The Apothecary's Widow

by Diane Scott Lewis

“I don’t wish to talk of her.” He failed to keep the words neutral. He swept Mrs. Rosedew’s face away, for the moment, as sharp discontent gnawed at him again. Bewildered by his feelings of betrayal, he knew he really hadn’t the right to begrudge her seeking a proper life.

  “Branek.” Lucinda joined him in front of the fire, her hand firmly on his shoulder. “Please tell me what else is disturbing you.”

  He nudged the fender with his shoe, the firelight shining on the buckle. “If you must know, I’ve already made a fool of myself—with a woman.” He never could hide much from Lucinda, but he loathed to peel back more layers of humiliation. “I apologize for my irritability. The episode was an ill-judged mistake, which I don’t wish to discuss.”

  “You know I’ll drag every detail out of you. All right, maybe you’ll tell me later over a glass of Madeira.” She rubbed his shoulder. “Did you notify Sir Richard that Grace is from Bodmin? The authorities, not you, need to find her to assess her innocence or guilt.”

  “Odgers said he’s looking into Grace’s whereabouts. Though sometimes I think he enjoys his home fire and port more than investigating anymore. He leaves too much to ineffectual chuckleheads like Chenery.” Branek tapped the marble chimneypiece, trying to redirect his thoughts away from his damaged heart. “What do you think of his daughter, Hester?”

  “Hester Odgers? I believe I’ve only met her once or twice. She seemed a bright, attractive young woman. A sterling graduate of the Tregolls boarding school, where we women are taught to be useful but not too intelligent.” Lucinda studied him with a glint in her eyes. “Are you considering her for a second wife?”

  “Perhaps. Although I might become a recluse instead, and hire more pretty young maids to work here.” Then he thought of his money situation and the distressing news about the war. “Or I’ll kidnap young maidens in the nearest village, and send them on their way when I’m through despoiling them.” He sighed and hugged Lucinda, his sarcasm giving him no relief. “You women are too complicated.”

  “I could hire an agent of inquiry and send them to Bodmin to find Grace,” Lucinda offered, her hand on his cheek.

  “No, thank you, but no.” Branek refused to accept her charity; he’d handle it himself. His dignity had taken enough of a beating. He released his sister. Elbow on the mantel, he leaned his head on his hand. “Pour the Madeira, and I’ll tell you—though she had perfect incentive to cast me aside—about my disastrous all-too-brief affair.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Frustrated by the insufficient tally of numbers in her account book, Jenna jammed her quill into its crockery holder and stared at the page. She blew on the ink to dry it and wished she could blow away her dwindling profits. They were up from the few weeks following the murder, but less when compared to the previous year.

  The door opened. She perked up when a well-dressed woman walked into the shop. Then she saw who it was—Mr. Pentreath’s sister—and the sadness that had clung to her returned in full force.

  “Lady Nancarrow, good afternoon. What may I get for you?” She put on her best official smile to smooth out her anxiety, like a syrup coating a sore throat.

  “Mrs. Rosedew. How nice to see you again.” Lady Nancarrow smiled; her greeting sounded sincere. Garbed in a burgundy velvet cloak, the woman obviously didn’t wear mourning for her sister-in-law. “I haven’t been in this shop for years. It appears very well kept. Do you have any Marechalle Powder?”

  “Ess, that is yes, my lady.” Jenna caught herself, annoyed by her slip of the tongue. She needed to bury her bumbling wits. “How many ounces would you like?”

  “I’ll take two pounds.”

  “Two pounds?” Jenna couldn’t hide her surprise at the large amount. She calculated in her racing mind. “That would be…two guineas.”

  “That’s fine. I have several footmen. And my husband, of course. And many friends, who all need their wigs powdered.” The woman sauntered about the shop, studying the Delft jars. The pink feather in her brown tricorn hat fluttered with her movement. The scent of lavender wafted around her. “I’d also like three bottles of Bateman’s Drops. It is almost winter, and colds and coughs will abound. Also, do you have any of those new tooth brushes that came out last year?”

  “I do, my lady. Let me get the Bateman’s.” Jenna fetched the bottles, clinking the glass together in her rush, and put them on her high, wooden counter.

