The Apothecary's Widow

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “I’m disturbed to hear that. But surely a truce can be reached?” She couldn’t imagine how bad trade would be if they lost the colonies. And what of the squire’s shipping investments?

  “Negotiations are contentious, sorry to say.” He shrugged and shook his head in obvious frustration.

  “We must await so slowly for the outcome.” It didn’t look promising. Jenna straightened a display of Godfrey’s Cordial, for pain, before she continued into the kitchen. “Would you care for a brandy?” She wouldn’t bother to offer him tea.

  “Aye, that’s a bracing idea.” Marcus followed her into the kitchen, carrying the smell of smoke and brine. “How are you managing since Lem’s death?”

  “I’ll tell you in a moment.” She put down her basket and hung up her cloak, not anxious to repeat her troubles. “I have half an apple tart if you’d like it.” She stoked up the sullen fire.

  He patted his firm barrel of a stomach. “That would be most welcome.”

  She opened her cupboard and pulled out the plate with the pastry. “Please sit an’ make yourself comfortable.”

  Marcus sat in the old leather wing chair, where Mr. Pentreath had spent that terrible night when she’d so worried about him dying. She’d stared at that chair, and her empty bed, every night since her sensuous fall from grace. She grabbed a fork and laid the plate and utensil on the table, then fetched a glass of brandy.

  Marcus took a forkful and chewed. “Most tasty, as I always remember your cooking. Much better than the grub and swill we get under sail.” His thick silver hair shone in the firelight. His square features, browned by his years at sea, had grown older, yet he was no less handsome.

  “Why aren’t you still at sea? Has our navy already given up the battle?” She sat across from him.

  “I was quite ill with a fever and sent to Plymouth. Now I’m retiring. This old sea dog yearns to moor himself on dry land.” He finished the tart, picked up his glass and swirled the amber liquid. He sipped the brandy. “Ah, very smooth. Smuggled from France, I don’t doubt.”

  “I have friends who, let’s say, avoid the excise men.” Though she hadn’t bought any bottles lately—this one was her last—because of the expense.

  He laughed, his thunderous voice bouncing off her beamed ceiling. “You are a woman of many talents.”

  She smiled, trying to relax. “What will you do, now that you’ll retire?”

  “I’ve bought into a ship’s supply shop down in Falmouth. I can still see the water from the bow window, but I don’t have to bob away on the surf.”

  “That sounds like an interesting venture. An’ you’ll find a nice woman and finally start a family.” She wondered suddenly how much money Marcus had.

  “That’s why I came up here to Truro.” He winked at her. “Are you happy being a widow?”

  She squirmed and decided to misinterpret his meaning. “I’ve been fair enough. Money is tighter than I might wish.” Jenna then told him about the accusation of poisoning and other related details, though she left Mr. Pentreath in the background.

  “What a torment for you, my dear.” Marcus squeezed her hand in his big, calloused fingers. “And they haven’t found the murderer. The husband is the most likely villain.”

  “’Tis not him. He’s a very decent man.” She pulled away her hand, stood and poked again at the smoldering fire. She hadn’t wished for her tale to wring Marcus’s pity, only his purse for a loan if possible.

  “Decent men, or those we’ve thought decent, have been known to kill.” Marcus snorted. “But what will you do if you cannot remain here?”

  “I will deal with that when it happens.” Jenna met his gaze. “Have you enough money to buy my shop as well? A pirate’s treasure hidden away, perchance?”

  “Hardly. I wish I did and could. But why don’t you give it up and come to Falmouth?” He grinned, his gaze mischievous. “You could help me run my shop, and work your medicines on the side.”

  A few months ago, she might have been tempted. “An’ you would marry me proper, sir?” she taunted to mask her disquiet. “Or carry me off for your debauched pleasure?” At least he hadn’t asked her to give up her trade completely.

  Marcus laughed again. “That’s why I’ve always liked you, no simpering chit even as a mite.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I could never leave Truro.” Except now she was certain it wasn’t the town or shop that held her heart captive here.

  “But I need a good wife.” His face grew serious. “Jesting aside, I’ve always had a fancy for you, even though Lem was my oldest friend.”

