The Apothecary's Daughter (37 page)

Lilly grimaced. She no more wanted to lance that crass old man’s
boil than she wanted to manage her father’s shop. “Perhaps Father
might,” she said, spooning jam onto her remaining crust of toast.

Charles Haswell looked up from his newspaper. “I don’t think I
am equal to it today, my dear.”

How convenient, Lilly thought.

“Come on, Lilly,” Charlie urged. “Man’s hurtin’ fierce.”

“Oh, very well,” she huffed, dropping the toast onto her plate and
rising. Seeing brother’s earnest face, she hesitated and added grudgingly, “It is kind of you to think of Mr. Timms.”

Half an hour later, Lilly stood in Mr. Timms’s small kitchen at
one end of the Marlow row houses, where several of the oldest servants
lived.

“You rest easy now, Mr. Timms,” she advised, repacking instruments and vials.

“Rest? You’ll not see me lolloping about. Think the goosegogs’ll
pick their selves? The deer’ll overrun the galley-crow afore the day’s
out, and the garden be dry as a gix.”

Sitting beside the man, Charlie said, “I can help, Mr. Timms.”

“Nay, yer needed at home now, ey? But I sore miss ye. A good
tasker ye are, Charlie Haswell, and don’t ye forget it.”

Charlie smiled and hung his head, sheepishly proud.

Lilly said, “I am sorry, Mr. Timms, but my father and I “

“No need to be sorry, miss. I know how ‘tis. Yer father’s ailin’,
innum? I know how that is too.”

She shut the case, preparing to take her leave. “I hope you shall
be right as a trivet now.”

“No doubt of it. I’m obliged to ye, I am. And glad to be shot of
that Burt of boil.”

They bid the wizened gardener farewell and let themselves out
the door.

“See, I told you he weren’t so bad,” Charlie said.

“You were right, Charlie. And if he was surly, no wonder! To be
in such pain day and night.”

The weather was mild, so they strolled across the lawn to the
formal gardens, Charlie pointing out this planting and that which he
had helped tend. As they did, Lilly heard a dog bark first a warning,
then with more ferocity. A man called out in a stern voice laced with
a telling note of fear.

“Back, I say. Back!”

“Oh no.” Lilly ran down the lane, and around the bend spotted Dr.
Graves, his back against a tree. The Marlows’ large-headed mastiff,
nearly the size of a pony, stood on its hind legs, massive front paws
splayed against the man’s chest.

“Dotty, no!” Lilly called with calm authority. “Down this
instant! “

Dotty whined, drooled, and leapt down. Charlie jogged over and
grabbed the collar of the brindled brown-and-black dog.

Lilly said, “Tether her in the stables, Charlie, will you?”

“Come on, Dotty-girl,” Charlie urged and led the great dog
away.

“Dotty? ” Dr. Graves exclaimed. “Who in their right mind would
name a monster of that size Dotty?”

“The Marlows have an uncommon sensibility when it comes
to humor and most things,” she said, stepping near to look him
over. Besides two muddy pawprints on his tawny coat, he appeared
unscathed. “Are you all right?”

“You mean beyond my utter mortification and the fact that my
heart is beating like a cornered hare?”

“Yes.”

He extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped drool from
his cheek. “I was only come to meet Sir Henry. I had no idea the act
would prove so perilous.”

She took the handkerchief from him. “You’ve a bit of mud…” She
wiped the dirt from his neck and collar. His Adam’s apple bobbed and
his pupils dilated. Realizing what she had just done, she swallowed
and handed back the handkerchief.

His eyes met hers, then darted away. She attempted to keep her
expression impassive, lest he guess how forward she felt.

He cleared his throat. “You are a singular woman, Miss
Haswell.”

She licked her suddenly dry lips. An awkward silence followed.
To break it, she said, “I am afraid your coat is spoiled.”

In the act of dusting off the pawprints, he paused. “Are you afraid
of nothing?”

She considered this. “Everybody is afraid of something. Or
someone.

“What are you afraid of?”

She cocked her head to one side to look at him. “Why? Will it
make you feel better to know?”

“Vastly.” He stooped to pick up his hat and attempted to restore
its shape. “Or at least distract me from my humiliation.”

“Very well. But I tell you in confidence.”

“Of course.”

She grinned wryly. “I had rather face that great dog ten times over
than his master once.”

His hands stilled. “Roderick Marlow?”

She nodded.

He did not return her grin. Instead looked quite alarmed. “Has
he threatened you? Harmed you?”

“Well, nothing of consequence, but-“

“He hasn’t acted in an untoward manner toward you?”

“Dr. Graves. I meant to comfort you by my confession, not distress you further.”

“But, Miss Haswell!”

“There have been a few occasions when I felt mildly … threatened,
as you say. But these were long ago. Still, I suppose it is the same for
me as for you one bite and I shall ever be wary.” She hastened to
add, “Of course I meant that figuratively. He did not actually bite me.”
Again she tried to lighten the moment with a smile, but he continued
to look quite stern.

