The Apothecary's Widow

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “You can’t fool me. I wanted to disregard it, but you have quite the fancy for Mr. Pentreath, don’t you?” Horace watched her carefully as he folded up the letter.

  “Never say such things. I don’t want vicious gossip to spread.” Her sharp tone made her friend’s eyes widen. She suppressed a twitch and made light of it. “People already whisper about you an’ me, you old rascal.”

  “They know I’m harmless. And my Mary has me by the shirttails. Or rather by more private places I won’t mention in front of a woman.” Horace snickered, but his gaze turned serious. “Don’t waste your time pining after your betters.”

  Jenna thrust her hands on her hips. Irritation shoved aside sadness. The fact Horace was right made it worse. “How do you know how I feel?”

  “I see it in your eyes every time his name is mentioned, m’dear.” His brows rose; his gaze remained solemn.

  “Leave my eyes out of it. An’ I have no plans to waste anything, betters or no.” She wished her errant eyes and face would behave when it came to Mr. Pentreath. Her body grew sodden, despite her best efforts, like sopping-wet laundry before it was squeezed through a mangle.

  “I’m duly chastised. I heard Marcus Kellow is back from the sea. Has he paid you a call?” Horace picked at a hangnail on his finger. “He’s such a blustery man, he makes me seem tame.” His change of subject didn’t fool her.

  “He has. Marcus has been down in Falmouth arranging a business venture, but promised to stop by again to…visit. I seem to be quite the busy woman with all my men.” She snatched up a nearby broom and swept more crumbs across her plank floor into a neat little pile; life should be so easy to control. Marcus wanted an answer to his proposal, but Jenna would refuse him. She couldn’t leave Truro. Lady Nancarrow said that her brother needed his friends. Jenna’s mouth pinched. She’d still be Mr. Pentreath’s friend, if and when he required anything. Selfishness crowded in on her as well; she didn’t wish to give up her shop—or leave the city she loved.

  “Well, I suppose I should be off to pester my own parlor.” Horace rose with a grunt. He made a futile effort to button up his frock coat. “I’ll advise you to tread carefully, because I am your dear friend. I don’t wish to see you get your heart crushed.”

  The old rascal seemed to read her mind. Of course, he might have been talking about Marcus. “I’ll manage my own heart. ’Tis too shriveled into a dried little pea for crushing.” Her words came out defiant, because she detested pity. If Pentreath stayed away, perhaps it was for the best—for now. “I do thank you for your help.” She reached out her hand. “Please give me the letter an’ I’ll show it to JP. The sooner the better.”

  * * *

  The stage coach drove past St. Petroc’s golden-stoned fifteenth-century church, and Bodmin’s notorious new gaol. The vehicle creaked and the horses’ harnesses jangled as they stopped at a tavern on the Fore Street where Branek alighted with four other passengers.

  He disliked the expenditure of the coach fare, but didn’t wish to exhaust Zeus in the twenty mile ride. Ignoring his fellow occupants while pretending to sleep, he hadn’t wanted anyone to ask why he journeyed here. He silently cursed that Odgers wasn’t able to accompany him after he’d suffered a severe attack of the gout at the last minute and couldn’t travel.

  The air was thick with dampness—an early winter seemed upon them, though it was only late autumn—and Branek pulled his cloak close.

  He left the center of the town and followed a winding lane. Mrs. Sandrey had given him directions to the Coryn’s small home on the outskirts. Mr. Coryn was an assistant to a pewterer who had a shop nearby. Unfortunately, pewter wasn’t as popular as it used to be.

  He found the simple stacked-slate cottage, then hesitated. Was he doing the right thing, or causing further difficulties by seeking out Grace? He forced his gloved hand up and knocked.

  A slender, pale woman answered. Her smile brightened her tired face. “May I help you, sir?”

  “Good day. Are you Mrs. Coryn?” Branek removed his hat and assumed she was; she had the same delicate beauty as her daughter. He’d never met this woman when Grace joined his household eight years before.

  “I am, sir.” She inclined her head.