  “I’m most flattered, but this is happening far too quickly.” She flushed and picked up the empty plate, nearly dropping it.

  “I am behaving too audaciously. Forgive me. When a man spends grueling months at sea, he is anxious for the love of a good woman.”

  “You’re forgiven, of course.” She’d always liked Marcus, but now her wishes were to ask him for enough money to preserve her life here. However, what life would she really have, waiting for secret meetings with the man she loved? She fought a shiver. “Would you care for anything else to eat? I have some leftover meat pie.”

  “After you’ve scuttled my poor heart?” He thumped on his chest and gave her another wink. “If I give you more time, would you think on it?”

  “I might. Even though another husband would be a handful, especially a wicked sailor like you.” She forced a laugh. She couldn’t ask him for a loan so soon after a rejected proposal. Confused by her emotions, she sighed. “I’ve always thought well of you, Marcus. I will seriously consider your offer.” The lie slipped out too easily. She’d never feel for him what she felt for Branek.

  Marcus stood and clasped her shoulders. “I’m heading back to Falmouth to set up the shop, but I’ll return in a few weeks’ time. I’ll take you for a nice supper at the Red Lion Inn.”

  “Or somewhere else?” She winced. A supper and more conversation might loosen his purse strings, but never again would she enter the Red Lion. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  “As will I.” Marcus kissed her forehead.

  Another man cleared his throat.

  Jenna stared over to see Mr. Pentreath. Her heart lurched.

  * * *

  “Excuse me, I’m intruding.” Branek stiffened. A jealousy that nearly overwhelmed him seared his brain. He’d stepped into the kitchen because he wanted to see who this loud man was he’d heard from out in the shop. His chance alone with Jenna was ruined.

  “Sir, you are always welcome.” Jenna plopped a plate on the table and bustled forward, her cheeks scarlet. “This is my old, dear friend, Mr. Marcus Kellow. We’ve known each other since we were children. He is back from the war in America. Mr. Kellow, this is Mr. Pentreath.”

  Branek stared down at her. Jenna’s eyes darted in nervousness; she should be ashamed after allowing the other man so much familiarity! With difficulty, he tamped down his burning ire.

  “How do you do, sir. It’s an honor.” The silver-haired sailor with the ruddy face smiled at him, yet with a curious glow in his gaze, as if he knew something was amiss.

  Branek had overheard their conversation and wished he’d simply left. He’d longed to embrace Jenna, out there near the quay, but he was insane to consider the disarming concept of love. “Good afternoon, Mr. Kellow,” he said through rigid lips. “How goes the war in the colonies?”

  “Dreadfully, to be blunt. The battle in the Chesapeake was a huge blow for Admiral Graves, and our cause. Word is that their Mister Washington will ride to Yorktown, where Lord Cornwallis is bivouacked. I pray our great lord will have enough men. Too many of our ships are laid up in New York for repairs to bring him reinforcements.” Kellow shook his head. “Those colonials are ruthless. They fight like wild beasts, hiding behind rocks, up in trees.”

  “Beasts are on both sides of the ocean, I daresay.” Branek eyed the brash officer, his breathing like driven nails in his chest. “I’m much displeased, but not s
urprised, to hear this about the war.”

  “Our officers did behave quite scandalous in Philadelphia’s society before they left. Then General Clinton was sent south, hoping to find loyalists.” The sailor snorted and flipped up a large hand. “We did seize Charles Towne, but there weren’t enough folk who supported our efforts.”

  “I read that in the papers. Many loyalists were abandoned by the departing armies.” His reply curt, he thought of Sophie’s still stranded parents.

  Branek felt deficient suddenly, a man who had sat safely home while this fellow had fought in the conflict. He piled that onto his severe disappointment in Jenna.

  “Mr. Kellow was just leaving, weren’t you, Marcus?” Jenna’s gaze darted from him to the sailor, her smile wavering, and somehow sad. “What can I do for you, sir? Would you care to sit? I’ll serve you a brandy.”

