The Apothecary's Daughter (60 page)

I could not protest that she was not buried here in the Bedsley Priors
churchyard, when she had so long wanted to escape our village. But I
agreed with the Elliotts’ plan to purchase a headstone and have it engraved
with her legal name. Rosamond Haswell had disappeared, and Rosamond
Haswell had been found. If Rosa Wells wished a pauper’s grave, we would
not oblige her. Cemeteries and headstones are for the living, after all. The
ones who need a place to mourn and visit and remember.

We held a brief funeral in London. The service was sparsely
attended. Jonathan and Ruth Elliott, Charles and Charlie Haswell,
Maude Mimpurse, Francis and I. A small announcement ran in
the Times, but no unfamiliar men men named Quinn or Wells or
Dugan appeared. In the end, it boiled down to blood and love.

It always did.

After the funeral, Uncle Elliott led me into the library, pressed
something into my palm, and closed my fingers around it, saying
only, “I found it among your mother’s things.” When he left me, I
opened my hand. My heart lurched at the sight of my name written
in a familiar though shaky hand, on a thrice-folded scrap of paper. I
unfolded it and saw that it had been torn from the corner of a larger
piece. The smeared ink words it bore swam before my eyes.

It is too late to undo what I have done.

Too late to plead forgiveness, or tell you I love you.

But I beg you, do not follow my course.

And please, tell Charlie I am sorry I never returned as I
told him I would.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I clutched the paper to my breastbone,
and held it there. Only when I held the note aloft once more, tears magnifying my vision, did I recognize the paper itself the thick,
creased paper the color of a tea stain. The curve of a sphere. Torn
away…

To think I used to covet her adventurous life. Even wished she had
taken me with her. How foolish I had been.

The memory of my mother’s grave receded, and I focused on
the one there before me in the Bedsley Priors churchyard. The large
headstone my father had paid a dear sum to purchase and a dearer sum
yet to have engraved. So many words and flowers and embellishments
have not graced a headstone since the first Lady Marlow’s. We had
feared Mrs. Mimpurse might mind our involvement. But she, dear
woman, seemed to understand my need to claim kinship and Father’s
need for atonement for though kind to Mary, he had never publicly
acknowledged her during her lifetime.

Now I traced gloved fingers along the grooves of the carved-out
dates of my sister’s life. 1795 to 1815. Far, far too brief. I sank to my
knees before the sun-warmed stone. Tears streamed down my face
as I again read the words that ushered in such a bittersweet torrent of
pain and pleasure and release.

Here lies
Mary Helen Mimpurse,
The Apothecary’s Daughter

I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up. Francis had come. He
offered me his hand and helped me to my feet. In his dear brown eyes
I saw love and empathy. He kissed me tenderly and then wrapped his
arms around me. For a moment, we stood there, simply remembering.
Then together we walked hand in hand back to our shop, back to the
endless duties and joys of an apothecary, and his wife.

hile most people visit the London Eye or Buckingham Palace,
I dragged my long-suffering husband to less-visited places like
the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries and a museum of pharmacy.
While other tourists snapped pictures of the changing of the guard,
he tirelessly photographed ancient mortars and leech jars. I appreciate
his help very much. We did not visit Bedsley Priors, for the village
exists only in my imagination, near the real places of Honeystreet and
Alton Barnes, Wiltshire.

I am indebted to John Williams, Beadle of the Apothecaries’ Hall,
for his gallant and informative tour and for sharing a history of which
he is justifiably proud. He even donned his ceremonial gown covered
with golden tassels, which represent the posies that beadles of old
pinned on to ward off the odors of the plague years. For fictional purposes, I took a few liberties with the information he gave us. I certainly
hope Mr. Williams won’t come after me wearing that gown.

I am also grateful to Julie Wakefield, Assistant Keeper of the
Museum of the Royal Pharmaceutical Society of Great Britain, who
gave us a detailed, fascinating tour through the changing medical treatments from early to modern times. She also took pity on my “poor
soldier” husband, offering him a soft chair and a cool drink while I
continued my barrage of questions.

I would also like to thank my colleagues and friends at Bethany
House, especially Ann Parrish, Charlene Patterson, Jennifer Parker,
and my editors, Karen Schurrer and Jolene Steffer. Deepest thanks to
author Beverly Lewis, for her friendship and prayers.

Greetings to the ladies at Curves, who bought so many books, and
to Sarah, the pharmacy technician who first brought the apothecaries’
system of weights to my attention.

I appreciate all the readers who have taken time to visit my Web
site and send kind e-mails about my first novel, Lady of Milkweed
Manor. Your encouraging words have helped me through many late
nights of writing.

Heartfelt thanks to Carlisa, first reader and dear sister-friend, as
well as friends Teresa, Berit, Gina, Suzy, Betsey, Patty, Lori, and Mary,
who have given me such support and a great book party!

Finally, thanks again to my husband and sons, who have given me
the time and quiet (usually!) to write. I thank God for you.

1. What does the opening quotation, “Providence has made the
most useful things most common, and for that reason we neglect
them,” mean to you?

2. When is it easy for you to neglect “the most useful things” in life?
What distracts you from your priorities?

3. What surprised you about apothecaries in the early 1800s? How
are apothecaries similar to and different from today’s physicians,
pharmacists, and herbalists?

4. Did you grow up “missing” someone in your life (mother, father,
sister, brother, grandparents, etc.)? Did you find ways to fill this
void?

5. Mary suffered from epilepsy. Do you know anything about epilepsy or anyone afflicted with it? How has public opinion about
this condition changed since the 1800s?

6. Charles Haswell was too proud to ask for help. Do you ever struggle
to reach out in times of need?

7. Did you want to know more about what happened to Lilly’s mother,
or were you satisfied?

8. Have you ever been guilty of wanting something (or someone)
only when you cannot have it (or him or her)? Have you ever had
to lose something before you appreciated its worth?

9. If you had a memory like Lilly’s, what would you want to memorize or remember?

10. Which of Lilly’s suitors did you most like? Did she choose as you
would have?

JULIE KLASSEN is a fiction editor with a background in advertising.
She has worked in Christian publishing for more than twelve years, in
both marketing and editorial capacities. This is her second novel.

Julie is a graduate of the University of Illinois. She enjoys travel,
research, books, BBC period dramas, long hikes, short naps, and
coffee with friends.

She and her husband have two sons and live near St. Paul,
Minnesota.

For more information about Julie, TheApothecary’s Daughter, Lady
of Milkweed Manor, and her upcoming books, visit www.julieklassen.
com.