The Apothecary's Daughter

Author

PROLOGUE

Iremember it clearly, although it was years ago now. For I remember everything.

I The year was 1810. I was a girl of fifteen, standing on the arched Honeystreet Bridge—which I often did when I was not needed in Father’s shop—gazing upon the brightly painted boats that floated past. There a blue barge, and there a yellow-and-white narrowboat. In reality, I was searching. Searching the face of every person on every narrowboat that passed by on the newly completed K and A Canal. There were not many women, but a few. For though men worked the canals as pilots, navigators, and merchants, entire families sometimes lived aboard—as wives and children made for less costly crews.

My mother had disappeared on one of those narrowboats two months before, or so the villagers whispered when they thought I could not hear. I suppose I hoped she would return as she left, declaring her absence a lark, an adventure, a mistake . . . anything. How many hours had I stood there? How many boats had I seen pass beneath that bridge—boats with names like the Britannia, Radiant, or Perseverance? Where had they come from, I always wondered, and where were they bound? What cargo did they bear—spices from the West Indies, perhaps, or tea from China? Coal from the Midlands or timber from as far away as Norway? How often I dreamt of stowing away and leaving Bedsley Priors for the bright unknown beyond.

That day, however, I watched the yellow-and-white narrowboat for another reason. A gangly boy with a cinched bag slung over his shoulder climbed unsteadily from the moored boat. My father, standing on the bank, extended his hand in greeting, just as the boy leaned over and was sick.

I winced. Not a very propitious beginning for a new apprentice. Father’s shoes were likely spoilt.

I sighed. I knew I should go down to them. Father had not seen me there or he would have called for my help. He always did. With Mother gone and my only brother slow of mind, many responsibilities for both the household and shop fell to me.

But no. I would wait and meet young Mr. Baylor later, once he’d had a chance to collect himself. I would brew ginger tea for him and find an old cloth for Father’s shoes. But first I wanted a few more moments on the bridge.

Several minutes later, a red-and-blue narrowboat approached from the west, from as far away as Bristol, perhaps, on its way to the Thames and then to London some eighty miles east. A man led one boat-horse along the towpath. A lone person sat in the curved bow deck. Far behind, aft of the cabin, two crewmen stood on the tiller deck.

As the boat drew nearer, I saw that the figure in the bow was a woman, head low, as if in prayer. Or perhaps she was reading. A wide bonnet concealed her face from the sun, from me. My heart leapt. Something about the woman’s posture and tilt of her head struck me as familiar. Mother loved to read.

I leaned across the wide brick ledge, peering hard, heart beating. The boat drew closer. I saw that the man leading the horse was deeply tanned and broad-shouldered. The man she left us for? As he led the boat-horse along the strip of land beneath the bridge, he disappeared from view. The bow of the boat reached the shadow of the bridge, and one of the crewmen gaped up at me. I barely saw him. Instead I read the vessel’s name painted in decorative lettering on the side, The Gypsy, and I thought, How apt. Still, I could not see the woman’s face.

I whirled and raced to the other side of the bridge, hoping my angle would be better, that I would see her from that side as they passed.

Perhaps she does not even realize where she is, I thought, engrossed as she was in her reading. Should I call to her?

I only stared, afraid to be a fool before this woman, before the men labouring at the nearby timber mill. If only I could see her face. . . .

I squinted. Tried to focus. Dimly, I heard a voice. Someone was calling my name.

Lilly!

The boat passed further down the canal and she began to disappear all over again. Look up! I urged silently. See me.

The woman stood and looked up, but away from me—ahead toward the man and horse. The back of my mind registered pounding footsteps. The voice grew urgent. Is she calling me?

Lilly!

Here I am! I called.

The woman turned around. She held a hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes from the sun. Her brow wrinkled in perplexity as she stared back. I raised my hand and waved.

The woman slowly, tentatively, raised her own hand. Not in greeting, but in somber salute. The motion revealed her face—a stranger’s face—kind and plain. In her hand, not a book but a rumple of cloth. Mending.

A hand shook my shoulder. Lilly?

Numbly, I tore my eyes from the fading sight of the woman and turned. My younger brother, Charlie, stood before me, clearly agitated and breathing hard. I called you. Why did you not answer?

