“That is the trouble,” murmured Mama in a wistful tone. “Papa was always her favorite. Inseparable, those two. I fear with him gone, she won’t bother coming home again.”
“She loves us.”
“Yes, of course she does,” replied Mama with a sigh.
Violet couldn’t help but turn the lady’s words against her. “And she is a married lady with a great many things requiring her attention.”
“But surely, she could find some time for us.”
With only the mightiest of efforts on her part, Violet managed to keep from laughing or warning Mama that she was sounding “bitter.” However unintentional, the lady had slipped into an all-too-common position of the pot, and as the metaphorical kettle, Violet longed to tease her about the hypocrisy, but justification was a powerful tool that never allowed people to see the truth of their behavior—even when it slapped them in the face. So, there was no point in attempting it, and Violet chose to be amused by it.
Hefting the tray, she turned to the door. “I will keep an ear out for you, Mama—”
“Yes, yes,” she replied with a halting chuckle. “Go now. Get your work done.”
Needing no further prodding, Violet swept from the room.
Chapter 19
Hurrying down to the kitchens, Violet deposited the tea tray beside the sink. The large copper kettle boiled in the back corner and filled the room with steam despite the windows and door being thrown wide open; Peggy stood beside it, agitating the wash inside it as she nodded at her mistress.
In a trice, Violet was on her way once more, heading down the corridor and into the office. Summer saw the room filled to bursting with drying plants, and she ducked and wove between the bundles hanging from the ceilings. Perhaps it was time to invest in a proper herb shed; that was a happy thought, and Violet drifted around the room as she considered what it would look like and how she would organize it. The family couldn’t afford to build such a thing, but it didn’t stop her from imagining it all the same.
Reaching for the window, she flicked the catch and pushed the pane outward. A burst of chill breeze swept through the room, making the plants above sway and the papers on the side table flutter. Violet pulled it closed until there was only the slightest opening; she needed some fresh air, or the room would soon be stifling.
She grabbed her apron from an obliging peg beside the door and tied it about her as she examined the worktable. Everything was precisely where she’d laid it. For once. When Isaac had taken on an apprentice, Violet had cursed Mr. Timms whenever the young man went missing, but now she drew a grateful sigh at his absence. She didn’t know where the lad had hidden himself, but she was grateful that no one was mucking about with her things or making messes she’d have to clean.
Sitting atop the table was the glass alembic, ready and waiting to distill whatever she put inside. The bulbous cucurbit hovered above a lantern, held in place by a brass stand, and carefully, Violet measured water into the globe-like jar. With the brass scales, she weighed out the herbs, spooning each carefully through the narrow opening at the top, and swished them about with her glass stirring rod.
The cap was such a strange-looking piece, rather like an upside-down ladle with a tube for a handle. Violet fit the rounded bit over the top of the cucurbit, sealing the glass jar to keep the precious steam from escaping, and shifted the tubing until it pointed over the receiver, which would catch the condensation that gathered once the liquid was boiled.
Such a simple process, but powerful in its ability to strengthen the concentration of her medicines.
Once situated, Violet fetched a spill from the container on the mantlepiece and lit the roll of paper on a lantern Peggy had left burning in the back corner. With careful movements, she brought the spill to the table and lit the squat lantern beneath the belly of the alembic.
Though the distillation did require some attention, Violet was free to settle into the next task on her list. Mr. Wrigley needed more cathartics. She couldn’t say making cachets was her favorite chore, and she didn’t understand why he preferred them, but the gentleman was quite happy to pay extra for the special medicine.
In theory, the capsules did their job. Upon swallowing, saliva dissolved the rice paper exterior and released the powdersheld within, allowing one to take the medicine without having to taste it, but to Violet’s thinking, it traded one discomfort for another, for swallowing the thick, disk-like cachets was an unpleasant experience. Being the size of a large coin, they did not go down easily, and the rice paper shell took time to disintegrate. Violet’s throat ached with the memory of the one time she’d taken one; the thing lodged itself in her throat, refusing to move or soften until she downed a potful of tea.
Flipping through the pages of her recipe book, Violet stopped at her record of Dr. Vaughn’s prescription and began grabbing the required jars. Just when she filled her arms to bursting, a knock on the side door sounded, meaning that a patient had come to call (else they would’ve gone to the front door). Quickly depositing the ingredients on the table, Violet hurried over and answered the door.
“Mrs. Durrant, Mrs. Rutherford, how good to see you today,” she said with a nod of the head.
The pair deigned to look at her long enough so that she knew they had seen and heard her, but kept their faces turned slightly away.
“Dr. Vaughn informed me that you have my prescription,” said Mrs. Durrant in a haughty tone that conveyed just how little she cared to be on such an errand, though Violet knew if she truly did not wish to be here, the lady would’ve sent a maid; people didn’t deign to fetch such things themselves when they had a perfectly good servant on hand.
Mrs. Rutherford wrinkled her nose and glanced over Violet’s shoulder, giving the office a disapproving look. “I cannot believe we are forced to patronize such a rustic establishment when we could purchase medicines from a properly educatedLondondoctor.”
“Dr. Vaughn is firm on that front, though it is so very disappointing,” said Mrs. Durrant. “After how poorly Mr. Templeton treated my dear husband, I have half a mind to go to Bentmoor in the future. Can you believe he was prescribing tonicsthat did nothing? Robbing us so he can gallivant about, spending his time at sporting events and mooning over that new wife of his—rather than caring for the people of our village.”
“It’s disgraceful,” added Mrs. Rutherford. “One expects money-grubbing and inflated costs from the money-grubbingtradesmen, but not from a gentleman.”
Oh, there were so many retorts that sprang to Violet’s mind. That they would call anything disgraceful whilst behaving in such a blatantly rude fashion was ridiculous; these shrews were more bitter than the rhubarb in Mr. Wrigley’s powders, and Violet had a word or two she wished to say to them.
It was people like these who would cut the Templetons from their social circles if they dared to do anything so ill-mannered as open an apothecary shop, preferring that the family struggle rather than take gainful employment. People were quite content to laugh at the ungainlyMr.Templeton whilst ignoring that she had done much to ease their aches and pains.
Isaac’s behavior was disgusting—there was no debating that fact—but so was treating one’s neighbor like a blight on the village. Laughing at a lady simply because she had the ill fortune of being built differently from their petite frames. Cloaking oneself in outrage at being cheated whilst being known to default on bills, choosing to pay enough only to keep the debt collectors at bay but still purchasing more than one could afford.
