The Apothecary's Daughter (38 page)

“Mamma is just opening the shutters now, Mr. Shuttleworth,
should you prefer the comfort of soft chairs not dusted with flour.”

“And why should I prefer it? Have I not the best seat in the
house?”

Lifting the coffee cup to her lips, Lilly said dryly, “I have always
thought so.”

“Indeed. I cannot imagine warmer fires nor warmer company in
any other place in the world.”

“And that is saying a great deal, is it not,” Lilly said. “Considering
all of the many places you have been.”

“You are too kind to remember, Miss Haswell.”

“Lilly remembers everything, Mr. Shuttleworth,” Mary said.
“Had you not heard? “

“Dear me. I am obliged to you for the warning.”

He grinned, and Mary lifted her eyes from her work long enough
to return the gesture.

Lilly smiled as well, though did wonder that Mary should raise the
subject of her memory. Knowing how self-conscious Lilly felt about
it, her friend usually avoided mentioning it to strangers. Of course, by
all appearances, Mr. Shuttleworth was stranger no longer.

Suddenly a pained look pinched Mary’s usually docile features,
and she grasped her left hand with her right.

“Please excuse me,” she said, and Lilly doubted anyone who did
not know Mary so well would even notice the tension in her face. “I’ve
just been reminded of something I must attend to.”

Mr. Shuttleworth rose, mouth ajar. But Mary had already turned
and fled the room before he could say anything.

Lilly rose beside him, concerned.

“I have clearly overstayed my welcome,” he said sheepishly. “Do
offer your friend a thousand apologies on my behalf.”

“Not at all, sir. I am certain it is nothing you did.”

“I shall see myself out.” He opened the back door and bid her
farewell.

As soon as he had gone, Lilly hurried toward the dining room,
thinking Mary must have gone upstairs, but a flash of green caught
her eye as she passed the pantry. There Mary half sat, half reclined
on a ten-stone sack of flour.

“Mary, is a fit coming on? “

Jerking a nod, Mary held her arms tightly, clutching her abdomen
as a wounded soldier might hold his innards. Her arms shook and
the movement expanded, overtaking her until even her head began
to wobble on her neck, tendons corded like angry claws lashing into
her shoulders.

Lilly reached for Mary’s apron pocket, for the leather scrap she
kept there. Empty. “Hold on. I’ll try and catch Mr. Shuttleworth.”

“No!” Mary cried, voice trembling. “No … father.”

“But my father is too ill. He has returned to his bed.”

“My…” Mary began, then her body convulsed, rendering her
unable to speak.

Lilly hesitated only a second, then dashed into the kitchen, grabbed
the first wooden spoon she saw, and ran back with it. Mary winced
but opened her mouth and Lilly slid the spoon between her teeth.
Stepping to the door, she glanced into the dining room, where Mrs.
Mimpurse was greeting a group of timber men and barge builders,
Mr. Robbins among them.

Catching her eye, Lilly jerked her head toward the pantry, mouthing, “Mary.” Her pained look must have communicated the rest, for
Mrs. Mimpurse quickly but tactfully took her leave of the men and
strode toward the kitchen.

Lilly did not wait. With her father ill, and Mary’s clear command
not to involve Mr. Shuttleworth, she could think of only one place to
go for help.

She would even have asked Dr. Foster if need be, but when
she pounded on the office door, she was relieved when Dr. Graves
answered.

“Please come quickly. It’s Mary Mimpurse. She’s having a fit.”

She half expected him to freeze in the face of an emergency as he
had in London, but she silently thanked God when he bent immediately and picked up his case.

Adam Graves’s heart pounded, but he did not hesitate. Miss
Haswell’s practical, no-nonsense commands pushed him into action,
and his limbs obeyed her even while his mind struggled to catch up.

She asked, “Have you valerian, or should I run home for
some? “

He opened his case and checked its contents. “I have all I need.”

“Good. Hurry.” She turned on her heel, giving him little choice
but to follow.

He had to jog to keep up with her along Milk Lane and then down
the High Street. She had somehow learned to run at an impressive
pace while appearing merely to glide.

Rounding the coffeehouse, she opened the back door and gestured
him inside ahead of her. Mrs. Mimpurse had swept the utensils from
the worktable and managed to lay her daughter upon it. The poor
girl convulsed, eyes rolled back, wooden spoon protruding from her
mouth. Her mother did her best to hold her in place, with the help of
a young maid. He surprised himself by immediately rushing forward
to aid them.

