The Apothecary's Daughter (8 page)

n Monday morning, Francis was feeling like his old self again
and joined Lilly in the shop. She watched as he worked with
the mortar and pestle, ineffectively swishing and tamping the simples
within. Must I again demonstrate proper technique?

“Hold the pestle with a light grip, Francis,” she said. “Like a quill.
And press firmly in a circular motion.” The swishing continued. Frustrated, she stood at his shoulder and reached her right hand over his.
“Like this.” She held his larger hand beneath her own, guiding his
motions.

Though a year younger, he was already taller than she. When
he looked down at her, standing close as she was, Lilly felt his warm
breath tickling the hairs at her temple. He leaned closer yet, his brown
eyes alight, and whispered, “I so enjoy your demonstrations.”

She pulled away, irritated at his cheekiness, and decided now was
a perfect time to tell him of her plans.

“Leaving?” Francis’s voice rose. “Only two days ago you said,
`We’ll have you remembering herbals and remedies in no time.’ ” He
repeated her words with syrupy sarcasm.

She had never seen Francis so agitated and was relieved the shop
was empty. “I cannot help you forever, Francis. I know you can succeed on your own if you only take your post more seriously.”

“I tr ”
Y•

She huffed, “You spend more time learning to amuse Dorothea
Robbins than learning your trade.”

He ignored that. “Remember what else you said … ? Of course
you do, for you remember everything. You said, `I am glad you will
be with us for years to come.’ What about that?”

“How could I have guessed the Elliotts would offer such an
opportunity? “

“An opportunity for what? To wear silk frocks and drink tea with
your small finger in the air and your nose as well?”

“No! I want to see the world, or at least London. I want to learn
new things. I want to sleep in a room that does not smell of cat mint,
comfrey, and rue.” She thought of adding, I want to find my mother, but
left those words unspoken. “It is different for you. You want to work
here. I do not want to stay here my entire life, forever the apothecary’s
daughter, cutting pills and sweeping Father’s shop. I thought you would
understand. You left your home to pursue what you wanted. Are you
sorry you did not stay in Saltford all your life?”

“No, I am not sorry to be here. At least I have not been, until
now.

His reaction surprised her. “I do not understand you, Francis.”

“No, Lilly. Clearly you do not.”

Mary Mimpurse came into the shop that afternoon without her
customary apron. Her mother’s coffeehouse closed at one o’clock on
Mondays, giving her the afternoon free. She dragged a stool beside the
dispensing counter and watched as Lilly counted liquorice pastilles and packaged them into small paper boxes. Mary reached out and
popped a liquorice lozenge into her mouth.

“These are for medicinal purposes.” Lilly feigned reprimand.
“You do not appear to me to have a cold, Miss Mimpurse.”

Mary blithely shrugged. “Put a fancy label on it and call it medicine. I call it a sweet. Sugar or honey?”

“Honey.”

“Delicious.”

While Mary enjoyed her liquorice, Lilly shared her London plans
and the proposed departure after Christmas. Like Francis, Mary
responded with less enthusiasm than she had expected.

Eyeing her friend’s piqued expression, Lilly asked, “What is the
matter? “

“Nothing. I am happy for you. Truly.” Mary’s tone was snappy,
her mouth a thin line. “You’ll no doubt have a grand time and forget
all about us.”

“Nonsense. I don’t forget anything and certainly not my oldest
friend.”

Mary would not meet her gaze.

Lilly laid a hand on Mary’s forearm, strong, she noticed from all
her stirring and kneading, much as Lilly’s own were from many hours
spent with mortar and pestle. “I shall miss you, Mary,” she said.

Mary acknowledged this with a nod and briefly laid her hand atop
Lilly’s. “And I you.”

“Come with me, then.” Lilly slid a box toward Mary and began
sealing one herself. “Aunt Elliott said I might bring you along as lady’s
maid.”

Mary froze mid-seal. Her small mouth gaped. “Did she? Well …
I am surprised. Surprised your aunt even knows who I am.”

“She admired my hair. I told her you had done it and about your
many other talents.” Lilly reached out and tweaked Mary’s nose.

Her friend did not smile or seek playful revenge. Instead she rose
and said officiously, “Then you must have also told her that I am much
too busy slaving away in a poor coffeehouse to come to London. In fact, I had better hurry.” She turned toward the door. “No doubt the
mistress needs floors scrubbed or potatoes peeled….”

“Mary! Do not take offense. You know I do not view you as my
servant.”

Mary turned back. “Do you not? I know you’ve always thought
yourself above me, when in reality “

“I do not!”

“How ironic.” Mary shook her head, eyes clouded. “That she
would suggest such an arrangement, I do not mind, but that you, my
own

“Mary. I did not think. I only wished you might come with me.
I am sorry! Please forgive me….”

But sweet, docile Mary had already stalked from the room.

Ignoring the October chill, Lilly stood on the Honeystreet Bridge,
staring far off down the canal in the fading light of evening. A ginger
tabby lay curled up on the bridge, enjoying the warmth the bricks
had absorbed during the day. Enjoying, too, the occasional scratch
Lilly administered to its furry chin. She sighed. If only my day had
been as pleasant.

