The Apothecary's Daughter (57 page)

Mrs. Mimpurse stood there, a shawl thrown hastily over her nightdress, hair down, face … broken. Tears and anguish marred her
countenance and Lilly froze in shocked horror. She knew the truth even
before Mrs. Mimpurse could form the world-darkening words.

Thus ends the story of the apothecary.
Although he has ceased to exist in name,
his art still survives, and though stripped of much of its
ancient mystery, it is likely to live, so long as suffering
humanity has need of drugs and medicines to alleviate
the ills to which the flesh is heir.

C. J. S. THOMPSON, MYSTERY AND ART OF THE APOTHECARY

Sweet Memory! wafted by thy gentle gale,
Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail.

SAMUEL ROGERS

Remember Man as you Pasby
as You Are Now So once Was i
as i am Now so Must You Bee
Make Peace with Christ And
FOLLOW ME

1715 EPITAPH, WILTSHIRE NOTES AND QUERIES

ary Helen Mimpurse had died in her sleep. And according
.to her mother, and to Mr. Shuttleworth who had attended
her, peacefully. No sign of a fit marred her lovely, placid features, nor
her pale fingers. Mr. Shuttleworth said he had seen the like before,
in the asylum where he once worked, though he did not pretend to
understand the cause of death.

Lilly did not think she could have loved Mary more for knowing they were sisters, but she did mourn her loss more deeply, more
enduringly, for that knowledge.

How Lilly wished she had known the truth sooner, even while she
understood her father’s and Mrs. Mimpurse’s reasons for keeping it
secret. She wished she might have explored, embraced, relished the
strange and wonderful fact that she had a sister. Had she not always
longed for one? Someone with whom to share frocks and courtship
confessions. Someone to favour.

Now Lilly longed to look once more into Mary’s dear face and
recognize all that she had been blind to. Charles Haswell’s features
softened by Maude Mimpurse’s rounder ones. Charles Haswell’s
and Charlie’s blue eyes. The ginger hue of the Haswell hair, though
a lighter wash upon Mary’s fine silken strands. And what of Mary’s
infallible memory for the most complex recipes? So like Lilly’s with
physic.

Now Lilly felt guilty for the slight superiority of situation, intellect, and even beauty she had felt toward Mary over the years. How
mistaken I was! Mary, she concluded, was the wiser, lovelier woman
twice over.

As the days, then weeks, then months passed, regret for the past
transformed into pining for a future that would never be. Lilly thought
of all she and Mary would miss together. They would have been aunts
to each other’s children. Their children close cousins. She thought of
the hours they would have enjoyed, sitting together in Mary’s coffeehouse-for it would have been hers nibbling on scones and village
news and the triumphs of their children and grandchildren.

What comfort there would have been in beholding that familiar
face and seeing the lines and reeves there, as on her own. They would
have grown old together, yet seen in each other the young women
they had once been, long after everyone else saw but two grizzled
crones. Long after their husbands were gone men did seem to die
the sooner they would have bided together as they had “a day back
agone,” as Mrs. Kilgrove would say. Of course all of this was assuming
Mary would have been allowed to wed.

Lilly would have seen to it somehow.

Charlie still visited the churchyard, as he always had. He no longer
went to count dead men. He went instead to talk to Mary. He sat in
the sun, his back resting against Sir Henry’s headstone. Lilly did not
think the old baronet would have minded.

Poor Charlie, Lilly thought. He had lost another woman he loved.
Lilly prayed nothing would happen to her.

Since the fire, they had begun referring their patients to
Shuttleworth’s-or even to Dr. Foster, as the case required. Several of their oldest patients, Mrs. Kilgrove and Mr. Owen to name two,
still insisted they would see a Haswell and no other, and she and her
father did what they could for them.

That spring after Mary’s death, Lilly and her father tended the
physic garden together, and throughout the summer months, sold
the herbs and simples to Shuttleworth and other medical men in the
county, but also to the proprietor of The George, and other hostelries
which had no kitchen-garden of their own. She and even her father,
when he was able helped in the coffeehouse now that Mary was
gone. Though neither her father nor Maude would likely admit it,
Lilly thought the two old friends took great comfort in each other’s
company.

With the arrival of September, Lilly finally received a letter from
Francis Baylor. Her heart squeezed at the sight of it and, hand to her
chest, she stepped into the garden to read it.

