Mary leaned her elbows on the worktable and studied her, slowly shaking her head. “I don’t think Mr. Bromley put that blush in your cheeks, love.”
“Mary, no. I can guess what you are thinking, but—”
“Can you? And worrying about?”
“Do not be uneasy. Roderick Marlow is a very handsome man—I do not deny it. And for some reason he was exceedingly charming last night. But I know what he’s capable of. And I’m not foolish enough to think he’d have any serious intentions toward an apothecary’s daughter. I experienced my share of that in London. Men happy to flirt and dance with me, all the while planning to marry another lady of their own class.”
“Oh, you’ll marry one day,” Mary said wistfully. “Lovely, healthy girl like you.”
Lilly looked up at her friend, sensing her sadness. “I could say the same of you, Mary. Mr. Shuttleworth can barely take his eyes off you.”
Mary shrugged the idea away. “It is only because he doesn’t know.”
Seeing her discomfort and not knowing how to reassure her, Lilly changed the subject, telling all she had learned about Rosa Wells in London. She concluded by saying, “You and I have both seen unhappy marriages firsthand. I am in no hurry to end up in one of my own, no matter my aunt’s machinations.” She rose and rinsed her coffee cup in the basin. “In any case, Mr. Marlow has all but said he will marry that red-haired beauty.”
“Charlie will be brokenhearted,” Mary said in jest.
“Probably.” Lilly paused. “Cassandra Powell is a bit older, I think, than she looks. And I am told, suffered a broken engagement, poor thing.”
“Poor thing, indeed. I cannot get over how sorry I’m feeling for the picture of perfection who’s turned the head of the county’s most eligible bachelor. Yes, I think I must take the poor thing to prayer.”
Lilly bit back a smile. “Mary Helen Mimpurse! That is the first nearly unkind thing I believe I’ve ever heard you say about anyone.”
Mary smirked and said dryly, “Stick around, love, stick around.”
England is a nation of shopkeepers.
—NAPOLEON BONAPARTE
CHAPTER 22
With surprising reluctance, Charlie moved his things back into the bedchamber next to Lilly’s. He resumed the sweeping up and his work in the physic garden. She would have liked to ask Mrs. Fowler back as well, and would, as soon as they could again afford to pay her wages.
Lilly was poring over ledgers and unpaid bills when Francis stopped in on his afternoon off. He hopped up onto the high counter, swinging his legs. It reminded her of the Francis of former days. All arms and legs and more energy for cricket than studying. Now those arms and legs had filled out with masculine muscle beneath his white shirt and breeches. He had certainly changed during her absence, but she wondered if the changes were only physical.
“How fares your mother, Francis?” she asked.
“Well enough.”
“And your sister?”
“She has engaged herself to Tom Billings at last. That curate she had long pined for married someone else.”
“Was your sister laid very low?”
He shrugged. “She caddled about for days at Christmas. But she seems to have recovered rather well.”
Lilly closed the ledger and thought back. “I met your sister only the once, but I recall she was very pleasing in manner and countenance. Quite handsome.”
“Do you think so?” He grinned. “You said I was very like her.”
She chose to ignore this statement, true though it was. Thinking once more of her parents, she asked, “Does Mr. Billings know she preferred another?”
“He knows but overlooks her foolishness. That’s the way love is, I suppose.”
“Is it? I am not sure I would be as understanding if the man I loved pined for another.”
His legs stopped swinging. “Do you . . . that is . . . did you form an attachment while you were in London?”
“Only two.”
His eyebrows rose.
“But both ended just before I left. I doubt either will come to anything, even when—or if—I return.”
He looked at her expectantly, clearly waiting for her to explain.
“One was a physician, of whom my aunt disapproved. He was reserved and uncertain. Still I thought, perhaps . . . The other was a gentleman whom my aunt advised me in the strongest terms to accept. Wealthy, an heir, good-looking, kind . . .”