  “Nice to make your acquaintance.” His greeting sounded too anxious. “I’m Mr. Pentreath of Polefant Place. Is your daughter Grace at home?”

  “Oh, sir, I’m that pleased to finally meet you. You honor us. Please come in.” She opened her door wider.

  He entered the small, tidy parlor. A few shabby pieces of furniture sat in a lingering scent of overcooked food and the mutton-fat smell of cheap candles.

  “Would you care for tea, or some ale?”

  “No, please don’t go to any trouble.” He tightened his hat in his hands. “Is Grace here? I need to speak with her if that is possible.”

  “I will fetch her in a moment. I’m that sorry to hear about your wife, sir. A constable was here to talk to Grace, but she won’t give me any details.” The woman cocked her white-capped head as if waiting for him to supply the information. Then she whispered, “My girl should never have left Lady Nancarrow’s service.”

  “Mam, who is visiting? I thought I heard….” The willowy Grace entered the parlor. Loose strands of blonde hair floated about her flushing cheeks. “Mr. Pentreath!” She smiled, her voice breathless, then she curtsied. “I am pleased to see you, sir.”

  He felt a nudge of discomfort. This young woman, now two and twenty, had once filled his thoughts with vulgar ideas. “Miss Coryn,” he said, when he used to address her as simply Grace. “May I have a few moments of your time?”

  “Of course, sir.” Grace’s blue eyes shone too brightly. “Whatever you need.”

  “As I said, sir, you honor us deeply with your visit.” Mrs. Coryn shifted her feet, her beige skirt with yellowed apron swaying. She resembled a moth caught between the flickering lamps of her daughter and Branek. “Please reconsider, an’ have some tea.”

  “Very well, I will take tea. Thank you, my good woman.” He intended for the mother to flitter off and prepare it, so he could talk with Grace alone.

  Mrs. Coryn bobbed her head and left the parlor.

  Grace waited, her face alight with expectancy, as if he’d brought her an offer of marriage. “What did you wish with me, sir?”

  Branek should have left the matter alone and pushed for Odgers to investigate more thoroughly. The edges of his felt hat crumpled under his fingers. “I understand that Constable Chenery was here. Can you tell me what he said to you?”

  She dropped her gaze. “Ess, he was most disagreeable. Didn’t want to believe anything I said. He spoke about Mrs. Pentreath an’ the poison in her medicine.” Her narrow shoulders sagged. “He wanted to know if you had asked me to put the arsenic in the infusions.”

  Branek stepped back, thrown off-guard. Chenery still sought to blame him! How far would the weasel go to assuage his grudge? Or was someone pulling the little man’s strings? A person with a different agenda? “And what did you say to that?”

  “I said I would never have done such a thing.” She gazed up at him, her smile inviting. “An’ you were too worthy a man to have asked me to.”

  “I appreciate that,” he said, his relief mixed with discomfort at her expression. He took a deep breath to steady himself. “What else did Chenery question you about?”

  “He brought up my aunt, who was convicted of killing her husband with the same poison,” Grace whispered. She moved closer, smelling like attar of roses, just like Sophie.

  Branek recoiled at the scent and its acrid memories. “Did you—did you convince him of your innocence?”

  “Naw, sir. He said if he found out I was helping you, he’d be back. But I know I done nothing wrong.” She touched his arm.

  “Here is the tea. I always have the kettle on.” Mrs. Coryn bustled in with a tray, cups rattling. “I have bread an’ dripping, too. I’m afeared there’s no butter, sir.”

  Grace slippe
d back her hand. “I’ll serve, Mam.” She helped her mother place the tray on a low table. “Please be so kind an’ leave us to talk.”

  Branek stepped farther away from Grace, almost brushing her touch from his sleeve. Should he insist that the mother stay as a buffer? But he might lose Grace’s candidness.

  Mrs. Coryn stared from one of them to the other, eyes sharper. “I hope everything is all right. I’ll go an’ ask my neighbor if she has any butter. I won’t be long.”

  “Did the constable say anything else significant?” Branek asked after the woman pulled on a shawl and left the cottage.

