Rivals and Roses (The Vaughns #1)

Chapter 19

H urrying 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 powders held 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 educated London doctor .”

“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 tonics that 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-grubbing tradesmen , 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 ungainly Mr. 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.

The most difficult fees to collect were those owed by the wealthy. They clutched every last penny in their fists, refusing to pay the Templetons their due until several reminders were sent, and then it was only farthings at a time. In truth, if everyone paid in a timely fashion, the family wouldn’t be hovering on the brink. For goodness’ sake, Violet wagered that if everyone in Oakham paid what they owed, it would far outweigh anything Isaac had done!

But pride goeth before a fall. No amount of justification would wipe away her brother’s sins, and there was little good to be had in stirring up trouble .

Ignoring the pair, Violet moved to the side table where several prescriptions awaited delivery and found the one intended for Mrs. Durrant. She paused and looked at the others all lined up—each for Dr. Vaughn’s patients—and when she turned, the cachet molds sat there, mocking her.

Mr. Wrigley was yet another defector. No matter how much more he was willing to pay for his luxury medicines, it didn’t make up for the loss of such a prime patient. Not only did he honor his bills (and in a timely fashion), but the gentleman was a veritable mess of ailments that plagued those with more money than good sense and lived indolent lifestyles bound to disturb the digestive system and flare the gout.

Violet rubbed her forehead and focused on the task at hand. Returning to the door, she handed over the tincture vial and a slip of paper with the dosage instructions. Holding firm to her self-control, she refused to be goaded by their behavior and demand payment; to do so would only embarrass the family further. It was gauche enough that they must deal with money, but the proper order was to send a bill—not demand coins in hand—and then pray the Durrants deigned to pay it.

With another smug lift of their chins, the pair swanned away, confident in their social and moral rectitude.

Shutting the door, Violet leaned against it, her eyes cast heavenward as though that might supply the answers to their troubles. The family had savings enough to weather temporary turmoil, but she felt it in her bones that this was more than a spring storm, destined to cause a little vexation before clearing to a beautiful summer.

What had she been thinking being so chatty with Dr. Vaughn? Whether or not he was a kind soul, his being here was causing her family’s finances to crumble around them. Violet may long to spend more afternoons by his side, enjoying the beauty of her home and his delightful company, but that was nothing more than Icarus yearning to fly closer to the sun.

It was one thing to treat him civilly, but to speak to him as though they were on friendly terms had been a mistake. With each illness, more and more villagers chose Dr. Vaughn over Isaac, leading to fewer prescriptions, as the new doctor was proving far more cautious in his diagnoses. Meanwhile, Violet was treating the fellow as though he were a friend. A confidant.

No matter how much Dr. Vaughn claimed he didn’t wish to cause harm, he was doing so every day he remained at Oakham. And clearly, the suppositions she’d dropped in Mrs. Lark and Mrs. Wolverton’s ears had made no impression, for the village was entirely enamored with the fellow.

What was she to do? Violet didn’t have the answers, though she knew spending an afternoon gabbing with the gentleman didn’t help. No matter how enticing a prospect it was.

Returning to her work, she began weighing out the various powders. Though not the recipe she would’ve chosen, it would do well enough for Mr. Wrigley’s intestinal troubles, as little would truly improve until the gentleman altered his diet. Carefully, she placed a rice paper circle into each of the indents in the cachet mold and measured out the dosage into the center—and stared at the mixture.

Ingredients required careful dosages. Simply increase the powdered rhubarb, and it had the opposite effect. In fact, everything Dr. Vaughn had prescribed could easily compound Mr. Wrigley’s ailments if measured improperly. A little shift. That was all it would take.

No one would know she hadn’t followed Dr. Vaughn’s instructions; even if anyone suspected foul play, it was impossible to prove. All Mr. Wrigley would see was a physician whose treatment failed to provide relief. How quickly would they all turn back to Isaac Templeton then? He may be unreliable in some respects, but his prescriptions worked.

No harm would be done. Just a touch of temporary discomfort.

Violet’s pulse stuttered and realization flooded into her, causing her heart to thunder. Her stomach dropped to her toes, her face flushing as she jerked away from the table. Good gracious! Had she truly considered poisoning someone? Whether or not it would be a minor inconvenience to Mr. Wrigley, how could she contemplate doing something so vile?

Shuddering, she threw herself into the work, filling the rice paper with the proper powder and lining the opposite side of the hinged molds with the cachet tops. Carefully wetting the edges of the circles, she snapped the lid shut, which pressed the tops and bottoms together as the seal dried, cementing them into one disc-like capsule.

Violet’s heart refused to settle as she turned her attention to the alembic and found the glass fogged over as the mixture inside simmered. The vapor drifted upward, where the condensation gathered and traveled down the long neck of the tube before depositing it in the receptacle. Then, reaching for the cachets, she popped out the finished circles that held individual doses of the powder, ready for consumption.

Bouncing between the two, she watched the distillation whilst preparing Mr. Wrigley’s medication, and all the while her mind churned over what she’d nearly done, what was happening to her family, and what was to come. Her limbs felt like lead as she moved through the motions, and when a knock sounded at the side door once more, Violet nearly dropped the bowl of powders on the floor.

And the shock took hold of her tongue when she opened the door to find Dr. Vaughn standing there.