“No wonder you refused that swell,” Francis rued. “I detest him already.”
Lilly shot him a wry grin. “No. I refused him because, while he admired me, he did not love me.”
Looking at her, Francis said quietly, “He would have, in time.”
She met his gaze for a moment, considering his words, then continued. “Perhaps—did he not love another.”
“Is there no chance this other woman will accept him?”
“I believe there might be. If she believes she cannot have him.”
“Ah . . . yes,” Francis said. “I have seen that before—not realizing what one has until he—or she—has lost it.”
Nodding thoughtfully, Lilly looked around the shop. “This feels very much like days gone, when you and I would sit here together, wondering where Charlie had got to, wagering on what he had found to count. Wondering where all the customers were, but glad for the respite too.”
Francis picked up the thread, “Your father napping in his surgery or grumbling about something I’d forgotten to distill.”
“And you forever teasing me. Like brother and sister, we were. I shall never forget it.”
“I wonder,” he said gently. “Do you remember, Lilly?”
She wrinkled her brow. “Of course I do.”
“Clearly, I mean?”
She tilted her head and looked at him. “I am sure my memory will fail one day, but I am hardly in my dotage yet.”
He hopped down from the counter, stepping closer as he continued, “What I mean is, you and I seem to remember those days differently. You could not leave here quickly enough when the chance came, but I hated to see those days end. I still remember being here with you . . . living under the same roof, taking meals together, talking and laughing together.” He looked steadily into her eyes. “It was one of the happiest times of my life.”
Charlie came in, the door slamming behind him. Lilly pulled her gaze from Francis to greet her brother as he carried in an armful of peppermint for her to bunch and dry. Francis moved to the door to take his leave.
Hand on the latch, Francis turned and looked at her. “And I never once thought of you as a sister.”
Lilly stood upon the Honeystreet Bridge for the first time since she’d returned from London. She had crossed it several times, of course, but had never tarried. Yet she felt drawn to do so now, as though she might find answers in the slowly flowing water of the canal. She knew she must make a decision, difficult as it seemed. Her aunt’s recent letter weighed on her mind. She had written to ask if Lillian would return in time to attend the Langtrys’ annual ball.
Don’t forget the new gown we had made for the occasion and how much we were all looking forward to it. And Mr. Alban has just acquired a new Italian novel he knows you will enjoy. It will sharpen your command of the language before we travel to Rome this winter. . . .
How Lilly longed to travel to Italy! To see the Coliseum and Pantheon, the basilicas and squares, to stay in a little pension, to speak Italian with Italians. . . .
She sighed, knowing that if she stayed in Bedsley Priors any longer she risked her future with the Elliotts. She would forfeit her last season, her best chance of finding a proper husband and residing in London as a lady of quality.
Her aunt had also written a piece of unexpected news.
Your uncle insists I mention that Dr. Graves called. Seemed quite surprised to find you had quit London without a word. As you had not told him anything, I did not think it my place to do so and sent him on his way.
Why had he called? Lilly wo
ndered. She had guessed he would be relieved to be rid of her after the revelation about her mother. Had she been wrong? If she returned soon, might he still be interested in courting her?
Part of her was ready to jump aboard the next coach to London. After all, Haswell’s was not her responsibility. She was only a young woman. Her father had made it clear he did not want her to give up her London life for him.
But she also knew that if she left again, there was little hope her father would survive. If nothing else, his shop—his only livelihood—would fail. And what about Charlie? Her father was in no condition to look after him.
Lilly detested the thought of disappointing her generous aunt and uncle. She felt disloyal, ungrateful. She cringed to imagine the hurt that would cloud their features. Would they feel as though they had wasted their time, money, and attentions on her, only for her to leave them without warning with a roomful of gowns, hats, and hopes that none of them had use for any longer? All so she could . . . what? Attempt to keep her father’s shop going when it was obviously failing, along with her father’s health? Everyone knew women were not allowed to be apothecaries.
