The Apothecary's Daughter (43 page)

t church a week later, Lilly sat with Mary and Mrs. Mimpurse.
As usual, Lilly’s father had not felt well enough to attend and
Charlie was nowhere to be found, no doubt off on one of his wanders.
Even had the male members of her family seen fit to join her, she
thought the Mimpurse ladies might appreciate her company on this,
the seventh anniversary of the death of Harold Mimpurse.

Mr. Shuttleworth, Lilly noticed, was seated on the other side of
the church and often glanced their way. Mary’s way, she corrected
herself and secretly smiled.

As Mr. Baisley was winding down his sermon, Lilly noticed something unusual. Mary’s posture, as she sat beside her, was erect yet
unnaturally rigid. Even as those around her flipped pages to follow
along in the Book of Common Prayer, Mary’s book remained perfectly
still in her hands. She stared ahead, pale blue eyes unblinking.

Lilly reached over and gently squeezed her wrist. No blink, no response. She squeezed again, harder. Nothing. Around them, people
flipped pages to find the final hymn, cleared throats, and upon the
vicar’s signal, began to sing. Still Mary stared, unmoving. Lilly shuddered. How eerie those unseeing eyes were. As if someone had put
out the candle behind them. She reached over Mary’s lap to tap Mrs.
Mimpurse, who was singing robustly. Mrs. Mimpurse glanced over
and instantly became alert. She set aside her own book and gently
removed the book from her daughter’s stiff fingers. She sent Lilly a
pleading look, and Lilly believed she understood it.

The song over, the benediction given, the congregants rose and
began to follow the vicar down the aisle. She glimpsed Francis walking out with the Robbins family and Dr. Graves offering his arm to
old Mrs. Kilgrove. Only Mr. Shuttleworth showed no sign of leaving,
remaining no doubt to greet them. But Lilly knew Mary would not
want him to see her in such a state.

She heard a long exhalation and felt Mary go limp beside her. Using
her body, Lilly gently pushed Mary toward her mother, and Maude
put her arm around her daughter and pressed her cheek close to hers
as though deep in whispered conversation. Lilly rose and stepped
across the aisle to distract Mr. Shuttleworth.

“Is Miss Mary all right?” he asked with concern.

“She will be. It is the anniversary of her father’s death. I think
they are both rather melancholy at present.”

“I had no idea. I am sorry to hear it. Shall I ?”

“I think we ought to leave them for now.”

“Very well. I am sure you know best.”

Charlie burst through the doors at that moment, the door slamming against the rear pew like cannon shot.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said.

Lilly noticed mud on his face and straw in his hair. “Church is
over, Charlie. Perhaps you could show Mr. Shuttleworth where Mr.
Mimpurse lies?”

Her brother didn’t seem to find this request at all strange, and if
Mr. Shuttleworth did, he was too polite to say so.

When they departed, Lilly hurried back to Mary and Mrs.
Mimpurse.

She was relieved to see her friend had returned to her senses. “Are
you all right?” Lilly whispered.

“I think so. Just tired,” Mary said wanly.

Tears glimmered in her mother’s eyes. “Oh, my dear girl.”

Together they helped Mary to her feet and out into the
churchyard.

“I’ll be all right, Mamma,” Mary said. “Am I not always?”

Lilly spent an hour with Mary in her bedchamber that afternoon.
Mary leaned back against the headboard, hugging a pillow to her chest,
while Lilly sat in a chair near the window, reading to her from Byron.
Finally Lilly could stifle her curiosity no longer. She lowered the book
and regarded Mary until her friend’s eyes rose to meet hers.

“What is it like?” Lilly asked gently.

“Hmm? “

“You know, when it happens?”

Mary fidgeted atop the bedclothes. “You have seen it yourself.”

“I know what it looks like, but what does it feel like?”

Mary exhaled sharply. “Oh, I don’t know.” She looked down at
her hands.

“Come on. I want to know.”

Mary said brusquely, “Thank the Lord you don’t.” She rose and
went to stare out the other window, posture rigid.

Taking in her friend’s grim countenance, Lilly said, “I am
sorry.

Mary stood there silently for so long, Lilly wished she had not
asked.

On Tuesday Lilly watched as Mary swiftly chopped several
carrots at once. The carrots lay side by side, like logs in a raft, and were each as big around as a man’s finger, yet Mary cut them as easily
as if they were fingers of dough.

“If I could cut pills that swiftly, my father would be rich
indeed.”

Mary barely seemed to look at the vegetables as she made quick
work of reducing the roots into even chunks for stewing. And then
her hands stilled. “You asked what it was like.”

Lilly had already determined not to raise the topic again and was
surprised when Mary did. “I said I was sorry.”

