The Apothecary’s Apprentice 03
The Apothecary's Apprentice
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The house stood in spacious grounds within a high stone wall.
Half-brick, half timbered, it had many mullioned windows and tall twisting chimneys, some huffing spirals of blue woodsmoke.
Jennet expected to be taken to a servants’ entrance and was surprised to be directed up the steps to the solid front door.
She was hastened inside to flagged floors, lofty raftered ceilings and a wide staircase that seemed to wind upwards for ever.
A couple of blue-roan spaniels came running up, greeted them ecstatically and pattered off again.
“This way,” Anthony said.
Up the stairs they went, gazed haughtily down upon by Venables ancestors within heavy gilt frames.
Sounds of distress and a low voice responding grew louder as they headed along a corridor.
Anthony stopped outside a panelled door.
“Honoria’s chamber,” he said, ushering her inside.
There was no mistaking the beauty of Honoria Venables, marred now by a rash across her forehead.
Her hair lay in waves on the bolster; her eyes, summer-blue, were reddened from weeping.
Curled up on the coverlet was another spaniel, golden-coloured, grumbling a warning at the intrusion.
Anthony waved away the serving woman.
“Bear up, Norrie. Here’s Jennet come to make you well, Honoria.”
Jennet approached the figure in the bed and, adopting the brisk tone her grandmother used with patients, requested her to sit up.
“So’s I can see the rash more clearly. That’s it.” She studied the erupting blisters.
“Never fret, miss. Tes not the smallpox that ails you, but the cowpox.”
The gulping sobs ceased. Honoria drew a quivering breath.
“Cowpox? I will not be marked? You are sure?”
“As sure as can be,” Jennet replied. “I’m told you have visited a farmstead recently. Did anyone there take poorly?”
Honoria frowned, bunching her sodden kerchief in her fist.
“Why, yes! A child. No-one attached much importance to it.”
“And rightly so. The complaint is common to dairymaids, cowmen and anyone in contact with them.” Jennet produced the medicines.
“You will run a fever for a day or two.
“The tincture will help. Take two drops in watered wine every three hours. Try not to scratch the spots.”
“But they do so irritate!” Honoria cried, pouting.
“I know.” Jennet softened her voice. “A dab of the calamint will soothe.”
“You will come and mark my progress?”
Jennet made a wry face.
“I’m not sure, miss. I was after an apprenticeship when your brother came to the shop, but I fear I may have botched my chances.”
“You are preferable to the apothecary. Master Gryce is horrid!”
Jennet gave the patient a smile of regret.
“I may have caused offence there. Tes doubtful I shall be considered now.”
Anthony, having watched the proceedings in silence, spoke up.
“Bide here a moment, Jennet. I shall be back.”
He left the chamber in a whirlwind of kingfisher cape and tossing corn-gold hair. The dog growled again.
“Don’t mind Princess,” Honoria said, fondling the spaniel’s smooth head. “She’s a spoiled creature.”
“But a pretty thing,” Jennet returned.
Anthony soon returned, a letter in his hand.
“Give this to Master Gryce,” he said with a smile that went straight to Jennet’s heart.
Henry Gryce read the letter with a frown.
It was written in Reynard Venables’s distinctive hand and claimed to approve the apprenticeship of the young woman before him.
Gryce was in a quandary. Venables was a figurehead of the town and a regular patron of his shop.
Ignoring the man’s wishes would do him no favours.
He snatched a glance at the girl. She was a comely wench. Extraordinary colour, those eyes. Like violets in spring rain.
Clean about her person, too, and sweet-smelling.
Lavender, was it? And some other subtle blend of oils no doubt concocted by the grandmother.
“You are conversant with the blending of ladies’ cosmetics and flower waters?” he questioned.
Jennet nodded.
“I am, sir. I can read, pen and calculate. My mother taught me. She was a Wilkins before she wed.”
The Wilkinses were well-to-do and Gryce saw the value in the revelation.
A family connection, and an assistant with academic skills would be an asset.
“You understand that an apprentice is responsible for the cleaning of the shop and stillroom premises?”
“I am prepared to abide by the terms,” Jennet replied.
Gryce made a show of deep thought, stroking his beard, conscious of the girl’s anxiety.
“Well, miss, I am of the mind to give you a month’s trial. Misdemeanour of any sort and out you go. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly,” she replied. “Thank you, sir.”
“You cannot be seen here in those rags. I shall find you some garments of my late wife’s to wear.
“As to wages . . .” He named a sum that was a trifle below the given rate. “Paid at the month’s end.”
“I understand, sir.”
Gryce barked out details of when she should start, hoping he would not regret the move to employ her.
To be continued…
