The Apothecary's Daughter (11 page)

She decided to visit Martha while she still had the freedom to do as she pleased. She had made a linen swaddling wrap with
a drawn threadwork edge ready for the new babe and she set off with it in her basket.

The streets were unnaturally empty in the heavy heat of the August afternoon. There were few horses left in London and the
streets were the cleaner for it. Susannah held a bunch of rosemary to her nose as she walked but there was no escaping from
the summer reek of open drains. Half the shops were closed and boarded up in Fleet Street, their owners dead or gone to the
country. In the walk to Martha’s house, Susannah noticed barely fifty people but she did hear the passing bell ringing from
St Bride’s. The bell sounded nine times, denoting the death of a man, followed by a pause and then twenty-seven times. After
another pause the bell tolled again six times, followed by twenty-five. A twenty-seven-year-old man and a twenty-five-year-old
woman. Unease made Susannah glance over
her shoulder as she hurried on her way, wondering if the dead had been carried off by the plague.

Martha’s front door was open and two of her little ones sat on the front step playing with their dolls.

‘Hannah. Patience. How are you today?’

‘We are well, thank you.’

‘Mama is having her baby today.’

Susannah flinched. ‘Today?’

‘The midwife is here and Father has gone to fetch Grandmother.’

Through the open doorway Susannah heard a groan from upstairs and her heart began to thump. Reluctantly she went inside. At
the top of the stairs she peered into the bedchamber and saw Martha in bed, her dark hair freed from the usual confines of
her cap.

Martha glanced up and saw her friend hovering in the doorway. ‘Susannah! Bless you for coming. I’d so much rather have you
than Richard’s mother. I couldn’t stand to hear again a minute by minute account of each of her thirteen births again. Come
and sit beside me.’

‘Oh no!’ Susannah backed away, her pulse beginning to flutter with apprehension. ‘I simply wondered if you were all right.’

‘Perfectly. Though I shall be happy to hold your hand.’

‘I … I cannot stay,’ stuttered Susannah.

‘There is nothing to be afraid of, is there Goody Joan?’

The midwife, a round little person with a face crinkled with laughter lines, came forward smiling and drying her plump hands
on her clean white apron. ‘Nothing at all, my dear.’ Her country voice was calm and reassuring. ‘Sit you down beside her.
It won’t be long now.’

Martha gasped. ‘Another one.’ She snatched hold of Susannah’s hand, closed her eyes and began to breathe deeply.

Goody Joan lifted the sheet and peered between her patient’s legs. ‘Time to get you onto the birthing stool, if I’m not mistaken.’

Susannah, quaking in sudden panic, looked about her wondering how she could run away while Martha was gripping her hand so
tightly.

‘All right, my dear,’ said the midwife after she had assisted Martha onto the stool. ‘Push down now.’

Martha took a deep breath and her face turned scarlet.

‘Black hair, by the look of it,’ said Goody Joan. ‘Just like your husband.’

Susannah sat beside Martha, her hand crushed as her friend travailed. The groaning sounds Martha made carried Susannah straight
back to the overheated room where her mother had struggled for life while Dr Ogilby’s grotesque shadow had flickered on the
wall. But this room was full of sunshine, a gentle breeze came through the open window and Goody Joan encouraged her patient
with kind words. Then Martha grunted again before giving a long cry of triumph. Goody Joan caught the slippery little body
in a cloth. Wiped clean, he began to cry, loud and demanding.

Susannah heard herself sob as Martha took her son in her arms and kissed his forehead.

‘Isn’t he perfect, Susannah?’

‘A healthy little boy,’ confirmed Goody Joan, beaming.

Susannah couldn’t speak, her face contorted with tears of relief and joy.

Martha, glowing with maternal pride, touched her gently on the hand. ‘See, childbirth isn’t terrible at all. It’s one of God’s
miracles.’

When Susannah arrived home Jennet called out to her from the kitchen. ‘The mistress wants you,’ she said. ‘She’s in an uncommon
good mood.’

Susannah went upstairs to the parlour, where Arabella waited for her.

‘Sit down, Susannah. I have some news for you.’

‘Oh?’

‘You may consider yourself very fortunate. I have found you a position to an acquaintance of mine. She is Mistress Driscoll
and has two little girls aged eight and nine and seeks a waiting woman who can do plain sewing and teach the children their
catechism. I think
you can manage that? You are to present yourself tomorrow morning so that she can take a look at you.’

The day of reckoning had arrived then. Susannah, still in a daze as she relived the events of the afternoon, went to her bedchamber.
Carefully she unwrapped the precious miniature from the soft blue velvet and studied her mother’s face. ‘Why couldn’t it have
been as straightforward for you as it was for Martha,’ she whispered. ‘If you were here today, I wouldn’t be forced to leave
behind me all that I hold dear.’

The following morning Susannah took herself off to Aldersgate and waited in the hall of the imposing town house that might
become her home. Before long the maid took her into the parlour. Mistress Driscoll put aside her needlework and looked Susannah
up and down.

‘I assume you play the virginals?’ she asked.

‘I am afraid not.’

‘I see.’ Her pale mouth was thin-lipped and disapproving. ‘Can you teach my daughters to draw and to curtsy and how to conduct
themselves in polite society?’

