The Apothecary's Daughter (3 page)

Strengthens the brain, recruits a weak memory,
and makes it strong again.

-CULPEPER’S COMPLETE HERBAL

nowing she faced a long day indoors, Lilly Haswell arose early
,to take in the crisp, fragrant air of a Wiltshire autumn morning.
With a quiet greeting to Mrs. Fowler, already busy at the stove, Lilly
left by the rear garden door and walked sedately out of the village. As
soon as she rounded the corner of the vicarage, however, she picked
up her pace. When she reached the hill just beyond Bedsley Priors,
she began a loping climb, tripping over turf grass from time to time,
relishing the burning in her legs and lungs. She did not stop until she
crested modest Grey’s Hill. As she leaned over to catch her breath,
her long russet brown hair fell around her shoulders. She’d not taken
the time to pin it up properly, though she knew she should, especially
now that she was eighteen years old.

She straightened, taking in the view across Pewsey Vale, with its
rolling chalklands, scant trees, and in the distance, the newly carved
white horse on the ridge between Milk Hill and Walker’s. She had heard that the rector of Alton Barnes often took his telescope up to
Adam’s Grave, the ancient mound atop Walker’s Hill, and with it
could see as far as the Salisbury Cathedral. Lilly wished she might
climb that hill for herself some Sunday after services when she had
the entire afternoon to herself. She would like to see the Salisbury
spire. She would have given just about anything to see such places in
person and far more besides. She wondered what sights and delights
her mother was experiencing, wherever she was, now these three years
gone.

Lilly forced her gaze down to the village at the foot of the hill, with
its Saxon churchyard, sleepy streets, and rectangular village green
dotted with grazing sheep. How peaceful Bedsley Priors looked. How
small and insignificant.

When her mother had first disappeared, Lilly had felt a roiling
tincture of emotions bewilderment, grief, guilt certain her leaving
was due to something Lilly had said or done. But in her secret heart,
she had also felt a shameful thrill. Something had changed. Change
begot change, she knew, and she longed for more. Though Lilly still
prayed fervently for her mother’s return, somehow she knew that had
her mother not left, her life would go on as it always had. She would ever
be trapped, working in an inconsequential shop in an inconsequential
village. And Lilly was certain that would never be enough.

Sighing now, Lilly began the jarring downhill slog home. Back to
the endless duties of an apothecary’s daughter.

Again rounding the vicarage, she slowed to a stroll, passing the
butcher’s, the chandler’s, and the coffeehouse. Inside, Mary looked
at her through the window and motioned for her to wait. Lilly paused
as her friend hurried to the door. Her friend who had thankfully not
had a fit in nearly a year.

“Morning, Lill.” Mary thrust a warm, paper-wrapped bundle
into her hand. “I insist. You need sustenance after your long … mmm,
walk.” Mary’s grin was all too knowing, and her pale blue eyes gleamed
beneath faint strawberry brows.

Lilly smiled and accepted the scone. “Thank you. Currant?”

“What else? Now, go on. I shall see you later.”

She gave Mary a mock bow and continued across the mews to her
father’s shop. She noticed the sign bearing the apothecary’s rose and
Charles Haswell, Apothecary was looking worn, and the white paint
of the many-paned bowed window was beginning to flake. She would
have to suggest Father hire someone to repaint it.

For a few moments she stood there, peering through the shopwindow as a customer might, while she ate her scone.

Upon the inside ledge of the bowed window stood her grandfather’s tall, ornate apothecary’s jar, bearing the Haswell coat of arms.
Around it were displayed colorful carboys and ready-made remedies
with gilded labels: Royal English Drops, Gaskoin’s Powder, True Venice
Treacle, and many more.

Three walls of the shop were lined with shelves of blue-and-cream
Lambeth delftware pottery. Upon each was inscribed its contents in
Latin: C: ABSINTHII conserve of wormwood, useful for dropsy.
0: VULPIN oil of fox, distilled in spring water, good for chest
complaints.

And below these shelves were rows of knobbed drawers for small
simples, such as leaves, seeds, and roots.

The front counter was clear for pressing tablets, and rolling and
cutting pills. The rear counter held the tools of the trade. Open for
reference were several books, such as Lewis’s New Dispensatory, and
Culpeper’s Complete Herbal. Mortars and pestles of various sizes
stood at the ready, as did scales, syrup jars, scarificators and bowls for
bleeding, and leeches in their jar of water, always kept hungry.

To the left of the rear counter was the door to the laboratorykitchen, where her father heated and distilled physic through snaking
copper pipes. To the right was the door to her father’s surgery, the
private office where he consulted with or bled patients.

Already, the shop was busy and full of life. Father had his hand
on Arthur Owen’s shoulder, talking to the old pig farmer in gentle
admonition. Her brother, Charlie, three years her junior, dusted the
shelves. Her father’s seventeen-year-old apprentice, Francis Baylor,
stood behind the front counter, busy with mortar and pestle. She was
pleased to see both young men engaged in such industrious fashion.

