The Apothecary's Daughter (23 page)

All the bowls were dirty, but Lilly managed to find two mugs that
would suffice for their stew.

“She wrote to you, did she?” her father asked.

“Yes, and I am grateful she did.”

“What did she say? Must have been pretty bad to bring you home
with the season still on.”

“She only said that you were not yourself. Which appears to be
the understatement of all time. What is wrong, Father? What has
happened?”

“Food is getting cold.”

They ate a few bites in a silence broken only by the ticks of the
clock. Lilly glanced up at the old wall-mounted timepiece. “Where
is Charlie? Why is he not home for supper?”

Even as she asked, she guessed there hadn’t been much supper
to come home to for some time. Was he eating with Mary and Mrs.
Mimpurse?

“Charlie doesn’t live here anymore.”

Her father could hardly have stunned her more. “What? Where
is he?”

“Gone to Marlow House. Works as an undergardener there.”

Her spoon clanked against the mug. She shuddered to think of
her sweet, simple brother under the power of Roderick Marlow or his
rough, angry gardener.

“But why, Father? When you obviously need his help more than
ever. Especially with Francis gone.”

He shrugged and laid aside his spoon.

“Eat more, Father. You are as thin as I’ve ever seen you.”

He shook his head, his thoughts clearly far from food. “I am sorry
you ve come.

Her heart fell.

“Sorry and glad together,” he amended. He reached across the
small table toward her hand, then hesitated short of touching her. He pulled back and rose shakily from the table. She hurried to her feet
and took his elbow to steady him, helping him back to his makeshift
bed in the surgery.

“Father, I ” She determined to leave any judgmental words
unspoken. “I have never seen you like this.”

“I wish you had not. Or anybody else for that matter.” He sat
heavily on the cot. “I shall master it by and by. I must.”

“Is there anything you need?” she asked.

“Just quiet. And time alone.”

Lilly went to the door, then turned back to look at him. She saw
him bring a new bottle to his lips, recork it, and hold it close to his chest
as he lay back on the bed. The terrible act sliced at her. He embraced
that bottle like a treasure. While he had not embraced her at all.

The greatest pill taker on record appears to have been one Jessup,
who died in 1814. He is stated to have swallowed 226,934 pills and
40, 000 bottles of mixture, all supplied by an apothecary of Bottesford.

C. J.S. THOMPSON, MYSTERY AND ART OF THE APOTHECARY

illy tossed and turned for hours, unable to sleep. At least her
chamber was reasonably tidy, although she doubted anyone had
dusted or aired the bed in some time. Still, she could not get comfortable. She had been spoiled, she supposed, by the high, luxurious
feather bed she’d enjoyed in London. Or perhaps it was only that
her mind could not rest. What was she to do about Charlie? About
Father? About the shop her father’s only livelihood? If she spent a
fortnight cleaning and restocking it, would it only fall to shambles
again when she returned to London? Even if Charlie helped and she
somehow convinced Francis to return, could they compete with the
new surgeon-apothecary and his modern, fully stocked shop?

She sighed heavily, overwhelming dread filling her. There was just
too much too much uncertainty and too much to accomplish in too
little time. A floor-to-ceiling cleaning of the shop and living quarters
was needed, and who knew what shape the garden was in. There were many orders to be placed, but was there even money to pay for stock?
Or had her father drunk it all away? It was too much for one person
to manage. Too much for her at any rate. Finally, the heavy weight
pressed down on her, and to escape it, she found sleep at last.

In the morning, she arose early, dressed in her simplest frock,
pinned up her hair in a plain coil, and went downstairs. First things
first. A great deal of hot coffee for her father and hot water for a bath
and shave.

She walked quietly across the shop in the dim light of dawn. Again
the enormity of the task ahead weighed on her. Hopeless.

She gingerly pushed open the surgery door. Her father lay sprawled
on the cot, much as she had left him the night before. The bottle
she had seen him clutch now lay empty beside him in bed. She crept
closer. And in the light beginning to seep through the window, she
noticed that the bottle bore no label. What is his poison of choice? she
wondered. She bent low, gently tugged the bottle from his grasp, and
brought it to her nose and sniffed. She knew little of liquor, but this
biting acrid smell baffled her.

She heard a sound, the rattling of a door, and started. She was
not ready to face any would-be patients yet and the embarrassed
explanations that would certainly follow. The door rattled again.

“Father? Father, wake up.”

“Hmm? “

“Father, time to get up. Someone is at the door.”

He did not respond.

Sighing, she stepped from the surgery into the shop, rehearsing
the words to turn whomever it was away. Through the shopwindow,
she saw Mrs. Mimpurse standing there. Why had she not come to the
garden door as usual? As Lilly crossed the shop, she was surprised
to glimpse two others, no three, no four others with her. Was Maude
trying to help by bringing customers? Did she not realize neither the
shop nor her father were in any condition to serve anybody?

She opened the door. Before she could say anything, Mrs.
Mimpurse bustled in, followed by her kitchen maid, Jane, each carrying a mop and bucket. Behind them, Mary bore a basket of biscuits and muffins. Then came sharp-tongued Mrs. Kilgrove; Mr.
Baisley, the vicar; and old Arthur Owen with a hen under his arm.