‘Yes, ma’am. And I can teach them to write a neat Italian hand, translate from Latin and a little Greek and French.’

Mistress Driscoll opened her eyes wide in amazement. ‘What possible use can any of that be to a girl? Can you teach them to
dance?’

‘I’m sure that I could,’ said Susannah doubtfully.

‘And shell-work and embroidery?’

Susannah was mercifully prevented from answering since the door burst open and an immensely fat man in a tight claret-coloured
coat strode into the room. ‘Ah! Who do we have here? Friend of m’wife’s, is it?’

His wife coughed. ‘Mr Driscoll, this is the person Mistress Leyton mentioned to me who might be suitable as a companion.’

‘Ah! Companion. Yes. Girls need a companion. Have you met them yet? Pretty little things, though I say it myself.’

‘No, sir, I have only just arrived.’

‘She can’t play the virginals,’ said Mistress Driscoll.

‘Ah! No matter. We’ll bring in a music master and they can all learn. What do you think of that, miss?’ He beamed at her,
his eyes disappearing into his fat cheeks.

‘I have always wanted to learn to play. Your daughters and I could practise together.’

‘Excellent! Then that’s settled. Call the girls down from the nursery, my dear.’ Mistress Driscoll pursed her mouth as if
she was about to speak, thought the better of it and left the room.

‘Been a waiting woman for long?’ asked Mr Driscoll.

‘No, indeed. My father has an apothecary shop and I have been used to helping him in his dispensary.’

Mr Driscoll sucked his teeth. ‘Be able to give my wife a purge, then, if she needs it?’ He threw back his head and roared
with laughter until his face was as claret as his coat.

Susannah judged it best not to join in.

Mistress Driscoll returned with her daughters, fat as butterballs and remarkable only for their plainness. They came forward
slowly and curtsied as low as their solid little legs would let them, while their father looked on approvingly.

‘Poppets, aren’t they?’

‘Indeed,’ said Susannah, thinking that only their father could admire their little pudding faces. At least they didn’t look
as if they could cause too much trouble.

Arabella wore a gloating face of insufferable triumph at having got her own way but Susannah attempted to ignore it. A strange
tranquillity had descended upon her as she accepted the inevitable, almost a sense of relief that she would no longer wear
herself out in fighting with her stepmother. There were only a few days before she was obliged to take up her new post and
she was determined to make the most of them.

Cornelius absented himself from the shop at every possible
moment and avoided being alone with her. Susannah tried to ignore the pain caused by his behaviour by busying herself with
turning out the dispensary store cupboards and leaving all in good order. Ned was minding the shop and she ignored the bell
every time the door opened since he’d have to become used to managing on his own. She was sweeping the dispensary floor when
she heard a voice behind her.

‘My, aren’t you industrious?’ Henry Savage leaned against the wall, watching her as she worked.

‘Henry!’ Susannah clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘Mr Savage! What brings you here?’ Her pulse quickened and she hoped her
sudden blush didn’t betray her.

Henry smiled. ‘Take off your apron; we’re going out. I want to show you something.’

‘I can’t …’

‘Why not?’

Why not, indeed, she thought. This might be the last irresponsible thing she ever did now that she had a lonely old age in
service to look forward to. She was conscious that she wore her work dress, patched in places and stained with mercury. ‘I
cannot go out like this! I must at least wash my face.’

Henry took the broom from her hands and rested it against the cupboard. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket he wiped a
smut from her cheek. ‘Perfect!’ he said, then took her arm and ushered her out of the door.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

‘You’ll know soon enough.’

They walked along Fleet Street and Ludgate Hill, around St Paul’s Cathedral and past Susannah’s favourite bookshop and then
cut through the maze of alleys until they reached a row of smart town houses in a courtyard off Watling Street. They were
new enough that the stonework was still pale, barely touched by the greasy smoke stains that darkened the older, neighbouring
properties. Henry escorted Susannah up the steps, drew a key from his pocket and opened the door.

Ignoring her questions, he led her from elegant room to elegant room, even showing her the kitchen. The high ceilings echoed
back their footsteps as they explored. There were signs that the previous owners had left in a hurry; dead flowers in a vase,
drawers left open and a child’s rag doll lying forlornly upon the stairs.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘What do you think of it?’

She sensed he wanted her approval and pushed away the thought that the house seemed lonely, empty. ‘It’s a wonderful house,’
she said. ‘So spacious. But why are we here?’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Am I not a man of my word? I said that I’d come back in a month. And I thought you might wish to see
the house I intend to make my home.’

‘But …’ Embarrassed, she looked away. ‘Miss Thynne …’

It was Henry’s turn to look discomfited. ‘Ah! So you’ve heard about her?’

‘My stepmother tells me she has a large fortune.’

‘Indeed. I can see you are too sharp for me to pull the wool over your eyes so I freely confess I have imagined how useful
it would be to have a fortune. Oh dear me, yes!’ An irrepressible smile twitched the corner of his mouth. ‘But I have also
imagined how it would be to have Miss Thynne’s unfortunate face opposite mine at the breakfast table every morning and how
much I would rather it was yours, dear Susannah.’ He took her hands in his. ‘Please, do tell me that you have changed your
mind?’