Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Although Gwen had always been grateful to Mr Rosewood for employing Archibald and housing their family, she found it hard not to feel resentful when she attended the afternoon tea party at the Rosewoods’ house three days before Christmas.
Compared to the humble surroundings in which she and Archibald lived, Conrad Rosewood’s house was like a palace.
A young maid in an immaculate dress and starched cap led Gwen to a spacious parlour at the rear of the house, where the warmth hit her like an inferno. The fire was banked high, and the gloomy afternoon was kept at bay by heavy brocade curtains in rich turquoise and gold.
This was what came from owning the businesses rather than working in the pharmacies, and not for the first time she wished Archibald had been daring enough to go into partnership with Mr Rosewood years ago when Conrad had asked him to invest. It soothed Gwen’s slight guilt at using opium from the store cupboard, and she felt eager to discover if there was a potential market for selling the tincture.
Unlike her lavish surroundings, Miss Rosewood wasn’t dressed in the manner one would expect of the only heiress to what must be a considerable fortune.
Her dress was green wool, with a lighter green piping at the bodice and sleeves, but was otherwise very plain.
There were slightly shiny patches at the wrists where the material had worn smooth through use.
Was that by choice or because her uncle was miserly with her allowance?
It gave Gwen pause to consider what Miss Rosewood’s life was like living on the charity of her uncle, and perhaps explained why she, too, was so keen to make a little pin money for herself.
Gwen took a seat on one of the well-stuffed chairs, accepting a china cup so thin that the tea danced in the light of the fire that shone through it.
There were four other guests. One of Gwen’s own age, one of about Miss Rosewood’s who told Gwen she had recently given birth to her third child (which explained why she was slightly wild eyed with exhaustion) and two older matrons, one of whom was the wife of the curate at the church Miss Rosewood attended.
Gwen wouldn’t have presumed to socialise with the wife of her own vicar and felt a touch of admiration for Miss Rosewood’s boldness.
‘Mrs Walters’ husband manages one of Uncle Conrad’s pharmacies,’ Miss Rosewood explained.
Gwen wished she had concealed the relationship, because it immediately made her feel the status of an employee, whereas these women were apparently the wives of doctors, vicars and lawyers.
None of them were in trade, and from the slightly patronising murmurs of ‘Oh, how interesting,’ that the information received, Gwen decided she would quite happily relieve them of some money.
Gwen nodded to each woman as Miss Rosewood introduced her, wondering which of them was most likely to bring up the matter of health and ailments.
The first to do so was Mrs McAllister: a woman whose steel-grey-hair was barely contained beneath an emerald velvet toque that Gwen thought beautiful. She declined a second piece of Battenberg cake, patting her abdomen in a way that seemed very forthright to Gwen.
‘I would love to, but unfortunately it plays the very devil with my constitution. I was in such discomfort the last time I ate marzipan that I swear I almost helped myself to the colic medicine my daughter-in-law gives her child.’
‘We’ve all done that at one time or another,’ replied Mrs Browne, the young mother.
‘When my tooth was bad last winter, I drank half of an entire bottle of Godfrey’s Cordial and slept soundly.
It was rather wonderful, I must admit, even though it did mean I missed Anabelle-Sarah crying.
Her nursemaid had to wake me, which was mortifying indeed. ’
‘When you reach the next stage in your lives, you will all look back on those days with fondness,’ intoned Mrs McAllister. ‘I positively long for the state of exhaustion that motherhood brought. A full night of sleep has become a distant memory.’
‘Wouldn’t it be delightful to have something which could ease the daily trials of womanhood?’ Miss Rosewood sighed, passing around the plate of salmon-paste sandwiches.
This led to a number of comments from the mothers, both young and old, declaring that Miss Rosewood had no idea of the ills that faced a woman who had borne children.
Gwen had been initially reluctant to join in the conversation but, drawn in by the outspoken exchange of confidences, she found herself bemoaning the early days of motherhood.
It was quite delightful to speak so openly about matters that she hadn’t even discussed with Archibald and had blushed about when consulting her doctor.
Was this confidence and indelicacy something that came with the trappings of wealth?
For a few minutes the conversation turned to the various children the women had borne, all at different ages.
From then, the conversation moved to discussions of their husbands.
Gwen watched Miss Rosewood surreptitiously.
It wasn’t very tactful, considering their hostess was unmarried and childless and must surely be mourning every passing day when the likelihood of achieving either was slipping away.