  “Excellent. I’ll take four of the brushes. If my family doesn’t balk at using them, I’ll need more.” The lady perused the shelves as if to see what else she might purchase.

  “Very good, my lady. ’Tis good to avoid the tooth-puller. An’ keep the breath fresh.” Jenna went to her chest, opened a drawer and withdrew four brushes with their cattle bone handles and swine bristles. She’d tried one herself with a powder made from herbs and her breath had smelled sweet. But it mattered not; she’d no intention of kissing anyone again. She wrapped the brushes and bottles in paper. “I’ll bring out the hair powder for you.”

  “Wait a minute, please.” The lady’s request stopped Jenna in her tracks. “I understand that you took care of my brother after he was shot.”

  Jenna winced, remembering the pleasure of that first, sweet kiss, and turned to the woman, who scrutinized her. “I did, my lady. He was in a bad way, the poor man.”

  Lady Nancarrow raised a neatly plucked eyebrow. “You probably saved his life. You might think me rude, but do you harbor an affection for my brother?”

  Her pulse skittering over the startling question, Jenna faltered for the right words. “I admire an’ respect Mr. Pentreath. He is a fine man.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Lady Nancarrow stepped closer, chin raised, though her gaze was soft. “From what I’ve heard, you like him much more than that.”

  “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but….” Irritation crept in. Had he revealed their intimate secret out of spite over Marcus? He hadn’t seemed the sort. “Mr. Pentreath, your brother, didn’t speak ill of me, did he?”

  “No, he wouldn’t have. He refused to speak of you in particular at all. But he told me of a woman to whom he thought he’d been ‘dear,’ yet he mentioned no name.” The elegant lady glanced toward the front door, then back at Jenna. “I believe that woman is you. Branek is so very unhappy.”

  “Then—we must leave it at that.” Jenna hurried toward her storage room to hide her fluster. She returned with the boxes of powder, her heart heavy. “I’m sorry Mr. Pentreath is unhappy. I’d never wish that to be so.”

  “I can tell. I see it in your face.” Lady Nancarrow’s expression was full of sympathy. She placed a gloved hand on Jenna’s arm. “You care deeply about him.”

  “Yes, I do,” Jenna admitted on a sigh. She placed the powder next to the wrapped packages on her counter, her movements clumsy. “You are a lady who does not hide behind words, an’ neither do I. What I feel for Mr. Pentreath cannot close the social distance between us.” The feel of his embrace quivered inside her. “He must find an’ marry a woman of his own station. ’Tis only right.”

  “Ah, so you don’t wish to become his mistress, is that it?” The woman said in an affable manner, as if the term wasn’t a denouncement.

  “I would…I don’t wish to be a mistress.” Jenna pressed her lips together. She feared she would succumb if Branek came here and implored her. To dampen her longing she thought of Delen Drake. Lem might have implored his doxy to continue their affair. For the first time she pitied—albeit very little—Delen’s position as the whore. Jenna thumbed swiftly through her price list. “That will be two guineas an’ five shillings, my lady.”

  “My brother hasn’t had an easy time of it.” Lady Nancarrow opened the drawstring of her pink silk reticule and withdrew some coins. “I’m certain you know about his miserable marriage.”

  “I’ve heard the gossip.” Jenna grew uneasier with this continued personal discourse. “The arrangement wasn’t fair. He deserves happiness, but with another proper, much
more kinder lady.” She accepted the money, grateful for it, though wondered what the woman ultimately wanted.

  “Did you turn him away after the start of the affair with this advice? Is that why he’s so disillusioned?” Lady Nancarrow retied the reticule’s drawstring, her gaze gentle yet probing.

  “No, I never…. ’Tis for the best, my lady. Please.” Jenna struggled to remain selfless. Yearning for something she shouldn’t have—or someone she never knew she needed—was a painful waste of effort. Did his sadness match hers? “Why would you wish for your brother to have a mistress?” Jenna grew slightly indignant to be nudged in that direction. “He should find a highborn wife an’ be true to her.”

  “Normally, I would agree. But the circumstances are unusual for him.” The woman frowned, twirling a tassel on her reticule. “He isn’t an easy man to get close to, after what he’s been through. I see you have tender feelings for him. Branek needs his friends.”

