The Apothecary's Daughter (16 page)

houghts and questions coursed through Lilly all that day and
night. In the morning, she felt quite restless. She wanted to run.
Needed to run. But where in all of London could she do such a thing?
Where were there no eyes ready to censure and report her unladylike
conduct?

No place.

She sighed, took up the cup of chocolate from the tray on her
bedside, and sipped. Chocolate had always helped her moods but did
little to soothe her antsy limbs.

After breakfast, Lilly received a letter. She took it with her into
the sitting room, planning to keep her aunt company while the dear
woman did her daily hour of needlework. Her aunt smiled up at her,
and Lilly smiled in return. No conversation was required. They were
now comfortable enough with one another to enjoy silence as well as
chatter.

The letter was from Mary. As she opened it, Lilly realized mildly that
it was the first she had received from her old friend in several weeks.

When Lilly had first come to London, Mary had dutifully written
every fortnight, if not weekly. And Lilly had written back, though not
always as promptly as she should have. It was difficult that first year,
when she was always so busy with her studies. And now … Well,
she had time in the early mornings, surely, before the day’s round of
calls began, but then with taking exercise in the park, then tea, then
endless evening and late-night social obligations, somehow she rarely
made the time to write home.

She skimmed the few lines in Mary’s small practiced hand, and
experienced the pleasant warmth she always felt upon reading cheerful
reports of new biscuit recipes, the topic of the Sunday sermon, or the
latest village fete she had attended with Charlie, Francis, and Miss
Robbins.

Lilly knew she should write back, but what could she say? She did
not wish to describe the new gowns, the balls, shopping with Miss
Price-Winters on Bond Street and Pall Mall, the museums, the concerts. She could not describe Roger Bromley nor his kind attentions
not when Mary had never known a suitor’s regard.

“From home?” Aunt Elliott asked, eyes on her embroidery.

“Yes. From Mary.”

Lilly would not demur and pretend her days were as ordinary as
Mary’s countrified life no doubt was.

She sighed.

Her aunt, pulling a thread of bishop’s blue through the canvas,
glanced up at the sound. “Everything all right?”

“Oh yes. The usual niceties.” She began refolding the letter. “I
like that blue.”

I shall write back tomorrow, Lilly decided. Or the next day.

“Mr. Adam Graves,” Fletcher announced and backed from the
sitting room.

Startled, Lilly stood abruptly, the letter falling to the floor.

Dr. Graves entered and bowed. “Miss Haswell.”

She curtsied and awkwardly swiped up the letter as she did so.
“You remember my aunt, Mrs. Elliott?” Lilly hoped he would not
mention their recent encounter on Apothecaries Street.

“I do indeed. Ma’am.” He bowed again, a wave of blond hair falling forward and then returning to place as he straightened.

Her aunt nodded but remained seated with her needlework.

“By your leave, ma’am, I have come to ask if Miss Haswell might
accompany me for a drive in the park. Perhaps tomorrow afternoon?”

Her aunt’s expression was pleasantly bland, but the eyes she turned
toward Lilly were full of both meaning and inquiry.

“I was certain we had an engagement for tomorrow afternoon. Are
we not expected at the Langtrys’, my dear? Do you recall?”

Lilly recognized her aunt’s clever phrasing. She was giving Lilly
an excuse if she desired one. Lilly knew her aunt would prefer she
not encourage the man, but she would not forbid her either. He was,
at least, an Oxford man, and must therefore be from a family of at
least modest wealth.

She swallowed. “I believe you are thinking of Friday, Aunt. I recall
nothing on the schedule for tomorrow.”

“Indeed? Well, you would know. That memory of yours. Sometimes I am not sure I should like to have one so keen.”

Dr. Graves cleared his throat. “Excellent. I shall hire a carriage
straightaway. I’ve not my own in town.”

Aunt Elliott’s eyebrows rose.

“I have use of my brother’s, but it is engaged for the morrow.”

Lilly bit her lip. Did he not know hacks were not allowed in Hyde
Park? “Dr. Graves, you needn’t bother. I would just as soon walk.”

“Indeed? Are you quite sure?”

“Quite. At home there was only one thing I liked better than a
country walk.”

“And what was that? “

She glanced at her aunt, then changed the subject. “What time
shall I expect you?”

Dr. Graves arrived promptly to take Lilly for the promised walk in
Hyde Park, only a short distance from her aunt and uncle’s home. He
wore a morning coat of claret with a patterned waistcoat and buff trousers. Her aunt could not complain that his attire was not de rigueur.

