Death in the Setting Sun (6 page)

“May I join you?” she asked.

John had risen to his feet and bowed. Now he said, “It would be a pleasure, Madam.”

“I wondered if you might be discussing something.”

The Magistrate turned his head in her direction. “Only daughters, my love.”

Elizabeth pulled a face. “Daughters indeed. The little cat is out with her maid, gone to visit a female friend. I only pray that they don’t get into any mischief.”

Sir John laughed his tuneful laugh. “Might as well hope that the moon turns black. Anyway, enough of her. We’ll bore our guest. What news from you, Mr. Rawlings?”

It was an odd thing but John, who had no intention of so doing, suddenly found himself telling the Magistrate about the late intruder in the garden.

Sir John listened in total silence, as did his wife. Eventually he said, “So this creature took off when he realised you were watching?”

“Yes. But what puzzles me is his motive. Why stand so silently and stare at my house? What could he hope to gain?”

“Perhaps it was someone from the streets looking for somewhere to sleep.” This from Elizabeth.

Oddly, John found this comforting. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he said. “Do you know, you’re probably right. So it was nothing sinister after all.”

But for all that as he hired a hackney coach to take him home and dismounted in Nassau Street, he looked over his shoulder, full of sudden dread.

A coach was approaching and as it turned in from Gerrard Street he saw the familiar figure of Irish Tom on the box. Making a bow, John opened the door and pulled down the step and was rewarded with Emilia’s spectacular smile.

“Oh, John, I didn’t think you were going out. Have you had a good time?”

“Yes, I dined with the Magistrate and his wife. And what about you? How did the rehearsal go?”

“Excellently.” He could smell wine on her breath and smiled to himself. “But you’ll never guess what.”

“What?”

“Lady Theydon has managed it. She has persuaded Princess Amelia that the masque is to take place at Gunnersbury Park. In fact, the Princess is going to keep her Christmas there and is despatching servants tomorrow to heat the place up.”

John opened the front door, feeling the warm air from the hall come to greet him. “But how will this affect you? And Michael O’Callaghan, come to that?” Emilia’s small face took on a slightly worried look. “Ah, that is where you come in.”

“Me?” said John, helping her off with her cloak, then removing his greatcoat.

“Yes, you.”

He took her hand. “Come into the library. Let’s have a drink before we retire. Wine is good in moderation for pregnant women.”

Her guilty expression made him chuckle to himself. “Perhaps I shouldn’t. I have had three glasses tonight.”

“Well, one more won’t hurt you.”

He poured two glasses of claret then returned to his chair by the fire. “Now, how do I come into the grand design?”

Emilia smiled, a fraction nervously. “Priscilla has invited me to stay at Gunnersbury. Just for four days during which time she will rehearse as frequently as possible. Mr. O’Callaghan has also been invited. On the fourth day we will perform for the Princess. Oh, John, do say I can go.”

“Well, of course you can. You have given enough of your time not to drop out now. When is this to be?”

“We, that is Mr. O’Callaghan and myself, are to arrive at Gunnersbury on the eighteenth. We will perform for the Princess on the twenty-second and then you and I can travel back in time for Christmas.” She looked so appealing, her face taking on the childlike look that had always so attracted him.

“And when do the full court go to Gunnersbury?”

“Some time next week. When the servants have got the place habitable.”

“How nice, to walk in when everything is warm and comfortable I mean.”

Emilia sipped her wine. “Well, you do.”

John laughed. “You’re right, of course. I have a very contented life, thanks to you.” He paused, drank a little, then said, “I shall miss you.”

“But it’s only four days, John. For you will come and join me on the fourth.”

“Yes, only four days apart,” he answered, and stared into the flames.

Chapter Five

H
is advertisement having appeared in
The Daily Courant
, John’s business did increase slightly. Firstly, ladies appeared in his shop, interested in his perfumes. Secondly, he was called out more to undertake medical duties. Every time he left he worried about leaving the place in the sole charge of Gideon Purle. But so far there had been no cause for complaint.

It seemed to the Apothecary, when he looked back, that during the third week of December he was hardly at home. Leaving the house before it was light and coming back well after the time to dine, sometimes quite tired if there had been a particularly trying patient, he rarely saw his daughter and little of his wife.

“But sweetheart, you cannot go on like this,” Emilia complained.

“It will ease off, I assure you. It’s only the first enthusiasm following the advertisement.”

But they both knew he was lying, that his particular manner, combined with the most effective use of medicines, was finally building his practice up.

“If only Nicholas were still with me,” he said with a sigh.

Yet that was impossible. The Muscovite was successfully running a shop in Kensington and had his own apprentice. That particular door was closed.

John worked on, hardly noticing which day was which, until eventually Emilia said, “You do realise that I leave for Gunnersbury tomorrow.”

“What?”

John’s attention, completely absorbed with a young woman with a terrible attack of loose teeth, snapped back to the present with a jolt.

“I said I am leaving for Gunnersbury House,” Emilia repeated with just a hint of ice in her tone.

“My darling, I had no idea. Truth to tell I’ve been rather taken up with problems. I’m sorry.”

She relented. “Oh, I hate leaving you like this. But I promised to take part and I can’t let Priscilla down. You do understand, don’t you?”

He suddenly, inexplicably, felt deeply depressed. “Must you go?” was out of his mouth before he had time to control it.

“Oh, John! Yes, I must. I gave my word. Irish Tom will drop me then come back and be at your disposal. He will bring you down on the twenty-second. It is all arranged.”

