The Apothecary's Daughter (18 page)

illy flipped through the letters on the silver tray on the
i sideboard.

“Strange,” she muttered.

Her aunt peered at her over the half-spectacles she wore for reading. “What is, my dear?”

“I wrote to my father nearly a fortnight ago and have yet to receive
a response.

Lilly had at last written a few lines to her father the same day
she had finally sent a note to Mary to wish her old friend a happy
birthday.

Her aunt refolded her own letter. “Perhaps he is busy. Or the post
was delayed.”

“I do hope he is all right.” Though she had not seen her father
in over a year, they had corresponded regularly. Her planned visit
last Christmas had been canceled when her aunt came down with a worrisome fever. Lilly had stayed in town to nurse her, and somehow
the visit home had never been rescheduled.

“Of course he is. He would send word if there was anything amiss,
would he not?”

“I hope so.” Now that Lilly thought of it, his letters had become
increasingly infrequent.

Her aunt slit open a second letter and began to read. She looked
up at Lilly again, eyes bright.

“My dear, you will not believe it!”

“What is it? I have rarely seen you so animated.”

“The Bromleys have accepted our invitation to dine with us on
Saturday. They must realize Roger has selected you particularly. This
is a most telling attention, to be sure.”

“But we invited them.”

Ruth Elliott went on undeterred, “Mark my words, Lillian. Roger
Bromley will very soon be making you an offer.”

“Oh, Aunt, I do not think so.”

Lilly had hoped for such from Mr. Bromley since the end of last
season. For beyond wishing to please her aunt by making a good match,
she genuinely liked him. But now, with Susan Whittier on the scene,
Lilly had all but given up that hope. Depressing though it was to lose
the man’s gallant addresses, Dr. Graves’s attentions had served to
lessen her disappointment.

“My dear…” Aunt Elliott removed her spectacles. “Tell me you
will not reject Roger Bromley in favor of that Graves fellow.”

Would she? Had she not given him leave to speak to her uncle on
her behalf believing Mr. Bromley lost to her?

Her aunt leaned closer. “Lillian, if Roger Bromley proposes, promise me you’ll not let the likes of Dr. Graves spoil your chance at an
excellent marriage. Your uncle and I are offering a substantial dowry
and annual allowance. The Bromleys will have nothing to object to
on that account.”

Though on several others, Lilly thought, but forbore to say so.
“That is very generous. I had no idea.”

“What more can we do to show you our feelings?” Tears shimmered in her aunt’s eyes. “We look upon you as our daughter
and desire your every happiness. We will do all within our power to
see you well wed.”

Moved, Lilly reached across and squeezed her aunt’s hand. “Very
well. If Mr. Bromley proposes, I shall duly consider.” Though she
doubted she would need to, for despite the upcoming dinner, Lilly
still believed Roger Bromley would soon be directing his addresses
elsewhere.

“Wonderful girl! ” Her aunt beamed. “Oh, you have a bright future
ahead of you!”

On Saturday, Lilly was pacing the hall when she heard a carriage
door close. Were the Bromleys early? She hoped not. Her aunt had not
yet finished dressing and would want to greet their guests when they
arrived. Lilly stepped to the hall window. The sight of the caller was
worse than unfashionably early guests. Panicked, Lilly went to the
door herself, opening it to the man before he even knocked.

“Dr. Graves! We were not expecting you.,,

He smiled at her seemingly enthusiastic greeting. “You suggested
I call on your uncle. So, here I am.”

“Did I? Well, I am afraid this is not a good time. We are expecting guests any moment.”

“Oh?” He raised his brows in expectation, but she did not supply
a name.

“Yes, so if you would be good enough to return another time?”

He frowned. “But I have spent the day rousing my courage and
pressing my best frock coat. I hate the thought of having to start the
whole dreadful process over again another day.”

“I am afraid you must.” She began to edge the door shut.

“Lillian?” Her uncle appeared in the entry hall behind her.
“Where is Fletcher? You needn’t … Oh, good day. Graves, is it?”

“Yes, sir. I had hoped to speak with you if you can spare a
moment.”

Lilly said, “I have just been telling Dr. Graves that we are expecting guests at any time.”

“True, true,” Jonathan Elliott said. “But, well, they are not here
yet and you are. My wife is still dressing, but I am as good as I get,
as you see.” Her uncle chuckled. “Come back to the library, Graves,
and tell me what this is about….”

A quarter of an hour later, Lilly was still pacing the hall, but now
for a different reason. She had hoped to see Dr. Graves out the door
before the Bromleys arrived, but he and her uncle had tarried too
long. Fletcher was just taking the Bromleys’ coats and hats when Dr.
Graves and her uncle reappeared in the hall.

“Graves?” Roger said. “I did not expect to see you here.”

“Nor I you.”

Roger turned to his parents. “May I introduce Mr. Graves,
a new physician attended the same college as Uncle Thomas, I
understand.”

Mr. Bromley smiled. “An Oxford man. Excellent.”

“My parents,” Roger continued. “Mr. and Mrs. Bromley.”

“Perhaps you would like to join us for dinner, Dr. Graves,” Uncle
Elliott suggested kindly.

“Thank you, sir, but I would not wish to intrude.”

Awkward silence filled the hall. Finally her aunt filled it, saying dutifully, but without warmth, “Of course you are welcome, Dr.
Graves.”

Mr. Bromley, senior, surveyed her from across the dining table.
“Your parents, Miss Haswell. Would I know them?”

Wariness filled her. “I would not think so, Mr. Bromley. My father
did live in London for a time, but that was many years ago now.”

Her aunt deftly stemmed unwanted inquiries by adding, “And
her mother has been gone these several years.”

