The Apothecary's Daughter (22 page)

All this Lilly took in from the coach window, the startling scene
narrated by a kindly passenger who introduced herself as the proprietor
of a new millinery shop in town.

Lilly was too stunned to say much of anything. Was this why her
father had not answered recent letters? Had his shop become so busy
that he simply had no time to write?

Stepping down from the coach in front of the Hare and Hounds,
she waited until the coachman handed down her valise and carpetbag.
Then she walked around the tall coach, her eyes hungry for the first
sight of her father’s shop, the Haswell sign, the many-paned window.
Eager, too, for the smells and sounds, the pleasant hum of cures discussed and remedies heeded. She walked quickly across the green,
and there it was. The bowed window, flaking white paint, the sign
hanging from one chain. She wondered when the other side had fallen.
She hesitated at the window, noticing the display inside was sparse
and dusty. Her brow furrowed. Where were all the customers, all
the new villagers she’d heard about? It was not Sunday why was
the place empty?

Concern filtered through her mind. Her hand on the door latch,
she breathed a prayer and then pushed the door open and closed her
eyes to absorb the jangle of the bell. Same as always. She breathed
in. Smells flooded her senses all right, but something damp and foul
overrode the dried flowers and herbs.

“Hello?” she called tentatively, and then more loudly, “Father?
Charlie? “

No answer. Alarm began pulsing in her veins.

She walked through the shop, noting with dismay the soiled dispensing counter, and the back counter cluttered with pill dust and used
mortars, tools and tiles all in need of a good cleaning. What on earth?
Why had Charlie let off with the sweeping and dusting?

A mouse skittered somewhere in the corner. She shivered. With
mounting fear and dread, she opened the rear door into the laboratory-kitchen and private quarters. A foul smell charged out to repel
her. Dirty dishes, scummy pots, dank mortars and funnels were
piled in disarray on the sideboard. Had Mrs. Fowler given notice?
Or been sacked? She had always kept their private rooms clean, if
not orderly. She heard more skittering. Rodent or insect, she could
not be certain.

“Fa-ther? ” She tried again, her voice breaking. “It’s LillianLilly.”

She passed the narrow chamber where Francis slept and peeked inside. Her heart lurched. The cot wore no bedclothes, the wall pegs
were bare, as was the chest of drawers.

She called up the stairs but heard no answer. Remembering the
surgery, she returned through the shop and pushed open the surgery
door. Papers, bills, and parcels were piled high and obliterated the
surface of her father’s desk. Soiled plates and a half-eaten roll sat atop
the highest stack.

Lilly stopped, hand over her breast. She had found her father at
last. Lying on the surgery cot in shirtsleeves and rumpled breeches,
jaw unshaven. His mouth hung open, drool forming rivulets at its
corners. One arm was flung over his eyes, the other arm hung to the
floor, hand clasping an empty bottle.

Dear Lord in heaven … “Father?” She tentatively touched his
shoulder. She shook him gently, then with more urgency. “Father! “

He jerked. “What? What is it?” He wiped his mouth, then mumbled, “Be right with you.”

His eyes were blurry slits, which opened wider at the sight of her.
“Lilly? “

“Yes, of course it is me. What has happened, Father? Are you
ill?”

He groaned. “Just a nap.”

“It is more than that, clearly. Shall I call for Dr. Foster?”

“No. Not Foster.” He rolled to his side and pushed himself up,
only to fall back against the thin mattress.

Lilly’s heart ached to see him in such a state.

“Just need to sleep.”

To sleep it off? she wondered.

Her father had never been given to drink. What had happened to
drive him to it? She hoped it had not been her long absence. But if so,
why hadn’t he written? Unbidden, she thought back to Mr. Bromley’s
declaration of “the Wiltshire miracle.” Famed for having once raised a
man from the dead, Charles Haswell could now not even raise himself
from the bed.

“Where is Charlie, Father? And Francis?”

He mumbled something, his eyes halfway open and eerily
unfocused.

“Where is Francis?” she repeated.

“Old tailor’s shop.”

“What? ” Why would her father’s apprentice be at the old haberdashery? It had been closed for years. Perhaps it had reopened during
her absence. But even so, why would Francis be there?

Realizing she would get no more answers from her father for a
few hours at least, she left him in the surgery, replaced her hat, and
stepped back outside, careful to turn the shop sign to Closed.