Dear Miss Haswell,

I have only just learned of Miss Mary’s death. I was stunned
and deeply sorrowed as no doubt everyone in Bedsley Priors
must be, but especially you and Mrs. Mimpurse. You have my
deepest sympathies. Had I known in time, I would have returned
for the funeral, in hopes of being some comfort to your families
at such a dark hour.

Though my lodgings seem to change with much regularity,
I know I ought to have given you or your father some way to
contact me. I had my reasons for not doing so at the time, but
they seem foolish now, given what has happened. I hope you
will forgive me.

I am here in London studying to become a fully qualified
apothecary. Under the Apothecaries’ Act, I need to acquire
a certificate from the Court of Examiners to practice as an
apothecary. But I did not tell you my plans, because in all truth
I was not certain I should be able to afford the schooling, nor
that I would succeed in passing the examinations. You know I
have never been a quick student….

“Nonsense,” she breathed. “That was only as a lad. When you
did not apply yourself.”

… But I am succeeding. Beyond my five-year apprenticeship with your father, the new Act requires instruction in
anatomy, botany, chemistry, materia medica, and physic, in
addition to six months’ practical hospital experience. I am now
undergoing the latter here at Guy’s Hospital. God willing, I will
set out my own shingle one day, if you can believe it. I occasionally see Dr. Graves about the place, though he is master to my
pupil. I suppose his return to London means you will soon be
returning as well?

I have taken your advice and made the acquaintance of Mr.
Lippert and his son and daughter. They have made me most
welcome on several occasions. Miss Lippert is quite as charming
as you led me to believe, and I must thank you for making the
family known to me. The felicity of their society has given my life
in London a congeniality I had not hoped to find. Mr. Lippert
has even offered to sell his shop to me, hinting that I might have
a wife in the bargain. He is only jesting, of course.

Lilly inhaled sharply. Is he? she wondered.

Francis went on to describe his studies at both the laboratory and
gardens of the Apothecaries’ Society as well as his time spent “walking
the wards” at Guy’s. He ended by giving his address and asking how
her father fared. He sent his best to Mr. Haswell and said he would
write to Mrs. Mimpurse himself.

He signed it FB.

No love, no warmly, no sincerely. Her spirits sank. But after nearly
a year, what had she expected?

Still, Lilly wrote back to Francis, at the address he had given, and
described her father’s ongoing symptoms. She also told Francis in the
most dispassionate terms of the demise of Haswell’s as he knew it. She
was surprised when he wrote back directly and suggested her father
come to London. Thomas Bromley and a master apothecary at the
teaching hospital were working with glandular and lung fever and might be able to help him. He said he would have suggested it earlier,
but believed Charles Haswell would never consider leaving his shop
as long as its doors remained open. Francis even offered to share his
lodgings. It seemed there was a small pantry her father might have for
nothing. She expected he was teasing with this last part and doubted
her father would be interested in submitting himself to hospital care
in any case.

She was wrong.

Within a matter of days, she and her father had made plans to
travel to London. Aunt and Uncle Elliott had extended several invitations over the preceding months and wrote to say they would be
delighted to have her stay with them for as long as she liked, Charles as
well. But her father was adamant about going to the hospital directly.
He was tired of being ill and wanted to start treatment as soon as
possible.

Lilly was relieved they would not be arriving during the height
of the season, but rather the quiet of autumn. They traveled by post
to London and, from the coaching inn, hired a hackney to take them
the rest of the distance to Guy’s.

Lilly had worn black and grey mourning clothes for six months,
as custom decreed for the passing of a sister. But now, a year after
Mary’s death, she wore one of her more reserved promenade dresses
from her London days, no longer in fashion and creased from the
journey. She found she could not care. Her thoughts were of Francis.
She longed to see him, but felt increasingly jittery and ill at ease as
they neared the hospital.

There it was. The gate, the tan and grey building were familiar. Yet
how long ago it seemed since she had been there with Dr. Graves. She
wondered if she would see him again, and felt nervous at the prospect.
She hoped he held no ill will toward her.

Taking her father’s arm and a deep breath, they walked past the
columns and arched doorway, and into the main corridor.

She was surprised to find Dr. Graves awaiting them in the receiving office. His smile was sincere, if reserved, as he stepped forward to greet them.