“Don’t be. Only … I don’t much like to talk about it.” Mary
paused, her eyes far away. “I feel as if to even speak the words might
bring on … well, you know.”

Lilly nodded.

Mary returned to her work, chopping in silence for several minutes
until Lilly was sure she had said her final word on the subject.

“It is not always the same,” Mary began abruptly. “At times, like
on Sunday, I just … go away. I sit there, eyes open, but I am not there.
I feel no pain, no sensation. It is as if I am watching myself from a
short distance away. Then everything goes white. When I return to
myself, I am left feeling weak and tired.” Mary scooped up the chopped
carrots and dropped them into a pot.

Tentatively, Lilly asked, “Do you never cut yourself?”

Her friend shrugged. “Rarely. I usually have a bit of warning.”

Mary then moved on to a bunch of leeks. “Other times, like when
Mr. Shuttleworth was here that day … my head begins to ache and
my fingers to tremble or they might go numb. Either way, I usually have time to call Mamma or get to my bed so I don’t fall and
injure myself.”

Mary leaned her elbows on the worktable. “But then, when that
sort overtakes me, I feel as though I might be sick hot, then cold.
Then everything starts clamping up, shutting down, and I find it difficult to breathe.” Mary straightened and continued with her chopping.
“Then my vision goes black and I wake up a quarter of an hour later
to find Mamma or your father looking down at me.”

“How dreadful,” Lilly murmured, but she could not stop staring at the long, sharp knife so close to her friend’s pale fingers. She said
quietly, “I pray for you, Mary.”

Mary winced. “For what?”

Lilly was taken aback. “Well, for you to be healthy healed, of
course.

Mary shrugged. “You heard Dr. Graves. There is no cure. And
Wiltshire has already had its miracle.” A grin flickered across her
face. “We needn’t be greedy.”

She chopped the leeks, then looked across at Lilly earnestly. “If
you pray for me, pray that I would bear this cross cheerfully. That I
would be a blessing to my mother and … everyone.”

“You already are.”

Mary acknowledged this with a nod. “I overheard Dr. Foster once
tell Mamma she ought to send me to an asylum. Once. He has not
been welcome here since.”

“Your mother was right,” Lilly said hotly. “You do not belong in
an asylum you belong here, with those who love you.”

“I know, but …” Mary set down the knife and wiped her hands
on a towel. “There are times I think it would help to talk with someone
who knows how it is. Is my experience the same as theirs, or different?
Am I really as strange as I feel?”

Realizing she needed to return to the shop, Lilly rose from her
stool. “I can answer that myself.” She said mischievously, “You are
strange indeed, Mary Helen Mimpurse.”

Mary grinned and swiped at her skirts with the towel.

We must trust to the Great Disposer of all events
and the justice of our cause.

ADMIRAL HORATIO NELSON

ater that day, Lilly was busy in the laboratory-kitchen preparing a strong decoction of chamomile, which they sold as a hair
rinse and, separately labeled, as a wash for ailing teeth and gums.
She heard Charlie rattling around in the shop, playing with the cavy
most likely.

“Charlie! ” she called, opening the large pot on the stove to see if
the water was boiling. “Remember to take Mrs. Kilgrove her tablets.
They are on the front counter.”

“All right, Lilly.” A moment later Charlie called, “Cavy likes
chamomile, does he not?”

“What?”

“The cavy. Likes chamomile?”

Replacing the pot lid, she called back, “Yes.”

Just that morning, she had pressed a bottle of chamomile tablets
for Mrs. Kilgrove-they soothed her stomach and helped her sleep. Most people made a tea of the herb for this purpose, but Mrs. Kilgrove
could not abide the taste. “Smells like tobacco, tastes like fodder,” she
always complained. Lilly did not ask the old woman how she knew.

“Give him some?” Charlie called.

“Yes, all right. Only a few tablets. From the drawer.”

Since she had used the last of the dried chamomile they had on
hand, she and Charlie had harvested a batch of chamomile flowers
from their garden early that morning. Her back still ached from the
tedious chore.

Lilly checked the stove. She added more coals to the fire to keep
the water steaming. Now she would allow the tiny blossoms to steep
for half an hour.

Just in time to give over the stove to Mrs. Fowler to prepare their
dinner. She was so relieved to have the dear woman back in service.
She not only cooked but also took in the laundry and cleaned their
living quarters.

While the blossoms steeped, Lilly spread the remaining flowers
on stretched-linen screens. Then she carried the first of them up the
three flights of stairs into the stifling hot herb garret, where the flowers could dry out of direct sunlight. Later, she would store the dried
blossoms in tightly sealed jars.