Death at the Wedding Feast jr-14 Page 3

  Her breathing quickened and her eyes dilated, and one poor thin hand flew to her breast. ‘I… I… don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Then say nothing,’ John answered briskly, and went to the counter to pay the bill. He had long experience of women bordering on hysteria and knew that one of the most effective ways of treating them was to leave them alone. When he looked round he saw that Jacquetta had recovered her equilibrium.

  She rose to her feet and dropped him a slightly stiff curtsey. ‘I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Sir. I promise you that I will turn the carbonated water of John Rawlings into something famous.’

  John smiled his crooked smile. ‘That would be rather splendid. But I do not ask for that. Merely make a small profit and I will be satisfied. Now, will a month’s salary in advance be suitable?’

  A little colour came into her cheeks. ‘More than somewhat. I was going to have to borrow the money from Nick Dawkins to move what pieces of furniture I have.’

  ‘Well, that won’t be necessary now, will it. And that concludes our business, I think. I shall send my coachman to you tomorrow with two guineas and you may use his services for the rest of that day. But now I must bid you adieu. I have a great deal to do before I leave for Devon.’

  She curtseyed again, this time more deeply. ‘Thank you for trusting me, Mr Rawlings.’

  John gave a swirling bow and said, ‘My pleasure, Mrs Fortune.’ And he walked off towards his coach thinking that he was probably the biggest fool in the universe.

  A brief call on Sir Gabriel on his way home, whose plea to stay the night John had to decline with much sadness, and he returned to Nassau Street to find his daughter within and anxiously awaiting his arrival. She had grown quite tall and was a striking looking child, with a marvellous complexion and that glory of rosy curls about her head. She was to be seven in April and John had arranged to send her to Madame de Cygne’s Academy for Young Ladies situated in the country area of Kensington Gore. He had thought the air healthy and pure and had particularly liked the school’s teaching of the French language, Madame de Cygne being of that nationality and very keen on instilling the correct pronunciation into her pupils. As well as French, of course, the girls were to learn English, with correct orthography, together with geography, embroidery and needlework, dancing, music, deportment and carriage, and basic mathematics. In fact as full and interesting a syllabus as any parent could wish for. John realized that the teaching of herbs and their various properties would have to be left to him in the holiday times. But the school also taught religious instruction, a subject that John was glad he would not have to impart to his child as he had not fully made up his mind on the matter.

  They went into the library where a coal and wood fire had been lit against the chilly evening and Rose climbed on to his lap, putting her arms round his neck. But instead of snuggling into his shoulder she held him at arm’s length and stared into his eyes. They were very beautiful eyes, which seemed to reflect different shades of blue according to her mood. Tonight they were vivid, the deep, rich colour of a Mediterranean sky.

  ‘Father, I think you might be in danger,’ she said directly.

  He stared at her, quite shocked despite his casual expression. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘It’s hard to say, really. But I keep getting this impression of you being attacked. Do you have to go to Devon without me?’

  ‘My darling, you may come if you wish. But I really think it is better if you do not. Mrs Elizabeth is about to give birth to a baby brother or sister for you and there won’t be a great deal of time to devote to you. Besides, I have a woman moving in in a few days’ time. She is to run my new business for me. I would be grateful if you could be here to look after her.’

  Rose was silent for a while and then she said, ‘All right, I’ll stay if it would please you. But Papa, be careful. In my head I see danger coming.’

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘A horrible old woman in a brown dress and bonnet. Oh, she’s such an evil old creature.’

  And quite unexpectedly the great eyes filled with tears and she turned her head into the Apothecary’s shoulder and wept bitterly.

  John cuddled her close to him, but his brain could not help but take in what Rose had just said. He knew the child was psychic, had known it ever since their eyes had first met and she had smiled at him. And now he took her warning seriously, thinking as he did so that an old woman in a brown ensemble with a bonnet to match was going to stick out like a mason’s maund to an apothecary. He muttered into her ear, ‘I swear I’ll look out for the old beast and give her a culp if I should see her.’

  Rose smiled through her tears. ‘Promise?’