  “He only seemed set on finding guilt in you.” Grace poured tea into a plain crockery cup and handed it to him. “You believe I didn’t change her medicines, don’t you?”

  “Do you swear you are innocent? You did and saw nothing?” He gulped down the weak tea, desperate for the truth.

  “I am most blameless, sir.” She said it airily, then watched him with moon-calf eyes that further unsettled him.

  He struggled to perceive any deviousness in her nature. However, he mused with regret, women could disguise their feelings all too well.

  “I commend you for the excellent service you gave to my wife.” Perhaps cajoling would drag more out of Grace. “Were you happy working for her?” He set his half-empty cup onto the tray.

  “I was very good to Mrs. Pentreath. I always hoped she’d be a better wife to you.” Grace nodded, more blonde tendrils of hair loosening from under her white cap. “You deserved better.”

  He heard possessiveness in her tone, and burned with embarrassment; but he began to wonder if he did deserve better. He kept his voice gentle. “Did that make you feel resentful toward Lady Pentreath?”

  Grace bowed her head as if to conceal her reaction. “Sometimes.” She glanced up at him again and fluttered her eyelashes like a courtesan in a play. “You might hire me back. I’m that sorry I deserted Lady Nancarrow, but I wanted to stay at Polefant Place.”

  “If you are hiding anything, I expect you to tell the truth to me or to the magistrate.” He waited, fingers twisting at his hat, hoping for her to give him a hint of a confession. Or maybe she’d seen someone else do the deed.

  “Oh, sir, I wouldn’t hide anything from you.” She raised her small hands in supplication, her grin wide. How had he ever found such insipidness alluring?

  Branek’s stomach churned. He had one more question. “You told me ‘after all you’d done’ how could I send you away, when I dismissed you. What exactly did you mean by that?”

  “Only that I was a proper maid, an’ tried to keep the mistress pleased.” Her words sounded more sulky than sincere. “Please hire me back, to be close…to the place where I was happy.”

  “I cannot promise I’ll hire anyone soon.” He shouldn’t have come; he’d got nowhere. The girl was too much in awe of him, and calculating in her flirtation. He’d lean hard on Odgers to interrogate her.

  Filled with restlessness and frustration, Branek slapped on his hat. “Give your mother my apologies, but I cannot stay. The Magistrate will be in touch soon. If you have anything more to add, be certain to inform him.”

  Grace turned her back to him, body stiff. “Don’t forget me, if you do hire.”

  “Indeed. I give you good day.” Branek pushed open the front door and reached the street in an instant. Striding back into the city, dirt turning to cobbles, he cursed. Grace might be hiding something, her last reaction odd. He’d once thought her a nice girl, but passion made people behave in bizarre ways, as he well knew.

  His throat seized up and he hurried his pace. He’d be damned if he allowed Chenery to send him to the gallows.

  Chapter Twenty

  Branek shaved carefully, studying himself in the mirror. His reflection showed a man with weary eyes who needed more sleep. He brushed back his hair and tied it in a queue. Missing his valet, perhaps he’d hire another one when his finances improved.

  He fitted the black armband over his frock coat sleeve. At first a burden, now the cloth had become an inconsequential adornment—the last yoke of his marriage. Yet his heart twinged. Divorces should be cheaper, and simpler, or arranged marriages abolished.

  He wound his cravat around his throat, then paused in the tying, lips quirking. Today he would visit the apothecary shop.

  When he’d returned from Bodmin yesterday, Odgers informed him that Mrs. Rosedew had provided incriminating information about the deacon. The magistrate’s own inquiries hadn’t uncovered such detailed intelligence. Odgers promised to question the churchman personally, but Branek had doubts. Sad to admit about a friend, but perhaps the old baronet should give up his JP duties to a more diligent man, one who would act quicker on clues, and then possibly remove Chenery.

  Branek grimaced. The deacon could be the solution to the crime, though he still couldn’t rule out Grace. He only wanted himself and Mrs. Rosedew to be exonerated.

