“No. Stay. But all I want is to help my father regain his strength, put the place to rights, then leave it to him.”
“But I’ve seen you, Lilly—helping people, easing their pain. . . . I know you derive as much satisfaction from it as I do.”
She shook her head. “You are wrong. I have done what I’ve had to do, but I do not enjoy it. Nor do I aspire to any profession. I am, after all, a woman.”
He winced. “I am aware of that. Painfully aware. But the Lilly Haswell I knew would never so belittle her sex.”
“That Lilly Haswell is gone,” she said, more sharply than she’d intended.
His eyes glittered with sadness and irritation both. “I for one am sorry to hear it.” He picked up his hat. “I will trespass upon your time no longer. Good evening, Miss Haswell.”
On his lips, the formal address sounded nearly derisive, and it delivered an unexpected prick of pain.
I, being of a sound mind, memory and understanding,
knowing the certainty of death when I shall be called to my
wished-for-long home, do make my last Will and Testament. . . .
—WILLIAM PHILLIPS, GENTLEMAN, 1786
CHAPTER 42
Francis opened the kitchen door to say hello to Mary—and hoping to apologize to Lilly, who was so often there in the mornings.
He had been tempted to give up hope when Dr. Graves first arrived in Bedsley Priors. But as the weeks passed and no engagement was announced, he’d allowed himself to believe he still had a chance with Lilly. After their last encounter, however, Francis was almost relieved he would soon be going away.
Mary stood at her worktable as usual, but she did not smile, or even acknowledge him. She seemed to be staring straight ahead. Her hands, still idly chopping something, slowed, then jerked.
“Mary!” He bolted across the room, but was too late. She collapsed where she stood, a sickening crack preceding the thud of her landing.
He knelt beside her on the hard brick floor. A deep gash on her forehead showed white, just before the blood began to flow profusely. There was blood between the fingers of one of her hands as well—the hand still clutching the knife.
Jane rushed in from the scullery and shrieked at the sight. Mrs. Mimpurse came running as well, no doubt hearing him shout her daughter’s name. She gasped and covered her mouth with a trembling hand.
“Clean linen, and quickly!” Francis called.
The kitchen maid rushed to do his bidding while he ran his hands down Mary’s limbs and checked her pupils. When Jane returned, he pressed a linen serviette to the gash on her forehead.
“She needs a surgeon. Send someone for Shuttleworth.”
Lilly appeared at the back door, as he had hoped she would, though for far different reasons. “I will go.” Her face was pale but resolute.
“Wait,” Francis called. “I think he will attend her better in his surgery. She has no broken bones, I am sure. Help me wrap her hand, and I shall carry her.”
Lilly nodded and deftly assisted him in wrapping Mary’s cut palm and finger while Mrs. Mimpurse and Jane looked on, sobbing. Yes, it might be better to treat Mary elsewhere for several reasons.
Mary’s eyes fluttered opened. “What’s happened?” she mumbled, blue eyes clouded.
“You’ve cut yourself and need a surgeon,” Francis said. “We’re taking you to Mr. Shuttleworth.”
He did not miss the look of pain, of mortification, which passed over her pale features. Why wouldn’t Mary want to be helped by a man she so obviously admired, and who admired her in return? Unless Mr. Shuttleworth does not know . . .
Lilly glanced at him, then back to her friend. She said gently, “There’s no help for it this time, love.”
Resigned, Mary gave the briefest of nods and her eyes fluttered closed once more.
Please let the man be in his office, Francis prayed as he lifted Mary in his arms.
Lilly jogged beside Francis as he carried Mary with impressive strength. Mrs. Mimpurse scuddled behind them, hand to her heavy bosom, face stricken. Crossing Milk Lane, Lilly was relieved when Mr. Shuttleworth opened his door before they had even reached it, likely having seen them run across the lane. He appeared shocked and alarmed to see the patient Francis bore with such determination, the blood already seeping through white linen at her brow and hand.
“She fell. Holding a knife,” Francis panted.
For a fraction of a moment, Shuttleworth found and held Lilly’s gaze.
