The Apothecary's Daughter (49 page)

He shrugged easily. “She was dancing with Mr. Marlow when I
left, Mr. Shuttleworth awaiting the next.”

She wondered if he was disappointed. Was that why he had
returned?

He said kindly, “You have had little entertainment since returning,
Miss Haswell, and far too much work. I am sorry you had to miss it.
I hope your father is better.”

“Yes, the fever has broken. He is resting comfortably.”

“Good. Good.”

They stood awkwardly for a few moments, until Francis said,
“Mary told me about the dance lesson you gave her. That I was sorry
to miss.”

Lilly screwed up her face. “I would never have done so with an
audience.”

He smiled, a warm glint in his chocolate-brown eyes. “As you said,
there is no point in both of us missing the evening’s entertainment.
We might have a dance here.”

“Here?” She looked skeptically around the small room.

“Why not? We could try that turning waltz Mary described.
Though I am surprised your aunt and uncle allowed such a scandalous dance.”

Her cheeks heated. “There is really nothing scandalous in the
side-by-side position, only in the closed.”

He took a step nearer. “And what is the `closed’ position?”

She knew she ought to refuse and back away but felt oddly drawn
to him, touched that he would return, surprised to find she wanted
to touch him.

She tentatively reached out. “I would place my hands here….”
She lightly gripped his upper arms, feeling the firm muscles beneath
his coat sleeves.

He looked into her eyes and asked in a low voice, “And where do
I place mine? “

She drew in a long shallow breath, nerves tingling, throat tight.
“On my … waist.” She was relieved her hands were not in his, for he
would no doubt have felt how damp they were.

His large hands pressed warmly around her waist, though his eyes
never left her face. She had difficulty holding his gaze at such close
proximity. “Then you would step forward, and I back.”

He stepped forward as directed, but his hands held her fast, keeping her from stepping back, keeping her close to him. His jaw tensed,
his brown eyes sparked with longing.

She looked away, focusing on her hand on his arm. “Partners must
keep a proper distance apart,” she said, parroting the admonition of
the Viennese dancing master. “Bodies must not actually touch.”

“Pity,” Francis breathed, his sweet breath warm on her temple, her
ear. He leaned close, his face dipped toward hers, but still she averted
her gaze. She did not want this, did she? This was Francis what was
she doing? She knew she had but to look up and he would kiss her.
Her heart pounded at the thought.

“Lilly,” he urged hoarsely. “Tell me it is not too late for us. That
you and Graves are not-“

The door opened behind them, and Lilly pulled away.

Dr. Graves stood there, hand on the door latch, expression startled,
bearing rigid. “I came to see how you and your father were faring, but
I see I am interrupting.” Eyes dull, he backed from the room.

“No, Dr. Graves, please come in! I was merely demonstrating the
waltz to Mr. Baylor.”

He stared at her, flicked a glance at Francis, then returned cool
eyes to her. “Do you think that wise, Miss Haswell?”

The particular dance, or the partner? Lilly thought. “You must
forgive us, Dr. Graves. Francis and I grew up together, and find it far
too easy to slip back into our former foolish ways.”

He stared at her a moment longer, then cleared his throat. “I see.
Well.” He bowed stiffly. “Good evening.”

He did not acknowledge Francis in his farewell.

“Dr. Graves, you needn’t leave,” Lilly insisted.

“Miss Haswell has done nothing wrong.” Francis gestured in
vague motions between Lilly and himself. “I instigated this.”

“No, Francis,” Lilly said. “I have acted thoughtlessly. I ask you
both to forgive me.”

Her father’s voice called from down the passageway, “Lilly? Everything all right? “

Lilly grimaced. “We’ve woken him.”

Dr. Graves said icily, “I shall go and check on him. If you don’t
mind.” He skewered Francis with a look.

“Yes, please do, Dr. Graves,” Lilly quickly replied. “You are very
kind to think of him. I thank you.”

Graves nodded and pivoted on his heel. As soon as he had left
the room, Lilly turned toward Francis feeling contrite and chagrined.
“Francis,” she whispered tersely, “I was wrong to allow this to happen.
I don’t know why I did.”

“Because you feel something for me, Lilly. I know you do.”

She exhaled. “Of course I do. But not what you might wish I would
feel. Francis, please understand. I do not want the life you do. I do not
want to spend mine in an apothecary shop. I never have.”

He ran a hand through his thick brown hair. “It is all I know. All
I want to know. Are you suggesting I give it up?”

“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

rancis 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.”