“Truthfully, I have no commissions,” said Catherine. “I only said I did because Lady Beauclerk — ” she stopped, confused.
Miss Beauclerk laid a gloved hand on Catherine’s arm. “How very kind you are! I can see why Mr. Tilney is so wild about you; but you must not mind Mamma. She would very much like to talk to her friends about her daughter, Mrs. This or Lady That, but I have thwarted her. I am a regular old maid now, at seven and twenty, and she sometimes lets her disappointment get the better of her.”
“I do not see why you feel it so hopeless a case,” said Catherine. “Many girls marry who have not your advantages; you have a fortune, and you are very pretty.”
Miss Beauclerk looked at Catherine, startled, and then laughed. “Why, you dear creature! How funny you are. I dare say I could find a husband if I settled for the first fortune-hunter to make an offer; but I am, perhaps, too nice. We not all of us have a Henry Tilney in our sights.”
“Now that you are in Bath, I am sure you will meet someone. There are many young men here, and you had several partners at the assembly. But I dare say you have had seasons in Bath before, and even London.”
“There were no seasons in London for me, Mrs. Tilney! My father did not like cities, and disliked even more what he would have considered unnecessary expenditure. During his lifetime there were no trips to Bath, and certainly no houses taken in Laura-place. My mother is making up for a lifetime of deprivation.”
Such talk, so disrespectful of a father so lately dead, did not please Catherine, and she was silent. Miss Beauclerk did not seem to notice her disapproval, or at least was determined to ignore it. “Well, if you have no commissions, will you accompany me to the apothecary? I must have some of my special beauty tonic made up. The shop is a little out of the way, I am afraid.”
The apothecary’s shop was indeed out of the way, and Catherine was grateful for her canine escort as they entered a part of Bath she had never before seen. Close to the river, the buildings slouched and leaned upon one another, as did the individuals lounging in doorways and sauntering down the pavement. Some appeared as though they might approach the two ladies, and not with kind intentions, but a look from the shaggy Newfoundland kept them at a careful distance.
Catherine glanced at Miss Beauclerk, who appeared to take no notice of their singular surroundings. “There is a very good apothecary in Milsom-street,” she said. “Perhaps we could turn back, and you can obtain your potion there.”
“No,” said Miss Beauclerk, rather sharply. “It is a very particular kind of potion, and only can be trusted to someone who — oh, here it is.”
The apothecary’s premises turned out to be a dark little building at the end of a row of similarly mean-looking shops. Catherine did not feel right leaving MacGuffin on the pavement, at the mercy of passersby, so he accompanied them inside the shop and, at her command, sat by the door. Miss Beauclerk went to the counter whilst Catherine stopped to stroke the dog’s head and whisper, “I am sorry I brought you here, darling. We shall not be long.” He looked up at her trustingly, his feathery tail gently thumping the grimy floor.
As she turned away from MacGuffin, Catherine heard a man’s voice say, “Judith! What are you — ”
“Good day, Mr. Shaw,” said Miss Beauclerk, glancing consciously over her shoulder at Catherine.
The man to whom she spoke was extremely handsome — everything a hero should be: tall, dark, and mysterious; Valancourt verily come to life, though the practical part of Catherine’s mind could not help thinking that Emily would never have seen Valancourt in shirtsleeves and a green baize apron. But even Valancourt could not have gazed at his heroine with more obvious adoration than Mr. Shaw; his expression was one of mingled surprise, admiration, and something else — something hungry, thought Catherine, and then laughed at herself for being fanciful.
The man struggled for speech. “You are — you are in Bath?”
“Yes, my mother is here to take the waters, and how lucky that I was able to find your shop, since I have run out of the beauty tonic that you so obligingly made up for me.” She turned to Catherine. “Mrs. Tilney, may I present Mr. Shaw? He is a very clever apothecary — too much so for Beaumont, where he used to reside, and he has moved his practice to Bath, which I’m sure you will agree is just the place for an apothecary. He was invaluable during my father’s illness; poor Papa was in so much pain at the end, we were grateful for anything that would bring him relief, and Mr. Shaw’s potions always did so.”
“I was happy to be of service to you, Miss Beauclerk,” said Mr. Shaw. “And to your family, of course.”
“Of course,” said Miss Beauclerk with a smile, which Mr. Shaw returned; he stood staring at her for a moment, quite dazzled, until Miss Beauclerk reminded him gently, “My potion?”
“Yes! Yes, of course; right away; it will not take a moment to mix it up. Will you wait, or can I have it sent to — ?” The end of his sentence trailed off suggestively.
“We have taken a house in Laura-place,” said Miss Beauclerk. “But today, I shall wait.”
Mr. Shaw went into the back of the shop, and Miss Beauclerk said in a low voice. “Mr. Shaw comes from a very good family, really; but he must make his living. Younger son, you know.”
“Yes,” said Catherine. “Henry is a younger son.”
“So he is,” said Miss Beauclerk, smiling at her.
Just then a voice came from the back; not Mr. Shaw’s, but one of much more vulgar accents. “What do you need that for, then?”
A low murmuring followed; and the voice said, “What? You make that up for a young lady? What are you thinking, you fool?” More murmuring; and the voice said, “She’s right here in the shop? I’ll talk to her, you never mind.”
An elderly man in a frizzled wig and a green baize apron like Mr. Shaw’s emerged from the back of the shop, followed by the protesting Mr. Shaw.
“Introduce me to the lady, Ned, there’s a good lad,” said the older man.
“Miss Beauclerk,” said Mr. Shaw in tones of resignation, “may I present Mr. Walton?”
“I’ve been compounding since long before you were born, ma’am,” said the older man earnestly, “and I’m here to tell you that these beauty potions you young ladies will take do you no good, ma’am, you mark my words. They may make your skin white for a time, but the arsenic builds up in the humors, and poisons you in the end. You look like a good girl; you’ll listen to old Sam, you will, and leave off this potion.”
“Arsenic?” cried Catherine in alarm. “My dear Miss Beauclerk — you take arsenic?”
“It is trace amounts, ma’am,” said the harassed Mr. Shaw. “Not enough to harm anyone, I assure you; just enough to freshen the complexion; I would never harm — ” he broke off, confused.
Mr. Walton was much amused by his lackey’s confusion. “Oh, yes, that’s right, Neddy. You understand. You won’t let the young lady poison herself. If it’s a fresher complexion you’re seeking, miss, I recommend a bit of Gowland’s Lotion. For a patent potion it’s very effective; apply it every day, and keep out of the sun, and your skin will stay white and soft without the poison. You listen to old Sam.”
“Come, Mrs. Tilney,” said Miss Beauclerk coldly. “If we cannot procure the item we seek here, we must find it elsewhere.” She left the shop immediately, Catherine and MacGuffin following hastily behind.
They had not got far when they heard running footsteps behind them. MacGuffin pressed against Catherine’s legs and turned back to face their attacker; but it was only Mr. Shaw. He seized Miss Beauclerk’s hand. “Judith,” he said, “I have been in hell since I came here. You see the depths to which I have fallen.”