She saw the coal monger walking on the green and hurried across
the High Street to speak to him

“Pardon me, Mr. Jones,” she said. “Have you seen Francis
Baylor? “

“I did. In the apothecary’s.”

He must be mistaken, Lilly thought. She had just come from
there.

Dipping her head politely, she walked on across the green, passed
the coal merchant, and rounded the butcher’s shop. Behind it, she
turned down narrow Milk Lane, which housed the old haberdashery
and stopped midstride. Hanging there on two sturdy chains was a
shiny new sign declaring, Lionel Shuttleworth, Surgeon-Apothecary.

Heart pounding, she forced one foot in front of the other until she
stood just to the side of the big front window. She felt like an awkward
spy as she leaned and peered inside. The scene that met her was very
like the one she had imagined seeing at Haswell’s. Ladies reading
labels on blue bottles and brown jars. Men standing around the center counter, waiting to be advised or bled. The shelves spotless, the
displays overflowing with patent medicines. From the ceiling hung a
shark and a blowfish, glistening in magenta and gold.

She saw the back of a tall gentleman wearing a green fitted coat
and buff trousers. He wore his brown hair short at the sides and back,
his sideburns neatly trimmed. He cut a dashing figure, this man, who
must be the new surgeon-apothecary. He turned, and she saw his
profile was handsome indeed….

Lilly put a hand over her mouth, catching a gasp. For the man
was Francis Baylor older and taller and better dressed helping a
customer as though he were a doctor himself.

She spun around, but not before she saw him glance up and his
eyes widen. She strode away even as she heard the shop door open and
rapid footfalls follow her. “Lilly! Miss Haswell!”

She’d wanted to see him, had she not? But perhaps what she had
seen answered her questions without a single word being spoken.

Still, she took a deep breath and turned to face him. “Francis,”
she said coolly.

“Thank heaven you’ve come. You’ve seen your father? “

“Yes.”

“So you know.”

“Know what, exactly? That the apprentice he mentored for years
has abandoned him? Gone to work for his competitor? Put Haswell’s
out of business?”

“No! It isn’t like that!”

“Then what is it like? Were you forced to come here? “

“In a manner of speaking, I was. Your father was unable to pay
me

“Fickle loyalty! You had a roof over your head, did you not? ” She
critically eyed the broad shoulders and chest beneath his fitted coat.
“You don’t look to be starving. Nor dressed in rags. Could you not
extend a bit of grace? “

“I did. He hasn’t paid me a farthing in six months. My apprenticeship is over. I am a journeyman now, entitled to wages. I stayed as
long as I could, but I must have some means, mustn’t I?”

“Why? Your mother makes a tidy living as tallow-chandler, I
understand, and she and your sister must have got by well enough all
those years you earned nothing as an apprentice.”

A young lady in fine flowered bonnet and gown came out of the
shop and walked past, a brown-paper-wrapped parcel in her gloved
hand. Lilly recognized her at once.

“Mr. Baylor. You disappeared before I could thank you. Most
helpful as usual.”

He cleared his throat. “You are welcome, Miss Robbins.”

My goodness, she’s prettier than ever, Lilly thought, relieved to be
wearing her nicest carriage dress and fitted spencer. The girl looked
her way and curtsied. Lilly stiffly returned the gesture.

“Miss Haswell, hello. Do you know what a wonderful dancer Mr.
Baylor has become?”

Lilly dumbly shook her head.

“I have never enjoyed a village fete as well as I did the last. Well,
until next time, Mr. Baylor.”

He bowed briefly before returning his attention to Lilly.

Watching Dorothea Robbins saunter gracefully down the lane,
Lilly shook her head in disgust. Some things never change.

She said, “I see why, or shall I say for whom, you are acquiring
means.” With that, she turned and stalked away.

She hurried back up Milk Lane and followed the High Street
to the coffeehouse, hoping desperately that it too had not fallen into
disrepair. What would she do if it were abandoned? If Mrs. Mimpurse
and Mary were gone? Please God, please God.

She turned the corner and breathed a sigh of relief. Old Mrs.
Kilgrove and another matron were coming from the coffeehouse, and
candle lamps glowed in the windows. Walking quickly to the door,
she pushed it open and stepped inside. She savored the sight of tables
filled with customers, the stoked fire, the hum of conversation, the
smell of coffee and cinnamon and life.