“Father believes valerian to be the best remedy,” Miss Haswell
said, appearing beside him at the table. “The trick is to administer it
while she’s in this state.”

“Give me two ounces of the extract, then.”

“So much? Is not the regular dose one half to one dram?”

“We shall debate theories later, shall we? With all haste, Miss
Haswell.”

He continued to help the two women steady Miss Mimpurse while
Lilly poured the liquid into a glass measure and handed it to him.

“Help me pry open her mouth.” Using the wooden spoon as a lever,
the two managed to open her mouth, pour in the foul liquid, and coax
it to the back of her throat. Her swallowing reflex did the rest.

“Now, help us hold her until it takes effect. If it does …”

“It will. Always has.”

Already, the young woman’s seizures were gentling, whether from
the dosage or the simple passage of time, he could not tell. He did not
like that Miss Haswell felt she had to question him, that she could
not trust his judgment.

While they held Miss Mimpurse, he endeavored to explain, “You
are correct that the accepted preventative dose is one half to one dram
three or four times as day. But more is required to calm an episode
in full force.”

“I see.”

“In any case, I am not convinced valerian suppresses seizures,
and it certainly does not cure the root of the disease.”

“What is the cure?” she asked.

He glanced at the white-faced mother, then back at Miss Haswell.
“I fear there is none.”

Later, after he had helped Mrs. Mimpurse put her weakened
daughter to bed, and accepted the woman’s gratitude, Adam walked
outside with Miss Haswell.

“Do you think she ought to take valerian on a daily basis?” she
asked.

“Not at this point. I recommend an infusion of scullcap.”

“Mad-dog weed?”

“It works as antispasmodic and relaxing nervine both. Perhaps
you would be so good as to prepare it?”

“Of course,” she said, clearly pleased to be called upon.

Reaching Haswell’s, she paused to look up at him. How earnest
her expression, her heart-shaped face wreathed by that splendid russet hair.

“May I ask you to keep this episode to yourself? ” she began. “Mary
is quite self-conscious about her condition. It has been so long since
she’s had a fit, the poor dear no doubt hoped she’d outgrown them.”

He wondered how he could refuse Miss Haswell anything, when
she captivated him so. Though she had not asked, she must know she
was the reason he had pursued this partnership in Bedsley Priors.

“Dr. Foster may ask for an account of my time, but otherwise I
shall keep it to myself as I would in any case.”

“Thank you.”

He thought then of the next call he must make. “May I ask a favor
of you in return? “

At the cottage door, they were greeted by one of the nine
Somersby children and a rush of sharp smells. Inside, Mr. and Mrs.
Somersby sat at table, a spread of cheese, pickled herring, and mugs of
ale before them. Two toddlers sat on the floor, banging wooden spoons
against the floorboards. Four others were blowing and chasing a downy
feather about the room, keeping it aloft. The family’s cottage was small,
their clothes old, but as Mr. Somersby was both poulterer and cheese
monger, they always ate well. Perhaps, Lilly thought, too well.

“I beg your pardon. I am Dr. Graves, paying a call on behalf of
Dr. Foster. And this is Miss Haswell.”

Lilly knew the older physician rarely bothered with house calls
now that he had Dr. Graves to send about.

“But we had no intention of interrupting your repast.”

“Never ye mind.” Mrs. Somersby, a plump woman of forty or so
years, lifted her apron hem and wiped her mouth. “Chester here come
home from market leer-starved. Why not sit yerselves? I’ve got a junk
o’ cheese, good an’ aged. Chicken livers, too.”

“Thank you, no,” Dr. Graves said.

The feather landed on his shoulder, unnoticed by him. Lilly
plucked it off and blew it in the air for the expectant children.

Mrs. Somersby rose. “Well then. Let’s shut us in the bedchamber
away from all these peepers. I’m much obliged to you fer comin’ ‘ere.
Hard to get away with all these young ones aboot.”

As she led the way to the cottage’s sole separate room, Dr. Graves
said, “Dr. Foster described several complaints of a female nature and
I have therefore brought Miss Haswell along.”

“As I see.”