  “I’ll always be his friend. An’ I’m glad he has such a compassionate sister, my lady.” Jenna turned away to hide her moist eyes. Neither of the Pentreaths acted in the pompous manner she’d always thought the quality would. She snatched up a box. “Would you like me to carry these out to your carriage?”

  “I’ll send my footman in for them, thank you.” Lady Nancarrow went to the door, then she hesitated. “You seem like an honorable woman, Mrs. Rosedew. Sometimes our strict honor leaves us lonely. But I hope everything works out for you.”

  The woman left and Jenna stood at her bow window, breathing evenly to steady herself as she watched the lady enter her coach. Lady Nancarrow had obviously made such an expensive purchase to benefit the shop. What a generous person she was to have bothered.

  Jenna closed her eyes to contain her tears. Unfortunately, the lady’s conversation gave her more reasons to desire further intimate nights with Branek—Mr. Pentreath. But she must stay away from him, to protect him, and herself, because of Chenery’s threat. She needed to figure out what her next move should be. And what would be the best for her, Mr. Pentreath, and the business she hoped to preserve.

  * * *

  After receiving a message about further problems at the mine, Branek rode to Poldice Valley the next day. He approached the engine house of Wheal Marya—a miniature castle with its stone stack like a turret jutting into the sky. The wind over the valley cut through him and he stepped inside. The engine wheezed, hissed and clattered, the noise ringing in his ears.

  Wrinkling his nose at the oil fumes, he watched the intricate movement that held men’s lives in its metal grasp. Pistons rammed up and down inside cylinders where steam condensed to water; the outside pressure forced the pistons down. Attached to a beam by a rod, which connected to a water pump, the engine’s thrust forced the pump to suck up the water from the mine shafts.

  The machine was an expensive piece. Every year, he had to pay a license fee to Watt, and the inventor supplied no one to repair it. If the pump failed, the miners would drown.

  What a damp, noisy place to have to work. Add in the dank shafts where the tinners labored, and he sympathized with their harsh conditions.

  Intent on privacy, Branek looked to his captain who’d followed him in at his request. “Is it the mine or the miners who are giving you difficulties?”

  “Both, sir. We need the funds to go deeper in the shafts,” Nerth said, his raspy voice loud to compensate for the clamor. “An’ more men, not less, an’ not less wages. The men threaten to look for work elsewhere.”

  “I realize it sounds like an excuse, but I’m doing what I’m able to. Here is all I can spare. Give each man a small bonus.” Branek removed a leather purse full of coins, which he handed to Nerth. He’d sold his mother’s Chippendale sideboard, along with a few other items. “I wish I had more to spend. As soon as I do, I’ll provide it.” He had little hope for the war to be in England’s favor now. He might be forced to secure a loan from Lucinda, but hated to be a grasping relation. He prayed his increased wool production would bring in more revenue eventually.

  Branek stared at his hulk of a captain, whom he needed on his side. “I am concerned about the conduct of the miners. It might be someone here who shot me. And a lout threw a rock at me the other day. Who do you think is the most likely man? Who gives you the most trouble?”

  Tinners were known for riotous behavior. Eight years ago, Lord Falmouth had used his influence to quarter soldiers in the town to prevent such unrest, as thousands had stormed the streets.

  “I don’t like to tell tales.” Nerth’s dirty face creased with a frown. “I’ll talk to the men again, an’ warn them. But many are desperate, an’ a few are surly rogues. You take what you can find to get a man to crawl down a shaft an’ do that kind o’ rough work.” The captain scowled. “Constable Chenery was out here asking questions ’bout the shooting. He’s a sneering little snake.”

  “We still must cooperate.” Branek’s lips twitched over that assessment. With Chenery’s uncle dead, it was a wonder the little man had any influence left to retain his position. He was known to take bribes. Was there someone else insistent on framing him for his wife’s murder? “So I hope you were accommodating toward him.”

  Tired of shouting above the sound of the engine, Branek waved Nerth back outside. “I also want to know what your intentions are toward Mrs. Sandrey.”

  Nerth almost smiled, a rare expression for him. “She an’ I flirt about a bit. No harm in it, sir.” He acted impervious to the chilly gusts that swooshed through the valley, as if years of grime protected his flesh.

