The Apothecary's Daughter (41 page)

Joseph, sitting with Aphra beside Susannah’s feet, pushed his slate away and sprawled on the ground. ‘Finished,’ he said.

Susannah picked up the slate and looked at the row of carelessly formed letters. ‘No, not like that, Joseph.’ She snatched
the chalk from his hand. ‘Sit up properly and think about what you’re doing!’

‘Doan want to!’

His petulance made her anger flare. ‘You will do as you are bid!’

Aphra shrieked and scrambled up to the top of the rose arch.

Joseph glanced up at Susannah, his eyes wide and frightened.

It was wrong to take out her wretchedness on the child but it was impossible not to see him as a permanent and painful reminder
of William’s liaison with Phoebe. The liaison which had begun again. And last night she had seen with her own eyes the tender
way in which William had touched Phoebe after he had risen from her bed. Apparently, their affair was much more than a casual
coupling and Joseph, the product of that love, must surely bind them together? She sighed. ‘Come, Joseph. Sit beside me and
I’ll help you.’

He perched on the edge of the bench, his fingers clenched in his lap. ‘You goin’ to beat me, miss?’

‘No Joseph, I am not. But you must learn to sit still and do your lessons.’

‘Why?’

She studied his face but it showed no hint of insolence. He looked as tired as she felt and his eyes lacked their usual sparkle.
‘Because it’s a great gift to be able to read and write. It will open new worlds for you.’ Joseph didn’t look convinced and
she was too dispirited to insist they continue. ‘We’ll leave it there for today. Mistress Oliver bought a basket of plums
from the market and she needs some help to prepare them.’ She held out her hand to him.

The kitchen simmered in the heat from the fire and Mistress Oliver’s face glistened, her cheeks as magenta as the plums in
the basket.

Phoebe listlessly turned a row of chickens on the spit and greasy smoke hung in a foul-smelling cloud under the ceiling.

Joseph let go of Susannah’s hand and ran to his mother. Her face sparked into life as she bent to touch his upturned face.
When she saw Susannah watching she pulled the child to her side.

Susannah avoided meeting Phoebe’s bold stare by turning her back. She was damned if she’d let the other woman see the dark
circles of misery under her eyes but she couldn’t prevent a picture of William lying in Phoebe’s arms flashing through her
mind. She shook her head to free herself of the image. ‘Mistress Oliver, shall Joseph and I stone the plums?’

‘I’d be glad of it,’ said the cook, wiping her dripping face on her forearm. ‘Though, Lord knows, the pastry for the pie will
be heavy in this heat.’

Susannah held her hand out to Joseph, avoiding Phoebe’s hostile glare. ‘Come, Joseph, you can help me to carry the basket.’

The boy looked at his mother and after a brief hesitation she gave him a small nod before turning back to the spit.

They sat on the garden bench with the basket between them; Susannah picked up the first plum and cut through the purple skin
to expose the juicy yellow flesh. A worm had eaten a tunnel through to the stone, leaving a gritty brown trail, so she carved
out the spoiled flesh and threw it in the rose bed. She sliced through the next plum and twisted it apart. Perfect. She handed
it to Joseph. ‘You can eat one, if you like.’

The boy turned down the corners of his mouth. ‘I never goin’ to eat plums. Mammy say plums gives you a pain in the belly.’

‘Only if you eat too many.’ She gritted her teeth to prevent herself saying something she’d probably regret about Joseph’s
mammy.

‘Mammy says …’

‘Never
mind
what Mammy says!’ Susannah wiped perspiration off her top lip with the back of her hand.

The sheets on the line stirred a little and she glanced up as a shadow passed over the sun. A great black cloud was looming
up over the rooftops. There was an almost unbearable tension in the humid air. Closing her eyes, she imagined cooling rain
pouring down upon her upturned face and washing away her misery.

‘Miss?’

She opened her eyes. ‘Yes, Joseph?’

‘You sad?’

She swallowed, the child’s unexpected sympathy made her want to weep. ‘A little,’ she said.

‘Because I’m bad?’

‘You’re not bad, Joseph.’ He was an endearing child and she had no desire to make him fearful. ‘I’m hot and out of sorts.
I do so wish I could escape this house.’

‘Why doan you go then?’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not? You not a slave. Mammy say
you
can go where you like.’

‘It’s not so simple.’

Joseph shrugged and turned back to stoning the plums.

