his eyes closed, his breathing deep. John looked at him with enormous tenderness and tiptoed past him to pour himself a sherry.
‘John?’ said a sleepy voice.
The Apothecary turned. ‘I’m sorry. Did I disturb you?’
‘I was only dozing, my son. How is Rose?’
‘She has fallen into a natural sleep. I have given her ten drops of the compound and will administer another ten in three hours’ time.’
‘And what is your prognosis?’
John sat down in the chair opposite and, putting his glass on a small table, leaned across the space and took Sir Gabriel’s long and fine fingers between his own. ‘Father, believe me, I am as worried as you but I have given her the finest medicine there is. I can only pray that her natural strength will pull her through.’
‘I see. Pour me a sherry if you would.’
John did so and handed a schooner to the great old man who sat before him.
‘I give you a toast,’ said Sir Gabriel Kent. ‘To my granddaughter’s total recovery — and to her father’s permanent return to London.’
It was on the tip of John’s tongue to ask about his duties to his unborn child but something told him to remain silent. He looked at his adopted father with enormous love.
‘I’ll drink to that,’ he said.
Twenty-Two
Throughout that night John administered the drops of Sundew to his daughter. He had not admitted to Sir Gabriel how terrified he was for the last thing he wanted was to add to his father’s fears. But secretly he was in torment, his spirits never lower, as he contemplated a future without the shining presence of Rose. John had never felt closer to her than he did now, longing for that terrible cough to stop, longing for her to have enough strength to fight the illness away.
At about five o’clock in the morning he heard her speak and opened his eyes from where he sat dozing in a chair by the bed.
‘Papa?’
It was said as a question and John immediately came to full consciousness and knelt down beside her, taking her hand.
‘I’m here sweetheart.’
‘I have seen Mother. She was here in the room with me.’
Despite himself John peered into the shadowy depths of the chamber, but nothing moved.
‘What did she say?’
‘Nothing. She just stood by the bed and smiled.’
‘I’m glad she came to see you, darling. Now go back to sleep.’
‘Will you stay with me, Papa?’
‘I shall not leave your side until you are better.’
She turned to look at him, her eyes the colour of gentians. ‘You promise it?’
‘I promise.’
She slept a little after that but an hour later was woken by a violent fit of coughing. John, trying desperately to act as an apothecary rather than as a father, listened intently and thought that the whooping noise was diminishing. As soon as Rose had settled down once more he gave her some further drops of Sundew and at last saw the cold finger of dawn lay itself across the room.
The physician had sent round an infusion of Willowherb which, though effective in the cases of coughs, was nothing like as powerful as that which John had prescribed. The Apothecary decided that to mix them would not be advisable and therefore when the doctor called the next morning he saw his bottle of physic untouched.
‘What’s this, Sir. Have you not treated the child?’
‘I most certainly have, Dr Wilde. I have given her Sundew and I compounded it myself.’
‘I take it you are an apothecary?’
‘Yes, Sir. I own a shop in Shug Lane, Piccadilly.’
‘Then I see that the girl is in good hands. I’ll examine her now, if you please.’
John stood aside while the physician bent over his daughter and thought how strange the world was. He had come back to London because Elizabeth had dismissed him and now he knew that he would never, could never, leave Rose again. Any future visits to Devon — or anywhere else for that matter — would be in the company of his daughter or not at all.
The doctor straightened up. ‘There is a definite improvement, Mr Rawlings. If the child lives through today then she will survive. I shall call again this evening. Good day to you.’
He had spoken bluntly, as one professional to another, but John felt cold at the very words. Tired beyond belief he nonetheless sat beside Rose until she slept once more before sending for the nursery maid.
‘I must go and change my clothes and get a bite to eat. You promise to call me if the child wakes.’
‘Immediately, Mr Rawlings. You can rest assured.’
Sir Gabriel, looking rested but still drawn with worry, was sitting at the breakfast table, delicately peeling a grape. He looked up as John entered.
‘How is Rose, my boy? Is there any change?’
‘Father, there is. The doctor said there was a marked recovery.’
‘And that is all?’
‘All,’ lied John, and gave Sir Gabriel a confident smile.
All that long, long day the Apothecary spent sitting beside his daughter, every four hours giving her ten drops of the substance, realizing that soon he would have to make up some more and wondering where he would be able to buy the herb Sundew. The physician called at five o’clock and pronounced that the child would live. But John already knew this; knew by the increase in his daughter’s colour, by the way in which that racking cough was starting to subside. Though not a religious man by any means he found himself thanking God for Rose’s return to life and at last, at long last, left the child in the care of her grandfather and staggered downstairs and into the library. He almost fell into one of the chairs and looked up as a footman entered the room.
‘Is Master Purle at home?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Sir. He’s in the kitchens.’
‘Send him up to me, would you.’
The servant hesitated in the doorway. ‘Miss Rose, Sir. How is she?’
‘She will live, thank God. And thank you for asking. You may tell the rest of the servants.’
A few minutes later the figure of Gideon appeared at the entrance, looking slightly embarrassed at being invited into the inner sanctum.
‘You sent for me, Sir?’
‘Yes, sit down and have a drink with me. Rose is going to be all right, my friend. Thanks to your efforts to get Sundew.’
Gideon perched uncomfortably on the chair opposite John’s. ‘It must be running short by now, Mr Rawlings.’
‘That’s what I want you to do tomorrow, my boy. I want you to scour the apothecaries in London and buy some more of the herb.’
‘I’ll go and gladly. Poor little girl. I hope I’m not too bold in saying that she misses you, Sir.’
‘No, Gideon, you are right to remark it. I have been away too long. In future I shall not allow my business in Devon to keep me there more than two weeks at the utmost.’
His apprentice gave him the kind of look that had doubt at its heart but merely nodded his head in silence. John poured him a glass of sherry, a decanter of which always stood in the library.
‘There you are, my friend, drink a draught of that.’
Gideon did so — and choked, coughing and sneezing. John glanced at him with a smile.