  He entered the corridor. Mrs. Sandrey stood in front of Sophie’s room, her usual grin absent. “Do you need something, Mrs. Sandrey?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve been going through Mrs. Pentreath’s clothing, as you asked me, to donate to the church for them to give to the poor. I was very careful, as always.” She stared at her shoes and pulled a letter from her apron pocket. “I found this tucked away, in the back of her clothes press.”

  The housekeeper acted like she’d read it because she had trouble meeting his eyes, her brow furrowed as if disturbed by the contents. Sophie had taught a few of the staff to read well, to have them fully appreciate the tenets of the Bible.

  He forced himself to smile. “Thank you for being so conscientious.” He took the letter. “You will say nothing about this, of course?”

  “I would never, sir.” She bowed her head.

  He reentered his chamber and closed the door. Not anxious to know what had upset his housekeeper, he slowly opened the page and read.

  Darling Moses, I hope this finds you well. By God’s grace, we should all be well to do our daily tasks. I continue to be an assiduous wife, but Mr. Pentreath is still as he is, a man who does not respect the teachings of our Lord as he should. He does not understand that his irreverence turns me from him. I am often at my wits end, and I pray he repents, but more on that another time. And no one understands what I have suffered in being forbidden the purpose for marriage, the procreation of children.

  I haven’t been in the best of health today, being very tired and remiss in my duties. Your letters bring me comfort. I will try to see you the next time I leave the manor and city, when I’m out performing my good works abroad. I miss your company, as no one discusses the scriptures with me as well as you do.

  I must end now, as the light hurts my eyes and I wish to rest. I will try to send this out with the next post. My precious love for you never wanes.

  Yours always, S

  Branek refolded the letter. He felt only a nip of pain with the realization that his wife might have had a secret lover. How beyond her character he once would have thought, until his suspicions over Treen. Mere curiosity pushed its way into his mind, and a strange empathy that Sophie had also suffered in her childless state. Something she’d never shared with him.

  Who was this Moses? Treen’s first name was Charles, though people often had pet names for one another. And a fake name was better for secrecy. Certainly even Sophie wasn’t so pious that she had friends of biblical proportions.

  Branek almost crumpled the letter before catching himself. He was past lamenting that his wife never showed him any affection. But the identity of this person might prove helpful in the murder case.

  He chuckled—glad that he could—at the mention of his irreverence. Their differences had been much more than his not being as devout as she required. No one could have been more mismatched than he and Sophie.

  He thought of Jenna’s earthy presence and bold nature. A smile tugged at his mouth. Why should station define who belonged together?

  Slipping the
letter into the drawer of his clothes press—he was leery about showing it to anyone, thus giving himself more motive for murder—he headed downstairs, ready for a brisk ride into Truro.

  * * *

  Branek sidestepped a man pushing a vegetable cart and walked farther down St. Nicholas Street assailed by the rotting scent of leftover cabbages and cauliflower from the vegetable wagons. He continued his pace and straightened his shoulders. He had a perfect right to drop into the shop and discuss the evidence about the deacon with Mrs. Rosedew. He’d forgo his pride and find out more about her and her sailor.

  Several buildings down, the shop door opened and she emerged on the arm of the naval officer. They were laughing and talking. Branek halted. His chest felt gouged out as the pair turned the opposite way and strolled toward West Bridge.

  He had his answer. Jaw clenched, he whirled about and headed east, back the way he’d come. Carriages and carts rattled past; a man tipped his hat to him, which he barely acknowledged.

  Fresh humiliation threatened to overwhelm him, but he shelved the pain deep inside. He hated again to think she’d only used him, and how badly he’d misconstrued her feelings for him. And since her rent problem wasn’t resolved, he wondered at her quick abandonment.

  Still selfishly wanting her, he reasoned she’d have a better chance of happiness with the sailor. She was an astute woman, looking to her own future, and Branek must respect her for that. He fisted both hands. Theirs was an impossible relationship best forgotten.

  Darkness, like his bleak thoughts, draped over the town and through him. The sun set so early now. All Hallows had just passed and the brisk November air cut into his bones. A few people were lighting lanterns and oil lights attached to their residences and shops.