The Apothecary (Silver Linings Mysteries Book 3)

by Mary Kingswood

  Not all were friendly. Lady Alicia Ransome, a sour-faced elderly woman severely dressed in purple, said everything that was proper to the new bride but without the least warmth in her manner, and when she discovered that Annie’s father was merely a clergyman, and one descended from trade, moreover, and not the scion of a noble family, she lost interest. She said nothing in disparagement, but her mouth pursed up, making her look rather like a prune. She did not stay long, and Annie suspected she would not call again. She was amused to discover later that, for all Lady Alicia’s proud ways and noble father, the family was sadly impoverished, the estate encumbered and both her sons employed as bailiffs, the elder at Willow Place and the younger at Adam Huntly’s estate.

  The highest ranking visitor was the Lady Charlotte Litherholm, aunt to the new Duke of Falconbury, whose home was just the other side of the River Durran. She was a large, rather loud lady, very out of breath, who instantly made the peacock chamber seem smaller. She was accompanied by a companion, as thin and angular as her ladyship was plump and rounded.

  “We never venture far from home these days,” Lady Charlotte boomed wheezily, settling her ample behind on a chair marginally too small for it. “Never at home to callers, never dine out, never invite guests, so do not be insulted not to receive a card from me, Mrs Huntly. We like our solitude, do we not, Camilla?” The companion nodded her birdlike head. “We spend a month or so at Valmont every summer seeing the family, and that is more than enough entertainment for us. Exhausting, is it not, Camilla, having so many relations around one? Camilla dislikes it so! We prefer the peace and quiet of our own dear little house. But naturally one always makes the effort for a new bride, or a betrothal, or condolences, as with Mrs Herbert Huntly. We shall enjoy knowing that you are here, just across the river from us, and you will be such good company for Mrs Herbert. A lady should always have a female companion, for gentlemen never enter into one’s concerns in the same way, do they? That is why I have my dear Camilla with me, for companionship, and neither of us has ever felt the lack of a husband in our lives, have we, Camilla?”

  Her companion murmured in a tiny voice, like a child, “No, indeed, Lady Charlotte, never.”

  Mr Huntly was in a great flutter to have the daughter of a duke in the house, and smiled and fawned over her in a manner that turned Annie’s stomach. She was as respectful of the nobility as anyone could be, she hoped, but there was no need to grovel. She was learning to read her husband’s expressions now, and could see the difference between the smiles of genuine warmth and the less sincere variants. For Lady Charlotte, his smile was excited. For other callers, it was cool and reserved. For Annie herself, she could distinguish between the warm smile of affection when she earned his approval, the eager, almost triumphant, smile of the bedroom and the cold, supercilious smile when she ventured to argue against him or did something he disliked.

  Only one visitor failed to draw a smile of any sort from Mr Huntly, and that was his cousin. Mr Adam Huntly came regularly to call, bringing a little sunshine and lightness into the customary sedateness of Willow Place. Whoever else was visiting, however grave their demeanour, he would quickly have everyone laughing. Everyone except Mr Huntly, who glowered at his cousin with greater ferocity on every visit.

  In the end, they fell out altogether. Mr Adam Huntly had related some long, convoluted tale involving a rabbit, a stile and a very nervous youth of his acquaintance which had the several ladies gathered in the room in gales of hilarity. Annie suspected that it was entirely fabricated, but she had long since set aside her antipathy of Cousin Adam and was pleased to see some amusement in a house which was all too serious most of the time.

  “Really, Mr Huntly, you are too comical for words!” the vicar’s wife said, shaking so hard with laughter that her half-eaten lemon cake bounced off her plate onto the floor.

  “He is perfectly ridiculous!” Mr Huntly snapped. “It is all made up, you know, every word of it.”

  “Of course it is,” Adam said at once, his cheerful smile never faltering. “Did you not enjoy my little diversion, Cousin?”

