‘Damn your eyes!’ he shouted at its retreating rear end. The horse whinnied and tossed its head to show how much it cared and continued on its journey at breakneck speed.
Slowly and gingerly the Apothecary got to his feet, relieved to find that nothing was broken. Looking round him he discovered that he had reached the bottom of the hill on the top of which stood Elizabeth’s house. Walking carefully and somewhat painfully with no light to guide him except that of a new moon, John made his way upwards. He fell over six times during the journey, once landing in what he could only think was a dried-out cow pat. By this time he had acquired a hole in the knee of his breeches and his stockings were filthy and torn. And all the while the lights in Elizabeth’s home taunted him, never seeming to draw nearer however hard he tried to reach them. At long last he reached the main gates and rang the bell on the lodgekeeper’s cottage.
He stood, panting in the darkness, while he heard two big bolts being drawn back and the eventual creak as the door opened. The lodgekeeper stood there, lantern raised on high. John stood rooted to the spot as he stared down the barrel of a blunderbuss.
‘Don’t shoot, Harrison, for the love of God. It’s me, John Rawlings.’
‘Get away you varmint. You tatterdemalion. Be off with you.’
‘Harrison, please. It really is me. I was thrown by my horse and I’ve had to walk here.’
The lantern was thrust right into his face so that John was forced to screw up his eyes, squinting at the brightness.
‘Stap me, if it ain’t you. I’d never have recognized you, Sir. You look like a tramp.’
‘Thank you,’ John answered with what little patience he could muster.
‘You’d best come in, Sir, and have a bit of a wash before you goes to the big house. Mind you, Lady Elizabeth ain’t there.’
‘She’s not? Where is she then? Do you know?’
‘She went off in the carriage to see Lady Sidmouth and she hasn’t returned, Sir.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘Three days, Sir.’
‘Oh, hare and hounds, I haven’t missed another one,’ John said to himself.
‘We don’t know, Sir. We ain’t had no word.’
‘I’d better go there straight away.’
‘Wash yourself first, Sir. They’ll not let you in else.’
John looked at his reflection in a small mirror and allowed himself a shriek of horror at the sight he presented. Then he set to in an old tin bowl and kettle full of hot water, stripping off until he had managed somehow to remove the top layer of dirt. He surveyed his clothes as he put them back on. There was no help for it. He would have to go to the big house and change into something that he had left behind on his previous visit, his trunk being left in Exeter to be brought the next day by a man with a cart.
Plodding up the drive with Harrison lighting his way, John suddenly felt exhausted. Every step he took hurt and by the time he reached the grandeur of Withycombe House, the Marchesa’s great and stately dwelling, he felt fit to faint. The head footman took one look at him and immediately ordered him to bed.
‘But Lady Elizabeth…’
‘Sir,’ said the footman firmly, ‘’twill make no difference if you go tonight or not. Anxious as we all are for Milady’s welfare there is nothing you can do about it at this hour of the night. Now go to bed, Sir, and you will arise fresh and well in the morning.’
‘Will you wake me at six?’
‘You will be woken at seven, Sir, if you’ve no violent objection — and there’s an end to it.’
Too tired to argue, John slowly climbed the great staircase and made his way to the guest suite, glad that someone else had made the decision for him.
Six
To John’s horror when he opened the clothes press on the following morning, he discovered that he had left only two ensembles behind in Devon. One was a perfectly ghastly affair in a violent shade of lime green with violet embroidery — a colour combination that could have come off had it not been for the vivid hue of the lime. It had been created by a tailor in Exeter and the Apothecary felt he only had himself to blame for the purchase. The second was the divine outfit he had had made for Lady Sidmouth’s ball, crimson satin decorated with silver butterflies, with a straight-cut short waistcoat also made of silver. This too had been made locally, though by a different craftsman. The decision was to choose which to wear.
Eventually John chose the lime, thinking it preferable to look like a piece of fruit than a complete dandiprat, one who tries to be something that he was actually not. Very conscious of his vivid apparel he covered all with his long travelling coat — from which the servants had obligingly scraped off the mud — and set forth for Lady Sidmouth’s lovely home, perched high on the cliffs overlooking Sidmouth Bay. John suddenly found that he was sweating profusely — bathed in it, in fact — at the thought that Elizabeth might be dead. She was very old indeed to be a mother and it came to him that her body might have been too tired for the rigours of childbirth. Then it occurred to him that the child might be dead as well and he would be going to a house draped in darkest mourning. He prepared his face as he rang the bell and thus was looking extremely stern when a footman answered the door.
‘Good morning, Sir.’
‘Good morning. I have come to call on the Lady Elizabeth di Lorenzi.’
‘Very good, Sir. Step inside. I will fetch Lady Sidmouth.’
The man seemed cheerful enough and John felt his spirits begin to rise. He was ushered into a small parlour and then his hostess came in, bustling like a harvest mouse, her strange face with its tiny mouth as jolly as he had ever seen it.
‘Elizabeth…?’ he said.
‘Asleep and not to be disturbed,’ she answered promptly.
‘And has she…’
‘Oh yes, indeed, my dear John. Come upstairs and meet your… No, I shall hold you in suspense a moment or two longer. Shall we go?’
Feeling that he was running the gauntlet of emotion, John found that his legs were trembling as he followed Lady Sidmouth’s comfortable form up to the first floor. ‘Have I a son or a daughter?’ he asked, his voice sounding strange even to his own ears.
She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Wait and see.’
They entered a small corridor and went straight to the end where Lady Sidmouth threw open a door to permit a beautiful view of the pounding sea. But it was not to the sea that John’s eyes were drawn. Instead he saw to his amazement that a strange man was inside, holding a small baby in his arms and examining it carefully. Before John could utter, Lady Sidmouth made the introduction.
‘Dr Hunter, allow me to present to you Mr John Rawlings, an apothecary of London.’
Where one moment John had stood askance wondering what was going on, now he bowed deeply. ‘Dr Hunter, the honour is entirely mine. Your name is spoken of with ringing tones throughout the medical profession.’
For he was standing in the presence of one of the most eminent men of his day, physician extraordinary to Queen Charlotte and the man who had brought obstetrics out of the domain of the midwife and into the general stream of medical practice. John bowed a second time. It was the greatest respect he could pay. Still not knowing what sex the child was that Dr Hunter was holding, he said, ‘Is it a boy or a girl, Sir? I really would like to know.’