The Apothecary's Daughter Part 56

She had given up standing there all those months she had tried to manage her father's shop. She hadn't the time for it then. Now it seemed she had a great deal of time.

Or do I? she wondered. She once thought she had all the time in the world to see the world, enjoy the world. Now she understood what far wiser people had long known no one is promised the world, nor even the morrow.

Lilly used to long for travel and adventure far from Bedsley Priors. But death and loss had narrowed her sights. Her telescope no longer focused on the horizon, but rather on what was nearest and dearest to her heart. The rest was just so much water boiled away and gone it might steam the gla.s.s and cloud one's view for a time, but in the end it vanished, leaving only the purest essence of life behind. Family. Faith. Friends and neighbors. Health. Things Mary would have given her last breath for, and perhaps had.

Lilly told herself all this, and yet she knew. She knew her heart had never gotten over the loss, the missing of one gone away from her. Should she return to London and begin a new search? No. She must let go. Again.

The barge pa.s.sed under the Honeystreet Bridge, its load of coal sinking the vessel low in the ca.n.a.l's waters. A crewman lifted his hat to Lilly, and she dipped her head in acknowledgment. She knew she should be getting back. Her father and Mrs. Mimpurse were having a few neighbors in for whist and tea an unofficial end to their mourning and they were expecting Lilly to join them.

The narrowboat approached then, painted in shades of muted gold by the slanting rays of sunlight. Lilly saw two figures on its tiller deck. One hand rising in salute.

She felt a flicker of recognition. Strained forward to better see in the fading light.

It cannot bea.

But it was.

Finally, finally, Lilly saw that cherished face, the much-missed and loved person.

The hand waved. The well-known voice called, "Lilly! "

Her heart leapt within her.

It was Francis, coming back to Bedsley Priors.

Before the boat was even lashed to its moorings, Francis jumped from the deck and scrambled up the bank with no thought to his fine suit of clothes. At the end of the bridge, he stopped and looked at her, his earnest gaze reflecting all the longing she felt.

Lilly stood there, feeling stunned and oddly rooted where she was, some fifteen or so feet away from him.

"You can have no idea how much I have missed you," he said, the angles of his face more defined than ever, his brown eyes large and intense.

Lilly swallowed. "Have you?"

"I've thought of you every day. Why do you think I wanted so badly to succeed?"

Breathless, she could only stare at him.

"I have pa.s.sed the examinations, Lilly," he said. "I am a certified apothecary."

Her throat was suddenly dry. "Congratulations," she managed.

"I am taking over Shuttleworth's. Did he mention it? He's let me have it for exceedingly generous terms."

"Shuttleworth's?" Lilly asked, feeling slow-witted. "You're the new apothecary? "

Francis nodded. "Though I do not plan to call it Shuttleworth's any longer. I was thinking a" He took a step forward. "That is a How does Baylor and Haswell sound?"

Lilly's heart, already beating at an alarming rate, felt as though it had taken a shock from the electricity machine. Dragging in a deep, shaky breath, she feigned a casual shrug. "Or Haswell and Baylor."

He grinned and opened his arms.

Lilly ran.

Francis caught her mid-air and held her tightly against his chest. Slowly, he let her slip down until her feet returned to the bridge. He released her only to cradle her face in his hands. Lilly looked up at him with all the love she felt, and his warm, chocolate eyes seemed to melt into hers. He leaned down as she reached up, and their lips finally met. She leaned into his embrace and together they stood, with no thought to pa.s.sersby, nor to the ca.n.a.l, nor to a single boat upon it.

EPILOGUE.

walked, as I often did, to the churchyard. My brother, Charlie, -was not there this time. He was likely off working in the gardens at Marlow House, counting weeds as he plucked them, or ladybird beetles, or emmets crawling about their hill. And I knew he was content in his own way.

I stood before a headstone, still new, not yet cankered by time and wind and lichen. But in my mind's eye, I was standing before another grave. Her grave.

Uncle Elliott had finally sent the letter I had once longed for: We have found your mother. Upon reading those words, I remember thinking that we ought to go to her quickly, before she moved again again out of reach.

But Rosamond Haswell was not going anywhere. Ever again.

When the Elliotts took me "to her," they took me to a London cemetery. To a plot bearing a temporary cross marker with the name R. H. Wells inscribed.

Her searching, and mine, was over.

She died in hospital of consumption, her secrets with her. A sc.r.a.p of paper with Jonathan Elliott's name and address was found among her things, and the hospital had sent a message hoping, no doubt, for payment. Uncle Elliott had been away traveling, but upon his return he had paid what was due and located the gravesite, leaving the temporary marker until he might confer with me.

I could not protest that she was not buried here in the Bedsley Priors churchyard, when she had so long wanted to escape our village. But I agreed with the Elliotts' plan to purchase a headstone and have it engraved with her legal name. Rosamond Haswell had disappeared, and Rosamond Haswell had been found. If Rosa Wells wished a pauper's grave, we would not oblige her. Cemeteries and headstones are for the living, after all. The ones who need a place to mourn and visit and remember.

We held a brief funeral in London. The service was spa.r.s.ely attended. Jonathan and Ruth Elliott, Charles and Charlie Haswell, Maude Mimpurse, Francis and I. A small announcement ran in the Times, but no unfamiliar men men named Quinn or Wells or Dugan appeared. In the end, it boiled down to blood and love.

It always did.