  ‘Yes, I promise.’

  ‘And can I visit the new baby quickly please?’

  ‘I will arrange for Sir Gabriel to bring you down as soon as possible.’

  She slid off his lap and looked at him, reminding him of a flower that had just been caught in a shower of rain.

  ‘Come here,’ he said very gently. She did so and he wiped the tears from her face with his handkerchief. ‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered. ‘Papa is used to taking care of himself. I promise not to let that old woman hurt me.’

  Rose’s eyes became motionless and staring. ‘When you see her, lie flat,’ she said quietly.

  John could not help but grin at the thought of prostrating himself at the feet of every woman wearing brown that he was in future to meet.

  His daughter reacted in a totally childish manner. ‘You’re laughing at me. I shall never tell you anything that I see again.’ And with a loud stamp of her foot she ran from the room and pounded up the stairs.

  John stared after her, shaking his head. He would obviously have to be more careful in future when his daughter warned him psychically of something.

  Two days later Jacquetta Fortune, sitting with the carter who brought her few sad pieces of furniture, arrived at Two, Nassau Street. John, receiving her, was only glad that Sir Gabriel now lived in Kensington and was therefore unable to see the fragments of a married home carried in. On the ground floor he had cleared out Emilia’s parlour, leaving in the harpsichord as it occurred to him that Jacquetta might care to play. Upstairs he had, in company with Rose’s maid, revitalized one of the guest bedrooms, tactfully removing the bed as he felt quite sure that Mrs Fortune would be bringing her marriage bed with her.

  He was not mistaken. The very first thing carried in by a sweating carter and a small-sized boy who looked as if he hadn’t eaten for a week was the bed. They lugged it upstairs, Jacquetta following behind like a moth. But she exclaimed in delight when she saw the room and the pretty curtains that the maid had rescued from somewhere in the depths of the house.

  ‘Oh, Mr Rawlings,’ she said. ‘How delightfully you have prepared it for me.’

  ‘I merely ran an eye over the proceedings. You have Emily to thank for this.’

  ‘Emily?’

  ‘Rose’s maid.’ He changed the subject, thinking how wan she looked. ‘Would you like a little something to eat? A pre-dinner entree perhaps?’

  ‘Thank you. I am rather famished.’

  ‘Then come downstairs, do. I’ll get the servants to prepare something. Besides you have to meet Rose.’

  He offered her his arm, but his enquiry as to the whereabouts of his daughter was met with a servant’s crisp reply that she was playing in the garden and was not coming in until five. John’s banging on the French doors elicited no reply, and he was just about to step outside to fetch the naughty child in when Mrs Fortune stopped him.

  ‘Oh, Mr Rawlings, leave her in peace, I beg you. Can’t you remember how down in the dumps you felt when interrupted in a game? She is surely wrapped up warmly and is no doubt enjoying herself enormously.’

  He looked at Jacquetta closely, once more taking in her thinness and general pale manner. ‘Very well, as you suggest,’ he answered, and gave her a little half-bow.

  But he knew that Rose’s curiosity would b
e aroused and, sure enough, after five minutes or so a little face appeared at the window, peering in. Playing the game, John ignored it, at the same time whispering to Mrs Fortune, ‘My daughter has arrived and is studying you. Be so good as not to notice.’

  She smiled that sudden-sunlight smile of hers, and John wished for the briefest of brief seconds that he was not involved with Elizabeth di Lorenzi, had never met her in fact, and that he could spend the rest of his days bringing Jacquetta Fortune back to the woman that she must once have been.

  At that moment there came two simultaneous knocks, one on the outside of the French doors, the other on the entrance to the study. John admitted the study visitor first and discovered Gideon Purle, hat in hand and looking terribly smart, standing there.

  The young man had grown even taller and these days stood well over six feet. His face had changed too, losing that boyish chubbiness and now dominated by a pair of lively eyes that darted hither and thither so brightly that one was left with the impression of flashes of colour shooting round the room. He was twenty years old and would be leaving his apprenticeship in the next couple of years. John sighed, suddenly feeling that he was getting on in years. He had had two apprentices in his career. But what men they had both grown into: the hulking, attractive young creature who had just entered the room, and the pale, limping but alive with character Nicholas Dawkins. John felt a huge burst of pride.

