The Apothecary's Daughter (52 page)

She thought, too, of his tall, athletic figure, his strong jaw and cleft
chin, his chocolate-brown eyes. As she had come to realize, Francis Baylor had changed a great deal since her return to Bedsley Priors.
Or was it she who had changed?

She now understood what Miss Robbins had long seen in Francis,
and felt that same admiration herself. When she thought of how she
had so soundly rejected him, she was filled with wistful regret.

Lilly rolled over in bed. Still, he was only an assistant -a
journeyman in an apothecary shop. Dr. Graves was a physician
and therefore a gentleman. Might he not move his practice elsewhere
in a few years? Perhaps even return to London? Somehow, the inner
arguments rang hollow now.

Even so, Lilly wondered why she should suddenly feel shy at the
thought of seeking out her old friend. Francis would certainly come by
the shop on the morrow, would he not? She would thank him then.

In the morning, someone did enter the shop and Lilly hurried
out to greet him. But it was not Francis. Nor even Adam Graves. It
was Dr. Foster.

He removed his hat and said, “I know it is early and you are no
doubt recuperating from a trying day yesterday, but I am afraid I need
you to dispense an order for me.”

His tone was surprisingly polite.

“Of course.” She moved to the dispensing counter and picked up
her quill. “What is it you need?”

He fiddled with his hat brim. “A fortnight’s worth of St. John’s
wort, powdered, five grains per day.”

She nodded. “For?”

He looked up at her. “I am sure you, being a dab hand yourself,
know what the herb is used for, Miss Haswell.”

“I do, but-“

“Good. Now, can you figure the sum, or shall I?”

“I meant, who is the patient? For our records.”

“My, my. Records too. Haswell’s is better managed than I
knew.”

Was the man being sarcastic? She wasn’t certain. “Thank you.
We do our best.”

He inhaled, then paused. “It is for Mrs. Chester Somersby of
Honeystreet. Do you know the family?”

Lilly lowered her quill. “Indeed I do.”

“She suffers from nerves, poor creature. Have you sufficient powder on hand, or shall I call round for it later?”

Lilly stared at the man. Did he really not know what he was
asking?

“I don’t mind stopping back,” he said.

“You cannot.”

“I can quite easily. It isn’t far.”

“I mean, you cannot give Mrs. Somersby St. John’s wort. She had
a violent reaction to it once before.”

He regarded her placidly. “I know of no such reaction.”

“I do. And Dr. Graves does as well. Ask him if you don’t believe
me.

His eyes met hers boldly. “Dr. Graves follows my directives and
keeps me informed of all irregularities. You needn’t trouble yourself, Miss Haswell. Shall I pick up the order at say, four o’clock?” He
replaced his hat smartly, turned without awaiting her response, and
strode from the shop.

She stared after the man. Anger and fear and dread balled in
her stomach. He was either ignorant or pretending to be for his own
ends. Either way, Mrs. Somersby was not the only person about to
be hurt.

The shop had been so busy that, when four o’clock came, she’d had
no time to ask anyone for advice. Now Dr. Foster again stood before
her, the dispensing counter between them like a futile shield.

“Are you refusing to fill my order?” he asked.

“You have not had an opportunity to confer with Dr. Graves, I
see. If you will only speak with him “

“Yes or no?” His voice rose. “Will you dispense my prescribed
medicine for Mrs. Somersby or will you not? “

“I have no wish to quarrel with you, Dr. Foster. But I cannot in
good conscience do what you ask.”

“Once more, girl. Do you or do you not refuse to dispense the
physic I ordered?”

She swallowed. “Yes. I refuse.”

He nodded, clearly angry yet not surprised. And apparently satisfied as well.

Leaving the shop untended, though it was before five, Lilly hurried
up the High Street and down narrow Milk Lane to Shuttleworth’s. She
wanted to make sure Dr. Foster did not turn there for the prescription
he wanted for Mrs. Somersby. She found Mr. Shuttleworth standing at
his large central desk, drying glass measuring jars with a clean white
cloth. When she asked about Dr. Foster and learned he had not been
there all day, she sighed with relief. She leaned her elbows on the high
desk and confided her confrontation with the old physician.

Mr. Shuttleworth winced. “Oh dear. I am not certain that was
wise.

She jerked back, stung. This wasn’t the empathy she’d expected.
“What was Ito do?”

“But to refuse him?” Lionel Shuttleworth whistled under his
breath.

“I had no choice.”

“Do you not read the newspapers?”

“I barely have time to read bills of lading and ledgers, let alone
news.

“You have heard about the recently passed Apothecaries Act?”

She frowned. “I believe Francis may have said something, but I
own I paid little attention.”

Mr. Shuttleworth leaned forward, sober concern in his dark eyes.
“Among other things, a clause of this new act imposes severe penalties
on any apothecary who refuses to dispense medicines on the order of
a physician.”

“You are joking.”

“I am deadly serious.”

“How long has this been generally known?”

“It’s been before Parliament for quite some time, but came into
effect the first of August.”

How easily she had walked into his trap.

Adam Graves walked slowly down the High Street to Haswell’s
to pick up two prescriptions he had requested earlier. He knew Miss
Haswell appreciated that he brought them to her though Shuttleworth’s
was nearer his offices. Normally he enjoyed the excuse to see her.
But today he dreaded the coming encounter and the news he must
impart.

When Adam had first learned of a possible partnership in Miss
Haswell’s home village, he had thought it a godsend. Now it was beginning to seem more like a test. One he appeared destined to fail.

He hesitated at the door to take a deep breath, then pushed his
way inside. At the dispensing counter, Miss Haswell acknowledged
him with a nod. He waited until Miss Primmel had paid for her purchases and said farewell to them both before approaching the counter
himself.