“You are a picture, Miss Haswell.”
Startled from her musings, she turned and saw Mr. Shuttleworth standing on the canal bank, this time wearing a red velvet frock coat over the same gold waistcoat and cravat. He circled his hands into a tube and looked at her through it, as a captain might look through a ship’s glass. “This is exactly how you looked the very first time I saw you.”
“You are mistaken, sir. You were not even living in Bedsley Priors the last time I stood here.”
He walked up the bank and onto the bridge.
“Ah. But do you recall my telling you I traveled by narrowboat on this very canal from Bristol to London?”
She nodded.
“I passed Bedsley Priors, of course, and in fact we tied off there near The George for several hours. That’s when I saw the first of the three enticements I mentioned.”
He rested his elbows on the bridge a few feet from where she stood.
“She was a lovely young lady in white, strolling along the canal near the mill. A beauty among workmen. A blossom in the mud.”
“Miss Robbins, no doubt,” Lilly said. Did everyone idolize the girl?
“Yes, though of course I did not know her name at the time. I stood watching her until she disappeared. By then, the crew had all gone into The George, and I realized I needed a good meal more than a belly full of smoke and ale. I walked into Bedsley Priors. Into the coffeehouse. And there was served most kindly by the lovely Miss Mimpurse. Your oldest friend, I understand.”
“She is indeed. We grew up together.”
He nodded his understanding. “But it was only later, after a good meal, and back aboard that cramped narrowboat, that we passed under this bridge and I saw the loveliest enticement of all. Standing here, looking sad and a bit lost, much as you do now.”
She felt her lips part in surprise, but before she could form any response, he continued.
“And then and there I decided that as soon as I could, I would return to this picturesque village. Maybe even set up shop here one day.
“But first, I served my term with the Apothecaries’ Society, then I studied at St. Tom’s Hospital for the poor, as well as a private institution, to update my surgical skills. I sold a great deal of my own exotics collection to raise funds to set myself up in a place. And in between, spent as much time as I could watching the ships come in. I often counted five or even six hundred collier ships waiting to discharge their cargo. Fruit from Kent and Spain, coal from Newcastle, huge Greenland whales . . . Do you know, I once even saw a group of porpoises come up with the tide nearly to London Bridge?”
She shook her head in wonder. “And after all that, you left London to settle here. I am still surprised you would.”
“Are you? I understand you lived in London—experienced its delights—and yet you also have returned.”
Have I? Lilly wondered. “I planned only a short visit. But, well . . .”
“Your father needs you.”
“Yes.”
“And so you will stay.”
Holding a breath, she squeezed her eyes shut, then exhaled. “Yes.”
“Well, I for one am pleased to hear it. I own I have never stayed in one place so long before. Even in London, I was forever moving from one lodging house to another.” He looked at her closely. “Still, I wonder . . . Will you always wish, always imagine what you might be missing elsewhere?”
“Will you?”
He smiled shyly, then returned his gaze to the canal. “It is a bit early to tell.”
“I warn you,” Lilly said. “If I stay, Haswell’s will give you a run for your money.”
He grinned at her. “I have no doubt you will prove a worthy adversary— though I do not like to use that term to describe you, Miss Haswell. It will be a friendly competition, I hope. I for one believe there are plenty of patients for everybody, what with Honeystreet’s labourers and canal traffic, and Alton so close by.”
“You are surprisingly fair and generous, sir.”
He shrugged. “I have no longing for great wealth. For great adventure, yes, to travel widely and love deeply—these things I value more than profits. Though certainly one needs enough of those to finance the former things.”
She chuckled. “So I am learning.”
“And you, Miss Haswell. What is it you want?”
She stared thoughtfully at the turbid water below. Once, she had wanted to experience life and love beyond Bedsley Priors. That, and to find her mother. In London, she had experienced a small measure of each. What did she want now? Instead of trying to verbalize her jumbled thoughts, she parroted his own words back to him. “It is a bit early to tell.”