I . . . thought . . . I blinked away the pathetic vision of what I had thought and in its place saw his wide eyes, his frightened tear-streaked face. What is it, Charlie?

’Tis Mary. Oh, how she shakes! Father sent me. He needs— He paused, eyes searching the air above me.

He needs what? Pulse accelerating, I grasped him by both arms, frustrated at his limited ability to focus, to remember.

He winced and bit his pronounced lower lip.

Valerian? I prompted. Hyssop?

He shook his head, still squinting in attempted concentration.

Musk pod? Peony?

Peony! he shouted. Yes!

I was incredulous. "But we have syrup of peony on the shelf. The jar marked S: Poeniae."

Father says ’tis empty!

Dear Lord, no.

Oh, Lilly! How she jerks about! Will she die?

No, I bit out. Running from the bridge, I yelled over my shoulder, Tell Father to set water to boil!

I knew of only one place to get peony root. One nearby garden where it grew. I began perspiring—not from exertion, but from fear. Fear for my oldest friend. Fear for myself. For to trespass in this garden was to break the law and risk his wrath. But he was far away at university, was he not? Lord, let him be far away. . . .

I ran.

I had always loved to run, across the vale, or up the chalk hills beyond Bedsley Priors. But this time I felt no pleasure in the exercise. I ran because I had no other choice—it would take far too long to return home and hitch up the gig. True, Mrs. Mimpurse had often admonished me not to go running about the village, that I was practically a young lady now and ought to behave as such. But I knew our kindly neighbor would not blame me for running this time. For Mary was her daughter.

I ran up the Sands Road and veered right onto the High Street, nearly colliding with a man coming out of the wheelwright’s.

Sorry, Mr. Hughes! I called, without breaking stride.

I sprinted across the village green, around the enclosed churchyard, past the Owens’ farm, and up the lane to Marlow House. Once there, I darted around the stone garden wall, ducking to keep out of sight as I ran toward the closed garden gate. Fear gripped me, but I had only to imagine Mary, writhing in pain, and I pushed the gate open, wincing at its high-pitched screech. Rushing across the path to the gardener’s shed, I threw back the door and grabbed the first spade I saw. Dashing to the cluster of staked peonies—the late Lady Marlow’s prized peonies—I swallowed, realizing I had no time to be neat or exacting.

As I lanced the soil with the spade, I heard the first cry of alarm. A man yelled Stop! but I shoved the spade in again, deeper now. I heard footfalls and cursing on the other side of the wall. Mr. Timms, the surly gardener, I supposed. Another few seconds and I would reach the roots. I put all of my slight weight on the spade and jerked the handle back and forth. Come on. . . .

Just as I pulled up the plant by its roots, a man’s head and shoulders appeared over the garden wall. Not surly Mr. Timms. Worse.

Stop where you are, the young man ordered. Those are my mother’s.

Steady . . . I tried to find my voice, to explain, but found I could not speak. I knew Roderick Marlow put peony blossoms on his mother’s grave every spring. I knew he was infamously cruel.

I need one . . . I finally croaked out, for a friend.

Do not move! I am calling the constable.

I had no time to explain and no time to wait for the constable. I darted across the garden, and again I heard him curse. Over my shoulder I glimpsed him hauling himself up and over the garden wall. Heard his feet hit the ground and pebbles fly as he bolted after me, his long stride stretching no doubt twice the length of my own. I ran through the garden gate and slammed it closed with all my strength. His exclamation of pain and anger chased me across the lawn. There I glimpsed a groom leading out a tall black horse—already saddled.

No.

The gate screeched open behind me. Roderick Marlow whistled and shouted, Bring my horse. Quick!

Immediately, I changed course. I knew that if I followed the open road as I had come, he would overtake me seconds. I could not let that happen. Instead I headed for the wood, pushing past branches that scratched at my arms and legs. Horse hooves beat the ground behind me as I wove through the trees. I left the wood and ran across a narrow pasture—a sheep fence crossed the landscape ahead. I vaulted over it, stumbled, but ran on. Behind me horse and rider cleared the fence without pause. One chance left. Ahead of me stood the tall privet hedge around the churchyard. And beyond it, the village. My pursuer galloped closer. Does he plan to run me down? I wondered wildly. For a simple plant Father will happily repay him for? He would, I did not doubt.

