Death and the Cornish Fiddler (36 page)

John stood up. “May I ask your future plans?”

“I shall take to the road again, playing hither and thither.” A blue eye gave a slow wink. “It’s a good thing I learned the violin, isn’t it?”

“A very good thing indeed,” John answered quiedy

Half an hour later he entered the coach with Rose beside him. As usual, it was jam packed with people, some sitting on the roof, others beside the driver. Tim Painter, who had made much of bidding farewell to Gypsy Orchard, squeezed in beside a large lady and politely did his best to bow in the cramped conditions, a salutation which she returned with much interest. Meanwhile the gypsy was calling something to John who couldn’t hear her and stood up and lowered the window.

“Reckon Rose was protected by her charm,” she said, giving him a look from her clearwater eyes.

John turned to his daughter and grinned. “Reckon you’re right,” he said.

And then he saw something and his blood turned to ice. Coming into the inn yard, clad from head to toe in deepest black, was that most reprehensible of women, Anne Anstey. Large and pale, her lecherous gaze for once dark and resentful, she headed purposefully for the coach and raised her hand. The Apothecary stared in pure horror as she opened her fingers to display what lay within them. It was a waxen image of himself, there could be no doubt of it. Drawing back her lips in a travesty of a smile she made to wring its neck but was forestalled by the gypsy woman, who merely made a gesture with her hand and watched as the poppet fell to the ground from whence she scooped it up immediately. John, for no reason that he could possibly name, felt in his pocket and discovered in its depths the golden hare that Elizabeth had given him. Drawing it out he held it aloft. The effect on Mrs Anstey was quite remarkable. She turned away and was suddenly lost in the crowd who had gathered to watch the coach depart, vanishing totally from his sight.

“Till we meet again,” called the gypsy, and the last view John had of her was waving one of her long tanned arms over her head, and laughing.

Two days later, travelling slowly and doing a little sight-seeing as they went, John and Rose arrived in Exeter, where they hired a man with a trap to take them to the great house that towered above the river Exe, the home of Elizabeth, Marchesa di Lorenzi.

Even as he approached it the Apothecary thought of all that had taken place within its walls, of the friendship that most remarkable of women had shown him, of the love of which she was capable but yet would never admit to.

He turned to Rose. “We can’t stay here long, my dear. We must get back to London and to reality.”

“Won’t you miss Mrs Elizabeth, Papa?”

“A little,” he answered.

But in fact he would miss her desperately, finding life without her presence empty and dull. Was it his fate to be alone? he wondered. Was he destined to meet and fall in love with wonderful women only for them to be snatched away from him?

The trap dropped them outside the front door, situated as it was behind rising steps on either side. But no Elizabeth came out to greet them, only a footman answered John’s suddenly urgent ringing of the bell. He bowed before them, and John suddenly felt very small and unimportant, covered with the stains of travel, his little daughter similarly grubby standing beside him.

“Mr Rawlings, Sir. We have been expecting you.”

“Thank you. Is Lady Elizabeth in?”

“No, Sir. Lady Elizabeth has been unwell and has gone to Bath to take the waters. She left instructions should you arrive that you could stay as long as you pleased. Kindly enter, Sir.” Suddenly everything seemed very sad and somehow dismal. John shook his head.

“Thank you, but no. My daughter and I will return to Exeter. We catch the London stage tomorrow. Please give my kindest regards to her ladyship when she returns.”

“She will be sorry she missed you, Sir. Do you have any message for her?”

“Just send her my warmest greetings and thanks. Come Rose.” He was just in time to catch the trap’s owner who was turning his vehicle in the carriage sweep.

“Exeter, if you please, my friend.”

“Lady of the house not there, Sir?”

“No,” the Apothecary answered sadly, “I’m afraid she wasn’t.”

“Never mind, Papa,” said Rose. “I feel certain you will see her again.”

The Apothecary hugged her, realising that in his daughter lay Emilia’s sound good sense and sweetness of nature. “Yes,” he replied slowly, “perhaps it is fated that some day I will meet Elizabeth once more.”

And with those words the trap completed its turn and John and Rose Rawlings set off for London and all that lay ahead of them.

Historical Note

John Rawlings, Apothecary, really lived. He was born circa 1731, though his actual parentage is somewhat shrouded in mystery. He became a Yeoman of the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries on 13th March, 1755, giving his address as 2, Nassau Street, Soho. This links him with H D Rawlings Ltd. who were based at the same address over a hundred years later. Their ancient soda syphons are now collectors” items and are sold on the internet. Helston, that quaint old Cornish town, is, of course, the place where the Furry or Floral Dance is performed annually. I went there in January, 2005, and had a good look round, staying at The Angel Hotel - formerly known as The Angel Inn - and was very intrigued by the ancient well, now part of the saloon bar, which has been built over the old stabling area. As yet I haven’t seen the Floral Dance but I intend to put this right in May, 2006. It is heartening to know that these ancient traditions continue in this computer-ridden age.