‘Of course, being married is not all delights,’ she commented, when there was a break into which she felt confident to insert her views.
‘I might be alone in thinking it, but sometimes I feel my husband is not the tidiest of fellows and he has a habit of tapping his teaspoon that sends me quite wild. And my son is dreadful at writing to me.’
It was the first time she’d ever admitted to another person that her life was not perfect. She waited for condemnation, but to her relief, Mrs McAllister groaned.
‘Oh, that’s very true, Mrs Waters. The times I’ve laid awake listening to Robert snoring, wishing I could drug either him or myself into oblivion.’
There was general laughter. Gwen joined in, buoyed up by the realisation that she was not alone in her frustrations, and not even minding that the older woman had got her name wrong.
How marvellous it was to discover this group of women had the same vexations.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Miss Rosewood nodding subtly.
‘I recently happened upon the most marvellous remedy,’ Gwen ventured. She looked around nervously, half hoping that no one had heard her and the whole scheme would die before it was fully born.
‘Remedy for what? Snoring husbands?’ asked the woman of her age, a Mrs Casper. ‘I do wonder some nights if that young lady in the Bible with the tent peg had the right idea there.’
There was more laughter.
‘What were you talking about, Mrs Walters?’ Miss Rosewood asked, artfully steering the conversation back to Gwen. ‘A remedy for restless nights? Is it something I could buy in your husband’s pharmacy?’
‘I’m afraid not. It’s something I purchased by writing off to an advertisement that promised not only sleep, but a sense of bliss before sleep came.’ Gwen looked around, a little unnerved to be the centre of attention.
‘Did it work?’ asked Mrs McAllister, leaning forward with such eagerness she was in danger of spilling tea into her saucer.
‘Oh, yes,’ Gwen answered with enthusiasm, warming to the subject as she remembered the sensations of floating or sailing and the unaccustomed swelling of desire that accompanied them.
‘I completely lost all sense of time and experienced the most superb creative urges and quite enchanting daydreams. Then I slept wonderfully.’
‘This sounds quite remarkable. What is it called?’ Mrs Casper’s eyes gleamed. ‘You must give me the name of the manufacturer and I shall keep my eyes open for an advertisement.’
Gwen caught Miss Rosewood’s eye. This was extremely good progress but foolishly they hadn’t thought of that.
‘I can’t remember the name, I’m afraid. That is, there must have been a name in the advertisement, but I couldn’t tell you the name of the manufacturer, only that the address was in, umm … Sheffield, I think.’
She rummaged in her handbag and produced the small bottle.
Miss Rosewood reached for it. ‘May I?’
Gwen handed it over and Miss Rosewood held it up to the light, examining it as if she had never seen it before.
‘How remarkable. Is it more effective than anything sold over the counter in the pharmacy?’
Gwen smiled. ‘Indeed it is, though I would not want to do my husband or your uncle out of any profit by saying so.’
Miss Rosewood smiled at her. ‘Of course not. I wonder…’ She shook her head in a show of regret. ‘No, it would be a liberty to ask.’
‘No, please, speak freely,’ Gwen urged.
Miss Rosewood gave another great show of reluctance to speak.
‘Miss Rosewood, you are too reticent,’ Mrs Dowson interrupted, pushing her pince-nez higher so that her eyes sparkled with excitement. ‘I shall ask what you are clearly thinking but are too afraid to say aloud. Mrs Walters, might I be bold enough to try a little of your remarkable remedy?’
Gwen hid her elation with difficulty. This was progressing so much better than she had expected.
‘Oh, no. We can’t ask that,’ Miss Rosewood said, handing the bottle back to Gwen. ‘It must have been expensive, and we couldn’t take liberties or put you in an awkward position.’
Gwen clasped the bottle in the palm of her hand with the tenderness with which Mrs Browne might cradle her newborn.
‘Miss Rosewood, really! What do you take me for!’ Mrs Dowson frowned. ‘I shall gladly compensate Mrs Walters. Would a shilling be fair, Mrs Walters? Not for the whole bottle but for a single dose. Jenny, you will pay that, too, I’m sure.’
‘I’m not sure I should do that,’ Gwen said, knotting her brow.
Only some of her hesitancy was simulated, because faced with the group of women staring at her with expressions like gulls eyeing the morning catch, her mind filled with worries. ‘It might not be safe,’ she mumbled.