I ran along the hedge, and there it was. I stopped abruptly, my back to the seemingly impenetrable wall of privet. Far too tall to jump. Too dense to push through. Roderick Marlow leapt from his horse and came striding toward me, anger in his eyes and riding crop in hand. I swallowed, suddenly grateful that my long frock covered the bottom reaches of the hedge behind me. Wait until he is a little further from his horse. One second more. . . .

Suddenly I turned and dove into a hole in the privet, the tunnel barely large enough for a child to wriggle through. Dug, I knew, by the vicar’s hound. Terror gripped my heart as I felt Roderick’s hand trying to grip me. Fingers clawed at my skirt hems as I scrambled through the hedge and stumbled to my feet on the other side. He swore in frustration, and I knew he was not giving up. If only the horse would bolt. But I doubted such a well-trained beast would dare. At least it might take a second or two for him to regain his mount. I dashed across the churchyard and out its front gate, and ran down the High Street. I saw the sign for my father’s shop ahead, just as I again heard pounding hooves behind. If I can just make it inside and deliver the root, he can do what he likes with me then. Just let me reach Mary in time.

I ran through the door and gave it a shove. But Roderick Marlow caught it and pushed in behind me, the shop bell jingling crazily. He grabbed my arm before I could hand the plant to my startled father.

Roderick raised the crop in his hand.

Roderick Rupert Marlow! Maude Mimpurse commanded. Put that down and unhand the girl. Lillian Grace Haswell. What have I told you about running through town like a stray?

Roderick froze, and I was stunned to see him lower his arm in mute submission. That’s right, I remembered to my immense relief. Our robust, dark-haired neighbor had once worked as the Marlows’ nurserymaid. Her powers of persuasion were legendary.

She is a vandal and a thief! the furious Marlow shouted. She trespassed upon our garden.

I sent her for peony root, young sir, Father explained, concern straining his features. It was an emergency. Miss Mary has had her worse case of falling sickness yet.

The rest of the room came into focus then. I spun about and, through the surgery door, saw my dear friend lying still on the cot. Deathly still.

Am I too late? Is she . . . ?

The fit has finally passed, Father said. I believe the valerian took effect after all.

She’s fallen asleep, poor lamb, Mrs. Mimpurse said, her voice returning to its customary softness. So exhausted was she.

I held up the peony—stalk, root, and all. Then . . . I stole this for nothing?

Stole? Good gracious. Mrs. Mimpurse tutted. We are all neighbors, are we not?

I will reimburse your family, young sir, Father offered, reaching up to lay his hand on the young man’s shoulder. We still need to distill a batch of syrup in any case. Or we can endeavor to replant the peony, if you prefer.

Roderick Marlow shook off Father’s hand. No. Just stay away from our gardens. He aimed his blazing glare in my direction and a chill ran through my body. And away from me.

I would obey that command for almost three years.

Not nearly long enough.

PART I

The apothecary’s house should [have an] inner chamber,

wherein he may prudently observe through some lattice window

whether his apprentices spend their time idly or faithfully. . . .

—C. J. S. THOMPSON, MYSTERY AND ART OF THE APOTHECARY

Thou art gone from my gaze like a beautiful dream,

And I seek thee in vain by the meadow and stream.

—GEORGE LINLEY, COMPOSER

LILY OF THE VALLEY

Strengthens the brain, recruits a weak memory,

and makes it strong again.

—CULPEPER’S COMPLETE HERBAL

CHAPTER 1

Knowing she faced a long day indoors, Lilly Haswell arose early to take in the crisp, fragrant air of a Wiltshire autumn morning. With a quiet greeting to Mrs. Fowler, already busy at the stove, Lilly left by the rear garden door and walked sedately out of the village. As soon as she rounded the corner of the vicarage, however, she picked up her pace. When she reached the hill just beyond Bedsley Priors, she began a loping climb, tripping over turf grass from time to time, relishing the burning in her legs and lungs. She did not stop until she crested modest Grey’s Hill. As she leaned over to catch her breath, her long russet brown hair fell around her shoulders. She’d not taken the time to pin it up properly, though she knew she should, especially now that she was eighteen years old.

