Death at the Wedding Feast

Three

To say that she was slender would have been understating the case. The fact was that Mrs Jacquetta Fortune was very thin. Tragically so. The Apothecary could see at once the signs of food deprivation and suffering that recent times had brought on her. Yet there was a subdued loveliness about her; buried in her pinched and tragic face was a raw beauty that might one day bloom again. But this was most certainly not the day. She stood before the Apothecary like a ghost, dressed in a threadbare silver gown and a hat that had once been pink but which was now so faded that its colour had become indeterminate. Small wonder, he thought, that the kindly Octavia had taken the woman under her wing.

John sat silently, regarding Jacquetta. She reminded him vividly of a silver birch tree, from the colour of her hair downwards — for what hair he could see peeping beneath the brim of her hat was that glorious shade of blonde that looked touched by frost in certain lights, while her eyes were the soft green of spring. As for her body, encased in its silvery gown, it was sparse and inclined toward tallness. In other words, had Jacquetta been given a decent diet on which to exist and had not fate been against her at every turn, she could have been a charming and rather delightful woman. Every instinct in the Apothecary told him to give her the job on trial and see how it turned out.

He cleared his throat and broke the silence. ‘You do realize, Mrs Fortune, that the work I have described to you will require a great deal of effort. There will be the placing of the advertisements, the bottling of the water — the secret of which I will entrust to my apprentice Gideon Purle — the bookkeeping regarding the orders and who has how many bottles delivered and to where, to say nothing of the banking of the money and the starting of a new account.’

She spoke for the first time. ‘And where will you be while this happens, Mr Rawlings?’

‘I have to go to Devon. I have some urgent business to attend to down there.’

How he had the face to say it and not blush he could hardly understand himself. But this was not the moment to go into the details of his private life, particularly with a total stranger. Thinking, despite himself, about newborn babies, he said, ‘Do you have any children, Mrs Fortune?’

The poor woman looked even sadder. ‘I lost a daughter, alas. Poor little girl, she lived only four hours and then she died. It was so tragic. My sweet little Justina…’ A tear trickled out of one verdant eye and ran down her cheek. ‘My husband never saw her,’ she continued. ‘By the time he returned from his duties she was gone, buried, a tiny grass mound in the churchyard.’

‘I think you have been very brave in the face of your adversities,’ said John.

‘Do you?’ she answered. And suddenly a smile came that was like sunshine lighting the Arctic wastes.

‘Yes, I do. Now, can I get you another bun?’

They were sitting in the Chelsea Bun House, a small shop that was besieged on Good Fridays by thousands of Londoners demanding their Hot Cross Buns. But today all was quiet and John had thought it a reasonable place in which to conduct an interview. Really, he knew well, he should have done it in Nassau Street, sitting formally behind his desk. But to expect the wretched widow to find enough money to travel to London would have been too much to expect. So in his usual manner he had put her at her ease — as far as that were possible — by buying her coffee and a bun and looking sympathetic.

She answered his question. ‘Yes, I would rather. Are you having one?’

John, who had been turning sideways before a mirror recently and wondering if that were just the tiniest bulge appearing over his stomach, knew that he should answer no, but to keep her company he nodded. ‘Perhaps half, if you could help me out with the rest.’

Mrs Fortune ate slowly but heartily and after another cup of coffee seemed somewhat restored. She sighed and leant against the back of her chair.

‘Mr Rawlings,’ she stated, in as firm a voice as she could manage, ‘I promise you that I can run your new business and make it a success. I was in sole charge of my father’s company and had staff working under me, you know.’

‘But in that case could you not undertake a business of your own? A milliner or a mantua maker or something of that sort?’

‘Money makes the mare to go, Mr Rawlings. I could not raise the capital to start such an enterprise. My father cut me out because I loved Lawrence Fortune — and I did love him, oh so much — and he, poor soul, left me naught but a little accumulation of back pay. I am afraid that I have fallen on truly hard times.’

The Apothecary drained his cup to give him a moment to think. Should he give this pale shadow of a person a chance? But if he did not could he ever forgive himself? And then into his mind crept an image of Rose nodding her rose-red curls and saying, ‘Oh come on, Papa.’

John put down his cup and turned to his companion. ‘Very well, Mrs Fortune, I will give you a three-month trial period. Starting as soon as you can make arrangements to move into Nassau Street. I take it you have no objection to that? You shall have your own apartments and can eat with the family. The salary will be two guineas a month which will grow if the business is successful. How does that suit?’

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 be 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.’