Lilly looked away first.
She waited while Mr. Shuttleworth skillfully stitched up the gash on Mary’s forehead as well as one of the deeper cuts on her finger. Mary was in a strange dreamlike state, and did not even seem to feel the pain of the stitches, though he gave her laudanum to lessen the pain she was sure to feel soon.
He assured Mrs. Mimpurse that he expected both injuries to heal well in time. He asked Mary’s mother more questions about how the injury occurred, and if the like had happened before. And as Mrs. Mimpurse began her quiet explanations, Lilly let herself from the surgery.
A few hours later, Mr. Shuttleworth sought Lilly out, as she had known he would. Finding her alone in the shop, he began in low tones, “I cannot believe I did not know. Does everybody?”
Lilly nodded. “Everyone from Bedsley Priors.” She sighed. “We gossip among ourselves freely, but with outsiders, as you have been, we protect our own.”
“Why did you not tell me?”
Lilly looked away from the hurt in his dark eyes. “She did not wish me to.”
“But . . . that’s not right. Nor fair.”
She forced her eyes to meet his. “Was it so wrong that she wanted to enjoy your company without the knowledge tainting your opinion of her? To be just a lady with a gentleman? She’s never had an admirer before.”
He frowned. “Had I known, I might have been more circumspect. Not allowed myself to . . .” His words drifted off, but his meaning was clear.
“But why? It isn’t really so dreadful, is it? It has been quite a rare occurrence, at least, until lately.”
He blindly gripped the edge of the dispensing counter. “Miss Haswell. I served in an epileptic asylum, two years gone. Not to learn to treat epilepsy, for there is little treatment to speak of and certainly no cure. I was there because surgeons were always in demand in that place. I received a great deal of practical experience stitching cuts and cracked heads, splinting broken bones, and treating burns. . . .”
She thought back to Dr. Graves mentioning such institutions and her adamant rebuttal at the thought of sending her dear friend to such a place. Lilly found she had no strength for such a speech at present. Not with such deep disappointment in the man’s voice and expression.
Mr. Shuttleworth took a deep breath and blew it out between his cheeks. “Epileptics were sent there to live. Permanently. And, Miss Haswell, patients beyond the age of thirty were exceedingly rare.”
While Mary recovered from her wounds, Mrs. Kilgrove recovered her strength, relieving lingering fears of further penal action. Charlie, seemingly no worse for his captivity, spent all his spare time with the doting, forgiving woman, and with his cat, Jolly.
Lilly’s gratitude toward Roderick Marlow did not flag. His father’s health, however, did. After enjoying a brief return of vitality in the weeks prior to and after his marriage, Sir Henry had again fallen ill. Her father had been called in to see him a few nights before, and just that morning, Marlow’s man had come to the shop to ask Mr. Haswell to come again. But her father had awoken quite weak that day, so Lilly had gone alone. This seemed to agitate Mr. Withers, and upon entering the ailing baronet’s chamber, she’d understood why. Never had she seen Sir Henry in such a state. She had actually been relieved to hear Dr. Foster had been summoned as well.
Now, Lilly wearily made her way home from Marlow House, grieved at this latest turn in Sir Henry’s health and her inability to help him. Ahead of her, Lilly heard someone cry out. Picking up her skirts, she ran through the trees sepa
rating the road from Arthur Owen’s farm. In the clearing, she paused, stunned. There was Roderick Marlow in the Owens’ market garden, kicking and punching first the galley-crow, then the fence post. He cried out in unintelligible grief or anger or both.
He must know, she thought.
Owen’s pigs scrambled to the far end of the pen. Marlow’s horse whinnied, ribbons dangling, trotting this way and that, clearly spooked by his master’s behavior. Lilly was spooked as well.
“Mr. Marlow!” she called. “Mr. Marlow, pray calm down.”
He spun to face her, expression wild. “Calm down? How can I?”
“Your father is ill, I know, but—”
“Father has been ill for years—in body, but never in mind. Until this!” He thrust a piece of paper high above his head, then crumpled it with both hands, hurtling it toward the pond, though the wad fell short of its mark.