She straightened, taking in the view across Pewsey Vale, with its rolling chalklands, scant trees, and in the distance, the newly carved white horse on the ridge between Milk Hill and Walker’s. She had heard that the rector of Alton Barnes often took his telescope up to Adam’s Grave, the ancient mound atop Walker’s Hill, and with it could see as far as the Salisbury Cathedral. Lilly wished she might climb that hill for herself some Sunday after services when she had the entire afternoon to herself. She would like to see the Salisbury spire. She would have given just about anything to see such places in person—and far more besides. She wondered what sights and delights her mother was experiencing, wherever she was, now these three years gone.

Lilly forced her gaze down to the village at the foot of the hill, with its Saxon churchyard, sleepy streets, and rectangular village green dotted with grazing sheep. How peaceful Bedsley Priors looked. How small and insignificant.

When her mother had first disappeared, Lilly had felt a roiling tincture of emotions—bewilderment, grief, guilt—certain her leaving was due to something Lilly had said or done. But in her secret heart, she had also felt a shameful thrill. Something had changed. Change begot change, she knew, and she longed for more. Though Lilly still prayed fervently for her mother’s return, somehow she knew that had her mother not left, her life would go on as it always had. She would ever be trapped, working in an inconsequential shop in an inconsequential village. And Lilly was certain that would never be enough.

Sighing now, Lilly began the jarring downhill slog home. Back to the endless duties of an apothecary’s daughter.

Again rounding the vicarage, she slowed to a stroll, passing the butcher’s, the chandler’s, and the coffeehouse. Inside, Mary looked at her through the window and motioned for her to wait. Lilly paused as her friend hurried to the door. Her friend who had thankfully not had a fit in nearly a year.

Morning, Lill. Mary thrust a warm, paper-wrapped bundle into her hand. "I insist. You need sustenance after your long . . . mmm, walk." Mary’s grin was all too knowing, and her pale blue eyes gleamed beneath faint strawberry brows.

Lilly smiled and accepted the scone. Thank you. Currant?

What else? Now, go on. I shall see you later.

She gave Mary a mock bow and continued across the mews to her father’s shop. She noticed the sign bearing the apothecary’s rose and Charles Haswell, Apothecary was looking worn, and the white paint of the many-paned bowed window was beginning to flake. She would have to suggest Father hire someone to repaint it.

For a few moments she stood there, peering through the shop-window as a customer might, while she ate her scone.

Upon the inside ledge of the bowed window stood her grandfather’s tall, ornate apothecary’s jar, bearing the Haswell coat of arms. Around it were displayed colorful carboys and ready-made remedies with gilded labels: Royal English Drops, Gaskoin’s Powder, True Venice Treacle, and many more.

Three walls of the shop were lined with shelves of blue-and-cream Lambeth delftware pottery. Upon each was inscribed its contents in Latin: C: ABSINTHII—conserve of wormwood, useful for dropsy. O: VULPIN—oil of fox, distilled in spring water, good for chest complaints.

And below these shelves were rows of knobbed drawers for small simples, such as leaves, seeds, and roots.

The front counter was clear for pressing tablets, and rolling and cutting pills. The rear counter held the tools of the trade. Open for reference were several books, such as Lewis’s New Dispensatory, and Culpeper’s Complete Herbal. Mortars and pestles of various sizes stood at the ready, as did scales, syrup jars, scarificators and bowls for bleeding, and leeches in their jar of water, always kept hungry.

To the left of the rear counter was the door to the laboratory-kitchen, where her father heated and distilled physic through snaking copper pipes. To the right was the door to her father’s surgery, the private office where he consulted with or bled patients.

Already, the shop was busy and full of life. Father had his hand on Arthur Owen’s shoulder, talking to the old pig farmer in gentle admonition. Her brother, Charlie, three years her junior, dusted the shelves. Her father’s seventeen-year-old apprentice, Francis Baylor, stood behind the front counter, busy with mortar and pestle. She was pleased to see both young men engaged in such industrious fashion.

She pushed open the shop door, barely hearing the familiar bell. The usual rush of voices and aromas greeted her. Treasures from distant lands and nearby meadows, dried, crushed, and distilled, filled the air with powerful, exotic appeal. It was only during these moments, coming in from the windy hills, that she could really smell their complex and ever-changing fragrance.

