The Apothecary’s Apprentice 01
The Apothecary's Apprentice
- 1. The Apothecary’s Apprentice 01
- 2. The Apothecary’s Apprentice 02
- 3. The Apothecary’s Apprentice 03
- 4. The Apothecary’s Apprentice 04
Jennet knew where her skills lay, and she had resolved to prove her worth…
JENNET hurried along Queen Street, clutching her shawl around her against the cold drizzle.
She was bound for the town square and the apothecary shop, where she hoped to be taken on as apprentice.
She had done her best with her appearance, but though freshly laundered, the laced bodice and open-fronted farthingale worn over her Sunday kirtle of unbleached linen were much patched and darned.
Would Henry Gryce consider her suitable to work in his shop, which catered for the affluent people of Nantwich?
Then again, Jennet consoled herself, her linen cap, full neckerchief and long-sleeved shift were bleached to a perfect whiteness, and she’d had the presence of mind to discard the coarse hessian apron that was standard wear for unfortunates from her part of the town.
The clock of St Mary’s began striking the hour and Jennet put on a spurt.
She had reckoned on approaching the apothecary at opening time, when the shop was less likely to have customers – the better off not all being early risers.
Leaving the darkness and stench of Queen Street, with its upper-storey overhangs of timber-framed dwellings and the open drain running along the middle of the road, she came to the town square.
Here, work was still in progress to replace the buildings destroyed by fire 15 months earlier.
Jennet shuddered to think of how she had been awakened by the roar of flames, the choking reek of smoke and the cries of those trapped in the blaze.
She, her parents and grandmother had been lucky to escape with their lives.
Their few belongings were lost and it took much effort on all their parts to gather together a few basic items to furnish the crudely built terraced home that replaced the old.
Ribald shouts and sounds of hammering issued from the team of workmen labouring on the grander buildings of the square.
Jennet could now see her place of destination and felt a twinge of doubt.
The apothecary had a reputation for being hard to please, a fact worsened since the demise of his wife the previous year.
“Poor hard-done-by soul she was, too,” Grandmother Eira had commented in her lilting voice of the valleys.
“Slave to the house and that wretch of a husband, not to mention shop and stillroom!
“Turned her into an old woman before her time, it did.”
Jennet stopped in front of the shop window.
Did she really want to spend the next years apprenticed here? Always supposing she was accepted!
You have little choice, an inner voice argued, this being the only place of its kind in the town to offer apprenticeships.
Single-fronted, with a bowed upper window and an oak door, the building was impressive, displaying along a main strut the words Apothecary Shoppe 1531.
Underneath, it said, Proprietor Henry Gryce.
It was one of the few to escape the ravages of the fire, and some attempt had been made to clean the smoke-blackened timbering and paint the creamy pargeting infill.
Jennet peered into the window at the assembly of bulbous-shaped physic bottles in coloured glass: crimson, sapphire, emerald and amethyst.
One day, she thought, I shall have a shop window like this.
Ambition rekindled, she entered the premises to the mixed aroma of spices, herbage and sweet essences.
As she had supposed, the place was empty, save for Master Gryce himself.
In his long robes, his hair falling in greasy locks beneath a wide-brimmed hat, the apothecary stood behind the counter, dispensing remedies of dried and rubbed leaves into silk pouches.
The jangle of the shop bell brought his attention.
“Yes?” he demanded.
His look showed precisely what he thought of the ill-clad woman before him.
Jennet absently made sure her hair was neatly contained within her cap before replying.
“Good morrow, sir,” she began, astounded at the steadiness of her own voice, since beneath the homespun bodice her heart was pounding fearfully.
She took a breath and launched into the narrative her grandmother had suggested.
“I am here in response to your request in the window of the grocer for an assistant.
“Would this be in the capacity of an apprenticeship? It is what I am interested in.”
The long, narrow face tightened.
“Is that so? And what, pray, makes you believe yourself capable?”
“Sir, I grew up with herbal skills. My name is Jennet Parry. I am the granddaughter of Mistress Eira Parry of Queen Street.”
“The goodwife?”
Faint interest glimmered in the man’s eyes, laced with professional scorn.
Everyone knew of Goodwife Parry, whose reputation for treatments and cures was beyond reproach, and who doctored the folk who could not afford the high prices of the shop on the square.
Gryce stroked his beard in thought.
“Age?”
“My grandmother puts herself at around three score years –”
“Yourself, wench! How old are you?”
“Oh.” Jennet inwardly berated herself for being at the mercy of her nerves. “I was twenty years last August.”
“Then ’tis high time you were wed and rocking a cradle!”
“Not I, sir,” Jennet replied sharply. “I’m going to be an apothecary.
“Tes been my aim from a child when I went picking weeds and berries on the heath with my grandmother. She’s primed me . . .”
The door opened suddenly with a rowdy clang of the bell, and Jennet broke off, staring.
Into the shop burst a tall, yellow-haired and handsome young man.
Jennet had seen him before, but in the heat of the moment she could not think where.
His gaze went past her and fixed upon the man behind the counter.
Gryce’s expression changed from disparaging to silkily smiling.
“Why, Master Anthony, sir. Is something wrong?”