After the funeral, Uncle Elliott led me into the library, pressed something into my palm, and closed my fingers around it, saying only, "I found it among your mother's things." When he left me, I opened my hand. My heart lurched at the sight of my name written in a familiar though shaky hand, on a thrice-folded sc.r.a.p of paper. I unfolded it and saw that it had been torn from the corner of a larger piece. The smeared ink words it bore swam before my eyes.

It is too late to undo what I have done.

Too late to plead forgiveness, or tell you I love you.

But I beg you, do not follow my course.

And please, tell Charlie I am sorry I never returned as I told him I would.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I clutched the paper to my breastbone, and held it there. Only when I held the note aloft once more, tears magnifying my vision, did I recognize the paper itself the thick, creased paper the color of a tea stain. The curve of a sphere. Torn awaya *

To think I used to covet her adventurous life. Even wished she had taken me with her. How foolish I had been.

The memory of my mother's grave receded, and I focused on the one there before me in the Bedsley Priors churchyard. The large headstone my father had paid a dear sum to purchase and a dearer sum yet to have engraved. So many words and flowers and embellishments have not graced a headstone since the first Lady Marlow's. We had feared Mrs. Mimpurse might mind our involvement. But she, dear woman, seemed to understand my need to claim kinship and Father's need for atonement for though kind to Mary, he had never publicly acknowledged her during her lifetime.

Now I traced gloved fingers along the grooves of the carved-out dates of my sister's life. 1795 to 1815. Far, far too brief. I sank to my knees before the sun-warmed stone. Tears streamed down my face as I again read the words that ushered in such a bittersweet torrent of pain and pleasure and release.

Here lies Mary Helen Mimpurse, The Apothecary's Daughter I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up. Francis had come. He offered me his hand and helped me to my feet. In his dear brown eyes I saw love and empathy. He kissed me tenderly and then wrapped his arms around me. For a moment, we stood there, simply remembering. Then together we walked hand in hand back to our shop, back to the endless duties and joys of an apothecary, and his wife.

AUTHORS NOTE.

hile most people visit the London Eye or Buckingham Palace, I dragged my long-suffering husband to less-visited places like the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries and a museum of pharmacy. While other tourists snapped pictures of the changing of the guard, he tirelessly photographed ancient mortars and leech jars. I appreciate his help very much. We did not visit Bedsley Priors, for the village exists only in my imagination, near the real places of Honeystreet and Alton Barnes, Wiltshire.

I am indebted to John Williams, Beadle of the Apothecaries' Hall, for his gallant and informative tour and for sharing a history of which he is justifiably proud. He even donned his ceremonial gown covered with golden ta.s.sels, which represent the posies that beadles of old pinned on to ward off the odors of the plague years. For fictional purposes, I took a few liberties with the information he gave us. I certainly hope Mr. Williams won't come after me wearing that gown.

I am also grateful to Julie Wakefield, a.s.sistant Keeper of the Museum of the Royal Pharmaceutical Society of Great Britain, who gave us a detailed, fascinating tour through the changing medical treatments from early to modern times. She also took pity on my "poor soldier" husband, offering him a soft chair and a cool drink while I continued my barrage of questions.

I would also like to thank my colleagues and friends at Bethany House, especially Ann Parrish, Charlene Patterson, Jennifer Parker, and my editors, Karen Schurrer and Jolene Steffer. Deepest thanks to author Beverly Lewis, for her friendship and prayers.

Greetings to the ladies at Curves, who bought so many books, and to Sarah, the pharmacy technician who first brought the apothecaries' system of weights to my attention.

I appreciate all the readers who have taken time to visit my Web site and send kind e-mails about my first novel, Lady of Milkweed Manor. Your encouraging words have helped me through many late nights of writing.

Heartfelt thanks to Carlisa, first reader and dear sister-friend, as well as friends Teresa, Berit, Gina, Suzy, Betsey, Patty, Lori, and Mary, who have given me such support and a great book party!

Finally, thanks again to my husband and sons, who have given me the time and quiet (usually!) to write. I thank G.o.d for you.

READING GROUP.

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS.

1. What does the opening quotation, "Providence has made the most useful things most common, and for that reason we neglect them," mean to you?

2. When is it easy for you to neglect "the most useful things" in life? What distracts you from your priorities?

3. What surprised you about apothecaries in the early 1800s? How are apothecaries similar to and different from today's physicians, pharmacists, and herbalists?

4. Did you grow up "missing" someone in your life (mother, father, sister, brother, grandparents, etc.)? Did you find ways to fill this void?

5. Mary suffered from epilepsy. Do you know anything about epilepsy or anyone afflicted with it? How has public opinion about this condition changed since the 1800s?

6. Charles Haswell was too proud to ask for help. Do you ever struggle to reach out in times of need?

7. Did you want to know more about what happened to Lilly's mother, or were you satisfied?

8. Have you ever been guilty of wanting something (or someone) only when you cannot have it (or him or her)? Have you ever had to lose something before you appreciated its worth?

9. If you had a memory like Lilly's, what would you want to memorize or remember?

10. Which of Lilly's suitors did you most like? Did she choose as you would have?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

JULIE KLa.s.sEN is a fiction editor with a background in advertising. She has worked in Christian publishing for more than twelve years, in both marketing and editorial capacities. This is her second novel.

Julie is a graduate of the University of Illinois. She enjoys travel, research, books, BBC period dramas, long hikes, short naps, and coffee with friends.

She and her husband have two sons and live near St. Paul, Minnesota.

For more information about Julie, TheApothecary's Daughter, Lady of Milkweed Manor, and her upcoming books, visit www.juliekla.s.sen. com.

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