From the beams that striped the ceiling, strings of poppy heads, chamomile, sage, and mint hung in bunches to dry. An ancient alligator hung among them in macabre pose, teeth bared. Several missing teeth rendered him less menacing.

Once inside, Lilly realized the probable cause of the apprentice’s unusual dedication. He was serving the flirtatious Dorothea Robbins, whose father owned the timber mill and the new barge yard in the neighboring hamlet of Honeystreet.

It is not for me, of course, Miss Robbins was saying. For I am perfectly well.

Francis Baylor shook his head in near wonder. As I plainly see.

The girl giggled and Lilly rolled her eyes. Francis glanced up and, seeing her expression, had the decency to flush. If you will excuse me one moment, Miss Robbins?

Of course.

The gangly young man walked around the counter and paused beside Lilly. Quietly, he said, You might wish to change your frock, Miss Lilly. You would not want Mrs. Mimpurse to catch you with muddy hems.

She looked down. Oh! I did not realize . . .

But a glance told her pretty Dorothea Robbins had realized. The honey-haired girl in a charming bonnet was regarding Lilly’s frock with a condescending smile.

The sound of shattering pottery brought Lilly around. Charlie stood frozen, feather duster in hand.

Suds! He sank to his haunches and began picking up the sharp pieces of a broken ointment jar. Not again . . .

Lilly hurried to his side. It’s all right, Charlie. Only an accident. I shall help you clean this up. Mind your fingers.

Dorothea Robbins strolled past them, a small parcel in gloved hand and an aloof smile on her pretty lips. Francis nearly tripped over them in his hurry to open the door for her.

Shaking her head in disgust, Lilly carried the broken pottery through the rear door into the laboratory-kitchen, where Mrs. Fowler was washing up the breakfast dishes. She thought to dash upstairs to change her frock and pin up her hair, but she had barely dumped the pieces and wiped her hands when she heard the shop bell jingle, announcing the arrival of another customer.

Good day, Mrs. Kilgrove, she heard Francis call. And welcome to Haswell’s.

You need not behave as though you own the place, young man, the old matron reprimanded. Mrs. Kilgrove was known for her sharp tongue, which she seemed to wield on everyone save Charlie.

Of course not, ma’am. I am only grateful to be apprenticed to such a respected apothecary. Now, how may I help you?

"You? I’d not tell you my troubles for all the prince’s ponies. Nor give you leave to sell me a single lozenge. Where is Miss Haswell?"

Lilly sighed. So much for changing her frock.

That afternoon, while Francis used the cork borer to fashion bottle stoppers, Lilly was bored indeed. She cleaned the front counter, all the while daydreaming about some gentleman traveler—wounded, ideally—falling into the shop, and in love with her. She had just reached the part where he begged her to run away with him when her cloth reached the bear-shaped pottery jar on the counter’s far end. She paused, fanciful images fading. She wondered once more why her father insisted on stocking the useless remedy.

Have we sold any bear grease lately? she idly asked.

Francis paused in his work. Yes, to several gentlemen yesterday.

Would you try it, had you the need?

He grimaced. Why would I? I have a full head of hair.

A bit too full, Lilly thought, taking in his brown, wavy mop of hair.

Her father came in and stood, arms crossed, before his apprentice. Mr. Baylor, he demanded sternly, did I not ask you to compound another batch of Pierquin’s Diuretic?

Lilly saw the young man blanch.

Right. Sorry, sir.

"You do recall the instructions I gave you only last week?"

Lilly held her breath.

Of course I remember, sir. It was, after all, only last week. He stole a glance at Lilly, the plea for help evident in his wide eyes.

Stepping away from the counter with the cleaning cloth, Lilly said with as much nonchalance as she could muster, That one is simple at least, as it has only three ingredients.

Three, right, Francis parroted. Very simple.

Lilly felt her father’s gaze on the back of her head as she began polishing the shopwindow. I cannot bear to compound Pierquin’s, she continued, keeping her eyes focused upon her task. It is—she wiggled her fingers dramatically, hoping Francis was watching— "a thousand times worse than any other."

Behind her, Francis caught on. Which of course it would be, with all those . . . millipedes.

Exactly, she replied casually. "Which is why I am so relieved Father asked you to prepare it."