There was nothing he could say. “Very well,” he managed, and spread his hands.

She went to him and stroked his forehead. “Darling, you look so tired. I shall miss you, you know that.”

“Yes, I know,” he answered wearily.

“Come, let us go to bed,” said Emilia. “You look fit to drop.”

“I am.”

And he followed her up the stairs and got into bed where he fell asleep at once, determined to devote more time to his family and less to his work.

He woke unusually early and half sat up in bed, lighting the candle carefully. It was still dark and very cold in the room. Beside him Emilia slept, deep down in dreams. Raising himself on one elbow the Apothecary looked at her, studying her face. Sleep had etched out any lines she had so that she appeared no more than a girl and this, together with a natural innocence which she had always possessed, brought sudden tears to his eyes. He thought then about Coralie Clive and Elizabeth di Lorenzi and knew that he could never have married either of them. That both, in their individual ways, would have been too wild, too much to cope with. Emilia, though considered by some to be a strange choice at the time, had proved herself an ideal wife.

Watching her, keeping so quiet, John had never experienced anything quite like it, feeling tenderness, love, and a fierce urge to protect her against all harm. Very gently he leaned over and kissed her. She stirred but did not wake. He kissed her again and this time she opened her eyes. Her saw fear in them, saw it turn to recognition and fondness.

“John?” She was asking him a question.

“I love you, Emilia, and I always will.”

“I love you too.”

She put her arms round his neck and drew him close, and he responded quite naturally, swiftly removing his nightshirt and pulling her beneath him as they made love in the light of dawning.

Later that morning, Emilia set off, armed with a trunk and hat box. Irish Tom brought the coach round from the mews, promising his employer that he would be back the next day.

“… it being so snowy and all, Sorrh.”

“Don’t worry, take your time. And Tom …”

“Yes, Sorrh?”

“Go at a reasonable pace. Mrs. Rawlings must be looked after, you know.”

“I’ll be treating her as if she were the royal jewels, Sorrh.”

John put his head and shoulders into the coach’s interior where Emilia was settling herself before the journey began.

“Goodbye, darling. I’ll see you on the twenty- second.”

“Goodbye, Emilia.” He was interrupted by a twitch on his leg and saw that Rose had come outside in the cold, pursued by a frantic nurse. “It’s all right, Polly. She wants to say farewell to her mama.”

“But it’s freezing, Mr. Rawlings.”

“I’ll keep her warm.”

So saying he scooped Rose up and held her beneath the folds of his coat. From this position she leant into the coach and kissed her mother goodbye, very fondly. Then she wriggled out of John’s grasp and went back to her nurse, who took the child indoors.

The Apothecary held the coach a moment longer, taking Emilia’s hand and raising it to his lips. Then he waved farewell, shut the door and, telling Irish Tom to drive carefully, watched the conveyance until it disappeared out of sight, turning into Gerrard Street.

He went back into the house, put on his greatcoat and hat and set off for Shug Lane feeling strangely empty and, yet again, with that odd sense of depression which had so recently haunted him.

Irish Tom returned in the evening of the next day, cursing and swearing as only an Irishman could.

“By God, Sorrh, I wouldn’t like a journey like that again.”

“Well, you’re going to have to do it in a day’s time.” The Irishman pulled a face. “I most earnestly enjoin you to leave tomorrow, Sorrh, and put up for the night at Sir Gabriel’s. It gets dark so early and it is impossible to travel fast in these conditions. If you want to get there on time you really must.”

“But leaving the shop is the problem, Tom. Quite honestly Gideon is just a boy and somewhat forgetful.”

“Then close it, Mr. Rawlings, do. I can’t guarantee to get you there else.”

“Very well, I’ll compromise. I’ll shut the place at noon tomorrow and be gone to Kensington at one. How will that suit?”

“That will suit fine, Sorrh. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to get some sleep.”

And he disappeared, still grumbling and muttering about the dangers of the road in bad weather.

True to his word, the Apothecary closed the premises in Shug Lane at five minutes past twelve, being delayed by a beau who came mincing in for his Christmas supplies of physic for the stomach, a potion for headache, suppositories, and two condoms of the cheaper washable variety. Having seen him leave, John sent Gideon off to see his parents, lit the lights in the windows and hurried back to Nassau Street to pack a trunk, which included his newly delivered suit. Then, punctually at one, Irish Tom appeared, looking smart and ready for the journey. Kissing Rose hastily, the Apothecary climbed in and they set off through the snowy streets.

It was a bleak journey, John wrapping himself in a fur coverlet to keep out the biting cold. The way to Kensington also took longer because of the bad conditions. Reaching Hyde Park as the sun was going down, a bell was ringing to warn travellers to band together before crossing the open space. Irish Tom duly halted the coach and talked to the other drivers until six conveyances had gathered, including the post. Then they proceeded slowly forward, one behind the other, their sheer weight of numbers being sufficient to scare off any highwaymen. Once through without incident, Tom took the King’s Old Road to Kensington, but beaten by snow turned off and went to the village via the main track.

It was dark when they entered the place, growing bigger as its popularity continued to increase, and made their way immediately to Church Lane. Here, in the house on the end of the row, Sir Gabriel Kent,

John’s adoptive father, resided. Pausing outside the front door while Irish Tom saw to the luggage, John remembered his first encounter with the great man. He had been three years old, begging on the streets of London with his mother Phyllida Fleet. Even now he could recall the brief bleak pain as the carriage wheels passed over them, the moment when Sir Gabriel had lifted them up and carried them inside that same carriage and back to his home in Nassau Street.