  “Naturally not, and I will thank you not to fill my wife’s head with such nonsense. If you cannot converse like a sensible man, then you are not welcome at Willow Place.”

  There was a stunned silence, which Annie could not immediately see how to break. She cowered in her chair, hot with mortification, trying not to notice the shocked expressions and raised eyebrows.

  The only unconcerned person present was Adam himself. He rose smoothly and bowed to Mr Huntly. “Your pardon, Cousin. I intended no offence, and offer my deepest apologies for any inadvertently given. As I doubt my ability to converse to a satisfactorily sensible degree, I shall withdraw at once. Your servant, Mrs Huntly. And yours, Mrs Herbert. Mrs Popham, my regards to your husband. Mrs Saunders, I hope to hear better news of your niece soon. Mrs Grey, I shall see you on Thursday evening, and hope for better fortune with the cards than was my lot on the previous occasion. Farewell, all.”

  With that he was gone, and everyone talked with great determination of the weather until the remaining visitors felt it possible to leave. He never came again, and Annie missed his cheerful company more than she could say.

  They received several invitations to dine, but Mr Huntly refused them on the grounds that it was too soon for Annie to venture into society. She was disappointed, but it was not a point where she felt able to question his decision. When the leading families returned to the country for the start of the sporting season, he told Annie, then they would begin to go about and to entertain.

  “I would not have your first appearances in Wiltshire society take place in the drawing rooms of Mrs Grey or Mrs Popham,” he said. “Such people will not add to your consequence.”

  Annie cared nothing for her consequence, but accepted his decision without demur. More concerning was his determination not to return any morning calls. Annie had looked forward to the opportunity to escape the house for an hour or two, but it was not to be. There was always some excuse — the coachman was unwell, or there was rain and he did not wish her to catch a chill, or he thought she was looking tired and needed to rest. Once the excuse was that he had to meet the gamekeeper.

  “That need not hinder Judith or me,” she said. “We may go without you, may we not?”

  But he would not allow it, nor would he order the carriage solely for Judith, so they stayed at home once more. As the weeks passed, Annie grew increasingly frustrated as the number of callers gradually dwindled. Only the vicar’s wife seemed not to mind that her calls were not reciprocated, and came twice a week whatever the weather. Annie could only be grateful for her company.

  When there were no callers, and Annie and her husband had dealt with the chores of the day, he would accompany her for a walk through the gardens or about the parkland surrounding the house. She would have preferred to go with Judith and her daughters, but when she had once or twice proposed such an exercise, he had told her he would not entrust her to Judith’s care, and he would never permit her to walk alone, and so he was her only companion.

  These walks were not as frequent as Annie would have liked, for Mr Huntly was in great fear of exposing her to rain, so whenever he felt there was the least risk, he insisted she stay safely at home. Nor would he believe her when she pointed out that the weather was settled and the wind gentle, and from the south. Her many years’ study of weather patterns under her father’s tutelage weighed not at all with her husband. However, if he decided she would be safe from the threat of a wetting, he allowed her to walk as far as she wished.

  He was good company on these walks, more knowledgeable than she was about birds and beasts, and interested in her expertise with plants. He listened while she discussed her plans to improve the herb garden with Dewey, the head gardener, or gave her requirements for fresh flowers to Davy, the under-gardener. When they walked through the meadows and woods, or alongside the river, she explained to him the medicinal uses for the innumerabl
e varieties they encountered, and he permitted her to take a basket and gather armfuls of whatever interested her.

  “What is this one?” he said one day, as she dug vigorously at a patch of bryony root. “Is it poisonous?”

  “Improperly prepared it can be very unpleasant, but in a mild dose with honey it is efficacious on a cough of long-standing, and clearing phlegm from the throat. Mrs Cumber tells me that Palcock is troubled in that way, so if he is amenable, I might try him on a very low dose once a week to see if it helps.”

  “What would you recommend for… for difficulties of the bowels?” he said hesitantly.

