Chapter 8
Eight
By the time Agnes had reached the top step to her apothecary, the goose pimples had turned to needles on her arms. The stairs reverberated like someone was following closely behind her. But when she stopped, she heard no sound. Just silence outside her own body.
Looking back one last time to ensure she was truly alone, she hurried into the attic.
Some days she left the door open to work, but not today.
She slammed the door shut, her heart pounding in her chest. A sigh escaped her lips, and then a giggle.
Despite her conviction that she was only haunted by Richard’s spirit, she wasn’t quite brave enough to be unaffected.
Mr. Evans and Charles would be arriving soon, but Agnes had to prepare a large order tonight to be delivered to the almshouse by her runner, a young boy she hired thrice weekly.
He used the money he earned from her deliveries to supplement the bread that his parents worked tirelessly to put on the table.
Other customers would also stop by the apothecary in the evening after working long, grueling days of serving the surrounding neighborhoods.
Walmgate, one of York’s most decrepit slums, provided a majority of her patrons.
She only charged those who could afford it.
Growing and foraging most of the herbs herself kept costs low, and in the past, Richard had funded orders of additional plants from hothouses, sometimes delivering them from London.
If she lost this home, what would become of those who needed her remedies?
Women who had no opportunity to rest and recover when their bodies betrayed them, like those who dealt with monthly courses accompanied by pain so severe it would bring anyone to their knees.
People who labored long hours into their old age because they couldn’t afford to stop despite working jobs that favored the strong, energetic bodies of youth.
Children with weak bones, insufficient lungs, or troubled stomachs caused by the poisons of their environment and lack of healthy food.
Retreating to the dower house in Skelton was not an option for her.
It would never be. The community needed her here.
Transporting enough remedies from Bootham to Walmgate already required much of Agnes’s time and efforts.
Providing the remedies from the countryside with limited funds would be near impossible.
The herbs on the table before her provided a much-needed distraction.
Thoughts of Mr. Evans broke through the fog.
His deep bluish-gray eyes reminded her of the roundhead mushrooms of the same color she had spotted in early autumn.
She hadn’t collected any, as she had no use for them in her work, but she had knelt in the earth beside them, mesmerized by their color.
She wanted to know what his mustache felt like. Were the hairs soft or coarse? Would it tickle if someone were to kiss him? Despite being alone, she felt herself blush.
It had taken her years of being safe from the lecherous gazes of the men her mother brought to their room in Whitechapel to break down the fortress she had built around herself.
For years, she did not want to be touched by anyone and had never dreamed about touching a man.
Her curiosity only found footing after living under Edith’s protection and then with her gentle husband.
Male visitors had routinely stopped by the Bootham house to visit Richard in his study.
They would come and go carrying folios or boxes of papers, likely in relation to his investments or the Skelton tenants.
These men were younger, closer to her in age, and Agnes took care not to gape too noticeably at their snug trousers and fit physiques.
With their clean fingernails, polished shoes, and styled hair, they had looked so different from the men her mother had satisfied in exchange for coin.
One day, Richard had caught her looking at the muscular thighs of one gentleman as he leaned over the desk in the study to examine some papers.
When she tore her eyes away and realized her husband was watching her, she reddened, but he offered her a wink.
After the man left, Richard found her in her apothecary.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” he said, pulling her chin up so she could look at his face. “You’re a young woman. Love and intimacy between people can be a beautiful thing.”
She didn’t respond. There was no room between her shame and confusion to say anything else. He continued, his voice soft.
“I do not offer everything a husband is meant to offer his wife, so if you are ready to seek that sort of companionship elsewhere, I will encourage it. As long as the man is kind to you, of course. If he isn’t, then I will use the monkshood from your greenhouse and poison him myself.”
Her voice shook with lingering mortification. “What of that man?”
“Oh, sweetheart, he is a handsome fellow, but he is not for you. He prefers . . . other forms. But if you’d like, I can help you look for someone to engage your desires.”