She pushed open the shop door, barely hearing the familiar bell.
The usual rush of voices and aromas greeted her. Treasures from
distant lands and nearby meadows, dried, crushed, and distilled,
filled the air with powerful, exotic appeal. It was only during these
moments, coming in from the windy hills, that she could really smell
their complex and ever-changing fragrance.

From the beams that striped the ceiling, strings of poppy heads,
chamomile, sage, and mint hung in bunches to dry. An ancient alligator hung among them in macabre pose, teeth bared. Several missing
teeth rendered him less menacing.

Once inside, Lilly realized the probable cause of the apprentice’s
unusual dedication. He was serving the flirtatious Dorothea Robbins,
whose father owned the timber mill and the new barge yard in the
neighboring hamlet of Honeystreet.

“It is not for me, of course,” Miss Robbins was saying. “For I am
perfectly well.”

Francis Baylor shook his head in near wonder. “As I plainly
see.

The girl giggled and Lilly rolled her eyes. Francis glanced up and,
seeing her expression, had the decency to flush. “If you will excuse
me one moment, Miss Robbins?”

“Of course.”

The gangly young man walked around the counter and paused
beside Lilly. Quietly, he said, “You might wish to change your frock,
Miss Lilly. You would not want Mrs. Mimpurse to catch you with
muddy hems.”

She looked down. “Oh! I did not realize…”

But a glance told her pretty Dorothea Robbins had realized. The
honey-haired girl in a charming bonnet was regarding Lilly’s frock
with a condescending smile.

The sound of shattering pottery brought Lilly around. Charlie
stood frozen, feather duster in hand.

“Suds! ” He sank to his haunches and began picking up the sharp
pieces of a broken ointment jar. “Not again ..

Lilly hurried to his side. “It’s all right, Charlie. Only an accident.
I shall help you clean this up. Mind your fingers.”

Dorothea Robbins strolled past them, a small parcel in gloved
hand and an aloof smile on her pretty lips. Francis nearly tripped over
them in his hurry to open the door for her.

Shaking her head in disgust, Lilly carried the broken pottery
through the rear door into the laboratory-kitchen, where Mrs. Fowler
was washing up the breakfast dishes. She thought to dash upstairs
to change her frock and pin up her hair, but she had barely dumped
the pieces and wiped her hands when she heard the shop bell jingle,
announcing the arrival of another customer.

“Good day, Mrs. Kilgrove,” she heard Francis call. “And welcome
to Haswell’s.”

“You need not behave as though you own the place, young man,”
the old matron reprimanded. Mrs. Kilgrove was known for her sharp
tongue, which she seemed to wield on everyone save Charlie.

“Of course not, ma’am. I am only grateful to be apprenticed to
such a respected apothecary. Now, how may I help you?”

“You? I’d not tell you my troubles for all the prince’s ponies. Nor
give you leave to sell me a single lozenge. Where is Miss Haswell?”

Lilly sighed. So much for changing her frock.

That afternoon, while Francis used the cork borer to fashion bottle
stoppers, Lilly was bored indeed. She cleaned the front counter, all
the while daydreaming about some gentleman traveler wounded,
ideally falling into the shop, and in love with her. She had just
reached the part where he begged her to run away with him when
her cloth reached the bear-shaped pottery jar on the counter’s far end.
She paused, fanciful images fading. She wondered once more why her
father insisted on stocking the useless remedy.

“Have we sold any bear grease lately? ” she idly asked.

Francis paused in his work. “Yes, to several gentlemen yesterday.”

“Would you try it, had you the need?”

He grimaced. “Why would I? I have a full head of hair.”

A bit too full, Lilly thought, taking in his brown, wavy mop of
hair.

Her father came in and stood, arms crossed, before his apprentice.
“Mr. Baylor,” he demanded sternly, “did I not ask you to compound
another batch of Pierquin’s Diuretic?”

Lilly saw the young man blanch.

“Right. Sorry, sir.”

“You do recall the instructions I gave you only last week?”

Lilly held her breath.

“Of course I remember, sir. It was, after all, only last week.” He
stole a glance at Lilly, the plea for help evident in his wide eyes.

Stepping away from the counter with the cleaning cloth, Lilly said
with as much nonchalance as she could muster, “That one is simple
at least, as it has only three ingredients.”

“Three, right,” Francis parroted. “Very simple.”

Lilly felt her father’s gaze on the back of her head as she began
polishing the shopwindow. “I cannot bear to compound Pierquin’s,”
she continued, keeping her eyes focused upon her task. “It is” she
wiggled her fingers dramatically, hoping Francis was watching
“a thousand times worse than any other.”

Behind her, Francis caught on. “Which of course it would be,
with all those … millipedes.”

“Exactly,” she replied casually. “Which is why I am so relieved
Father asked you to prepare it.”

Glancing over her shoulder and seeing that her father was again
facing Francis at the counter, his back to her, she breathed on the
window glass and with her finger wrote berry. “I have not had to do
so since June.” She then held up her little finger, miming the act of
drinking daintily.