He said, “I understand he all but got a man killed once. In a brawl
or duel or some such.”

Had he? She had never heard such a tale.

“In any case, if he ever threatens or harasses you again, Miss
Haswell, you must not allow it to pass. You must tell someone. Me,
if no one else.”

She wondered briefly what Dr. Graves would do. She could not
fancy him fighting Roderick Marlow. Dr. Graves would surely lose
any duel not fought with lancets or ear horns.

“Thank you. But as I said, it is in the past. Put it from your
mind.”

“Have you?”

“Absolutely. As long as he is out of my sight.” She smirked. “Or
chained up.”

Blue eyes sparkling, he grinned then actually laughed out loud.
It was the first genuine sound of mirth she had ever heard him utter.
She liked it very much indeed.

When the return letter arrived almost a week later from Craybill
Hall, Lilly could not bring herself to open it. To face the rejection
that might very well be contained within. How many times had she
imagined the possible responses? The cool, detached words: “I regret
to inform you I have no interest in renewing our acquaintance.” Or
“I request that you no longer attempt to contact me; I do not wish to
jeopardize my position.” Or even “If I had wanted to see you, I knew
where to find you, did I not?”

But dared she hope for a warmer response? “How I have longed
to hear of you! But to receive a letter penned in your own hand- My,
what a fine young lady you must have become! I would very much like to
see you again. I feared to hope you would ever desire to see me….”

Which would it be?

Turning the shop sign, she jogged to the coffeehouse, barely noticing Jane hunched on the garden bench shelling beans. She dashed
through the back door, and thrust the letter at Mary.

“Read it. I cannot.”

Mary was grinding coffee beans but paused to study her. She
turned to wipe her hands on a cloth. “What is it?”

“From my mother I think. I wrote to the house where she was
said to have a situation.”

Setting aside the cloth, Mary took the letter. “It is addressed to
you.

“Please.”

Mary held her gaze a moment longer, then nodded. She slit open the seal and unfolded the letter. As she quickly read the lines, her
expression shifted from perplexity to concern.

“She does not wish to see me, does she?” Lilly braced herself.

Mary shook her head.

Lilly winced. I knew it.

“It isn’t from your mother. It is from the housekeeper, a Mrs.
Morton. Here, read it yourself.”

Lilly took the letter from her friend and skimmed it quickly, then
sank down onto her usual stool and read the critical portion again.

We’ve had no one here by the surname Haswell, but there
was a housekeeper by the name Rosa Wells. However, she is no
longer employed here, and I am the new housekeeper. I cannot
tell you where she went, but I can tell you she left after only a
few weeks, without proper notice and without references and
that the coachman disappeared on the very same eve. Him, by
the name of Stanley Dugan, in case you’re wanting to know. If
you find them, be sure and pass on that Mr. Dugan left without
returning the livery that is rightly the master’s property, though
the master is a forgiving sort and pressed no charges. Rosa took
nothing what didn’t belong to her, and Cook tells me she was
a fair worker, though not content in her post. This is all I can
tell you, as she was gone before I come.

Mrs. Morton, Housekeeper

Craybill Hall

Gone. Again.

Did her mother have some inkling she was being sought? Or was
it her nature to move on quickly from situations that did not suit?

“Might it have been someone else? ” Mary asked. “With the name
Wells, I mean. She could not have married again, could she? With
your father still alive?”

Lilly shrugged, feeling numb and empty. “It could be a false name,
short for Haswell. Or perhaps she took the name of the man she left us
for, and has even now taken another husband. It would explain why she
has cut all ties to an inconvenient family hidden away in Wiltshire.”

“I cannot credit it,” Mary said. “More likely it was some other
woman.

Lilly said dully, “Perhaps.” She crumpled the paper and tossed
it among the embers in the cookstove. The paper flamed to life, then
just as quickly extinguished.

Like her foolish, foolish hopes.

A man of very moderate ability may be a good physician,
if he devotes himself faithfully to the work.

-OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

he next morning, when Lilly entered the coffeehouse by the
kitchen door as usual, she was surprised to see Mr. Shuttleworth
there, seated in her customary stool at the worktable.

She hesitated. “Oh. Pardon me.”

He rose and bowed. “Miss Haswell.”

“Morning, Lill,” Mary said pleasantly, looking pretty in a green
frock and seeming perfectly at ease. She walked over to pick up the
stool beside the hearth, but Mr. Shuttleworth, perceiving her intention, leapt to assist her, carrying the stool over and setting it not far
from his own.

Both ladies thanked him at once. He beamed at them, his gaze
lingering on Mary. “My pleasure, ladies.”

Lilly perched herself up on the stool, feeling awkward. Mary
poured a cup of coffee and placed it before her, then returned her attention to a large basin, stirring its contents with fluid, steady strokes.

“Miss Mimpurse was so obliging as to offer a poor bachelor a bite
of breakfast,” Mr. Shuttleworth said. “Though the establishment is
not yet open.”