Wary, Lilly walked closer. “What is it?”
“A copy of his new will. He has authored my ruin, or more accurately, the red witch has convinced him to do so. Now should my father die, she will take what is rightfully mine.”
Her mind whirled. “But . . . I thought the law was quite clear. The eldest son is heir.”
“I am to inherit the land, yes. It is entailed. But to raise the staggering amount specified for her jointure, I shall have to sell off the stock, the London house, and I know not what to satisfy it.”
“But certainly you would not begrudge your father’s widow something to live on.”
“Something to live on, I would not begrudge. But the amount is far above that. I shall be unable to pay my steward, the servants, let alone afford to heat that huge place. Father no doubt allowed her to believe he was wealthier than he was when she married him. But in truth we have struggled for some time. You know we keep only two carriages, only a small London house—and that we let out for most of the year. We do not entertain often. We live quietly, and we retrench and retrench again. And so far we have managed, but this is the absolute end.”
“But did your father not realize? He has been ill, perhaps—”
He went on as though he had not heard her, “I may even have to let the place out. My own home . . .”
“I am sorry. There must be some mistake. Some misunderstanding.”
In two strides, he closed the remaining distance between them. “Perhaps I shall have to enter a trade as you have, Miss Haswell.” He looped his arm around her and pulled her close, but the fire in his eyes was fueled by betrayal, not passion. “Do you think I should make a good butcher? Perhaps an apothecary. . . . You would teach me all I need know, would you not?”
“Mr. Marlow, please. I—”
No doubt seeing her stricken expression, he released her, the fire in his eyes fading to dullness. “Forgive my foolishness, Miss Haswell. You have come upon me at a most dark moment.” He reached down, retrieved his fallen hat, and stepped toward his horse. “I beg your pardon. I must speak to my father and unwork the devilish persuasion that woman has wrought.”
Lilly was confused. “But . . . I have just come from Marlow House. Your father lies in a coma. I thought you knew.”
“No!” He whirled back around, hat forgotten. “I have been trapped with Father’s solicitor all morning.” Mr. Marlow sank to the ground and stared at her, stunned. “When?”
“He might have been in this state all night, but there’s no way to know. Withers said he at first thought Sir Henry merely sleeping. When he did not rouse, he sent for my father. My father was indisposed, so I went in his stead.”
Cautiously, she sat down on the ground near the stricken man, tugging her skirts around her. “Dr. Foster is expected any time, I understand,” she added, hoping to comfort him. “He has long experience with your father.”
He sat, elbows on his knees, staring blankly ahead. “Indeed my father has had long association with several of the medical profession, enjoyed their company, but with no benefit that I can see. And now this.”
He shook his head. “I argued bitterly with Father when last we spoke. I have not quite managed to forget that, as is my wont. And now I shall never be able to make it right.”
He laid his head down, face hidden within his arms. “A coma,” he breathed. “Then it is too late. All is lost. . . .”
Impulsively, she laid a hand on his elbow. “Your father may yet rally. He has before, remember.”
He lifted his head and regarded her, eyes alight. “Might he come to his senses, then, at any moment?”
“I don’t know. But it is possible.”
“Then I must be there should he awaken.” He rose quickly. “Beg him to change his mind and . . . to forgive me.”
With that he turned, leapt on his horse, and galloped away, without farewell or backward glance.
That evening, when Lilly confided Mr. Marlow’s tidings in hushed tones to Mrs. Mimpurse, the Marlows’ former nurserymaid shook her head, her mouth turned down in a rare frown.
“Him not even in his grave and already they’re fighting o’er his money. Fuss and commotion.”
“What’s this about?” Mary asked, coming in from the dining room, her finger still wrapped but healing nicely.
“Sir Henry changed his will,” Lilly explained once more. “So much money is to go to the new Lady Marlow that, in raising the sum, Marlow House may very well be ruined.”
Mary’s brow puckered. “If she wanted the money and title of Lady, ” she began, “why not marry the heir and have both? She had to know Sir Henry could not be expected to live many years.”