“Put that bird in the garden, Mr. Owen,” Mrs. Kilgrove ordered.
“We are here to right the place, not foul it with fowl.”

Lilly was too speechless to say anything at all.

Then came her brother, bounding through the door.

“Charlie! “

He stretched his arms as though he might embrace her, but ended
by awkwardly patting her shoulders instead.

“Mrs. M. sent word you’d come home, Lilly. It’s happy I am to
see you.

“And I you, Charlie. How you have grown! “

” ‘At I have. And I am to see what I can do to right the garden.
I’ve only my half day, but I’m a fast worker, I am.”

There was so much she wanted to say to him, to ask him, but he
was already walking through the shop on his way back to the garden. As he passed, Mrs. Kilgrove greeted him, her voice full of rare
warmth.

Lilly was about to shut the door when one more caller approached.
It was a sheepish Francis Baylor, hat in hand.

“Might I help as well?” he asked.

Again she marveled at how changed he was. Gone were the wild
waves of hair in constant need of cutting. Gone the gangly limbs, the
ill-fitting clothes. In their place stood a handsome, well-turned-out
traitor.

She asked in her haughtiest voice, “What about Shuttleworth’s?”

“I’ve asked for the day off. Mr. Shuttleworth is very obliging.”

“Is he?”

He bit his lip. “I am sorry, Lilly.”

“It is Miss Haswell, if you please, Mr. Baylor.”

He tilted his head in question.

“We are too grown for Christian names.”

“I do not expect you to call me mister.”

“Why not? Miss Robbins did.”

“You are not Miss Robbins.”

“I am quite aware of that.” He had never treated her with such
gentlemanly deference. Nor such foolish awe.

“I meant only that you and I are old friends. At least I hope we
are.

“Yes, well,” she huffed. “I am in no position to refuse anybody’s
help, so do come in.”

They worked steadily for several hours, Maude directing and
Lilly answering questions as best she could as to where things went
and what could be salvaged and what must be thrown away.

At one point the vicar asked quietly, “Your father, Miss Haswell.
Is he ill, I wonder? He assures me he is perfectly well whenever I call
but we have not seen him in church these many months.”

“I am sorry to hear that.” Though who was she to judge when
she and her aunt and uncle had rarely attended church either, save
for holidays. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to pray for my father,
Mr. Baisley.”

“Indeed I have. Is he here that I might pray for him now?”

She hesitated. “Well … Let me pop in first, to see if he is …
dressed for callers.”

She walked to the surgery door, then paused to paste on a false
smile. “Father! It’s wonderful,” she said as she stepped inside. “Several
of our neighbors have come to help tidy the place. Charlie is working
in the garden, and Mr. Owen has even brought us a hen!”

“Has he an outstanding bill he cannot pay with coin?” he asked
dully.

“No. Just being neighborly. And Mr. Baisley is here and would
like to pray for you. May I send him in?”

He pulled a grimace. “I don’t need some cleric mumbling incantations over me. I only need a few more days to get my strength back.”

“But-“

“No.”

She bit her lip but saw it was futile to argue further. She took a
deep breath and let herself from the room.

She stepped toward the vicar. “He is not dressed for callers, I am
afraid. But please, do include him in your prayers.”

“Indeed I shall, Miss Haswell.” He looked at her kindly. “And
you as well.”

After a long day of cleaning, sorting, and disposing of spoiled
remedies and stale herbs, Lilly’s back and neck ached. Mrs. Mimpurse
invited the volunteers to the coffeehouse for an early supper, and they
all filed out. Francis worked on, taking inventory and jotting in a small
notebook. If she did not know him so well, Lilly might have thought
him stealing the Haswell recipes.

Eyeing his list, she asked, “How bad is it?”

“You’ll have several large orders to place, to bring the simples up
to par not to mention the patent medicines you’ve run out of.”

“I have run out of nothing. It is not my shop.” Still, she held out
her hand, and he placed two sheets of paper on her waiting palm. The
list was long indeed.

“So much?”

“The first column are necessities, I think. The second might wait
if you don’t have … if you don’t have time to order all at once.”

She understood his meaning. “Thank you.”

“If there is anything else I can do, you need only ask.”

Such as return to work here? she thought, but she could not ask
it of him. She did intend to get Charlie back to the shop, however.
He’d returned to Marlow House before she’d had a chance to talk
with him at all.

“There is one thing you can do,” she said, lifting a finger to indicate
he should wait while she walked quietly to her father’s surgery.

She returned directly, an empty bottle in her hand.

His eyebrows rose.

“Can you keep this between us?” she asked.

“Of course. Your father’s?”

She nodded and held out the bottle. “What is it? Can you tell?”

With grim expectation, he accepted the bottle, regarded the
unmarked surface, then swiped it quickly beneath his nose, as though assuming the smell would be readily identifiable. Instead he frowned
and held it under his nose again, sniffing once, then again.

“I thought … But I don’t know. What do you think?”

“I don’t know either.”

“I am no expert at this sort of thing. That is, assuming …” He
broke off and began again. “I shall take this and see if either Freddy
Mac or Mr. Shuttleworth can identify it.”

Freddy McNeal was the proprietor of the Hare and Hounds, the
village public house, a tiny place compared to The George on the canal
in Honeystreet. “Do not say where it came from, all right?”