’t as moved as before. “I hope you are doing better after your dreadful suffering. And it happened after leaving our home. I was quite worried about you.”

  “Tonight I’ll be more careful. Thank you for your concern.” Branek pressed his hand on the pistol in his belt.

  “You could always stay the night, as our guest.”

  Hester’s smile was still sweet, and Sir Richard gregarious, but the present company seemed lost in overly polite and dull conversation. He longed for the bold talk and tender ministrations of another woman. Almost four days had passed since he’d been with Jenna, and he couldn’t dismiss his need to see her again. She must think him a dissolute rogue for not visiting, a man who’d taken advantage of her as her landlord.

  “A generous offer, Miss Odgers. Perhaps another time.” Branek thought of sneaking down to the apothecary shop and spending the night there. He gripped the side of his chair. Would he be welcome?

  “Well, if we’re finished, let’s have our port. Hester, if you’ll excuse us, my dear?” Odgers stood, and Branek did as well.

  “Of course, Father.” She rose. “I hope we’ll speak again, soon, Mr. Pentreath,
and do be most careful.”

  “I should be delighted, and I will follow your advice.” Branek took in the ivory skin of her neck and chest that was half-covered by a white kerchief tucked into her bodice. This appropriate young woman could give him heirs. But how long should he wait to show respect toward his deceased wife? Many men waited little time to remarry—but they weren’t under suspicion of murder.

  A servant cleared the table and set out a decanter of port and two glasses. Hester kissed her father on the cheek, dipped her chin at Branek, and departed.

  The men settled again into their chairs. Odgers poured the deep-red wine into glasses. “You admire my daughter, Branek. It’s obvious she esteems you as well.”

  “She is an admirable girl. I’m rethinking my life, Richard, but it’s too soon to decide on any major change in my circumstances.” Before Jenna, he would have broached the possibility of a future betrothal; now, he held back. Warmth threaded through him at the idea of Jenna’s arms around him. Was he falling in love? His chest tightened. Was that why he’d avoided visiting her, afraid it might show, and he’d be lost?

  “I’m purchasing more sheep to augment my flock,” Branek said to change the subject, “Unfortunately for England, with this accursed war, wool is in demand for uniforms.” The increased sale of wool should offset his loan and pay off more debts, thus he wouldn’t have to raise rent or sell the building where Jenna had her shop.

  “Ah, it’s true. I wish you success, but detest the reason for it. We are in troubled times. Opposition grows against continuing the war.” Odgers scratched under his wig, then slumped his shoulders. “Did you read Pitt’s speech? He’s a fiery young man, sure to go far.”

  “I did. I can’t help agreeing that this is a conflict fought against our brethren, our cousins. I pray for victory, but I hope at not too great a cost of lives.” Branek turned the stem of his glass between his fingers, the glass catching the light from the candelabra on the table. “Has anything come from my information about Nerth Hockin and Deacon Tregere?”

  “Chenery spoke to the deacon, who of course denied everything. I have separate inquiries in Exeter to determine his character.” Odgers took a sip of his wine, his expression solemn. “Hockin is a churlish rascal, but I found no reason to suspect he was the type of person who would ask his sweetheart to poison anyone’s wife over wage cuts.”

  “He’s always been a steady worker, firm with the men. But I’m convinced someone thought to shoot me over the cuts.” How close he’d come to dying, if not for a certain lady of mercy. He breathed evenly and drank from the sweet wine. “I talked with Mrs. Sandrey about their relationship. She was extremely embarrassed that I even knew about it.” The woman had seemed on the verge of collapse, and insisted that nothing illicit had happened between her and Nerth. “I’ve never really suspected my mousy housekeeper of any wrong-doing.” Or at least, he hadn’t wanted to.

  “Mice can hide nasty teeth. And servants lie all the time.” Odgers shook his head, his pouched eyes showing a man weary with his responsibilities.

  “Is there no way we could bring in another constable to sort all this out?” Branek rubbed the back of his neck. “Chenery is incompetent, as I keep warning everyone. And has a dislike for me in particular.”

  “Not this late in the investigation. I am sorry. Chenery is bull-headed, but swears to me he’s doing his best. Few men care to take on a constable’s burden. And there are other cases he’s working on. I’ll keep an eye on him. The tribulations we must go through to find the truth.” Odgers sighed morosely. “I can’t deny that being magistrate is also a thankless job. No pay for the trouble, you know.” He gave Branek a sad smile. “I wish I could have been there for the inquest, but my late wife’s family was having a memorial. They’ve done it every year, since….”

  “I understand.” Branek had been perturbed at the time, in the midst of his confusion. He took a gulp of the brandy-laced wine.

  “I do have some interesting news for you, however.” Odgers stretched his neck like a crane. He pulled off his wig; the candlelight glistened on his thinning hair streaked with gray. “I’ve found out that Miss Coryn, your wife’s former maid, has an aunt in Bodmin who was convicted six months ago of poisoning her husband with arsenic.”

  “The devil you say!” Branek snapped to attention, jostling his glass. “But what does that have to do with Grace?”

