The Apothecary gave him a stricken glance, said ‘Excuse me,’ and fled past the physician into the hall and up the stairs. Without pausing for a second he flung open the door of Rose’s bedroom, then stopped as he took in the scene before him.
Sir Gabriel Kent, arrayed in negligent style, sporting an elegant cap upon his head, his shirt unbuttoned, the collar loosely turned down to reveal a ribbon band fastening, a great long gown over the whole ensemble, was sitting quietly on Rose’s bed, gently stroking her hand. The child herself lay amongst the white bedclothes, her face an almost identical shade, racked by a most unpleasant cough that had a deep sound within it as if the child were fighting for breath. John’s adopted father turned his head at the noise of the intrusion.
‘My boy, I was on the point of writing to you to beg your return. Rose is stricken down as you see.’
‘How long has she been ill?’
‘Three days. Dr Wilde says it is a chin cough.’
‘He’s probably right. What has he prescribed?’
‘I don’t know. He’s gone round to the apothecary now.’
‘Then I’ll save him the trouble. Rose must have Sundew. It is the finest form of treatment for such an illness.’
Sir Gabriel sat up straight and looked at John with such a deep expression that his son caught his breath.
‘I am pleased you have taken control of the situation.’
‘It is not all that common a herb but I have some in my shop. Father, let us send a footman round there posthaste. I’ll write a personal note to Mr de Prycke to ask him to compound.’
‘Of course. It shall be done at once. And may I say, my very dear child, how good it is to have you at home. Promise me that you will stay with us for a while.’
John put his arm round the old man’s shoulders. ‘Father, I would never go away again if I had freedom of choice but I cannot desert Elizabeth. Not…’ he added in a somewhat cynical voice, ‘… that she needs any protection from me.’
‘But your duty lies here as well, John. I quite understand about the Marchesa di Lorenzi but meanwhile your other child is in dire need of you.’
‘Well, I am returned,’ John answered, and throwing off his cloak went to sit beside Rose and take the pale little hand that lay so still upon the counterpane.
‘Papa,’ she whispered, though her eyes did not open and other than for that whisper she seemed to be utterly lifeless.
‘I am home, my darling, and I will not go away again,’ he answered.
The fingers tightened round his but she made no further response.
John fought hard to control himself. The guilt which he had felt recently was redoubled in strength and his thoughts ran down a million alleyways as he contemplated the future. But with a tremendous effort he brought his emotions under control. Rising from the bed he crossed to where Sir Gabriel had taken a chair.
‘Father, call the nursery maid. She must sit with Rose while I write to Mr de Prycke.’
Sir Gabriel replied with much dignity, ‘I prefer to keep the vigil, John. I would not like my granddaughter to feel that she has been totally deserted.’
Wounded to the heart but determined to keep himself in check, John hastened downstairs to the library where he called a footman and simultaneously wrote a prescription for his shop. But at the last minute he hesitated. He did not like Mr de Prycke and Gideon was still too inexperienced to be trusted with such a vital matter. There was nothing for it. He would have to make the distillation himself. He rattled an instruction to the hovering servant.
‘Simmons, run into the street and fetch me a chair. I must go to my shop immediately and I need to be quick.’
The man hurried away and John called up the stairs, ‘Father, I’m going out. I don’t trust anyone else to make up the physic for Rose.’ Then he went out of the front door as two stout fellows with a chair between them came up to it. ‘The apothecary’s shop in Shug Lane,’ he said and got inside.
To him the journey was tediously slow, stopping for carts and coaches and large ungainly members of the population. But at last he pulled up outside his familiar — and somehow badly missed — premises and, paying off the chair men, bolted inside. Gideon, looking terribly grown-up and smooth, was standing on the far side of the counter wearing a long, dark robe.
‘Good gracious, Gideon,’ John exclaimed, ‘you dress more formally than I do.’
His apprentice’s mouth dropped open. ‘Sir! I didn’t know you were coming back. What a surprise. How very nice to see you.’
‘I’m afraid I have no time for pleasantries,’ John said, going straight to the compounding room, simultaneously throwing off his cloak. ‘I am worried about Rose’s cough and I have come to make her a distillation of Sundew. Where do you keep it?’
He was searching amongst the bunches of dried herbs hanging from hooks in the ceiling. Gideon broke out in a sweat.
‘Master de Prycke got rid of that, Sir.’
‘What do you mean got rid of it?’
‘He sold it to an apothecary in Seething Lane. He was desperate for it — the man I mean. I am sure Master de Prycke meant well.’
‘I am sure he did,’ John answered through gritted teeth. ‘But Rose’s life might hang in the balance. Now where can I get some?’
‘You could try Master Berry in Piccadilly, and, failing him, Master Wisley in Duke Street.’
‘Shut the shop,’ John ordered, staring at the stupefied apprentice. ‘Now! You go to Duke Street, I’ll try Piccadilly. Here’s some money. Pay whatever is asked. And Gideon, please run as you’ve never run before. Do it for Rose.’
And with that the Apothecary was off, sprinting like a hare — the movements of which his own occasionally resembled — towards Piccadilly.
Sundew, otherwise known as Drosera Anglica, was a fairly rare plant, grown mostly in Scotland and Ireland. Because of its rarity it was dear to buy but John always kept some in stock having observed over the years its extremely beneficial effects on chin coughs, coughs which made a whooping sound, bronchitis and other illnesses of the chest. But many apothecaries did not stock it, considering it too expensive and believing it only suitable for application to warts.
Master Berry fell into this category and John, feeling frantic, turned in the direction of Duke Street only to meet Gideon at the top, red in the face and gasping but brandishing a parcel which he waved frantically in John’s direction.
‘Got it, Sir.’
‘Thank God! Let’s get back to the shop.’
They ran all the way, Gideon being far the faster was ahead of John sufficiently to allow him to open up and let in a grumbling Mr de Prycke.
‘Why did you lock up in the middle of the day, boy? I can’t take my eye off you…’
‘He did it at my behest, Mr de Prycke. You apparently sold the last of my Sundew to another apothecary. And now I need some urgently for my daughter.’
De Prycke’s face took on a slightly cynical expression. ‘Is the poor child suffering with warts?’
John did not answer but made immediately for the compounding room, Gideon hot upon his heels. Mr de Prycke hovered in the doorway.
‘May I assist?’
‘Thank you, but no,’ John answered, trying to hide the irritation in his voice. ‘If you wouldn’t mind taking over behind the counter.’
‘But Gideon…’
‘Gideon knows my ways,’ the Apothecary answered abruptly and turned away to the pan of water which he had placed on an oil-lamp and which had already started to bubble.
An hour later and it was done. The plant had been boiled in just the right amount of water and now stood cooling on the side. John turned to Gideon.
‘You can hurry on home, my boy. I’ll bottle this up as soon as it has cooled down. You are to explain to Sir Gabriel the cause of the delay. Now, look sharp.’
The apprentice struggled out of his long black garb and into his cloak, then bolted out past a staring Mr de Prycke.
‘Really…’ he started to exclaim but John forestalled him.
‘I’ve sent him home early, Mr de Prycke. And I shall shortly be returning myself. Would you mind very much locking up before you return to your lodgings?’