  “It wasn’t important, Mrs. Rosedew. I’ll save it for another time. Good day to you both.” Branek made a slight nod, turned and left the shop, his shoulder muscles bundled up in knots.

  She hadn’t waited long to replace him, nor had she seemed too upset that he hadn’t come to visit her earlier. The night hadn’t meant that much to her, apparently.

  She was considering Kellow’s proposal, or so Branek had overheard. Well, she’d told him their differences were an obstacle; he knew it as well. He’d been an idiot to think otherwise.

  Jaw clenched, he walked to Middle Row, stepped into The King’s Head and ordered a beer. He drank the beverage, which gurgled in his stomach, nodded to the people he knew, and resisted kicking a bench across the room.

  He’d feared it wouldn’t last, but one night was cruelty. His deep caring for Jenna—yet he needed to relegate her back to Mrs. Rosedew—he’d misconstrued for love.

  He shoved that sentiment away with his anger and humiliation. Had he been completely wrong about her affection for him? She didn’t seem the type who would have used him to keep her shop safe.

  Nevertheless, it was an act of desperation to pursue the first female who acted sweetly to him after Sophie’s death. He tightened his fingers around the tankard. A selfish lust by a deprived man, and with a most unsuitable woman. He couldn’t promise Jenna marriage. He sagged in the chair as his anger dissolved. She had a right to look elsewhere.

  In a few months’ time, he’d approach Odgers and ask if he might court Hester. There was a woman worth his time. Someone he could marry and present to the best of society. They’d learn to love one another. He gulped down his beer, and ordered another to moisten the choked feeling in his throat.

  * * *

  After Marcus left, Jenna slumped against the door. She hadn’t mistaken the anger in Mr. Pentreath’s eyes. He’d resented the idea of Marcus being there with her. How much had he overheard? His jealousy unsettled, even as it heartened her. She chewed on her lower lip and rattled her brain for what to do.

  “Fie! Hopeless, ’tis all hopeless,” she muttered, fighting tears. If it were simple, she’d rush out to Polefant Place to tell him she loved him and that he’d misunderstood.

  Now he thought badly of her, and she hated that. They’d had their glorious bedding, her senses reordered and bursting, but could she remain his mistress? He could never offer her anything respectable. How unfair to adore someone beyond your reach—like a prized jewel you might stare at, and even touch, but never own. She curled her empty fingers. How did she ever think she could get so above herself?

  She returned to the kitchen and dumped Marcus’s crumb-strewn plate into a bucket. Maybe a life in Falmouth with him wouldn’t be such a sacrifice.

  She wandered out and glanced around her shop, running her fingers over her gallipots and carboys, her white porcelain jars painted with pictures of herbs, their names in Latin, the glasses and jars of her trade—the life that might need to change forever. Still, how could she give up her freedom to Marcus, a man she didn’t love?

  The door opened and she brightened. Perhaps Branek had….

  “Good day, Mrs. Rosedew.” Constable Chenery swaggered in, his glare sucking the air out of her.

  “Constable, what can I do for you?” She crossed her arms, not bothering to sound welcoming. “Have you come to purchase an item or harass me?”

  “I have a report about you.” He spread his feet wide, as if he expected her to bolt through the door. “It’s been told to me that Mr. Pentreath spent the night he was shot, here in your shop. The two of you are mighty close, aren’t you? That does raise my suspicions.”

  “I fetched him a surgeon, there’s nothing more to it.” She dug her fingers into her arms. How had Chenery found out? “Mr. Pentreath was shot close by, an’ came here looking for help.”

  “But yet he refuses to tell me that part. Why?” Chenery sidled closer, eyes narrowed under his caterpillar brows. “The squire seems to come into your shop too often, doesn’t he? I just saw him leave.”

  “He owns this building. He has every right to visit it if he wishes.” The idea Mr. Pentreath might never visit again dropped like a stone inside her.

  “I think it’s more to ravish you with immoral acts, isn’t it?” Chenery leered.