My dear Aunt & Uncle Elliott,
I am sorry to disappoint you, but I will be remaining here in Bedsley Priors for the foreseeable future. My father is quite ill and his shop failing. Though he does not ask it of me, and though much of my heart is still with you in London, I know I must stay to help Father and look after Charlie. It pains me to be apart from you and to miss all the events and travels we’d planned, but I hope you will understand my decision, painful as it is. I regret the great expense and trouble you have taken over me, but I for one do not count it wasted. My months with you will forever be a treasure in my memory and in my heart. While I enjoyed the education and all the entertainments, what I valued most was coming to feel as though I were truly part of your family. I love you both and always shall.
I plan to write to Christina P-W myself, but please give my regards to others of our acquaintance, as you judge best.
With love & gratitude,
Lillian
She did not write to Dr. Graves, knowing it was improper for an unmarried woman to write to any man not of her family, unless they were formally engaged. Had Dr. Graves asked, her uncle might have given him permission to write to her, though her aunt would not approve. But as the weeks passed without correspondence, she realized anew that Dr. Graves did not wish to continue their relationship, regardless of the call her aunt had mentioned. Lilly had already guessed as much but still felt the silence keenly.
She did write to Christina, congratulating her on her engagement and asking her to pass along her farewells and warm felicitations to her family. She knew Christina would not stay in touch. As much fun as they’d had together, their friendship was not deep like hers and Mary’s. Lilly did not think the worse of Christina for it. Out of sight, out of mind, the saying went, and in Lilly’s brief experience, this was a rule effortlessly observed by others. She sometimes wished she could do the same.
Desperate affairs require desperate measures.
—ADMIRAL HORATIO NELSON
CHAPTER 23
Lilly asked Charlie to scrape the peeling paint from the many-paned shopwindow. He seemed to take to the repetitive task effortlessly. She purchased new paint from the ironmonger in Hunt
ley’s Yard, and arose early to paint the window frames herself. Her arms ached from the effort, but she felt satisfaction at doing the work on her own, saving money she desperately needed to restock the shop.
Most mornings, she and Charlie worked in the physic garden, harvesting all the flowers, seeds, and roots they could. She hung the flowers upside down to dry in the herb garret and shop rafters, and ground what root they needed immediately, while storing the rest in the cellar. When the shop bell rang, still unfortunately a rare occurrence, Lilly would hastily lay aside her garden work and jog into the shop, wiping her hands on her apron as she went, fretting over what each patron might require. Recommending remedies for everyday needs—headache powders, laxatives, hair and complexion creams, tooth sponges, and the like—was no problem. But when a person— especially a man—wanted medical advice, that sent her adrift in murky waters.
“Mr. Haswell is occupied in his surgery at present,” she would say, “but I shall nip in and ask him what he would recommend.” She would indeed ask, “Father, what would you recommend for Mr. James’s rheumatism?” Her father would usually try to rouse himself, sometimes asking for clarification and offering sound advice. But when he could not, she would continue on as though he had. “Yes, the same symptoms as before. Do you think he ought to stay with Burridge’s Specific, or try another? Very well, I shall let him know. . . .”
Fortunately, she had known what to dispense for the few ailments presented to her so far—mostly by patients they’d had for many years. She would not risk anyone’s health. But neither would she send a paying customer to Shuttleworth’s or Dr. Foster until absolutely necessary.
In the meantime, she wrote another letter.
Dear Miss Lippert,
I have returned to my father’s apothecary shop in Bedsley Priors. Like you, we also now face greater competition. I am seeking to help my father compete against a young new surgeon-apothecary. I remember our discussion about your brother’s keen business sense, and I myself witnessed your skills in displays and ladies’ items. I wonder if I might I ask your advice—as well as that of your brother and father?