There was nothing for it. He would have to make the distillation himself. He rattled an instruction to the hovering servant.
‘Simmons, run into the street and fetch me a chair. I must go to my shop immediately and I need to be quick.’
The man hurried away and John called up the stairs, ‘Father, I’m going out. I don’t trust anyone else to make up the physic for Rose.’ Then he went out of the front door as two stout fellows with a chair between them came up to it. ‘The apothecary’s shop in Shug Lane,’ he said and got inside.
To him the journey was tediously slow, stopping for carts and coaches and large ungainly members of the population. But at last he pulled up outside his familiar — and somehow badly missed — premises and, paying off the chair men, bolted inside. Gideon, looking terribly grown-up and smooth, was standing on the far side of the counter wearing a long, dark robe.
‘Good gracious, Gideon,’ John exclaimed, ‘you dress more formally than I do.’
His apprentice’s mouth dropped open. ‘Sir! I didn’t know you were coming back. What a surprise. How very nice to see you.’
‘I’m afraid I have no time for pleasantries,’ John said, going straight to the compounding room, simultaneously throwing off his cloak. ‘I am worried about Rose’s cough and I have come to make her a distillation of Sundew. Where do you keep it?’
He was searching amongst the bunches of dried herbs hanging from hooks in the ceiling. Gideon broke out in a sweat.
‘Master de Prycke got rid of that, Sir.’
‘What do you mean got rid of it?’
‘He sold it to an apothecary in Seething Lane. He was desperate for it — the man I mean. I am sure Master de Prycke meant well.’
‘I am sure he did,’ John answered through gritted teeth. ‘But Rose’s life might hang in the balance. Now where can I get some?’
‘You could try Master Berry in Piccadilly, and, failing him, Master Wisley in Duke Street.’
‘Shut the shop,’ John ordered, staring at the stupefied apprentice. ‘Now! You go to Duke Street, I’ll try Piccadilly. Here’s some money. Pay whatever is asked. And Gideon, please run as you’ve never run before. Do it for Rose.’
And with that the Apothecary was off, sprinting like a hare — the movements of which his own occasionally resembled — towards Piccadilly.
Sundew, otherwise known as Drosera Anglica, was a fairly rare plant, grown mostly in Scotland and Ireland. Because of its rarity it was dear to buy but John always kept some in stock having observed over the years its extremely beneficial effects on chin coughs, coughs which made a whooping sound, bronchitis and other illnesses of the chest. But many apothecaries did not stock it, considering it too expensive and believing it only suitable for application to warts.
Master Berry fell into this category and John, feeling frantic, turned in the direction of Duke Street only to meet Gideon at the top, red in the face and gasping but brandishing a parcel which he waved frantically in John’s direction.
‘Got it, Sir.’
‘Thank God! Let’s get back to the shop.’
They ran all the way, Gideon being far the faster was ahead of John sufficiently to allow him to open up and let in a grumbling Mr de Prycke.
‘Why did you lock up in the middle of the day, boy? I can’t take my eye off you…’
‘He did it at my behest, Mr de Prycke. You apparently sold the last of my Sundew to another apothecary. And now I need some urgently for my daughter.’
De Prycke’s face took on a slightly cynical expression. ‘Is the poor child suffering with warts?’
John did not answer but made immediately for the compounding room, Gideon hot upon his heels. Mr de Prycke hovered in the doorway.
‘May I assist?’
‘Thank you, but no,’ John answered, trying to hide the irritation in his voice. ‘If you wouldn’t mind taking over behind the counter.’
‘But Gideon…’
‘Gideon knows my ways,’ the Apothecary answered abruptly and turned away to the pan of water which he had placed on an oil-lamp and which had already started to bubble.
An hour later and it was done. The plant had been boiled in just the right amount of water and now stood cooling on the side. John turned to Gideon.
‘You can hurry on home, my boy. I’ll bottle this up as soon as it has cooled down. You are to explain to Sir Gabriel the cause of the delay. Now, look sharp.’
The apprentice struggled out of his long black garb and into his cloak, then bolted out past a staring Mr de Prycke.
‘Really…’ he started to exclaim but John forestalled him.
‘I’ve sent him home early, Mr de Prycke. And I shall shortly be returning myself. Would you mind very much locking up before you return to your lodgings?’
‘On that point, Mr Rawlings, may I enquire whether you have returned to us for good? Or is your intention to take your leave again? I merely ask because I want to know where I stand.’
John answered without hesitation, somewhat irritated by the man’s attitude but determined to remain civil. ‘I am back to stay, Sir.’
‘Does that mean you will no longer be requiring my services?’
‘Mr de Prycke you are more than welcome to work out the rest of the time that we contracted. In fact it would help me very much if you did. I intend to remain at my daughter’s bedside until she is fully recovered so I will not be able to devote my time to the shop.’
‘In that case, Sir, I shall work next week and then I will take my leave of you. Quite frankly I find your apprentice a wretched little beast and I shall be glad to see the back of him.’
‘I am sure the feeling is mutual,’ John answered pleasantly and turned his attention to the pan of cooling liquid.
He arrived at Nassau Street to find Sir Gabriel reeling with fatigue, so much so that he had to be helped by a footman down the stairs. John, meanwhile, carefully measured out ten drops of the Sundew fluid into a small amount of water and raised the cup to Rose’s mouth.
‘Here, drink this, sweetheart. It will make you better I promise you.’
The poor child did not open her eyes but gulped down the medicine and immediately had a violent fit of coughing. John listened intently and recognized the familiar sound of the whoop. His heart sank, knowing that many a child had died of this illness, exhausted and fighting for breath.
He began to talk to Rose in a soothing voice. ‘Papa is home now, darling. And he will stay at home until you are well and able to play games with him again. And then we’ll all go off to Devon for Christmas and you can ride your pony. Would you like that?’
After a while he noticed that Rose’s breathing had become a little deeper and realized that she had dropped off to sleep. He took a seat in the chair in which Sir Gabriel had sat and stared at her beautiful little face. She meant everything to him and he wondered how he could have left her for so long without the father she loved.
Suddenly he found himself questioning his relationship with Elizabeth. Was he a fool to have offered his love to her? Was he heartless for abandoning his family in order to pursue her? Yet she was soon to be the mother of his child as a result. Feeling ill at ease with himself the Apothecary rose and slowly began to pace the room.
The nursery maid arrived and said, ‘I’ll watch Rose now, Mr Rawlings. Sir Gabriel is waiting for you in the library.’
‘Very well. Just for half an hour. But if she should wake you are to send for me immediately, is that clear?’
‘Very good, Sir.’ And the girl bobbed a curtsy.
Downstairs the library offered its usual warmth and comfort. A fire of coal and wood gleamed in the grate and the curtains were drawn against the night. In one of the two wing chairs set close to the blaze sat Sir Gabriel,
