The Apothecary's Daughter (6 page)

“You would if you saw them flirting with one another in the
shop.”

Mary shrugged. “It is her nature to flirt, I think. Perhaps after
this she’ll be more circumspect.”

“I doubt it,” Lilly said, then recalled that Francis had taken ill the
previous day. Miss Robbins had not mentioned when the tete-a-tete
had occurred, but likely quite recently. So perhaps it had not been
Francis after all….

“You aren’t going to ask Charlie about it, are you? ” Mary
asked.

Lilly hesitated.

“Lill, don’t. You wouldn’t want him to break a promise to a lady
no matter if the lady is Dorothea Robbins.”

“I suppose you are right. Must you always be right, Mary?”

Mary put a dough-crusted hand to her brow in mock melodrama.
“It is a curse I must bear up under somehow.” She eyed Lilly’s plate.
“Now, are you going to eat my cake or not? “

That afternoon, diminutive Jack Dubin stepped into the shop, a
wax-sealed missive in his hand.

“Letter by special messenger that’s me for one Miss Lillian
Haswell. You wouldn’t know anybody by that name, now, would ya?”

Cheeky boy. Stepping around the counter, Lilly swiped the letter
from him. “You know very well who I am, Jack.” She tossed him a
coin. “Here is a little something for your trouble.”

He looked at the coin in his palm. “A very little!”

“Well, try delivering with less wit next time.”

Lilly retreated through the back door and took her time slitting
open the red wax seal. It was the first time she had ever received a
letter by messenger. Or any letter, addressed specifically and solely
to her. How she had once longed for a letter from her mother. But
none had ever come.

She opened it and saw it was from Aunt and Uncle Elliott, written from their lodgings across the canal in Honeystreet, just a short
stroll away.

My dear niece,

We very much enjoyed meeting you yesterday, though the
circumstances were no doubt trying for you all. Would you
please do us the honor of dining with us this evening here at
The George at seven? We would very much like to deepen our
acquaintance with you before we return to London.

Sincerely,

Mr. and Mrs. Jonathan Elliott

Still holding the letter, she wandered back into the shop, and was
surprised to see Jack Dubin still there.

“What’s it to be, love?” he asked. “I’m to take back your reply.”

“Oh.” She hesitated. Should she refuse out of loyalty to her rejected
brother? For the sake of her long-spurned father and mother? After
all, these people were strangers to her strangers by choice.

But by choice no longer.

“Tell them I accept.”

Lilly had eaten at The George before, though not recently. During the first few months after her mother’s disappearance, her father,
dazed and struggling to care for his children as well as his shop, had
taken them to the then-new establishment whenever Mrs. Fowler had
a day off. Finally he and Lilly, under the tutelage of Mrs. Mimpurse,
had learned to cook simple meals for themselves.

During her mother’s absence, the kitchen had slowly transformed
into a laboratory-kitchen, as the distillation and compounding apparatus slowly made their way into the room Mother had doggedly declared
off limits before. Now, despite Mrs. Fowler’s protests, stove, cupboards, and table saw double duty in food and medicinal preparation.
Lilly often wondered how long it would be until they accidentally sat
down to a meal of arsenic or digitalis while their patients languished
with cure-alls of cod and leek soup.

Mary, who had a knack for such things, had come over earlier to
dress Lilly’s hair, coiling and pinning her long plait atop her head,
curls at her temples. Now donning her best gown for the occasion the
printed muslin with lace tips, normally reserved for churchgoing Lilly
descended the stairs at a quarter before the hour, cloak over her arm.

The door of Francis’s bedchamber was open and she looked in on
the miserable young man, who had lain abed ill since yesterday. Lying
propped on his pillows, his brown eyes widened and brows rose when
he saw her. “Where are you off to?”

“Supper with my aunt and uncle. At The George.”

“Oh. Right.” Still, he stared at her.

Stepping into the pantry that had long served as the apprentice’s bedchamber, Lilly sat on the edge of the narrow bed and removed the
cloth from his forehead. “How are you feeling? “

“Two parts dizzy and a drachm of weak.”

She touched his forehead. “Your fever has abated somewhat.”

She rose to her feet and dipped the cloth in a basin of water on
the room’s single chest of drawers. “Your color is better also. I believe
Father is right the patient will live.”

“Is he relieved or disappointed at that prognosis?”

“Relieved, of course.” She added with a grin, “Otherwise he should
be obliged to return your apprenticeship fee.”

He did not grin back. “I thought he might be disappointed, considering I am not the cleverest apprentice he has ever had.”

“Shh. You improve every day.” She wrung out the cloth.

“And you, Lilly, are you relieved not to be rid of me?”

She cocked her head to one side. “Well, it would be nice to have
this pantry back, and I should not mind a better balance of males to
females in this house. I am sorely outnumbered.”