As soon as the three of them were inside the small bedchamber,
Mrs. Somersby lowered herself heavily onto the edge of the bed, and Lilly sat beside her. “Now, tell me,” Lilly asked gently. “What ails
you?”

“I’m just not my old self of late. My poor nerves are givin’ me quiy’
a lot of trouble. My Chester don’t like how I mump aboot. Seems we
‘ave a shandy near ever’ night for no good reason. And I’m’aving pains
in my stomach.” She leaned toward Lilly and whispered, “And pains
in my breast what don’t bear speakin’ of in a young man’s ‘earing.”

Lilly smiled and said soothingly, “Well, he is a doctor after all,
is he not?”

They gave the woman St. John’s wort for her nerves and stomach,
and a decoction of vervain for the breast pain.

“Now, if that does not bring you relief, you just come by the shop
when you can and I shall give you a treatment of tempered figs.” Lilly
paused, then turned sheepishly to Dr. Graves. “Forgive me. You might
prefer to do that yourself. She is your patient after all.”

He hesitated, perhaps imagining the awkward scene pressing
figs, tempered as hot as a patient could endure, and applying them to
Mrs. Somersby’s breasts. He cleared his throat. “Not at all.” He said
to the woman, “Feel free to see Miss Haswell for that procedure.”

They were packing their things away to take their leave when Mrs.
Somersby pressed both hands to her temples. “Wha’s this? I feel right
queer all of a sudden.”

Lilly hurried to her side. “What is it?”

“My ‘ead … aches somethin’ awful. Dizzy-like too.” Mrs.
Somersby used one arm to prop herself upright and moaned, “Wha’s
‘appenin’?” Then she collapsed onto the bed.

“Dr. Graves!” Lilly exclaimed.

Acting quickly and with surprising calm, Dr. Graves deftly gave
Mrs. Somersby a dose of ipecacuanha, and once it had done its work,
administered hawthorn and strong coffee.

Half an hour later, Mrs. Somersby was quite herself again, though
shaken. Lilly prepared a cup of chamomile tea at Dr. Grave’s request,
then instructed Mr. Somersby to give another cup when his wife finished the first.

When they finally took their leave, Dr. Graves accompanied Lilly
back to Haswell’s.

“Do you think it was the St. John’s wort?” she asked as they
neared the shop. “I’ve never known vervain to produce such a dramatic
reaction.”

“Nor I.”

He opened the shop door for her and followed her inside.

“A skin rash, perhaps,” she continued, “but not collapse. Good
heavens. I don’t know what I would have done had you not been there.
Well done, Dr. Graves.”

In her relief, she forgot herself and held out her hand in a congratulatory gesture as Mr. Shuttleworth might have done. Instead of
briefly pressing it, Dr. Graves took her hand in both of his own, his
countenance quite serious.

“When you are with me, I feel as though I might do anything.
You strengthen me, Miss Haswell.”

She allowed him to hold her hand but shook her head slowly. “I
cannot be your strength, Dr. Graves. That is God’s role. I am not fit
for it.”

“Is it the role you object to, or the man asking it of you?”

She took a deep breath. “At present, I have all I can do to be my
father’s strength as well as my own.”

He let go of her hand and drew himself up. “Of course you have.
I would not blame you, in any case. You know my weaknesses too
well.”

“Have we not all some weakness, Dr. Graves? ” Lilly said kindly.
“Besides, you seem to be overcoming your weaknesses, as you call
them, since coming to Bedsley Priors.”

He lifted one side of his mouth in a rueful grin. “Which brings
me back to my point, Miss Haswell.”

She untied her bonnet and stepped away to hang it on a peg. “We
certainly work well together,” she allowed. “As evidenced this very
day.

“Indeed, though I would certainly not expect you to work alongside me, were we to … That is, unless it were a simple case, or involved a
female complaint like Mrs. Somersby’s.”

“Why? Do you not think a woman capable of grasping medical
knowledge and skills?”

“Well, I do not say it is impossible, were universities to allow
women to study. But … they do not.”

“I help my father all the time.” She moved to stand behind the
dispensary counter.

“I understand that. And I admire your abilities.” He stepped
to the counter and stood looking down at her. “But, Miss Haswell,
once you are- Once you are a married woman, you will no longer
have need of such skills. Although, certainly as the lady of the house,
a knowledge of basic injury care, invalid cookery and the like, will
always be useful.”