  Branek huddled for warmth in his coat. “Even so, I expect you to treat her with respect. If you don’t have marriage in mind, don’t play with her affections.” His housekeeper deserved someone kind to comfort her, but illicit affairs—and marriages—could go so badly. His gut clenched.

  The men who comprised the change of core tramped up the rocky slope, pickaxes and other tools over their shoulders. Their voices carried on the wind: grumbles, laughter, a few songs. The stink of body odor hung around them like a fog.

  A lanky young man approached Zeus, who was tethered close by. “A fine horse, you are, ’tis true? Such a pretty beast to come visit us in our lowly place.”

  Zeus snorted and tossed his head, as if in agreement, but not welcoming the attention.

  “Who is that man?” Branek tensed at the way the miner waved the point of his pickaxe near Zeus’s nose.

  Nerth squinted. “That’s Lew Polwin. He’s usually a hard workin’ lad.”

  “Be careful, son,” Branek called. “No need to upset my horse.”

  “Ess, sir. I wouldn’t want to do that.” Polwin stepped away then tugged his forelock, though it appeared more derision than deference. Or perhaps Branek read too much into everything of late.

  “He might have been a-tipplin’,” Nerth said with a shake of his head. “Not good, but he has a sick wife an’ babe. Many worries.”

  “But men always find money for beer or ale rather than a doctor,” Branek muttered before remorse overtook him. “How are your wife and child?” he asked Polwin as he walked closer.

  The man hunched his shoulders, his leather miner’s hat pulled low. “They’re gettin’ by, barely, as are we all, sir.” Polwin dipped his head and rushed past Branek toward the mine entrance.

  Branek returned to Nerth, speaking quietly. “Don’t allow any men to work if they’ve been drinking heavily. It’s too dangerous.”

  Could this young man have been the one who shot him? He had the right build and acted nervous. Branek looked again at Nerth. “Please keep a sharp eye on Polwin.”

  “The lad has been a bit reckless lately, I’ll warrant.” Nerth nodded.

  Branek stared after the young man, then untied Zeus and mounted. He rode farther along the ridge where an abandoned engine house slumped, clinging to the cliff side. His father had owned this mine, until the tin ran out. Wheal Blanche had been named after his grandmother. His younger sister was her namesake. Brane
k had explored here while growing up. Now it stood empty and neglected. He tightened his fingers on the reins. So much loss.

  His life seemed one loss after another. He sighed. Perhaps he should stuff away his pride and go to speak with Mrs. Rosedew. He could at least get the facts, painful as they would be, about her quick change of heart.

  But first he’d travel to Bodmin. Chenery had located Grace at her parents’ home, but had gained no information from her. Ill-advised as it might be to seek her out, Branek would take the magistrate with him to preserve decency. Together they’d demand the truth about whether the maid had anything to do with Sophie’s poisoning.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Horace rustled the paper in his hands as he sat at Jenna’s kitchen table. “This letter confirms it. My friend says the deacon left Exeter in less than honest circumstances.”

  Jenna tried to read the scribbled writing over his shoulder. “I’m relieved to hear we found something curious about the man. What was the reason?” She cleared the remnants of the meat pasty he’d eaten from the table.

  “Missing money, m’dear, just like the suspicions at St. Margaret’s.” Horace grinned up at her with his bulldog face. “They couldn’t prove it, but asked the deacon to find a living elsewhere. This might be the answer to the murder. Mrs. Pentreath making threats to him could have put the man in dire straits, not to mention into a rage.”

  “Deacon Tregere seems so mild. He admitted to visiting the lady in her illness, but that would have been expected.” Her hopes rose with a slight lessening of the burden. A dim light in these dark days. She threw the crumbs into the smoldering fire. “I must tell Magistrate Odgers immediately.” Perhaps the murder would be solved and her trade would return to normal.

  “Why don’t you inform the squire?” Horace broke into her thoughts.

  “No, I’ll speak to the magistrate.” She wouldn’t trouble Mr. Pentreath, though he’d be anxious for this news. A few days had passed since his sister’s visit and Jenna had secretly hoped he would stop in to speak with her. But he hadn’t. She stuffed down her ridiculous disappointment.