  There came another knock at the French doors and Mrs Fortune, at a nod from John, went to let her in. The little girl, slightly nervous for once, stood eyeing them all without saying a word. Eventually, though, she approached the Apothecary and slipped her hand into one of his.

  ‘Mrs Fortune,’ he said gravely, ‘may I introduce my daughter, Rose Rawlings?’

  Jacquetta stared at her a moment before dropping a deep curtsey. ‘The pleasure is entirely mine, Miss Rawlings.’

  Remembering her manners, Rose did her best curtsey back and said, ‘No, no, Madam. It is mine, I assure you.’

  Four

  Mrs Fortune had finally removed her hat and John could see at breakfast the next morning that her hair was very much as he had imagined it would be, the colour of shining silver-gilt. The meal done, she and Gideon immediately got to work and spent the rest of the time in conference, ordering bottles and ledgers and the million other sundries that apparently were needed to start a business. Young Mr Purle was obviously very taken by the fact that his master had, once again, done the unusual and appointed a woman for the task. And the Apothecary could not help but smile to himself at the obvious enjoyment his apprentice got from Jacquetta’s company. He, meanwhile, had returned to the quiet of Shug Lane, removing himself from all the hurly-burly and excitement.

  John had decided that on his next extended trip to Devon he would leave Gideon in sole charge of the shop, and considering this made him think of getting a new and young apprentice, someone that the older one could order about. He had accordingly written to several schoolmasters asking them to recommend any leavers who might be interested in becoming an apothecary and one answer in particular had caught his attention.

  Master Robin Hazell might be just to Your Suiting, Sir. He has a Carefree Disposition but Studies Assiduously Everything to do with the Nature of Herbs etc. He is leaving School on the twenty-third day of February — Easter being so Early — and I can Send Him Direct to You should You so Desire it.

  The Apothecary had replied by return post that he did so desire and awaited the arrival of Master Hazell at two o’clock on the 25th. Unfortunately this was the time when the shop suddenly became thronged with customers, all wanting attention and wanting it quickly, and John worked so hard that he noticed nobody enter, and finally, feeling flat as a flounder, collapsed on to a chair behind the counter when the rush was over.

  ‘Please, Sir, but would you be Mr Rawlings?’ asked a small voice from the corner.

  John jumped up, smoothing down his long apron, and peered in the direction of the sound. Wondering whether he needed spectacles, John narrowed his eyes but could see no one there. Then he felt a tug on his apron strings and wheeled round to behold a very small boy who was standing behind him.

  ‘And who might you be?’ he said rather crossly.

  ‘I’m Robin Hazell, Sir. We ’ad an appointment — or so I fawt.’

  ‘But you can’t be sixteen,’ John answered, staring down at him.

  ‘I am, Sir, honest. It’s just that I’m small, like me mother was.’ The boy, who reached just above John’s waist, looked suddenly folorn. ‘Am I too short, then?’

  ‘For what?’ answered the Apothecary, slightly irritated.

  ‘To become your apprentice, Sir.’ The boy’s lower lip trembled and his eyes looked large with tears, though none as yet had trickled down his cheeks.

  John suddenly felt profoundly sorry for the little chap. ‘Shall we go into the compounding room and there have a cup of tea?’ he asked in a much gentler tone.

  ‘I would like that very much, Sir.’ And a small hand crept into the Apothecary’s as they walked together to the back of the shop.

  There was absolutely no way that this boy could be much more than twelve, John thought, and wondered what particular kind of trick was being played upon him.

  ‘Now, sit down,’ he said kindly, ‘and tell me all about yourself.’

  Robin — if Robin it actually was — started on some long tale about finishing at school and being recommended by his headmaster to which John listened, not believing a word he was hearing. Finally, the child stopped talking and looked at the Apothecary with boot-button eyes.