Since that day, she had dreamed of the touch of a man, his fingers caressing her arms, her neck, and more intimate places. She’d imagine a man with a clean face above her, staring at her with reverence rather than greed.
But she never did ask Richard for help. They had created a peaceful home together.
Every day she could do exactly what she wanted, shut out the noise around her, and find serenity in her thoughts.
Who would she be able to trust to enter her life and leave it undisturbed?
Things were fine with Richard, and she would be fine now with just her own company.
A knock on the attic door told her it was time. Kitty entered.
“Mr. Evans and Lord Skelton have arrived. Ward told me to come find you.” Her maid studied her appearance and nodded. Agnes had spent extra time on her toilette this morning. She was still young, after all. She didn’t need to look like death herself.
Reaching back toward her hair, she checked that the pins in her coiffure were still secure. Some had loosened from curls determined to break free but not enough to bother with. “Have you been putting Richard’s coffee cup on the tea tray in the mornings?”
Kitty cocked her head. “What do you mean, my lady? Was I meant to? I wasn’t informed—”
“No. I do not know why I am asking.” Agnes bit her bottom lip. Sharp pricks of the returning goose pimples stung her flesh. “Please, ask Mrs. Smith to set out the black tea for our guests. The one from the shop.”
If Charles was going to get everything she had worked for, then damn him. He would get none of her tea.
The baron had pushed past Harry to settle himself diagonally along the settee, as if the home were already his.
Harry sat stiff-backed and white-knuckled, gripping the velvet arm of the wingback chair to still his trembling hands.
He hoped she would serve her lemon balm and lavender tea.
He could really use its calming effects.
Lady Skelton strode confidently into the room. Given the situation, Harry assumed it was just a facade, but she was a fine actress. She held her head high, her smile bright, and her eyes directly on Skelton as if he were here just for casual greetings, and Harry nearly believed it.
In the weeks since the funeral, when he had seen her full beauty in the garden, Harry had almost forgotten the way that light reflected off of Lady Skelton’s skin. She dazzled like the smooth surface of a pearl in the early afternoon sun that illuminated the parlor.
He was reminded of the female muslin moth, one of the few moths he could observe on his daytime walks. They always seemed so radiant, flying in the full light, while their male counterparts only came out in the darkness.
Focus, Harry. He needed to prepare himself for the difficult conversation ahead, not think about moths. He was here to mediate, to spare Lady Skelton’s heart from being completely broken. And to keep one eye on Skelton.
Lord Skelton broke the silence almost immediately.
“Dear Agnes, I am so pleased to see you are here to accept our call.
I have attempted many times since my cousin's death and was surprised to find you not at home. I was beginning to wonder if you were in residence here, after all, or if you had retired to somewhere more suitable for a widow.”
She paused in pouring the tea—which to Harry’s disappointment did not smell like one of her own blends—and met Lord Skelton’s gaze directly.
Harry had painted many pictures of Lady Skelton in his mind over the years—a seductress, a quiet little mouse, a wrinkly old witch—but none of those had been accurate. She was the embodiment of ferocity and confidence. Two qualities Harry wished he could maintain.
“I have been home, Lord Skelton.” The bite in her words sliced through the air.
Hearing Lady Skelton call the man by the title of her late husband felt wrong to Harry’s ears despite its accuracy. The twitch in her jaw told him it was unnerving to her as well.
“But as a widow, it is my prerogative to refuse visitors during my mourning period. I find solitude most comforting while I grieve the death of my husband.”
“Yes. I am sure you are suffering from your grief, as are we all. Now please, let us get on with the meeting. Harry over there is quite busy.” He had no memory of granting Lord Skelton permission to use his given name, but he bit his tongue.
“Mr. Evans, are you in a hurry?” Lady Skelton’s dark eyes pierced into Harry.
“No, Lady Skelton, the remainder of my day is free. I have cleared my appointments to give this meeting the time it needs.”
Their eyes met and a faint blush spread along her cheekbones. It was subtle, so subtle that he might have missed it. But against her porcelain skin, the slightest hint of pink painted a sunset across her face.