Miss Haswell handed him his order without her usual smile, her
features strained. She asked tensely, “Have you spoken to Dr. Foster
about Mrs. Somersby? Tell me he did not procure the St. John’s wort
elsewhere.”

“He has not. He pursued another course of treatment.”

She released a breath. “I am relieved to hear it. He understood,
then?”

“I would not say that.” He found himself fidgeting with his parcel.
“I did describe Mrs. Somersby’s reaction, but he said it was more likely
caused by the vervain you suggested for the … other complaint.”

“But I asked Father, and he agrees. Vervain would not-“

“Yes, yes, I tried to explain that, but he would not hear me.”

“You ought to have made him hear you.”

He looked down at the counter. “Seems I fail at a great many
things you believe I ought to do.”

Her voice rose to a consolatory pitch. “Dr. Graves, I did not
mean

“In any case” he forced himself to continue “I am afraid he
has written to your own society, reporting your refusal.”

“To the Apothecaries’ Society? ” she said. “I can hardly credit he’d
waste the ink, so little does he respect the profession.”

“I believe there you are wrong, Miss Haswell. It is not apothecaries
in general he abhors.”

He saw her bite her lip, clearly apprehending his meaning. “Surely
nothing will come of it. The last time we heard from the Society, we
received nothing more than a warning.”

He shook his head. Can she really be so native? “The law has
changed since then.”

“What can he hope to accomplish?”

“I should think that all too evident. He wants to see Haswell’s
put out of business.”

She blanched. “Could you not do something?”

There it was again. It was his fault. His failure. “What would you
have me do?” His voice rose. “Pilfer his letter from the post?”

A quick glance revealed her chagrin. He took a deep breath and
forced himself to speak calmly. “There is little I can do at this point.
But I did want to warn you. And I shall apprise you of anything else
I learn.”

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Feeling defeated and indignant both, he turned on his heel and
left the shop. Why could she not leave the criticizing to Foster? It
appeared neither of his provisional partnerships was working out as
he had hoped.

On his way back to Dr. Foster’s offices, he saw Bill Ackers leaving.
What was the constable doing there? He then saw the man fold what
looked to be several bank notes and tuck them into his pocket.

The following week, Dr. Foster brought two men with him into
the office.

“Graves, come out here, man.”

Adam did not appreciate the way the elder man ordered him about.
Still, he put on his coat and stepped from his private office into the
reception hall.

“Here you are.” Foster addressed his guests, “This is Dr. Adam
Graves, the young partner I was telling you about. Not quite seasoned,
but working out rather well. So far.”

Adam managed not to frown and bowed to the newcomers. One
was a man near Foster’s own age in dark double-breasted coat and
pantaloons, his waistcoat festooned with a lacy cravat. His hair was
far too black to be natural for a man of his fifty or more years. He
affected both quizzing glass and walking stick.

“May I introduce Mortimer Allen, a very old friend indeed,”
Foster began. The man inclined his head but showed little interest
in the introduction.

“And this is John Evans, his … associate.”

Mr. Evans was in his forties, Graves surmised, and wore a serviceable but plain coat and trousers. He looked exceeding fit, with a wiry
strength rather than bulk. His tawny hair was thin on his forehead.

“How d’you do?” Evans said. This man took his measure, and
Graves felt himself standing up the taller under it.

“What brings you gentlemen to Bedsley Priors?” Graves asked
politely.

Mortimer Allen parted his full lips, but turned toward Foster in
lieu of answering.

Dr. Foster said, “Merely a visit. They are on their way to Bath
to take the waters. I don’t credit the medicinal benefits myself, but I
give you leave to prove me wrong, Mortimer.”

“A rare pleasure it would be to accomplish that, I assure you.”

“Well, do come upstairs for port and cigars. I have some good
cheese and herring as well.”

“Lead the way,” Mortimer said.

“Thaht’s all right. You gentlemen go on,” John Evans said. “I’ll
leave you two to visit.”

The man had a mild accent that Graves could not place after such
a brief sampling.

“Are you sure, Evans?” Mortimer Allen asked.

“Indeed. I’ll do on my own. I expect there’s a public house
nearby.”

“Don’t be out late. We’ve an early start on the morrow.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

The two older men went up the stairs together to Foster’s private
living quarters.

Evans looked at Graves. “If you would kindly point me in the
right direction, I shall disturb you no more.”

“Mind a bit of company?” Graves asked, curious about the
man.

“If you like.”

As the two walked the short distance to the Hare and Hounds,
Graves hit on the origin of the man’s accent. The long vowels, the
clipped staccato syllables, the r’s, nearly rolled. “Wales?” he asked.

Evans smiled. “God’s country, yes.”

They entered the small, dim public house and took stools at the
polished wooden counter. Two old men, one Adam recognized as Mr.
Owen, sat in chairs near the fire, their dogs lying at their feet. He was
relieved when the curs paid him no mind.

Once Freddy McNeal had served them each a half pint, Graves
asked Mr. Evans, “But you live in London now?”

“Had to find work, hadn’t I?”

“And what is your work, if I may ask? “

The man paused, considering, an odd smile playing about his lips.
“I serve a city livery company, like. But I work for Mr. Allen.”

Before Graves could ask him to explain, Evans asked, “And you?
Who do you serve?”

“I would like to say I serve my patients. But as you said, I work
for Dr. Foster.”

Evans nodded and took a sip of dark ale. “What’s he like?”

“A man of strong opinions. An experienced physician.”

Evans grimaced. “No offense, mind, but I’ve never cared much
for physicians and thaht’s the truth.”

“May I ask why not?”

“Comes to this. In plague years, when the rich fled London for
the country, every physician followed, leaving the poor to suffer and
die without care. Surgeons followed. But apothecaries all stayed to
a mahn.”