Glancing over her shoulder and seeing that her father was again facing Francis at the counter, his back to her, she breathed on the window glass and with her finger wrote berry. "I have not had to do so since June." She then held up her little finger, miming the act of drinking daintily.

After watching her surreptitiously, Francis announced, Pierquin’s Diuretic: macerated millipedes and juniper berries boiled in tea.

"In white wine, Mr. Baylor, Charles Haswell said between clenched teeth. Tea, indeed. You had better study harder, young man, if you want to excel as my pupil. He threw Lilly a flinty look of two parts irritation to one part paternal pride. Professor Lilly will not always be on hand to rescue you."

Right. Sorry, sir.

Shaking his head, her father left them, taking the day’s post back to the surgery to do a bit of reading and, she guessed, a bit of napping.

Francis looked at Lilly, shoulders drooping. How do you do it? I must read and reread things ten times over before I remember them. It all comes so easily to you.

She shrugged. It is in my blood, I suppose.

It is more than that. Is there nothing you cannot remember?

She strolled over to the old globe on its stand in the corner. Foregoing the cloth, she ran her fingers over its surface. Probably a great many things.

I do not believe it. Quick—Godfrey’s Cordial.

Francis. That one is easy. You know it is so popular we must prepare it every week—sassafras, aniseed, caraway, opium, sugar . . .

Stoughton’s Bitters?

She traced her finger over the West Indies. Gentian root, orange peel, cochineal powder . . .

"On what page in Culpeper’s Herbal would you find, say, –saffronI don’t know. . . . She glanced up. Maybe, one hundred forty-four? "And what is listed after saffron?"

Do you not wish to check my answer?

He shook his head, waiting.

She sighed. "Well, meadow saffron, of course, then scurvy-grass in all its varieties, self-heal, sage, saltwort . . . It is in alphabetical order for the most part after all."

He stared at her, shaking his head. You should be the apprentice. Not I.

Walking back to the counter, she said, You know girls cannot be apothecaries. I can only assist.

Lucky for me, or I’d be out of a post.

She tossed the dustcloth onto the rear counter. Never fear. Even if I could, I should not want to work here all my life.

He looked nearly stricken. But, Lilly, with your abilities—

She cut him off. You heard Father—even he realizes I shall not always be here to help.

Much to Lilly’s relief, the shop bell rang, putting an end to the uncomfortable conversation.

When nearly an hour had passed and her father had still not come out from his surgery, Lilly grew concerned. His afternoon naps never lasted for more than half an hour.

She knocked softly on the surgery door. There was no answer. She pushed the door open anyway. Father?

Her father sat at his desk, head in his hands.

Father, what is it? Are you all right?

No. I don’t believe I am.

Alarmed, Lilly stepped inside the small room, closing the door behind her. What has happened?

He lifted his head. I’ve had a letter.

Lilly regarded the fine piece of stationery upon his desk. So I see. She swallowed. From . . . Mother?

The look he gave her held equal measures of surprise, incredulity, and pain. No.

She bit her lip and waited.

He sighed. It is from Mr. Jonathan and Ruth Elliott.

Elliott? None of their acquaintances bore that name.

Your aunt and uncle Elliott. Your mother’s brother.

She almost blurted, Have they seen her? but thought the better of it. She did not want to conjure that look upon her father’s face again.

Instead she said, I do not remember an aunt and uncle Elliott.

How could you? You have never laid eyes on them. But you shall. They are coming all the way from London to pay a call this Friday— whether I like it or not.

Why should you not like it? They are family, are they not?

He looked away, toward the surgery window. I suppose that depends upon your definition of the term.

But you have met them?

Yes, many years ago. He frowned. It was not a happy occasion.

Do they know . . . ? There was no need to spell out the painful subject her father habitually avoided.

Yes. I wrote to them some time afterward.

What do you think they want?

Her father’s features were pinched. I shudder to think.

Seeing his distress, she laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Perhaps they merely wish to reestablish bonds with us.

He looked up at her, his blue eyes glinting in the late afternoon sun slanting through the window. I admire your hopeful outlook, my dear. But I would caution you against it. Mark my words, Lilly. We will rue this visit for years to come.

When [Jane’s brother] Edward was 16,

the Knights adopted him as their heir.

