‘Don’t thank me, thank Octavia Dawkins. She is the person who recommended you, after all.’
‘I am obviously aware of that. But you have been a very kind employer. Moreover you had sufficient faith in me to allow me to pursue my own way.’
‘As a matter of fact I would like to be more involved in the business in future. You see, I have been interested in the properties of water ever since I can remember. Not,’ John added hastily, ‘that I infer any criticism of your splendid organization.’
‘You are welcome to join Gideon and myself at any time, Sir. You know that.’
Feeling that the conversation was drifting towards his commitments in Devon and the difficulties that these were already presenting him with, John changed the subject. ‘I’m glad that he has been of help to you. I must say he has developed really well. He used to be so clumsy, you know. I hardly dared to let him loose in the shop.’
‘He has certainly changed,’ answered Jacquetta, and lowered her eyes.
A pang ran through John, though of what kind he had no idea himself. ‘You are fond of him?’ he found himself saying.
Mrs Fortune looked up again and directly at her employer. There was no denying it. Her gentle green eyes held a look of great tenderness. ‘Yes, I am. Very.’
Why this should irritate John, Heaven alone knew — but irritated he was. It was on the tip of his tongue to enquire how far these feelings had led when he realized that it was none of his damned business.
Instead he said, ‘I am glad that the two of you get along so well.’
Jacquetta smiled. ‘Of course, I rather imagine that he has fallen in love with me.’
‘Of course he has,’ John said loudly, then added, ‘Who could not?’
She gazed at him in great surprise. ‘I don’t quite understand your meaning.’
The Apothecary was all apologies. ‘Forgive me. It was silly of me to say that. I really meant that for a woman as attractive as you are you must be used to men fawning at your feet.’
She made a humourless gesture. ‘Mr Rawlings, you know as well as I that when you first met me I was a wreck of humanity. It is the kindness of yourself at letting me live in your beautiful home and enjoy your excellent food that has brought about the changes in me. I have only you to thank for that.’
‘But nothing could ever have taken away from your glorious hair,’ he said indiscreetly. ‘I have never seen a colour like it.’
Mrs Jacquetta Fortune looked down at the table and said nothing.
Sixteen
As soon as John set foot in the flying coach the picture that Rose had painted so vividly came back to haunt him. He saw before his closed eyes a ghastly old woman dressed all in brown, a big bonnet concealing most of her face, what he could see of it bearing such a look of menace that he drew a breath of fear. Rose’s voice came back to him. ‘When you see her, lie flat.’ None of it, neither description nor words, made any sense, and yet he knew a great deal better than to ignore the prediction of his incredible daughter who was gifted in so many ways.
A great deal of time had been passed in London and it was June before he returned to Devon, firstly to see Elizabeth and his twin boys and secondly to attend the wedding of Miranda Tremayne and the Earl of St Austell. Not that he particularly wanted to witness the joining of such a pair, but out of respect for Lady Sidmouth, in whose house his sons had been born, he felt duty-bound to attend.
He had worked hard during the intervening weeks, bottling the water in the new bottles which had arrived from the manufacturer, dividing his time between his business and his shop in Shug Lane. Of Jacquetta he had deliberately seen little, telling himself that it was foolish of him to feel attracted to her when she was obviously more interested in Gideon than himself. And who was he to query the gap in years that lay between her and his apprentice when his own relationship was with a far older woman? And a woman who meant more to him than any other?
John opened his eyes and surveyed the other three passengers. They consisted of a stocky middle-aged couple and their loutish, spotty son who was carefully picking his teeth, which were spaced very widely apart, with a silver toothpick. The boy, feeling John’s gaze upon him, gave the Apothecary a dirty look and turned his attention to the passing scenery. John wished momentarily that he had chosen Irish Tom to bring him down rather than leave him at Mrs Fortune’s disposal. But in fairness the poor woman had appointments all over town whereas he was merely seeking pleasure.
‘Good day, Sir,’ he said, addressing the youth, who looked put out.
‘Good day,’ the boy mumbled back.
‘Eh?’ said John, cupping his ear.
‘I said good day,’ thundered the other, waking his mother up, who regained consciousness with a scream of alarm.
John looked at her earnestly. ‘Oh, my dear Madam, are you quite well? Such a cry you let forth I thought the Devil himself might have attacked you.’
‘No, I’m perfectly well, Sir. I was just a little alarmed.’
‘Eh?’ said John, and cupped his ear again.
‘He’s deaf,’ the boy whispered to his mother.
She repeated the remark at full volume.
John looked testy and said, ‘All right, all right. I can hear you.’
The poor woman looked highly embarrassed. ‘Do forgive my son, Sir. He’s only doing his best.’ She turned on John a weary look which spoke of years of martyrdom at the hands of the horrid youth.
Suddenly John felt terribly sorry for her. ‘What do you call him?’ he asked, as if the boy were not there.
‘Herman, Sir. My father’s name.’
She smiled, quite kindly, and John instantly regretted his earlier behaviour.
‘A very good name.’ He turned to its owner. ‘And are you a very good boy?’
Herman, who was probably about sixteen and was wearing a white wig which had clearly been handed down from his father, flushed.
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
John was tempted to make a witty remark but thought better of it because at that moment the father, who had been snoring gently, woke himself up with a tremendous trumpet.
‘Ha, ha,’ he said, ‘have I missed something?’
‘No, dear,’ replied his poor wife, ‘this gentleman was just asking Herman’s name.’
‘Ah, it’s introduction time is it? Well, how dee do, Sir. I am Cecil Cushen. Pleased to make your acquaintance.’
‘And I yours, Sir. John Rawlings is the name.’
‘Rawlings? Rawlings? You’re no relation to Fanny Rawlings of Islington, are you?’
‘I regret not, Sir. Tell me, are you travelling all the way to Exeter?’
‘Indeed I am. My wife’s late cousin’s wife is there. She is much distressed by the recent loss of her husband and we are going down to comfort her.’
A look of deep gloom settled over Herman’s features and John felt a certain pity for the youth, bored to the gappy teeth as he was destined to be.
‘I am sorry to hear that,’ he said. ‘So where do you live in town?’
‘Islington, Sir. A quaint and pretty little village. And you?’
‘In Piccadilly. My business is also there.’
‘Let me guess what you do,’ said Mr Cushen jovially. ‘I’ll swear you are a lawyer, Sir.’
‘Nothing so fancy. I am an apothecary by trade and I have a shop in Shug Lane.’
He had opened the flood gates. Mr Cushen spent the next quarter of an hour talking about his digestive problems together with Herman’s spots, while his wife, not to be outdone, described in graphic detail her terrible pain when she had fallen and fractured her leg whilst visiting Scotland. John endured it all with a brave smile and the occasional exclamation of horror as he had done so many times in the past.
He had found through bitter experience that it was better by far not to mention what he did for a living. Though in this particular case he had had little option but to do so. Therefore he knew with a feeling of doom that the rest of the journey was going to be punctuated with remarks and questions about the family illnesses and, indeed, so it transpired until, at last, the horses feet clattered over the cobbles of Exeter.