Deryn Lake: Death at the Wedding Feast

‘Mr Rawlings! What a pleasure to see you. Come in, come in.’

He went to a door behind the counter, opened it and called up, ‘Octavia, Octavia. Can you come down? Mr Rawlings has arrived to see us.’

‘I’ll be there in a moment,’ answered a distant voice.

‘I think you’ll find Octavia somewhat changed,’ said Nicholas, his eyes very twinkly.

John guessed at once that she was pregnant, then immediately thought of Elizabeth. He must journey to her next week at the latest. He loved her too much to let her face what was bound to be a difficult labour on her own.

The door flew open and there stood the girl with eyes the colour of blackberries, still as ravishingly pretty as when the Apothecary had first seen her. And, as he had thought, she was in the early stages of expectant motherhood and this only served to make her look more attractive than ever. She pulled a wry face at John and laid her hand on her stomach.

‘As you will see, Sir, I am now two people.’

He went to her and whirled her round. ‘And if I may say so, Madam, it becomes you enormously.’

‘Enormous being a most suitable word, Mr Rawlings.’ Octavia burst out laughing. ‘Oh, how very good it is to see you again. And how is your dear father?’

‘Spry and as fit as his age will allow.’

‘That is all I wanted to hear.’

‘And he sends his fondest love to you both. You wait till I tell him your news. He will be as thrilled as I am by it.’

‘The talk is all of babies round here,’ Octavia said delightedly. ‘Nick and I think it must be the freshness of the air.’

John smiled, thinking to himself that the air in Devonshire was not doing too badly either. But Octavia was still prattling.

‘You must stay to dinner. Say you will. And Irish Tom can dine in the kitchen. It will be just like old times.’

The Apothecary looked pleased. ‘I should be delighted. As long as I am not interrupting anything.’

‘Then it is agreed.’

And Octavia hurried back through the door and towards the kitchens to speak to the cook.

It was indeed like old times. John was placed opposite his former apprentice while Octavia sat at the head of the table, her honoured guest on her right. In this position the Apothecary was able to study Nick, going back in his mind to when he had first seen him in Bow Street, taken in by the kind-heartedness of Mr Fielding, as the Magistrate had been in those days. The boy had been nothing much more than a starveling; tall, eyes the colour of a Thames barge sail, limping, yet with an indefinable air about him. They had called him the Muscovite because of his proven Russian heritage. And John, knowing that he was being manipulated but rather enjoying the feeling, had agreed to take on this not very desirable boy as his apprentice.

Just before they had sat down to eat he had given Nick and Octavia a bottle of his carbonated water to try and they had both uttered cries of delight on tasting it.

‘This is just the sort of thing that would sell well at Ranelagh Gardens,’ she had exclaimed.

‘Which brings me to an interesting point which I shall tell you while we dine,’ John had answered. And now he said, ‘Our old friend Sir John Fielding thinks I should sell my bottled water to the public. Thinks I should take out an advertisement in the newspapers to that effect.’

‘And so you should, Sir,’ Nicholas answered.

‘But there lies the difficulty, Nick. Without giving up my apothecary’s shop, without changing my life completely, I could not manage it. If this business is to be run then it must be run well. Indeed I was half hoping that I could persuade you to come back to Nassau Street and do it for me. But now, seeing how happy and settled you are here, I realize that would not do at all.’

‘I would gladly take on sales direct to Ranelagh Gardens,’ Nick answered earnestly. ‘But return to London I could not do. Octavia and I are happy in the country and want our child born in this pleasant place. You do understand?’

John nodded. ‘Of course I do. It would be a lot to ask of anyone.’

Octavia spoke into the silence. ‘I might know someone.’

Both men turned to look at her.

‘Who?’ asked Nick.

Ignoring him, Octavia turned to John. ‘This would be an entirely suitable person to run your business and I think make a success of it. I feel certain of that or I would not be recommending them.’

‘Who the devil is it, Octavia? Why are you being so mysterious?’ asked her husband.

The blackberry eyes twinkled. ‘Because, gentlemen, I speak of a woman.’

‘A woman?’ said John, flabbergasted.

‘Yes, Sir. I am talking about a certain Mrs Jacquetta Fortune.’

There was a long silence broken by the Apothecary, who said, ‘At least she has a lovely name. Can you tell me more about her?’

‘Gladly. I meet her on my morning walks which I take as part of my daily exercise. She is young, pretty and of good family but, alas, Lieutenant Fortune died at sea and now she is living most frugally. She takes in sewing to make ends meet.’

‘But how does this equip her to run a developing business? A business that might grow very big?’

‘Because, my dear John, before she married Jacquetta used to run her father’s business for him.’

‘Then why isn’t she…’

‘Wealthy? A sad tale but a true one. Her father owned a shipping company — that is how she met Lieutenant Fortune, a sailor on one of his ships. The old man trusted her completely with all aspects of his affairs but when she told him that she wanted to marry — and to whom — he fair had apoplexy. He offered her all kinds of inducements to continue and she agreed — but as a married woman. To get to the point, she gave up all for love. Her father cut her out of his will and she received the bag. And then her husband was killed!’

‘A calamitous story indeed.’

Two blackberry eyes were regarding him seriously and a pretty white hand laid itself on his arm. ‘John, say that you will at least meet her. I beg of you to give her a chance.’

Nick spoke up. ‘I can endorse what Octavia has just told you, Mr Rawlings. Jacquetta is truly an orphan of misfortune. But she has not been broken by it. She is like a sail before the wind in her determination to survive.’

John paused, considering, then said, ‘You must understand that if I agree to meet her there is no guarantee that I will employ her. I might not think she would be capable of running such an enterprise as mine. Or I might just not like her.’

Octavia opened her mouth to speak but Nick rushed in and said, ‘That would be completely understood, Mr Rawlings. We shall arrange the meeting tomorrow morning if that would be suitable for you. Now, would you care to spend the night with us?’

‘Thank you but no. I must return to Sir Gabriel. Though still very fit he is ageing and I know that he worries about me. I’ll get Irish Tom to earn his keep, though I thank you for the offer.’

Octavia picked up her glass. ‘Then I’ll propose a toast. To dear John — you see I have got out of the habit of calling you Mr Rawlings…’

The Apothecary laughed.

‘And the fervent hope that he takes to Jacquetta Fortune.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ added Nick. ‘Here’s to Mr…’ He corrected himself. ‘John,’ he said.

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.