“Good morning to you, sir,” she returned, hastening past.
Tattered and ragtag, aye. But these men were unified in spirit if not dress, and she sensed their resiliency and resolve from a distance. Wrestling with admiration and pity, she fixed her eye on the trade sign that waved in a north wind. The words “Old Town Apothecary” lettered a wooden board where clusters of lavender, rosemary, and mint grew in painted profusion. Her youngest brother’s business, the shop was the handsomest building in Chatham save the Presbyterian church. Aaron Bohannon did them all proud.
If she’d expected an empty shop she was sorely mistaken. Winter’s agues and miasmas laid many low. A line of villagers snaked out the front door, sending her round to the side entrance. After letting herself in, she made her way to a back chamber, a cozy bower lined with medical books that boasted Aaron’s desk and an immense brick hearth roaring with heat.
She pulled off her mittens, extended cold fingers to the fire, and breathed in the earthy, medicinal scent while listening to the shop’s chatter. In minutes, her sister-in-law Hanna appeared, her lovely face pinched with concern.
“Morning, dear Mae.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Is Coralie’s cold worse?”
“No better,” Mae replied. “And we’ve run out of herbs and simples.”
“I do worry, as she’s painfully thin.”
As painfully thin as I am plump, Mae thought.
“I recommend a decoction of peppermint leaves, dried ginger, a pinch of yarrow, and lemon balm with a small piece of willow bark.” Hanna disappeared again to fetch the needed ingredientsbefore returning and advising, “Add all to hot water and let rest for fifteen minutes, then strain. Have Coralie inhale the steam as she drinks to help clear her head.”
Thanking her, Mae turned her backside to the fire and took in her brother behind the counter as Hanna returned to help the next customer. Aaron bore a marked resemblance to their late father, though it was their mother she missed most.
Grief, still raw, pushed Mae out the door and past the First Presbyterian Church. Across the stone fence was her parents’ grave marker, hidden by snow. If only she could do the same with her emotions. Bury them. Banish them.
Armed with a fresh remedy for Coralie, she allowed herself a last, less practical stop. Down a side street stood the dressmaker’s shop, beckoning her inside with all its color and creature comforts. The pomaded, powdered owner was a French Huguenot, an independent woman of means who somehow seemed to be the only merchant immune to the war’s blockades and barriers. Some suspected her of smuggling, but who knew?
“Ah, Mademoiselle Bohannon.” Madame Jaquett’s heavily accented English gave no hint she’d been in Chatham for a decade. “My shop is all too quiet on account of the snow, so it is good to see you venture forth.”
Smiling and shivering, Mae set her market basket down. “I promised Coralie I’d ask about her gown.”
“Of course. You’ll be happy to know that I’ve nearly finished.” Escorting her to the rear of the shop, Madame Jaquett pointed to a wickerwork mannequin bedecked in exotic Indian chintz. “Voilà!”
Awed, Mae eyed the gown and tried to put down the envy that needled her. “My sister will look lovely.”
“Alors, mademoiselle! This dress is yours—her gift to you.”
Mae stared at her.
“For a very special occasion, she said.” Madame Jaquett smiled and lifted a lace sleeve ruffle made from the same delicate lace thatlined the bodice. “Would you like a decorative ladder of bows at the front? A flounce at the hem?”
Mae smiled and shook her head, even more appreciative of the colorful fabric now that she’d come out of mourning. “Nothing more is needed, thank you.”
“Then I shall finish it at once.” Madame Jaquett went to a chest of drawers and took out a length of silk ribbon. “Please take this to your sister and tell her I am trimming her gown with such.”
Mae took the ribbon, a marvel of embroidered flowers. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“I send my best wishes for her complete recovery”—she darted a wary look out the window, where snow masked the alley and surrounding structures—“and an end to all this inclement weather.”
Mae let herself into their clapboard house quietly, removed her damp cape, and hung it on a peg to dry. The center hall was quiet, the staircase empty as it wound upward to several bedchambers and an attic. She darted a look into the parlor, where a fire burned in a large hearth, bookended by shelves. A red-nosed Coralie dozed in a Windsor chair nearest the blaze, eyes closed, a handkerchief fisted atop her quilted petticoat.
Tiptoeing, Mae took her basket into the kitchen and began to prepare the apothecary tea. Above her head, the room’s oak beams, taken from a spice ship, held their own exotic scent and seemed to whisper of faraway ports. In summer the room hinted of pepper and mace, in winter cinnamon and cloves. Mae inhaled deeply, happy to be home.
When the kettle sang, she swung it off the fire and poured hot water over the herbals in a large stoneware mug. Mrs. Hurst, their longtime cook and housekeeper, had left a kettle of fish chowder in the ashes and a loaf of bread on the open door of the beehive oven. A widow, she lived across the alley behind their stable.
Night was falling fast, the wind rising.
“Mae?” Coralie’s hoarse voice reached out from the adjoining room. “Is that you?”
“Finally home,” Mae called, carrying in the aromatic, steaming mug.
“How I miss going out with you.” Coralie sat up straighter, then sneezed into her handkerchief. “Surely this sickness will pass with a little help from Aaron and Hanna.”