Lilly wore a walking dress of ivory corded muslin with a lilac satin
shawl. At her aunt’s suggestion, she wore a large Oldenburg bonnet,
perhaps to keep those of Mr. Bromley’s acquaintance from seeing her
out with another man.

Meeting anyone she knew seemed unlikely, however, as Hyde
Park was sparsely populated in the early afternoon. The fashionable
set did not show up until half past five, when they arrived en masse in
fine carriages and finer carriage dress, and raced and ogled and flirted
until it was time to return home and change into evening dress.

Nor were there any military reviews or driving meets to disturb
their solitude as Lilly and Dr. Graves strolled along the web of walking paths and around manmade Serpentine Lake. As they did, Lilly
did her best to conjure conversation, pointing out flowers in bloom, a
chattering squirrel in a tree, and the occasional dandy in a high-perch
phaeton. Dr. Graves would nod or murmur assent to whatever she
said, but he was clearly distracted.

Finally he said, “Previously, Miss Haswell, you asked about my
fears.”

“You needn’t-“

“I do,” he insisted, then exhaled deeply. “I have diagnosed the
underlying cause, I believe. Though not the prognosis, nor treatment.
I am the youngest of three sons, as I believe I mentioned. We were all
sent to a boarding school reputed for its unwavering discipline. But the
stern headmaster was nothing to my father. We did as he said or the
consequences were severe. To this day I struggle to confront authority
or act in the face of opposition. I was five and twenty before I made a
truly important decision on my own.”

She looked at him and asked tentatively, ‘And what was it, if I
may ask? “

He blinked his startling blue eyes. “Why … to court you.”

She felt her face flush and her heart pound in sweet heavy beats.
They walked in silence for several minutes before he spoke again.

He began abruptly, “I think it only fair to tell you that I was
engaged once, but the lady broke it off.”

“Oh.” She was taken aback. “I … I am sorry.”

He glanced at her briefly, then away. “She was my father’s choice,
but I am afraid neither she nor her mother approved of my chosen
profession. The thought of hospitals, injuries and diseases … all quite
disgusted them both.”

Lilly nodded her understanding.

“I suppose medicine is rather distasteful,” he continued. “Boils
and growths. Infections and bodily fluids …” He stopped, turning
to her, face stricken. “Forgive me!”

Lilly said mildly, “Do not be uneasy on my account.”

“Such talk does not disturb you?”

“No. Though I own it is not my favorite mealtime topic.”

“Of course. But you do not swoon nor faint nor sicken? “

Lilly shook her head.

He paused on the tree-lined path, regarding her with frank admiration. She was tempted to tell him the reason behind her understanding
nature. But her aunt’s cautioning voice whispered in her mind.

“In that case-” he gave a rare smile “there is someplace I should
very much like to show you.”

His smile transformed his features. His frown lines disappeared,
his eyes crinkled, his dimples deepened.

Oh my … Lilly felt her cheeks grow warm as she gazed at him,
glad he could not read her thoughts.

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan….

JOHN KEATS, POET & LICENSED APOTHECARY, 1819

‘^ I r. Graves hired a hackney to drive them to the southeast of
London, to large and impressive Guy’s Hospital.

“I would like you to see where I have spent my days and sometimes my nights this last year gone. This is where I `walk the wards’
as we say, to obtain practical experience. Officially I am a perpetual
physician’s pupil and pay handsomely for the privilege. Or rather,
my father does.” He gave a lopsided grin, blue eyes sparkling. “I have
taken the examination for licentiateship and should learn very soon
whether or not I have passed.”

When they arrived, he paid the driver and helped Lilly down from
the hired coach. She relished the excuse to place her gloved hand in
his, however fleetingly.

He led her through the wrought-iron gates into the open courtyard,
flanked on three sides by the four-story hospital of grey and drab-brown brick. In the center of the courtyard, they passed the statue of Thomas
Guy himself, who founded the hospital nearly a century before.

“Do you know anything about Thomas Guy, Miss Haswell?”

She shook her head.

“I cannot but admire him. He was a man of humble beginnings
the son of a coal monger. He became a bookseller, and amassed his
splendid fortune from the sale of Bibles, among other things. The list
of all he did, all he gave, would run the length of a man’s arm.”

Passing between columns and beneath an archway, they entered
the building. Dr. Graves seemed to come to life within its walls. Gone
was the reticent man she had met at the ball. Eagerly, he led her on an
enthusiastic tour of the main hall, the chapel, the lecture theatre, and
two of the twelve wards.