The Apothecary’s Apprentice 28
The Apothecary's Apprentice
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- 1. The Apothecary’s Apprentice 28
In the front parlour, which faced north and did not suffer the glaring heat of the sun, Henry Gryce sat listening to the murmur of voices from the kitchen.
What did they talk about, this group of people he looked upon as his household servants?
The sound of talking and occasional burst of laughter that invaded the quiet of his surroundings could make a man feel lonesome.
He remembered how it had been when Dorothea was seated in the chair opposite, stitching her tapestry, a smile of contentment on her face.
He imagined Jennet there in her place.
Was she a follower of fine needlework? Happen her mama had instructed her in the art.
As the daughter of a notable family, Alice would have been brought up to the niceties of her class, as befitted a young woman of the day.
It was tragic that she had wed beneath her, and it was clear where Jennet had inherited her looks.
That apprentice of his had got under his skin, and he had spruced up his appearance for her sake.
He’d even dipped into his purse with her in mind.
His eyes went to the circular table, on which rested a book with blank pages of quality vellum, bound in soft red leather tooled with gold.
There was also a set of uncut swans’ quills, the best money could buy.
He knew how dearly Jennet liked to scribe.
It seemed to him that, rather than purchasing something of a personal nature, a practical item for gaining her attention might be more in keeping here.
Had he the courage to approach her?
A lilt of song from the kitchen decided him.
That would be her, entertaining her sire with the music of his homeland. A voice like a lark, had Jennet.
He rose from his chair.
Going through to the kitchen, he summoned a smile.
“Jennet, might I have a word?”
“Of course, master.”
He opened the door wider and stood aside to let her through.
“You are over-warm. Shall we venture into the garden where it is cooler?”
He observed her expression and wondered what went on in that pretty head of hers.
Descending the stair, he opened the door to the garden and escorted his apprentice to the arbour.
A few roses still clung to the trellised arch, scenting the air romantically.
Gryce hoped that no-one observed them from the house and stole a look, frowning at the sight of the open kitchen casement.
“Jennet, my dear, I was in Price’s stationery shop and thought you might find this useful.”
He brought out the book from the inner pocket of his long cloak and gave it her.
At once her calm slipped.
“Oh, crimson leather! I was once told . . .” She paused, biting her lip as if some memory claimed her.
“I heard how the leather-smiths had taken to dyeing the leather in different shades,” she finished.
She opened the book and saw the blank pages.
“Oh, a writing book!”
She was clearly impressed, and Gryce, feeling a lift of hope, presented her with the set of quills.
“Swans’ quills! Oh, my!”
“The book is useless without the means to write. Take whatever inks you require from the cupboard.
“I have added more colours to the shelf,” Henry continued. “Consider them all at your disposal.”
To be continued…
