The Apothecary’s Apprentice 38
The Apothecary's Apprentice
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- 1. The Apothecary’s Apprentice 38
“Jennet?”
The hail from her mother at the foot of the stair had her going to investigate.
“Yes, Mother?” she asked.
“Your father wants the minutes you wrote up at the recent mine workers’ meeting. Do you have them to hand?”
Jennet nodded, placing a finger to her lips, then looked towards the closed door of the front parlour behind which Henry Gryce lurked.
He must never know what went on during his absence on Tuesday evenings, and her mother, normally cautious, had spoken without thought.
Hoping the master had not heard, Jennet fetched the document and took it down to her father.
Ned, sitting in his ladder-backed armchair by a fire of sea-coals, scrutinised the closely written lines carefully.
“Thomas will be penning a petition for our cause to be presented to the Privy Councillors at Whitehall Palace by our spokesman, Jed Bates.”
“Her Majesty’s men? Will they be interested?” Jennet asked.
“I don’t see why not. Didn’t our Queen donate a substantial sum of money from the royal coffers to rebuild after the fire?”
Ned returned to studying the minutes.
“How neatly you scribe, Jennet. My own efforts with the quill look as if a spider has danced across the page with inky feet.”
His words did not bring the expected smile to his daughter’s lips and Ned was concerned.
“Child, you are bothered. Is it your grandmother?
“Do you fret that you might have been able to help her had you found her earlier?”
Jennet shook her head.
“No, Father. It was time for her to go.”
“There is another matter troubling you?”
In a far corner of the big kitchen, Alice sat working the lace bobbins on her lap, her eyes screwed up in the dim light of the taper.
Jennet did not want to add to her mother’s burden.
Alice had enough of her own, keeping to their landlord’s standards of caring for him and the house, as well as making a few pennies towards the family budget with her lace.
Jennet spoke quietly.
“It’s Thomas, Father.”
“Thomas Tewke? Not more bother? Is that why he was not present at the last meeting?”
“No, no. There was a London coach due and he had to stay to see to the horses.
“I love Thomas,” she continued in a rush. “I never knew it until now. I cannot stop thinking about him.”
“That is perfectly normal for a young maid.” Her father nodded. “Thomas is a fine fellow. Are your feelings not returned?”
“I don’t know. Thomas puts friendship before matters of the heart.
“Knowing Thomas, in his present position he will not think himself worthy of any involvement.”
“But that is nonsense. He will work himself up to better things. Be patient.
“Remember, if something in life is meant, fate has a way of working matters out,” Ned replied.
“Grandmother used to say that.”
“Aye, I know it. And she was right.”
An impatient hammering on the door made all three look up.
“That will be Maynard, come for his order. Let him in, Jennet, will you?” Alice requested, bobbins flying.
Jennet obeyed, making no haste, giving her mother a chance to finish off the binding for the lace panel she was working on and gather together her weekly offering for the merchant.
Door opened, the man burst in, almost pushing Jennet aside.
“By heaven, girl, you took your time! Leaving a man standing in the rain.
“Well, woman? Hast got my order?”
Alice nodded.
“I have. Four panels of the rose trellis and four rolls of muslin edging.”
Maynard slapped down the payment on the table, which Alice counted before handing her work over.
“Sir, this is threepence short. The rose trellis is complex and time consuming and –”
“Enough! You ask much, lady. Tes but a scrap of lace for the weekday market stalls.”
Alice’s work did not go to a street trader and they all knew it.
Her lace went to a specialist outlet that paid for it handsomely, and the proceeds kept Maynard very comfortable indeed.
A short pause, and he delved into his money pouch for a threepenny piece, then growled that he would be back the following week.
Snatching up the lace, he took himself off into the drizzly gloom of the night.
Jennet closed the door behind him, wrinkling her nose.
“That man stinks to high heaven! I vow a dozen pomanders would not mask it.
“I hope he gets caught in a downpour and soaked through. That should freshen him up some.”
“’Twould not freshen his temper,” Alice pointed out.
“Pity the serving woman at the White Lion, should he call there in a foul mood on his way to his lodgings.”
Alice added her payment to the small amount of savings in a brown jug on the shelf.
Jennet, feeling better for having vented her views on the drapery merchant and confided her woes – or some of them – to her father, lit a taper and took herself off upstairs.
She would make up the eye tincture and wash for the children she had seen earlier that day.