  “That would depend on the type of difficulty,” she said. “For looseness, comfrey or plantain, or flux-weed, of course. For infrequency, rhubarb.”

  “Rhubarb…” He frowned, chewing his lip.

  “Should you like me to make you an infusion? It is too early to collect fresh, but I have a little of the dried root in my medicine chest. A few small slices steeped in white wine overnight, and then the wine drunk in the morning, is very effective.”

  His expression lifted. “Just drink the wine? I should not have to eat the stuff, or… or anything unpleasant?”

  She shook her head. “I shall mix something for you tonight.”

  “Thank you,” he said with one of his warmest smiles, and they walked on together quite in harmony.

  The river made a great loop at this point of its journey, so that the Willow Place parkland was almost an island. A path meandered for several miles along the river bank, with views across the water of farms and fields and Lady Charlotte’s back lawn, yet there was no bridge, it was too deep for a ford or stepping stones, and the only boat house was empty of any boats.

  “How far is it to Lady Charlotte’s house by road?” she asked her husband one day.

  “Ten miles at least,” he said.

  “And six or seven miles to Salisbury, and almost five to the parish church,” she said pensively. “Willow Place is very isolated.”

  “That is its great attraction, its peaceful solitude,” he said, showing her one of his smug smiles.

  The river bank was beautiful, the trees in their full summer majesty and the banks high with sedges and campanula and meadowsweet. Dragonflies hovered over the water, and butterflies flitted from flower to flower. In many places the willows which gave the estate its name clustered along the water’s edge, their long tendrils reaching almost to the surface. Each day they walked along a different part of the river. At one end, a gate led to a place where the river widened into quiet pools at each side before passing under an arched bridge, the road to Lady Charlotte’s home, Durran House. At the other end, a matching gate led to the track to Wickstead village. In between the path hugged the river bank as it wound its sinuous way towards the Avon, every turn bringing a new vista, and every part of it delightful.

  One favoured spot, dappled with sunlight filtering through the leaf canopy, had a fallen tree where Annie liked to sit. The next time they came to that place, she found that her husband had caused a wooden seat to be placed there for her greater comfort. At such times, she felt a great affection for her husband, whose care of her might feel confining at times, but which stemmed purely from love, and a desire to shelter her from all the unpleasantness of life. Then she would sit, quite contented with her choice, while he held her hand and gazed at her features, although he must surely have committed them to memory by now.

  But at other times, when he had again refused to allow her to call upon their neighbours or accept invitations, her resentment writhed inside her like a worm. She looked across the river at the distant chimneys of Lady Charlotte’s house, and pondered distances. Ten miles to Durran House, seven to Salisbury, five to the parsonage in Wickstead village. Having grown up in a town surrounded by friendly neighbours, such isolation made her feel desperately lonely.

  Mr Huntly had been approached very soon after their return from Bath by the leaders of the parish Vestry, who invited him in the most respectful and deferential terms to join their number and offer them the benefit of his worldly advice. He was too flattered to refuse, although he disliked leaving Annie alone, even for the hour or two a week such meetings would occupy, for the church was an inconvenient distance away and he was not much of a rider, preferring to walk. However, he discovered that there was a footpath which would cut off a great loop of the road, and allow him to walk there in a very short time. He contented himself, therefore, with setting her a book to read, or a piece of music to practice while he was out. This she was able to accomplish in a very little time, so she was free at last to improve her acquaintance with Judith and her daughters.

  She discovered that Judith was remarkably cheerful for one who had been widowed at the age of four and twenty.

  “You must have been married very young,” Annie said to her, as they put clean sheets away in the linen cupboard one day.

