Deryn Lake: Death at the Wedding Feast

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.