The Apothecary's Daughter (36 page)

My dear Lillian,

I know we agreed to speak no more on the subject of your
mother, but still I thought you should know. I have received additional information. Do you remember Mrs. Browning, the lady
who let rooms to “Rosa” off Fleet Street? And do you further
recall that I left my card? I confess I believed that card would
come to tinder and that I should never hear from her again. But,
behold, I received a letter from her today if such scrawl can
be called such and happily paid the fourpence postage.

As I understand it, Mrs. Browning had long ago given
your mother or at least “Rosa” a letter of reference, and a
prospective employer has recently written to Mrs. Browning to verify Rosa’s suitability for the post. I suppose you will struggle
to credit it as I did. Rosamond -a housekeeper? In any case,
the trail is cold no longer, should you like to pursue it. Of course
I cannot say for certain whether Rosa was given the post in the
end, but it seems likely, given Mrs. Browning’s confidence that
she’d “writ a lettr shure to inpress and pleas.” But perhaps a
letter from you to the steward or butler would answer if you are
so inclined. I’ve included the directions below. Do let me know
if there is anything you would like me to do in this regard.

Most sincerely,

Mr. Jonathan Elliott

Lilly fingered the postscript, the name of the estate and its direction. In Surrey, south of London. Part of her longed to go. Another
part said this was not a good time her father was unwell, and she
could ill afford to close the shop. Still, it would not be so long a journey.
She could go by post and return in two days’ time.

The hired hackney took her as far as the end of the lane. From
there, she walked, through the gates and up the curved stone drive.
Craybill Hall was grander than she had imagined. The estate further
out in the countryside than she would have guessed.

Lilly clutched her reticule tightly, knowing her damp palms would
likely mar the smooth satin but at that moment not caring. She took a
deep breath. The nausea she felt, she tried to tell herself, was from the
long day of travel first the long coach journey, then the jarring ride in
the old hackney. She pressed one hand to her stomach, hoping to calm
her nerves. How would her mother react upon seeing her? At being
tracked down when she had clearly made no effort to reconnect with
the family she had left behind? Did her mother assume, perhaps, they
wanted nothing to do with her? If so, surely her mother would, if not
welcome a visit, be relieved to know her daughter wished her well.

Lilly paused at the bottom of the wide steps leading to the main
entrance. She prayed for wisdom, for peace, for her legs to quit trembling. She heard a sound in the distance, several voices raised in
laughter. Something about the sound was familiar. On impulse, she
turned and walked around the manor house, the peals of laughter
guiding her like a ship’s bell in the fog.

At the rear of the house, she saw a low garden wall. On its other
side, a small table and chairs were arranged on a manicured lawn.
Two children sat at that table, a little boy with golden hair, and a
girl a few years older with ginger curls. And there, standing between
them smiling was her mother. She was singing along as the children clapped and sang “Pat-a-cake.”

How young and pretty her mother looked. She wore a blue-andwhite walking dress, and her dark hair was swept back in a high,
fashionable coil. Where is her hat? Lilly wondered. She ought not be
out-of-doors without one. Lilly chided herself for her inane observation
at such a time. In the midst of their game, her mother looked up from
the children and clearly saw her standing there. Saw someone standing
there, at any rate. She ceased singing, and her expression sobered.

Taking a deep breath and fisting her hands, Lilly walked slowly
to the garden wall. Would her mother recognize her as she drew near?
Letting the reticule dangle at her wrist, Lilly laid both hands on the
waist-high stone wall.

“Yes?” Rosamond Haswell asked, her tone officious.

“Hello, Mother,” Lilly said quietly.

She only stared in response.

The little boy asked in an endearing lisp, “Who is da lady?”

The little girl hung her head, so Lilly could not make out her
features.

“Sit up straight, dear, and greet our guest,” her mother said to
the girl. But the girl made no sign of hearing her. She was either very
shy or very rude.

Swallowing hard, Lilly said the next thing that came to her mind.
“I thought you were the housekeeper here?”

Her mother continued to survey her person, hat to waist and up
again. “I was. The governess took ill.” She shrugged. “Besides, I like
children. Well, some children…”

Lilly felt as though she’d been struck in the chest by a heavy
mallet.

The little girl looked up then, revealing a face eerily identical to
Lilly’s own at that age. The girl scowled and stuck out her tongue.

Lilly sat up in bed, breathing heavily and perspiring as the dream
faded. Feeling ill, she arose, wrapped her dressing gown around herself,
and stepped gingerly to Charlie’s door. She opened it inch by creaking
inch. In the moonlit chamber, Charlie slept soundly, hands clasped
beneath one cheek, fair hair splayed on his pillow and over his brow.

Lilly tiptoed across the room and leaned low. She reached out and
gently brushed the hair from his eyes.

She needed to touch someone real.