  “I was seventeen, and very dazzled by Herbert,” Judith admitted. “He was almost twice my age, and seemed so worldly and cultivated to my girlish self. He had been betrothed several years before… or perhaps they were not betrothed, but merely wished to be, I am not very sure. He had been very attached to her, anyway, but she died, and so he clung to her memory for many years. Naturally I was flattered that he chose me, and quite fancied myself in love with him for a while. Such feelings never last, do they? I never quite understood, when I considered the matter dispassionately, why he had ever married me, for he never had a tenth of the affection for me that he had for his mother. On the whole, I cannot help feeling that I should have preferred him to take a mistress. At least then he would have come home from time to time.”

  “His mother lives in Ireland, I understand?” Annie said.

  “She does, so off he went to see her every summer, like the good little son he was. Then he added Christmas as well, and the visits grew longer and longer. The last time, he left here in November and did not start for home again until February. It was a relief when he died, so that I could stop waiting for him to come home. He never told me of his plans, so he would simply appear one day, and it was so unsettling, never quite knowing whether he would be here or there. I did not dislike Herbert and he was not unkind, but he never displayed any fondness for me. He was cold, that was all. Like all men, he did precisely as he wanted. I doubt he ever thought about me at all.”

  “Mr Huntly has never mentioned his mother,” Annie said thoughtfully.

  “Maybe you will find him packing one day and then he will disappear for months,” Judith said, laughing.

  “No, I cannot think he will leave me here alone for so long,” Annie said.

  “True enough. He hates you to be out of his sight. I cannot decide if that is a charming degree of affection, or… something else.”

  But Annie did not want to pursue that line of thought, so she turned the subject.

  One day, she discovered there was a glut of gooseberries to be bottled, so when Mr Huntly went to his meeting, she donned an apron and went to the kitchen wing to offer her help. She had made some of her herbal remedies in the still room previously, but this was the first time she had joined in a purely domestic task with the kitchen servants. All the female servants were there, as well as Judith, and for the first time since her marriage Annie felt the sort of comradeship she had experienced in her uncle’s house. From the kitchen maid up to the mistress of the house, they were united in a single enterprise, sharing not just the work, but also jokes and songs and gossip and laughter. She was so well entertained that she failed to notice the time for her to return to the peacock chamber to await her husband.

  When Mr Huntly returned from his meeting, therefore, he found her missing from her expected station and went in search of her. He burst into the steamy still room, to find a gaggle of aproned women busily engaged in topping and tailing, bottling, mixing, heating and sealing, while chattering away like a flock of birds. At his arrival silence fell, and they all turned and curtsied, Annie included.
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br />   “Whatever are you doing?” he said to her.

  “Bottling gooseberries,” she said, too startled to think of a better answer.

  “Mrs Huntly, you are a lady now, not a scullery maid. Kindly remove your apron and return to your own quarters.”

  “Yes, sir.” She curtsied again, untied her apron, then meekly followed him out of the room and back up the service passageway.

  “I trust I shall never again have to search for you amongst the servants,” he said, in clipped tones. “Look at the state of you — red from the heat, and your soft hands no doubt spoilt with such rough work. You must take better care of yourself, my dear. It seems I cannot leave you even for a few hours lest you fall into bad habits.”

  An apology was on the tip of her tongue, but then she wondered why she should apologise for doing what most married women did, when they were not too grand. How she conducted herself in her own house was her own business, after all. So she lifted her chin and said, “We are rather short of help since Barbara left. Perhaps if we had another housemaid I should not be tempted to fall into bad habits.”

  He frowned, and for a moment she wondered if she had angered him still further, but then he chuckled. “Very well, Mrs Huntly. Another maid. I shall arrange it.”

  “Perhaps Mrs Cumber will know of someone,” she suggested.

  “I am sure she will. There is always someone who has a niece or some such, but there is no knowing where she may have come from, or whether she will be suitable. There is an excellent agency in Salisbury. Sheffield came from there, so I can vouch for the quality of the servants they supply. I will engage to go myself, so that Mrs Cumber need not neglect her duties for the purpose.” He laughed again. “You are quite right, Mrs Huntly. Another maid — that is exactly what we need.”