  Her cheeks burned. “I’ve asked you before to stop insulting me.” Although this time, the little weasel was right. Did he know the whole truth? She had to steer him elsewhere. “Stop spyin’ on me an’ wastin’ time. You’re lookin’ in the wrong places for Mrs. Pentreath’s killer. You shou—”

  “Did you ever call in at the Red Lion to find out about your husband’s affair? Men around here can’t keep their hands and other parts to themselves.”

  “I know all about my husband’s actions, an’ need no more filthy tales from you. If you have nothing kind to say to me, then please leave my shop.” She hurried over and opened the door. “Busy yourself finding actual criminals.”

  “I will find out the truth of this, don’t you fret.” Chenery tipped his hat in a mockery of politeness. “I’m close-to-certain Mr. Pentreath did kill his wife, and you might of helped him to feather your corrupt nest.” His eyes twinkled with malice. “You had the expertise, after almost killing your husband’s niece.”

  “How dare you! That was a tragic accident.” She threw out the furious words, jerking the door wider. And this little toad might have once had a fancy for her? His goading cut through her. “You cannot condemn people because you’re jealous or resent them. There has to be proof. You seem much too anxious to convict me an’ the squire!”

  More flickered in Chenery’s eyes, as if she’d hit on the thwarting fact. “I’m looking at every angle, each an’ every lead. But people better stop complaining to the authorities about a man just doing his duty.” He stomped out the door.

  * * *

  Lucinda straightened her skirt as she and Branek sat before the fire in the former solar. “The girl left. She said she was ill. I couldn’t persuade her to change her mind. Grace wanted to stay here on your estate, and kept asking about you.” His sister studied him. “I came as soon as I received your message. So her aunt poisoned her husband, much like Sophie? Suspicious, though not necessarily an indictment of the maid. But she should be questioned, of course.”

  “But where did Grace go, do you know?” Branek’s wariness increased. Why would she run away? Had she cared enough about him to kill? He’d proven he was far from an expert on any woman’s motivations. However, he welcomed his sister’s visit, which distracted him from his brooding these two days after he’d last seen Mrs. Rosedew.

  “I assume she went home to her family.” Lucinda arched a fine brow. “Grace acted overly attached to you. You weren’t unusually ‘close’ with the girl, were you? Is that why you sent her away with me?”

  “You’ve caught me out, dear sister. I’ve had a regular bawdy house here with the young maids.” Branek hunched forward, his elbows on his knees. “I admit I was a little attracted to her, just out of deprivation, and wanted to remove the temptation. I believe she felt strongly about me.”

  “And you
think the girl might have poisoned Sophie, to get her out of the way?” Lucinda nodded and frowned, her gaze troubled. “Stranger things have happened.”

  “Ah, I wish I knew.” Branek rubbed his fingertips along his scalp. “If the investigation wasn’t so botched. And you women weren’t such a mystery. You change your habits, and the meaning behind them, at will.”

  He pictured the woman who really mattered, her silky auburn hair, and murmured words of endearment. His heart thudded.

  “Now you’re reviling all of our fair sex. I can’t totally blame you, but you must get past your unpleasant marriage and find a considerate woman.” Lucinda clasped his arm. “Maybe Grace is the key to the murder.”

  “I should travel up to Bodmin, and see if she did return to her parents.” He really wanted to get out of town for a day; a change in scenery and perspective would do him good. And he’d force the girl to be truthful.

  “You ought to send a constable instead. Not Chenery, if it can be helped. But there is no sense putting more suspicion on yourself.” She smiled in sympathy. “You’ve been through so much. You need a tumultuous affair to lighten your mood.”

  “Blast, Lucinda, that is the last thing I need.” His neck stiffening, he stood and stepped to the hearth. The heat radiated along his legs, but offered no comfort. He took a long breath. “Please, pardon my outburst.”

  “No, I’m sorry. That was offensive. But I am upset because you didn’t write to me about your being shot.” Her voice softened. “I would have come to care for you.”

  “You have your own life, John, the children.” His aloneness spread through him like thick sludge. “I appreciate your concern, but you don’t need to play nursemaid to me.”

  “You still could have informed me. Will told me that the apothecary, Mrs. Rosedew, was quite attentive to you. By the by, our Will looks too skinny.” Lucinda stood. “But he said the widow came out here—”