Chapter 9 #2
Agnes greeted the woman at the door and brought her into the room by the hand. “I have it right here for you, Miss Malone. Please sit while I pack it for you.” Miss Malone sat in the worn olive-colored chair in the corner that had seen better days.
The tea meant to alleviate migraines blended ginger, peppermint, and green tea leaves. Several of the ingredients had to be purchased from the hothouses. Although Miss Malone had not asked, Agnes added a vial of peppermint and rosemary oil as she wrapped the jar of tea in brown paper.
“When you need more immediate relief, you can rub this oil onto your temple. It should help with the pain. Of course, I also suggest lying down in a dark room.”
“My lady, if I had time to do that, I wouldn’t be in need of your fancy oils.”
“I know, Miss Malone.” She handed the wrapped goods to the washerwoman.
“Thank you, my lady.” Miss Malone’s face reddened. “The money has been a little tight this week, but I can wash your—”
“Miss Malone,” Agnes interrupted. “You do so much for your family and your neighbors. This is my pleasure. You deserve it.”
Miss Malone scratched at the corner of her eye. “I’m not used to taking charity.”
Agnes placed her hands on top of the aging woman’s, feeling the knotted knuckles formed over years of hard work. “This isn’t charity. It’s community. Next time, I’ll send it over to you. There’s no need for you to travel all this way.”
A steady flow of people came into the attic over the next hour, leaving Harry with no time to ask any more questions.
He took his place in the moth-eaten chair vacated by the washerwoman, watching with fascination as tinctures, teas, poultices, oils, and a variety of other mixtures made their way into the hands of grateful men and women.
The patrons were from all walks of life, although most seemed to be of the working class.
Some came with threadbare clothes, while others came with more current fashions.
Many were dressed as servants, clearly employed in some of York’s most prestigious homes.
Some paid a modest sum, while others muttered, rife with embarrassment, that they didn’t have the coin.
Lady Skelton treated everyone with the same quiet respect, insisting that it was her honor to serve them.
Each one of them was greeted by name as they walked through the door.
She asked after their families, listened to developments on their ailments, and then explained how to use each treatment.
Important details were written in her journal, and Harry hung on every word. It was bewitching to watch her work.
When the last patron finally left with a poultice for pain in his knees, Harry’s own thighs ached from the time he had spent in the rickety chair, unmoving, afraid that if she was reminded of his presence, she would dismiss him. It would be a long night back to London, but it was worth it.
“Hello.” Her voice was shy, her eyes fatigued as she looked up at him through her thick, dark lashes.
“Hello.”
“You didn’t need to stay.”
He wanted to tell her that there was no way he could have left.
That he was proud of her work, even though that was preposterous, because she was not his to be proud of.
He was no one of importance to her, and he wasn’t even sure he would be able to save all of this from being taken.
But he would sure try his damned hardest.
“It was informative to observe you and your visitors. I can see you are just helping friends.”
“Yes, friends.” Harry nodded and she nodded in return, acknowledging their mutual commitment to the narrative.
“As you can see, so many of my . . . friends desperately need these remedies just to manage in their day-to-day lives, and so many of them cannot afford it. These are not luxuries, Mr. Evans. They’re as essential as food or housing.
All people deserve access to this, but these people are special.
They keep the city running while caring for their own families. ”
Harry nodded, finding the courage to speak truthfully, either from the passionflower tincture or Agnes’s own courage, he was not sure. “I understand. What you do here is really important, Lady Skelton.”
“It’s more than just helping people. This is who I am.
If I am forced out, I would have to set it all up again.
Stopping is not something that I could do.
But it would be a long time before I could help as many people as I do now.
This, all of this,” she said, waving her hands around the room, “took a lot of time and money to build.” Her breaths shortened as panic set in.
He could understand even though Agnes had accomplished what he had not. She had made a name for herself. Her apothecary was an extension of her identity. Without noticing his own movements, he felt her hand under his own. Surprised, he looked down at where they touched.
“I’m sorry, Lady Skelton. I don’t have an answer for you right now, and I really wish I did. I do not wish to upset you.”
She looked away. He couldn’t blame her for not accepting his apology. But he hoped that soon she would see him as an ally.
“Go ahead. Take your inventory.” Bitterness marked her words.
“That won’t be necessary, Lady Skelton. I do not see anything in this room that belongs to the estate. Besides maybe that old chair in the corner.”
She studied his face, head tilted with concentration, as she made sense of his vow to protect her space.
Her brow relaxed, and Harry could feel the fire within her dissipate from the uncontrollable blaze to a comforting warmth.
He did that. He calmed her just like she had calmed him. It wasn’t enough, but it was something.
“Thank you, Mr. Evans. Now if you will excuse me, I need to call my carriage. I have deliveries to make.”
“Deliveries at this hour?” He looked out the small window behind Lady Skelton. Night had fallen long ago. Only a glowing haze from the gas lamps on the street below fractured the darkness.
“Yes, I’m afraid that our meeting has put me behind schedule. I missed my appointment with my normal runner boy. I refuse to pull him out of bed at this hour and be the reason if trouble falls upon him at night.”
“I understand. But what about you?”
“I’ll be fine. I will be going door to door with my carriage. It’s only to Wilson’s Hospital.”
“You don’t mean Dorothy Wilson’s, the almshouse in St. Dennis? You can’t be going into Walmgate at this hour.”
“I haven’t been able to make a delivery since before the funeral. Their stocks must be low by now, if they have not run dry. I’ve been sitting with the guilt for too long. I can’t have it gnaw at me for another day.”
“Did Lord Skelton know you went into Walmgate at night?”
“It is rare for me to miss my appointments with my runner, but if I had to go, he always made sure I went in his carriage. He didn’t fear the poor.”
“I don’t fear the poor. I fear the criminals who are often poor.” Harry’s mind played out visions of Lady Skelton in a carriage slowing down on a muddied street, surrounded by the shadows of bludgers and lurkers.
“Mr. Evans. I expect that with your interactions with the peerage, you’d recognize that criminals come from all classes.”
Her voice held a light scolding, yet it was clear to him that she was holding back as to not kindle the situation into a full-on confrontation, not after they had reached this truce. Agnes was a clever woman. He owed it to her to consider her words, and she had a point.
“You’re right. I should have thought about that before. Your honor and intelligence are unmatched.”
A small gap opened between her lips. “Oh . . . thank you.”
“But how will I know you’re safe?”
“I’m not your responsibility.” She was correct again, but in this instance, he hated to agree with her.