not add that Miss Schmitt might not have died instantly but could well have crawled round in agony after her fall.
Sir Gabriel spoke up. ‘I consider this a highly unsuitable conversation for the dining-table, my son. Let us talk of happier things I beg you.’ And he led the chat to the amusements of London and whether Miss Lovell went to the theatre and, on hearing that she did, her thoughts on various plays.
John sat back and let them babble on but in a way he was slightly annoyed. He had intended to lead the talk to questions about whether Miss Lovell had seen anyone from that fateful coach party subsequent to her leaving Devon. Yet he knew that Sir Gabriel was right. He should not have broached the subject of Miss Schmitt’s frightful demise when he had.
After dinner they repaired to the parlour, a room much used by Emilia but somewhat neglected of late. Jemima, it seemed, was reasonably good on the harpsichord and played them an air or two before rising to her feet and saying, ‘Gentlemen, it is getting late. I am afraid that I must leave you.’
‘Allow me to escort you home in my coach. I assure you it will be no trouble,’ John offered, forestalling any objection she might make.
Travelling along in the darkness Jemima said, ‘I had not realized you were quite so well-to-do, Sir. Your father is obviously a man of distinction.’
The Apothecary smiled. ‘Has it put you off? I’m sure your father was someone of good quality.’
There was a fraction of a second’s pause before she answered, ‘I think he is one of the best men in the world.’
‘So he is still alive?’
‘Very much so,’ said Miss Lovell, and with those words fell silent.
Twenty-Three
The next two weeks passed with the Apothecary feeling exactly as if he were living an orderly life. He rose early each morning, ate his breakfast, played with Rose for about twenty minutes, then walked to Shug Lane — the shop already opened by Gideon — and looked through calls booked for that day. Then, if there were none too urgent, he would go into the compounding room and prepare his herbs amongst the joyful smell of well- remembered things. That done he would set out at about noon to visit his patients and take with him the medicinal properties either prescribed by himself or by a physician. He would return home in time to dine and would then spend the evening chatting to Sir Gabriel or — now that Rose was getting so much better — venture forth to the theatre. He had also taken to visiting his friends again, seeing something of the now decidedly wealthy Samuel Swann, the de Vignolles, flitting between London and their Surrey home, and the great man himself, Sir John Fielding.
But none of these people quite compensated for the sight John had one day of King George, riding along and looking extremely cheerful in an open carriage, waving his gloved hand in a most amicable manner. The Apothecary waved back and bowed and by the time he had straightened up again the royal party had passed by.
The King had clearly been on his way to St James’s Palace and had been heading down Piccadilly towards St James’s Street. John had been standing on the corner of Swallow Street, bound to see a shopkeeper suffering horribly with trapped wind, when he had encountered the monarch. Having returned the royal salute, the Apothecary continued to make his way up the street when his eye was caught by a vividly painted and decidedly garish sign. It depicted a crudely painted representation of a woman’s foot with pointing toe and a legend reading ‘At Number twenty-four, Little Vine Street, Dancing Lessons are give daily at the hour of ten onwards for the sons and daughters of Gentlefolk. 1/6d per hour paid in advance. Persons of More Mature Years by Special Arrangement.’
What led John to walk past the place he could not have said but as he drew nearer he became more and more convinced that it had something to do with Cuthbert Simms. And sure enough as he drew within earshot he heard the sounds of a tune being scraped out on a fiddle and a familiar voice calling out, ‘No, not like that. Like this,’ followed by the sounds of scampering feet. Drawn as if by a magnet, John entered the premises and walked into the large room in which the dancing lessons were taking place.
It being during school hours, Cuthbert’s class consisted of a half dozen or so middle-aged women — shopkeepers’ wives John presumed — who were bored and had nothing else to do but gossip with their friends. Also present was a very elderly man.
They turned in a body at the sound of the Apothecary’s entrance and he was fixed by a dozen pairs of eyes, ogling for all they were worth.
‘Have you come to join us, Sir?’ asked one, bolder than the rest.
‘Well, I might try a step or two,’ John answered, putting down his parcel of physic.
‘Join in as best you can,’ said Cuthbert snappily, not looking up from a sheaf of music which he had lying on the floor in front of him.
‘Certainly, Mr Simms,’ John answered, and had the pleasure of seeing the little man look up in some surprise.
‘Well, if it isn’t Mr Rawlings. Why, bless me! So you have returned from Devon, Sir.’
‘As have you, Mr Simms. Alas, all good things must come to an end.’
‘Indeed yes. But I must not neglect my work. Have you come for a lesson, Sir?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have time. But I’ll dance a quick measure now that I am here.’
‘That will please the ladies greatly. Now form up. Several of you will have to take the man’s part. Mr Ponsonby…’
There was no reply from the old fellow who stood, stumpy legs spread out, dusting snuff off his well-worn damson breeches, clearly not hearing a word.
‘Mr Ponsonby,’ Cuthbert yelled, ‘we’re just about to dance Haste to the Wedding.’
The old chap cupped his ear, gave a grin which revealed one or two rotting teeth and shuffled onto the end of the line. John, finding himself standing next to the old dodderer, gave him a broad smile. Mr Ponsonby replied by displaying his teeth and pushing up his wig which looked decidedly in need of care and attention. With a great show of bravado, Cuthbert Simms struck up.
The Apothecary, who reckoned himself a reasonable dancer, knew the steps and whirled through the set piece with great elan. Several of the ladies, however, grew out of breath and Mr Ponsonby surprised one and all by jigging about at great speed though not one whit in time to the music. In fact he seemed to be doing a dance that he had invented himself and gave an appreciative cackle if any lady should be so fortunate as to meet with him during its course. John decided that Cuthbert Simms truly earned his money and was pleased to produce a shilling and a sixpence which he pressed into the dancing master’s hand as he made his way out.
‘A break if you will, ladies and gentleman,’ said the little man, perspiring copiously and somewhat red in the face. ‘I really do not require this money, Mr Rawlings. Thank you all the same.’
‘Nonsense. I enjoyed the dance and would have stayed longer but am on my way to see a patient. But I would appreciate it if we could have a chat some time. Do you live nearby?’
‘My humble abode is in Great Wild Street, not far from the Seven Dials. It is very small and somewhat dingy.’
‘But why did you choose this place to teach? Surely you could have found somewhere nearer?’
‘Cost, Mr Rawlings. Cost.’ And Cuthbert tapped the side of his nose. ‘Besides the better class of person would prefer a dancing master to have rooms in a more prestigious part of London.’
‘I suppose you’re right. So could we not meet in a tavern?’
‘Very well. The Royal Saracen, if that would be convenient to you. When did you have in mind, Sir?’
‘Tonight. When you finish teaching. What time would suit you?’
‘I shall close my classes early. Shall we say seven o’clock?’
‘That would be most convenient. I shall just have time to see my daughter into bed.’
‘Then seven it is, Sir.’
Having left the dancing class in full swing John hurried up Swallow Street to where a barber waited in a back room, groaning loudly, while his assistant was rushed off his feet with a queue of customers growing