“Lilly Grace Haswell!”

And suddenly Mrs. Mimpurse was there, ample arms around
her, floured bodice pressing close, aromas of nutmeg, ginger, and
woodsmoke enveloping her. Lilly embraced her in return, feeling
tears fill her eyes.

“I knew you would come, Miss Lilly. I knew it. Thank the good
Lord.”

Mary came out of the kitchen and stood on the threshold, wiping
her hands on a cloth. She hung back, eyeing her almost warily. Lilly
disentangled herself from Mrs. Mimpurse and walked close to Mary.
“I have missed you.”

“Have you?”

Lilly nodded and opened her arms, and Mary accepted her
embrace. “And I you.”

“Mary, my lovely,” Mrs. Mimpurse said quietly, “I am afraid I
must ask you to mind the place alone for a few minutes.”

Mary nodded in grim understanding. Mrs. Mimpurse took
Lilly’s hand and led her up the stairs into their small sitting room. She
moved with youthful energy and grace, though she was a contemporary
of her father. “Be seated, my dear. Can I get you something to eat?
Coffee? Tea?”

Lilly shook her head, a lump rising in her throat and hands perspiring at whatever news Mrs. Mimpurse hesitated to impart.

“You’ve been home?” she asked.

Lilly nodded.

Mrs. Mimpurse gave her head a stern little shake. “I would have
written sooner, but your father forbade it. Said to leave you be, and
not to worry you. But … well, have you seen him?”

Again Lilly nodded.

“The shop has been all but closed these last days. If you don’t put
it to rights, I fear Haswell’s will never recover.”

“So this has been going on for some time?”

“I am afraid so.”

“What has brought it on?”

“I do not quite know. He hasn’t been himself for months. Then the
new surgeon-apothecary came, and it seemed to lay him very low.”

“But, is he … Is he really … ?”

“Tippling? I don’t know what all ails him. He refuses to see Dr.
Foster.”

“I know. I suggested it also, but he was quite adamant against it.”

“Such bad blood between the two of them.”

“And now Francis has left him. How could he?”

“Do not judge him harshly, my dear. Your father was very cross
toward the end. I think he wanted to be rid of him. Let Mrs. Fowler
go as well, so he could sink and stew himself in private. Wouldn’t let
anyone help.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, you’re home now.” Mrs. Mimpurse smiled bravely. “And
if anyone can set Haswell’s to rights, it’s you.”

Lilly did not share the woman’s confidence.

Mrs. Mimpurse insisted on going home with her, carrying a pot
of stew while Lilly carried two loaves of cottage bread. They crossed
the narrow mews between the two establishments and entered through
the garden.

“Good gracious,” Mrs. Mimpurse said, as they stepped into the
laboratory-kitchen. “It is worse than I thought.”

Lilly took off her hat as she made her way to the surgery. Her
father sat on the edge of the cot, head in hands, in the same wrinkled
clothes.

“Father, are you feeling any better?”

“As I said, I am quite well. Why have you come?”

She was taken aback by his dour demeanor.

Mrs. Mimpurse stood in the doorway behind her. “I’ve brought
a nice chicken-and-leek stew for your supper.”

“I’ve told you don’t fuss over me, Maude.” Her father’s voice
was rough and sharp. “I don’t need your charity.”

Maude sniffed. “Charity, indeed. I’d not waste it on a sour cabbage like you. The food is for Miss Lilly here, home after these many
months. And if you were half a gentleman, you would come to the table
and take a proper meal with your daughter to welcome her home.”

“I’ve never claimed to be a gentleman.”

“As well I know, and no wonder.”

He looked up at her, irritation and pain in his expression. Still,
when Mrs. Mimpurse came and took one elbow, instructing Lilly to
take the other, he allowed the two women to help him up and into the
laboratory-kitchen. He sat heavily in the chair.

“Happy?” he asked.

“Deliriously.” Mrs. Mimpurse matched her father’s sarcasm.

“Now will you be gone, you meddlesome woman.”

“With pleasure, you ungrateful ogre.”

Mrs. Mimpurse hesitated at the door, looking back at them, the
pained concern in her eyes not quite concealed by her tart barbs.