“Oh, I am sorry to hear it,” Mrs. Bromley said. “And Mr. Haswell.
He is … ?” The elegant woman raised her brows in expectation, too
polite to ask if her father had a profession or, worse yet, a trade.

Ruth Elliott sweetly ignored the implied question. “I am sure he
is faring as well as can be expected on his own.”

Mr. Bromley skewered a hunk of roast pork from the nearby
platter and set it on his plate. “How does he occupy his time, Miss
Haswell? “

Lillian licked her suddenly dry lips.

Her aunt answered in her stead. “Missing our Lillian, no doubt.
How long have you been with us now, my dear? Two years?”

“Not quite so long, but above a year, yes.”

“And do you enjoy London?” Mrs. Bromley asked, taking the
bait.

“Oh yes. The city is fascinating, and I have met so many wonderful people.”

“The Price-Winters family have taken special interest in our
niece,” Ruth Elliott added. “Such close friends the girls are.”

“Yes, but from where do you hail, Miss Haswell?” Mr. Bromley
persisted, sawing at his meat with knife and fork.

“Wiltshire, sir.”

“Wiltshire!” the man enthused. “I have been there. I shall never
forget it.”

Lilly smiled. “It warms my heart to hear you say so.”

“Then you no doubt know of the Wiltshire miracle?”

Lilly’s smile faded. “I am not sure…”

He set down his utensils and stared off into his memories. “Must
be ten or twelve years ago now. Several of us gentlemen went to a
house party there, to enjoy a bit of hunting in the country. Well, a
bit of gaming, too, truth be known. One evening, after a long day
of shooting very ill, we were all well in our cups and pipes, when the
man of the house my chum’s father died. Right there in front of
us all. Thomas rushed to him, but said the old man was stone dead.
Still, the servants scurried about and called for the local apothecary.
In this fellow comes, and the servants carry the body away to another
room, the apothecary and my chum following behind. Well, I have to
admit, the rest of us returned to our cards and quite put it from our
minds. Death making one want to eat, drink, and be merry.

“But then, lo and behold, not an hour later, my chum Marlow
rushes back into the room and proclaims the apothecary had worked a
miracle. His father was alive and well and asking for his supper! Well,
that spoilt the weekend for the rest of us, I can tell you. Nothing like
a miracle to sour the taste of port and pipe.”

He lifted his glass to signify the end of his story. Murmurs of
amused approval rose up from the others.

“Clearly the man was not dead,” Dr. Graves declared. “Merely
fainted or unconscious.”

Mr. Bromley took a drink and set down his glass. “Normally I
would agree with you, sir, and take first seat among the mockers, were
it not for one fact. My own brother confirmed him quite dead.”

“But anybody might mistake “

“He is a physician, young man, a master at that college of
yours.

Dr. Graves faltered. “Wait … Thomas Bromley?”

“That is what I’ve been telling you.”

“He is very skilled, very knowledgeable, I admit,” Graves said.
“I sat under him for several courses.”

Mr. Bromley nodded, sealing his point. He turned to Lilly. “Being
from Wiltshire, I imagine you have heard the tale?”

Lilly had barely parted her lips when she saw her aunt’s eyes flash
warning. Ruth Elliott shook her head in the slightest of rebuttals,
urging her to do the same.

“I forget the man’s name,” Bromley went on. “Something with
an H, I believe. Howard, or Hatfield …”

Her aunt half rose from her seat. “Why do the ladies not withdraw
and leave the men to their port? “

“Come to think of it, the apothecary had a scrap of a child with
him. A little girl.”

“Miss Haswell?” Dr. Graves turned to her, frowning deeply.

Lilly swallowed.

“Do you know this man, this apothecary?”

“Uhh … yes.”

“Well, it sounds as if everybody in Wiltshire knows the man,”
her aunt said, stepping to the door. “Come, Lillian.”

“But do you remember his name?” Mr. Bromley persisted. “I do
so detest not remembering a name.”

Lilly paused where she stood at her place. She glanced at her aunt,
but Ruth Elliott looked away. There was nothing for it.

“His name is Charles Haswell, sir,” Lilly said. “My father.”

She glanced over and glimpsed Roger Bromley staring at her and
Dr. Graves shaking his head.

At the conclusion of the unsettling evening, Lilly walked Dr.
Graves to the door.

“Well, a night of surprises all around,” he began. “An apothecary’s
daughter …” He took a breath. “It all makes sense now. Your actions
with Mr. Price-Winters, your familiarity with Latin … Why did
you not tell me?”

“My aunt prefers I not speak of it.”

“Why? So you might capture a gentleman under false
pretenses?”

She turned to look at him, anger and resolution kindling in her
chest. “Please do not consider yourself captured, Dr. Graves. You are
perfectly free.”

He opened his mouth but closed it again, saying nothing. He
seemed about to try again when Roger Bromley let himself from the
dining room, quietly closing the door on the gentlemen still within.
Her aunt and Mrs. Bromley were still in the drawing room, her aunt
no doubt doing her best to minimize the damage.

Dr. Graves bowed stiffly. “Then I will bid you good-night. Miss
Haswell. Bromley.”

When the door shut behind Dr. Graves, Roger Bromley took her
arm and gently led her to a padded bench near the stairs. Once she
was seated, he sat beside her.

“Sorry about that. I don’t think my parents meant to badger
you. Big on pedigree, my mother. Father is actually impressed. `The daughter of a real miracle worker,’ he said. `Handy to have one of
those in the family.’ ” He glanced at her as the implication of his words
registered. “I have to say I quite agree.” He took her hand in his. “I
don’t care about any of it.”