Susannah gazed at the nape of the boy’s neck, his soft skin the colour of a walnut kernel. The silver collar which encircled
his slender neck was finely crafted but must be hot and heavy to wear in this weather. It suddenly occurred to her to wonder
if Phoebe saw the collars, expensive as they were, not as an adornment but as a symbol of their slavery. But if she and Joseph
had not been found a home in the Captain’s House what would have become of them? Come to that, if Agnes had not taken her
in she also would have died of starvation. Did that make her a slave too?

A breeze lifted the hair on the back of her neck and the drying sheets suddenly billowed out like the sail of a ship. The
sun still burned down but in the past few minutes the sky had turned an ominous shade of slate. Intent on the gathering clouds,
she sliced the last plum in half and nicked her finger. A bead of blood grew on her fingertip and she sucked it away, the
metallic taste mixed with the sweetness of plum juice.

‘It’s going to rain, Joseph. Fetch your mother to take in the washing.’

He trotted back to the kitchen door and she wondered yet again what she would say to William when she saw him. It was unbelievable
to her that he could have kissed her with such passion last evening and then have gone, so soon afterwards, to Phoebe’s bed.
She would never have believed him so fickle and it undermined her very foundations that she had misjudged his character so
badly. She toyed with the notion of confronting him but what good would that do? Even if he begged her forgiveness, she would
never rid herself of the vision of that moment of intimacy when he had touched Phoebe’s cheek so tenderly.

The rose bushes rocked in a sudden gust of wind, scattering petals on the gravel, while the sheets on the line flapped and
snapped. A drop of rain fell with a
plop
onto Susannah’s knee, forming a dark circle on her skirt. Overhead a black cloud hovered, edged with brilliant light as dazzling
as a hundred thousand candles. Another raindrop landed on her upturned face. All at once the wind dropped, the sun disappeared
and the garden became deathly still. She held her breath, waiting.

Then the rain came. It fell from the darkening sky just as if a giant hand had poured it through a sieve. Hissing straight
down it bounced off the ground, soaking Susannah’s shoulders and splashing the hem of her skirt in seconds. She hurried to
gather up the sheets. Fighting the bulky weight of the damp linen, she began to drag the sheets off the line and bundle them
up into her arms.

Phoebe, followed by Joseph, ran from the kitchen and snatched the rest of the sheets off the line.

‘Joseph, hurry! Fetch your slate and chalk before it’s ruined,’ said Susannah.

‘Leave it!’ Phoebe grasped the boy’s hand. ‘You doan need waste your time with letters.’

Joseph looked uncertainly first at his mother then at Susannah.

Susannah fixed Phoebe with a baleful stare, determined that in this, at least, she would have mastery. ‘Do as I tell you,
Joseph!’

All three stood for an endless moment while the rain cascaded over them and swirled around their feet on the sun-baked ground.

Then, one by one, Joseph pulled free his mother’s fingers from his hand and set off, head bowed, to the bench where he had
abandoned his slate.

The desolation in Phoebe’s face made Susannah bite her lip. But after a moment the other woman turned and sprinted back to
the house.

Susannah followed more slowly, taking care not to slip on the thin mud that was forming on the ground.

‘Mercy! You’re soaked,’ exclaimed Mistress Oliver. ‘Phoebe, go and hang the sheets in the loft to dry. That’s a proper storm
brewing, I do believe.’

Susannah wiped the rain from her face with the corner of a sheet.
‘Perhaps it will clear the air. Joseph, take off your coat and Phoebe can put it to dry.’

Joseph pulled off the blue velvet jacket and handed it to his mother, who took it without looking at him. She gathered up
the wet linen and left the room.

‘What’s the matter with her?’ asked Mistress Oliver. ‘Face as thunderous as the weather.’

‘She disapproves of me giving Joseph lessons.’

‘Who can blame her? What will a slave do with learning? In my opinion …’

The front-door knocker sounded, once, twice and then in a great tattoo.

‘Mercy me!’ Mistress Oliver wiped her hands upon her apron and set off down the passage. ‘It must be someone for the doctor.’

Susannah wrung the water out of her hair and was on the point of going upstairs to change into dry clothes when she heard
raised voices in the hall. Surely she recognised that voice? She hurried along the passage.

‘Oh, Miss Susannah! I’ve come straight away. It’s terrible …’

‘Jennet, what is it?’ Alarm made Susannah’s voice sharp with foreboding.