“Perhaps she really does love Sir Henry,” Mrs. Mimpurse ventured. She sighed. “And now the poor man is senseless, and not two months gone since the honeymoon.”
Lilly knew Maude was partial to her former employer, but she could not quite believe Cassandra Powell had married the sickly baronet for love alone. “Or perhaps she liked the thought of a widow’s jointure to spend as she liked.”
Mrs. Mimpurse shook her head. “Most widows get only a small portion of the dowry they brought to the marriage. Beyond that, they must depend upon the generosity of the husband’s heir.”
Lilly considered this. “Then perhaps Lady Marlow did not wish to depend upon Roderick’s generosity, and that is why she worked on Sir Henry to change his will, as Roderick suspects.”
That Lilly would believe. But she did not foresee the danger it would mean for them all.
Oh thou, to whom such healing power is giv’n
The delegate, as we believe, of heaven.
—RICH ARD CUMBERLAND, ODE TO DOCTOR ROBERT JAMES
CHAPTER 43
When the summons came the following afternoon, Lilly was not overly surprised. In the hastily written note, Roderick Marlow bid Charles Haswell to come directly, bringing all medical necessities.
“I did not think I would be summoned, not with Foster attending Sir Henry yesterday.” Her father groaned and swung his legs off the side of the bed.
“I shall go again, Father. You are still not fit for it.”
He lifted the piece of paper. “He asks specifically for me in the most pointed terms. I dare not refuse.”
“Then I shall go with you.”
She harnessed Pennywort to the gig and helped her father up into it, then set his largest medical case on the floor.
When they arrived, Mr. Withers opened the door to them. Lilly noticed the man still seemed agitated, and was surprised when he did not escort them up to his master’s rooms as he had on previous calls.
She helped her father up the long staircase and down the corridor to Sir Henry’s chambers. Holding his arm, she said, “Lean on me, Father. It is not much further.”
She pushed open the first door and was surprised and perplexed to see Dr. Graves standing in Sir Henry’s outer dressing room.
“We did not expect you to be here,” she said.
“I was summoned by Mr. Marlow.”
“As were we.”
Before either of them could say
anything further, her father’s knees buckled. Dr. Graves rushed to take his arm, and together they helped him to the stuffed chair. With shaky hand, her father pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his perspiring brow. “A great many stairs, that.”
Moments later, the door opened again, and Mr. Shuttleworth came in, stick in hand. He smoothed down his fine coat before realizing there were others already in the room. He seemed startled to see them there. “Good heavens. The old man must be very bad indeed.”
Lilly nodded. Her heart pounded at the thought of the grief and rage she had witnessed in Roderick Marlow the previous day. Whatever was about to happen would not be pleasant.
The door to the inner room, Sir Henry’s private bedchamber, opened and Roderick Marlow strode out. He stood, hands on hips, eyes blazing. His face seemed more gaunt than she remembered, and his strange eyes, unfocused and glowering, were like those of a mad dog.
When those eyes lit on her, he seemed to falter. “Miss Haswell . . . you should not be here.” He swept his arm toward the door. “You may leave. Go.”
She forced herself to hold his gaze without flinching. “I will stay and assist my father in whatever you have summoned us here to do.”
He hesitated only a moment. “As you wish.” He lifted his outstretched arm and scratched at the back of his neck. “I cannot say I am surprised. Everyone knows the apothecary’s clever daughter is all but running Haswell’s these days. The master to her father’s impotent puppet.”
The words felt like a slap after his recent kindnesses. Her father opened his mouth to protest, but then tucked his chin, defeated.
She squeezed her father’s shoulder. “Charles Haswell is the greatest apothecary Wiltshire has ever known.”
“So he would have us believe. Today, he shall have his chance to prove it. Or be ruined once and for all.”
She opened her mouth—stunned—but no words came.
Marlow paced the room maniacally before them. “You medical sorts. You all pretend to such powers, such compassion, but really, all you care about are your own purses. I read the papers, I know about the posturing, the verbal battles about who should be allowed to treat what. You don’t care about patients—you care only for your own livelihoods.”