  “The process was oddly similar. Arsenic put in the man’s coughing syrup. Did the maid and your wife have an amicable relationship?”

  “I once thought so. Why would Grace want Sophie dead?” Branek cringed. Grace had been aware of his foolish attraction to her, and hers for him had been obvious. Did she want his “uncaring” wife out of the way? The pretty maid had been very unhappy when he’d sent her off, and had mentioned all she had done. It still sounded unbelievable. He bolted up, bumping the chair. “I must send a message to my sister immediately. Grace is now working for her.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jenna bought three candles and left the chandler’s shop near the quay. There were closer shops, but the proprietor here always gave her a bargain on beeswax. She overspent on these, because the mutton fat candles made her shop smell greasy.

  In the fishy wind off the water, the oyster women hawked their wares on the wharf. Jenna watched men weighing tin at the scales not far from the Coinage Hall. Presumed too heavy to steal, large bars of tin sat everywhere like a giant child’s metallic blocks. She’d climbed and jumped over them as a little girl. How simple life was then.

  The men around the scales argued and chuckled. Women of high station had once dealt in the tin trade, but were now relegated to being compliant accessories to their husbands. Jenna smirked at the idea, given her recent discovery concerning Lem. What secrets did their husbands hide while their wives knitted in ignorance?

  She walked past them.

  The familiar figure of Mr. Pentreath strode toward the Coinage Hall. Her heart twisted. He glanced at her and slowed. She nodded politely and prayed she didn’t flush. He might think she’d waited for him. She wavered on her feet. That would never do. Hurriedly arranging her basket, she started to rush back down Middle Row toward her shop.

  “Mrs. Rosedew, wait, please.” He crossed the street. “I have some important news for you.”

  Her stomach tightened. The past week had eaten at her, knowing that he shouldn’t come back to visit her, while she’d wished every moment he would. “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Good afternoon. Are you well?” His smile was sweet, his gaze more tender than she’d expected.

  “Very well, as always.” She smiled back, her pulse rumbling. “As I pray you are.”

  He stepped close. “I hope you aren’t angry with me. I’ve been so very busy.”

  “I have no reason to be angry with you.” Disappointed and frustrated were better words. But she had no claim on his time. “What is the news you have?”

  “I’ve wanted to see you,” he said softly. “We have much to discuss. I don’t want you to think I’ve been avoiding you.”

  “I won’t deny I’ve wanted to see you, too, but I understand.” She almost stumbled into him, too relieved by his words. She was acting like a love-sick flibbertigibbet. Dare he give her hope in a hopeless affair? “Is this news about your wife’s murder?”

  “Indeed.” His lips pressed tight at the change in subject. “It seems Magistrate Odgers has uncovered that my wife’s personal maid, Grace, has an aunt who poisoned her husband with arsenic.”

  “Oh, dear. I did wonder myself about the girl’s character, her being so near your wife.” Jenna recalled the uncomfortable way Mr. Pentreath had acted when discussing the maid. Was there more? “But what would be her reason?”

  “I hate to think of Miss Coryn committing such a vile act.” He averted his gaze, his cloak flapping lightly in the wind. “But it is something to look into. I’ve sent a messenger to my sister, who now employs Grace.”

  People passed
them, carts and peddlers. A few stared in their direction. A couple of well-dressed men called out a greeting to Mr. Pentreath.

  “’Tis wrong to condemn an innocent girl, but I hope something comes of it, to finally solve this crime.” She wanted to leave the public’s stare, but linger close to him as well. She squeezed her basket so tightly it crackled.

  “I’ll come by to see you, if you don’t mind,” he whispered, his tone promising delights they shouldn’t indulge in. “As soon as I can.”

  “Yes, sir. I would very much like that. I’ll be at my shop.” Her breath caught in her throat. She should have turned him away, though her blood heated being near him, and she could hardly be rude to her landlord. Her love for him tangled around her, first caressing, then painful. She hurried off with the basket, cursing herself for her weakness.

  On St. Nicholas Street, a broad-shouldered man stood in front of the shop. Jenna started in recognition of an old friend.

  “Mr. Kellow, you’ve been away so long, I was certain you were lost at sea,” she teased—no doubt too loudly in her befuddled anticipation over a visit from Mr. Pentreath. She pressed Kellow’s arm, then pulled out her keys. “I’m happy to see you looking well.”

  Marcus Kellow grinned. His huge chest almost burst the gold buttons in his naval officer’s jacket. “Mrs. Rosedew, my dear, you look especially comely yourself.”

  “None of your flummery, sir.” She unlocked the shop door. “Come in, an’ tell me where you’ve been hiding.” She welcomed his unexpected call—it would help distract her. “What has it been, over two years?”

  “Aye. I set sail this last time, shortly after Lemuel’s funeral. My ship was anchored in the Boston then New York harbors in this bloody war.” He huffed as he followed her inside. “Excuse my tongue. The French fleet is making a shambles of our navy. Matters appeared hopeless when I left.”