It was not uncommon for wealthy relatives to take in a child

from a less fortunate branch of the family.

—JANE AUSTEN SOCIETY OF NORTH AMERICA

CHAPTER 2

Lilly watched from an upstairs window as a post chaise pulled by two matched bays came to a halt before the shop. When the postillion clambered down from his mount and opened the carriage door, a tall, portly man in hat and greatcoat stepped out. He then turned and assisted a dainty woman in fur-trimmed cloak and hat. Lilly hurried down the stairs and peeked through the door of the laboratory-kitchen as Father opened the shop door.

Elliott. Ruth, he said. Welcome.

The man took her father’s measure. Haswell. You are looking fit, I must say.

Benefit of the profession, I suppose. Do come in. He took their coats and gestured them inside.

Taking in her surroundings, Ruth Elliott asked tentatively, You live here, in your shop?

Why, yes—behind and above it.

Is that common with men of your trade? she asked.

Yes. I believe it is common with men of most professions. Now, please, come into the sitting room.

Taking her cue, Lilly hurried to precede them up the stairs. Straightening her mother’s miniature portrait on the end table, she stood nervously behind the settee as her father escorted their guests inside.

Here we are. Do be seated—anywhere you like. Oh, there you are, my dear. May I introduce my daughter, Lilly. Lilly, this is your aunt and uncle Elliott.

Lilly curtsied. How do you do. I am pleased to meet you both.

Lilly? Ruth Elliott repeated skeptically, arranging herself in an armchair.

Yes, Lilly said. Short for Lillian.

Ah, yes, after Mother, Jonathan Elliott said, taking a seat. That is, your grandmother.

Lilly smiled. She had not known. But almost nobody calls me that.

Lillian, a young lady ought to use her given name, her aunt said. You are too old for pet names, do you not think?

Lilly felt her smile waver. Well, you must be tired and hungry from your journey. Will you have tea? She gestured toward the tea service and tray of assorted tarts, scones, and biscuits.

You employ a cook, then? Aunt Elliott asked.

Lilly nodded. Mrs. Fowler cooks and cleans, but these were provided by a kindly neighbor. An old friend of Mother’s, actually. Here, let me pour the tea. Lilly began to serve, hoping to put into practice all that her mother had taught her long ago. She had even rehearsed yesterday, heeding Mrs. Mimpurse’s gentle admonitions, but still her hands shook now.

She felt her aunt’s gaze upon her every move as she handed her the first cup.

And where is the boy? Uncle Elliott asked. A young Charles, I believe, you mentioned in your letter?

Yes, her father answered, accepting a cup from Lilly. I expect him any moment.

And young Charles is what age now? Jonathan Elliott asked. Thirteen? Fourteen?

When Father hesitated, Lilly supplied, Fifteen.

Fifteen, Uncle Elliott repeated. And do you plan for him to take over your shop one day?

Charles Haswell studied his teacup. I had hoped, but now I am not certain.

The Elliotts glanced at one another, and Jonathan Elliott smiled. Well, that is good to hear.

Her father frowned. Why on earth would it be?

Well, Haswell. We need to meet the boy first, of course, see how we three get on, but I can say that it has occurred to Mrs. Elliott and myself that it might be time to adopt an heir. Providence has not blessed us with a child of our own, and I at least—he smiled at his wife—am getting up in years. One must think of the future.

Lilly nearly spilled her tea. But Charlie has a family, she said quickly. Us.

Of course he has, my dear, Aunt Elliott soothed. And that would not change.

It is done, you know, Uncle Elliott said. Legal adoption for inheritance purposes. Quite common.

Lilly murmured, I had not realized.

It is not as if we would take him from you completely, Aunt Elliott assured her, then shifted her gaze to her brother-in-law. Between us, we could determine a visiting arrangement that suits us all. Assuming you and young Charles are amenable, of course.

Have you no other close relatives? Lilly asked, feeling panic begin to rise.

Uncle Elliott shifted uncomfortably on the saggy settee. I do have one young cousin who might suit—if he were not such a despicable character. But a nephew would be my first choice. And, well, Charles is my sister’s son. He beamed at them both, as if this would dissolve their disbelief and despair.

As Lilly looked at the smiling face of Jonathan Elliott, she thought how odd