  ‘Well, Sir?’ he asked.

  John’s mouth twitched. ‘You’re a good actor, I’ll grant you that.’

  ‘What do you mean, Sir?’

  ‘I mean that I don’t believe a thing you’ve just said to me. In other words, you’re not telling the truth, my boy.’

  The child opened his mouth to reply but at that moment the door of the shop shot open and another boy whirled in, panting and gasping for breath.

  ‘Mr Rawlings?’ he managed.

  ‘Yes,’ said John, going to meet him.

  The newcomer held out his hand. ‘I’m Robin Hazell, Sir. And I apologize for the lateness of my arrival but I’ve just been robbed in the street.’

  Behind him the Apothecary heard a subdued squeal and, turning round, saw the little chap preparing to run. Gently but firmly John put his hand on the child’s shoulder, thus pinioning him where he was. He turned back to the true Robin Hazell, thinking how well the name suited him, for the boy looked like autumn personified. His hair gleamed in an amber aureole, while his eyes, shining and honest-looking, were like glasses of light sherry. At the moment his freckled skin was bright red with a mixture of annoyance and exertion, but when it resumed its natural hue it was obvious that this young man was the handsomest of creatures. Inwardly the Apothecary sighed, thinking how all his apprentices were interesting and attractive people. Once again he felt slightly old.

  ‘And there,’ said Robin, catching a glimpse of the urchin standing at John’s heel, ‘is the little jackanapes who did it.’

  The Apothecary decided to teach the young miscreant a lesson. ‘You devilish dog, Sir. How dare you come in here with your fancy tales, wasting my time and putting Master Hazell into a fine how-dee-do? Explain yourself immediately.’

  He sat down, standing the scrap in front of him and putting a hand on each shoulder. But instead of speaking the little boy wept, loudly and noisily, until John was obliged to produce a handkerchief and dry his face. He glanced up at Robin and saw that he, too, was quite moved by the sight.

  ‘Don’t be too hard on him, Sir,’ Robin whispered into John’s ear — and at that moment the Apothecary knew for sure that he was going to take young Master Hazell as his apprentice.

  The urchin continued to howl until the Apothecary boomed, ‘Be silent! Enough of this caterwauling. Now just tell me your story and I will sit here and listen — and so will Maste
r Hazell.’

  He motioned the older boy to take a seat and eventually the little chap said in a voice, punctuated by sobs, ‘I don’t know who me parents are, honest, Sir. I was abandoned at the door of Coram’s when I was a babe. But me mother left a bracelet in me box, so she must have been someone special.’

  John’s heart bled for him. The great man Thomas Coram had founded the home for abandoned and deserted children — who had quite literally littered the streets of London — in 1745. Hogarth and Handel had both become governors and Handel had allowed performances of ‘Messiah’ to take place in aid of the institution. The trouble was that there had been more children than there had been room for, so that a balloting system had come into being. Knowing this, mothers had left their babies in bundles and boxes near the gates of the orphanage and, often, they had put a keepsake in with the child. John had seen a few of them and it had moved him to tears. A button, a brooch, a lock of hair; how wretched the girls must have been to give up their children in this sad and melancholy situation.

  He looked at the unhappy, skinny, snotty, tiny boy standing before him and said very seriously, ‘Yes, she must.’

  ‘Anyway, when I was eight I had to leave and go to work and they got me a job as a kitchen boy in a big house. But the head footman beat me — and the cook — so I runs away and steals the papers from Master Hazell, wot was bulging out of ’is pocket, and I thought I would come here first, seeing that I’ve always been interested in herbs and the like. But it didn’t work, like nothing ever does and…’

  The child collapsed into tears once more.

  The Apothecary ignored them and asked, ‘Can you read and write?’

  ‘Oh yes, Sir,’ the boy snivelled. ‘They taught us all that at Coram’s. That’s how I knew about the headmaster and to come here and all.’

  ‘How old are you? And I want the truth this time.’

  ‘Nearly twelve, Sir.’

  John turned to Robin, who had been watching all this with red cheeks and an extremely sad expression.