She could see lantern light gleaming on the water, though she could
not make out the shape of the vessel. Was it a narrowboat approaching, or a barge already moored for the night? She would stand there
just a little longer in case it came closer. A sudden thought startled
her. Perhaps she should not leave. What if Mother finally returned,
only to find her gone?

She sensed someone beside her and looked over to see Charlie, his
elbows on the bridge ledge, his eyes trained on the distant light.

“Were you looking for me?” Lilly asked.

“I always look for you here.” He glanced at her, then away. “I
want you to stay.”

Father must have told him. “But, Charlie, I cannot always live with
you and Father, keeping house for the two of you. I know it sounds selfish, but I want more. I am only going to Aunt and Uncle Elliott’s
in London. You liked them, did you not?”

“Very nice,” he mumbled.

The cat rose, arched its spine, and rubbed itself against Charlie’s
arms. Lilly was grateful for the interruption. When Charlie reached
out to stroke its back, she reminded him, “Gently.”

He nodded, petting and addressing the tabby, “I know you. You’re
Mrs. Kilgrove’s puss.”

The cat relished the attention with purring and half-lidded eyes.

Lilly smiled. “He likes you.”

Watching her brother pet the cat, Lilly remembered something
she had not thought about in a long while. Perhaps it was seeing the
cat and Charlie together, here on the bridge. Here where she searched
the boats.

As if the same memory had also been invoked in him, Charlie
said, “I had a cat once. Ran away.”

Not wanting to dwell on the sad aspect of the memory, she asked,
“Do you remember that Christmas when Father gave you the little
cat? I think you were eight years old.”

“Yes! In a bandbox. Holes cut for air. And his little paws pokin’
out, lookin’ to play.”

Lilly knew her father had mostly wanted a mouser for the shop,
but she had rarely seen Charlie as happy as he had been that day.

Charlie bit his lip. “Then he ate the leg off the Christmas goose,
and she was angry.”

She? It had only been three years since Mother left, but Charlie’s
memory was often poor. How much did he recall? “Do you remember
what Mr. Mimpurse said, when you showed him your new cat?”

“Mr. Mimpurse …” Charlie suddenly looked troubled. “He’s
gone now.

“I know.”

Mr. Mimpurse had died more than six years before. Hoping to
divert Charlie, she continued, “But do you remember what he said?”

When Charlie shook his head, she supplied, “He said, `That’s a
jolly good puss, Charlie.’ Remember?’ “

” ‘At’s right.”

“And so you named him jolly.”

“Jolly,” Charlie breathed, his eyes growing soft at the memory.

Poor Jolly, Lilly thought. How Charlie had clung to that cat, always
trying to hold it on his lap, to make it sleep in his bed, forever picking
it up and squeezing it so tightly, Lilly feared he’d suffocate the increasingly skittish creature. Charlie was not cruel; he merely tried too hard.
Cats want to come to you. They need time alone, time to hide away,
time for daytime naps and nighttime hunts. But Charlie was young
and Charlie was Charlie, and he didn’t understand, no matter how
often and gently their parents had tried to explain.

Lilly started. Is that what we did? she wondered. Did we try too
hard to hold on to Mother? Fail to give her the solitude she needed?
Suffocate her with affection?

When spring had come that long ago year, and the windows and
doors began to open more often, jolly had darted outside and was
never seen again.

Not a week had passed before Charlie began bringing home strays
with a vague resemblance to jolly, or sometimes even a neighbor’s cat,
to the garden door for Mother to inspect.

“Is it Jolly?” he would ask, eyes shining with hope.

“No, Charlie, I am afraid not.” Mother would smile with sympathy
and return to the kitchen.

Soon he was presenting tabbies, then striped cats, then cats with
spots. It was clear he no longer remembered what his cat had looked
like. But Mother did and continued to inspect and renounce the wouldbe Jollies that Charlie dragged to the door all that summer and fall.

Lilly remembered wondering what it would really hurt for Mother
to lie just once and say, “Yes, Charlie, you found jolly,” the next time
he brought home some stray. But she never did.

Now, on the canal, the distant boat began to move. As it drew
near, Lilly saw it was a narrowboat, its lantern casting flickers and
shadows along the canal bank and bridge as it passed beneath them.
Lilly watched carefully, studying the crew of work-roughened men
talking and jesting with one other. From their boisterous laughter it seemed clear they had been moored at The George for some time,
drinking a few too many ales.

No women were aboard.

It struck Lilly then. She was as pathetic as Charlie had been back
when he was eight or nine, searching out every cat in the village and
beyond, hoping to find his lost jolly. Here she was, eighteen years old,
still inspecting the faces of every woman she saw, hoping to find the
mother she had lost. But even Charlie had eventually given up and quit
searching. Father and Mother had never given Charlie another pet for
fear of repeating the drawn-out melodrama. Soon they had all put it
from their minds and gone on. Why could she not do the same? She
would, she decided. She would go to London. Right after Christmas.