In the morning, Lilly went in search of her mother’s miniature
portrait. She found it in a drawer in the sitting room, shrouded in
brown paper. Unwrapping it, she blew off the paper dust and looked
at the lovely face, so like the one in her dream the night before. It had
been painted before her marriage more than twenty years ago. Lilly
wondered how much she had changed by now. And knew she would
go on wondering.

Lilly slipped the small frame into her apron pocket, wanting it
near. She would act upon the information her uncle had sent. She would
write a letter to start. After that, she did not know.

An hour later, she was already in the shop, bent over stationery and
quill, when Francis came by for the Haswell herbs Mr. Shuttleworth
wanted. She had the herbs bunched, tagged, and ready in a crate.

“Excellent. This everything?” Francis asked.

“Hmm?” she murmured, distracted.

“Is this everything. For Mr. Shuttleworth … ?”

“Oh.” She glanced up at him, then at the crate. “Yes.” She looked
back at the few lines she had written. “Francis, you never met my
mother, did you?”

He wrinkled his brow, no doubt wondering why she had asked a
question when she already knew the answer.

“No. She left not long before I arrived.”

Lilly nodded, tapping the quill against the inkpot as she
thought.

“I do remember a little portrait of her,” Francis said. “You used to
carry it about with you, until your father asked you to put it away.”

Lilly nodded again, thinking how she had found the portrait
wrapped and tucked in a drawer. Out of sight.

“I remember thinking she was quite lovely,” Francis continued.
“And that you were very like her.”

Silently, she pulled the framed miniature from her apron pocket
and slid it across the counter toward him. He leaned down and peered
at it. “Very like her indeed.”

She told him about her mother’s necklace and Rosa Wells. As she
spoke, he took her hand in his and pressed it, his brown eyes warm
with compassion. The laboratory-kitchen door creaked open and
Francis stepped back. Seeing her father in the doorway, Lilly slipped
the miniature under her writing paper.

“Good morning, Mr. Haswell,” Francis said. “You are looking
better.”

“I feel better. For now, at any rate. Tell me, Mr. Baylor, how is our
new physician getting on in the village? Lilly’s Dr. Graves?”

She saw Francis wince. His brow pucker. Uncomfortable, Lilly
protested mildly, “Father …”

Francis glanced at her, then quickly away. “Well enough, I suppose,
though you know how it is. Some are slow to accept a newcomer.”

Her father nodded, then eyed the crate. “What’s this, then?”

Fearing her father’s response, Lilly answered, “Mr. Shuttleworth
has asked for some of our famed Haswell herbs, Father. That should
please you.”

He was incredulous. “You are giving herbs to our competitor?”

“Selling, Father. Selling,” Lilly said, realizing her father had
resumed his curmudgeonly temper toward his rival. “And at a tidy
profit.” She gave Francis a look, and Francis took the hint.

“It’s dear they are, but Bedsley Priors folk will have Haswell
herbs if they can. Shuttleworth has little choice but to pay for the
privilege.”

Charles Haswell nodded, apparently satisfied. “I should think
so.

“Well, I bid you both good day.” Lips pulled tight in a resigned line,
Francis bowed to Lilly, then to Mr. Haswell, and took his leave.

Her father tilted his head to view the paper before her. “Another
order?”

She hesitated. “No, a letter. To Mother.”

He looked stunned. “What?”

“At least to the estate where she is believed to have a situation.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Come, Father,” Lilly bid softly. “Sit down and I will tell you.”

They seated themselves in the surgery, and Lilly explained once
more about the discovery of the necklace and what she had learned
about her mother in London and since in review, very little. Not
wanting to hurt him more than he had already been, she did not include
the details about her mother’s first love.

She asked gently, “Why did she leave, do you know?”

He took a deep breath. “I thought she was happy, at least for a
time.” He stared out the surgery window. “When you were born, I
thought everything would be all right. She was so delighted with you.”
He shifted in his chair. “But I believe she always regretted marrying
me. I know she missed London, and I think she always wondered what
might have been, whom she might have married had she stayed.”

She squeezed his hand. “You are the best man I have ever met in
London or anywhere.”

He uttered a dry laugh. “Did the Elliotts take you nowhere? ” Shaking his head, he said, “No, my dear, I am afraid I am a very flawed
man indeed. Perhaps even more than your mother knew….”

He let the words fade away and then leaned forward earnestly.
“I caution you, Lilly, in this search of yours. You may not like what
you find.”

[The apothecary] is the physician to the poor at all times,
and to the rich whenever the distress or danger is not great.

ADAM SMITH, 1776

s Lilly and her father lingered over breakfast the next day,
Charlie came in and dropped one of their medical cases onto
the table before her, nearly toppling her teacup. “Come with me to
Marlow House, Lilly. Mr. Timms has a Burt boil and won’t see a
doctor.”