‘It’s Mr Leyton, Miss.’ Jennet was trembling uncontrollably, the rain dripping off her sodden skirt and making a puddle on
the Persian rug.

‘What happened?’

‘The master woke up a-coughing and a-sneezing and now he’s burning with the fever and the mistress is having a screaming fit.’
She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘He’s got the black boils.’

A shard of terror pierced Susannah’s insides. ‘Sweet Lord, not the plague!’

Mistress Oliver shrieked and scuttled back to the kitchen.

Susannah sank onto the hall chair. When the faintness had passed she struggled to her feet. ‘I must go to Father at once!’

‘You can’t, miss! You’ll catch it yourself.’

Heedless, Susannah pulled open the front door and stood for
a moment in the doorway before plunging out into the teeming rain.

Whyteladies Lane was swirling with water from the overflowing drain, the cobbles slippery underfoot. Susannah hurried along
as fast as she could, the mud ankle-deep in places. Almost blinded by the hammering rain, she skidded on something unpleasantly
soft, tripped, righted herself and then lost her balance again. Gasping, she braced her hands forward to protect her unborn
child as she began the inevitable tumble to the ground.

Strong hands grasped her from behind and pulled her up. ‘Slow down, Miss Susannah! It won’t help your father if you miscarry.’

Susannah found herself in Jennet’s broad arms. She let out one sob and then took a deep breath while she willed her racing
heart to steady. ‘I’m all right now. Come on!’

Jennet linked arms with her and they stumbled up Whyteladies Lane together, slip-sliding through the mire.

The first slow rumble of thunder began, rolling around the sky like a wagon wheel on the loose. Lightning flickered. A coach
splashed past, throwing water up high in its wake.

The two women flattened themselves against a wall to avoid the spray just as the thunder cracked. Hands clasped, they stepped
over the swirling torrent of rainwater that ran across the top of the alley and turned onto the main thoroughfare. A stream
of carriages, on their way to the Bolt and Tun, swished past, splashing pedestrians and buildings alike.

At last they reached the sign of the Unicorn and the Dragon. A small crowd had gathered, taking shelter from the rain in the
doorway of the glovemaker’s shop opposite. A watchman stood on the step of the apothecary shop and Susannah gasped in horror
when she saw that already a painted red cross glistened on the door. She pressed her face against the window. Inside all was
as usual; the pestle and mortar sat on the counter next to the jar of leeches and the cone of sugar, in comfortable familiarity.
Except that her father and Ned weren’t in the shop.

‘Let me in!’ she called to the watchman.

He shook his head. ‘No one’s to go in or out.’

‘But my father and his wife are in there and my baby brothers!’

‘You can’t go in.’ He folded his arms and scowled at her.

‘Have you no pity?’ she asked.

‘Have
you
no pity for the child you carry?’

Jennet took hold of her arm. ‘Come away, Miss Susannah.’

Susannah let Jennet lead her away and then stood in the road looking up at the windows. ‘Let’s try the kitchen door,’ she
said. ‘I must see Father. What if he dies, Jennet, and I haven’t said goodbye to him?’ She set off down the road to the familiar
passage between the buildings which led to the back of the yard. The rain fell harder still and the hem of her skirt was caked
and heavy with mud. The key was in its usual hiding place; she unlocked the gate and splashed through the yard to the kitchen
door. She turned the handle but then saw the shiny new nails hammered into the timber. Banging on the door, she screamed and
shouted her father’s name, her voice drowned out by the thunder rumbling overhead and the water gushing from the roof onto
the ground.

Jennet pulled her arm. ‘It’s no use, Miss Susannah.’

Defeated, Susannah sank against the yard wall, her face in her hands.

Lightning fractured the sky and she looked up. Her father’s white face was at the bedroom window.

‘Father!’

He looked down at her and mouthed something she couldn’t hear.

Hope surged in her heart. ‘I’m coming, Father! I’ll bribe the watchman to let me in.’

He shook his head and pressed his hands flat against the streaming window pane. Faltering then, he collapsed against the window,
his palms sliding down the glass until he disappeared from view.

Susannah stared upwards, willing him to reappear. She stifled a sob; if she gave in to tears she thought she might not be
able to stop and there were still decisions to make. She turned to Jennet. ‘Were Arabella and the children well when you left?’