Francis, whom she was so used to teasing, did not seem to find
this amusing. Instead he looked crestfallen.

“Francis, forgive me. I see you are not your old thick-skinned self
at present, ready to serve up your own share of teasing in return. Of
course I am pleased you are feeling better. And that we shall have you
with us for years to come.”

Francis smiled ruefully and closed his eyes. “You are never so kind
to me when I am well. I shall have to fall ill more often.”

“I pray not, Francis. You know what Father says….’

He ducked his chin and mimicked Charles Haswell’s low, stern
voice, ” `It does not do for a medical man to take ill.’

“See? You remembered.” She replaced the cool cloth on his forehead. “And as soon as you are fully recovered, we shall have you
remembering herbals and remedies as well.”

When she entered The George’s dim, lamplit dining room, her
uncle rose from a table in a quiet corner. Jonathan Elliott was tall
enough that when he stood to greet her, his head rustled the dry hop flowers hanging from the beamed ceiling. “Lillian, we are so pleased
you could join us.”

Still seated, her aunt extended her hand and Lilly took it in hers.
“I am pleased to do so.”

“How nice you look. Your hair is lovely like that.”

“Thank you. My friend Mary arranged it.” Lilly took her seat
and Uncle Elliott pushed in her chair.

Sitting once more he said, “We have taken the liberty of ordering
supper. I hope you like beefsteaks and artichokes?”

She could not remember the last time she’d had either. “Sounds
delicious.”

Two old farmers sitting near the fire with tankards of ale were
the only other patrons. Mrs. Dubin, who looked from Lilly to her
well-dressed companions with unconcealed curiosity, served them
with pragmatic efficiency.

Once their meal was before them, her aunt began. “As you know,
we came here with intentions toward your brother which, sadly, are
not feasible. However, your uncle and I both believe that we have not
made the trip in vain, for meeting you and of course your father
and brother has been delightful. We are especially impressed with
you, my dear.”

“Thank you.” Lilly felt undeniable pleasure at this warm praise.

“Now, as you know, your uncle must name a male relative to inherit
his entailed property. However, we do have some discretion in the distribution of personal effects, such as jewelry, furniture even an annual
allowance may be left to, say, a special young lady. I do not mean to
bribe you, Lillian, but I would like you to consider an opportunity. We
would like you to come live with us in London. We would hire the best
tutors for you in deportment, drawing, language, and dance, and teach
you all you need to know to be a proper, accomplished young lady.”

Lilly’s pulse accelerated. Her own days at Shaw’s private girls
school had ended when her mother left. Might she now finish her
education as she’d longed to do?

Her aunt continued, “You might even bring that friend of yours
as lady’s maid if you like. We would count it a privilege to host you through a London season or two and introduce you to society … and
perhaps even to your future husband.”

“Now, Ruth, let us not get ahead of ourselves,” Jonathan Elliott
admonished.

Lilly’s heart and head were pounding with such exhilaration,
hope, and fear that she found herself speechless.

“Would you not like to see London?” Aunt Elliott asked. “To
fill the gaps in your education? See the best museums, hear the finest
concerts, dance at the most exclusive balls? Perhaps even travel to
Italy or Spain?”

Travel. An image flashed before her mind’s eye. Her younger self
and her mother, heads bent over an old world map …

Still Lilly said nothing, just stared at the kind face of her aunt as
though the woman were speaking a language Lilly could not quite
make out.

Finally Lilly managed to sputter, “W-why?”

“Why?” her aunt repeated, not understanding.

“Why would you do this for me? Why would you want to? I have
nothing with which to ever repay you.”

Her aunt’s delicate features became earnest. “I do not believe that,
Lillian. Not for one moment. Your happiness, your success shall be all
the repayment we ever need.” She reached across the table and took
her hand. “If you come to feel some fondness for us, well, that would
be more than we could ask for.”

Lilly battled to contain the excitement building within her. Was
this not what she had long wished for? But would Father ever allow it?
Tentatively, she asked, “Have you spoken to my father about this?”

Uncle shook his head. “There was no need to until we knew if you
were even interested. But we shall, if you think you might be.”

Aunt Elliott studied her, obvious hope in her eyes. “Shall we,
Lillian? Shall we speak to him?”

Lilly took a deep breath, inhaling the hundred questions warring
within her. She asked only one.

“When?”

An apothecary first of all should be a lover of piety,
one that fears God, void of envy and malice, of good competency …
and not given to corpulency.

-C. I. S. THOMPSON, MYSTERY AND ART OF THE APOTHECARY

7pon her return from The George, Lilly found her father standing in the laboratory-kitchen, using a scraper of horn to clean
one of his mortars. He set down the instrument and wiped his hands
on a cloth.