Apothecary's Daughter , livre ebook

Praise for Julie Klassen s first book, Lady of Milkweed Manor
Both readers of faith fiction and general readers of historical romance should enjoy this lovely first offering from Klassen.
- Publishers Weekly
Klassen has written an amazing historical novel. Her style may remind readers of Jane Austen and Lawana Blackwell, and she handles a 19th-century taboo with grace, style and respect.
-Patsy Glans, Romantic Times
It s a rare book that forces me to press the pause button on my life and simply devour the story-this is one such book. Well-written, emotionally charged, unexpected plot twists, and an amazing balance of foreshadowing with backstory all lend to a remarkable debut novel by author Julie Klassen. The tension builds throughout and keeps the reader guessing until the last page.
-Michelle Griep, Novel Reviews
This was an excellent first novel and one of the best historical novels I ve read this year. I am looking forward to Julie Klassen s next book. HIGHLY recommended.
-Deborah Khuanghlawn, Books-Movies-Chinesefood
A delightful first novel. Julie Klassen weaves a compelling story . . . fully imagined. I loved it!
-Beverly Lewis, New York Times bestselling author
The characters are strong-the writing excellent-and the love that blooms for Charlotte, in many ways and with many characters, will leave you immensely and blissfully happy that good things actually do come to good people after their dues have been paid.
-Amy Lignor, Once Upon a Romance
Ms. Klassen has penned an exquisite first novel that echoes the era of Jane Austen in both setting and style. . . . This novel engaged me from the first page, and I can highly recommend Lady of Milkweed Manor to anyone who delights in Regency romance.
-Tamela McCann, Historical Novels Review
. . . not only a beautiful tale but a fascinating study of women s roles in a time not so terribly distant. I d say bravo on a fine debut, and here s hoping for another finely crafted historical from Klassen soon.
-Violet Nesdoly, Blogcritics
Lady of Milkweed Manor is beautifully crafted with characters that will live on in your heart long after you ve closed the last page.
-Kim Vogel Sawyer, bestselling author
A strong and entertaining story that you ll finish with a sigh. Read it and tell your friends to buy it too.
-Lauraine Snelling, bestselling author
This is truly one of the most emotionally gripping novels I ve ever read and it is sure to make my best of 2008 list. My heart pounded with anticipation so many times I lost count. . . . This story is so full of passion that it will make your heart sing.
-Michelle Sutton, Edgy Inspirational Author
The Apothecary s Daughter
JULIE KLASSEN
The Apothecary s Daughter Copyright 2008 Julie Klassen
Cover design by Jennifer Parker Cover photography by Mike Habermann
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means-electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise-without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers 11400 Hampshire Avenue South Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Klassen, Julie. The apothecary s daughter / Julie Klassen. p. cm. ISBN 978-0-7642-0480-7 (pbk.) 1. Young women-Fiction. 2. Villages-England-Fiction. 3. Fathers and daughters-Fiction. 4. Family secrets-Fiction. 5. Pharmacy-Fiction. 6. London (England)-Fiction. I. Title.
PS3611.L37A66 2008 813 .6-dc22
2008041671
In memory of my funny, creative, hardworking father
H AROLD B UD T HEISEN --- OCTOBER 1937 - AUGUST 2008
SHEPHERD S PURSE This plant is a remarkable instance of the truth of an observation which there is too frequently room to make, namely, that Providence has made the most useful things most common and for that reason we neglect them. . . .
-C ULPEPER S C OMPLETE H ERBAL E NGLISH P HYSICIAN
Contents
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part II
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Part III
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Epilogue
Author s Note
Reading Group Discussion Questions
About the Author
P ROLOGUE

I remember it clearly, although it was years ago now. For I remember everything.
I The year was 1810. I was a girl of fifteen, standing on the arched Honeystreet Bridge-which I often did when I was not needed in Father s shop-gazing upon the brightly painted boats that floated past. There a blue barge, and there a yellow-and-white narrowboat. In reality, I was searching. Searching the face of every person on every narrowboat that passed by on the newly completed K and A Canal. There were not many women, but a few. For though men worked the canals as pilots, navigators, and merchants, entire families sometimes lived aboard-as wives and children made for less costly crews.
My mother had disappeared on one of those narrowboats two months before, or so the villagers whispered when they thought I could not hear. I suppose I hoped she would return as she left, declaring her absence a lark, an adventure, a mistake . . . anything. How many hours had I stood there? How many boats had I seen pass beneath that bridge-boats with names like the Britannia , Radiant , or Perseverance ? Where had they come from, I always wondered, and where were they bound? What cargo did they bear-spices from the West Indies, perhaps, or tea from China? Coal from the Midlands or timber from as far away as Norway? How often I dreamt of stowing away and leaving Bedsley Priors for the bright unknown beyond.
That day, however, I watched the yellow-and-white narrowboat for another reason. A gangly boy with a cinched bag slung over his shoulder climbed unsteadily from the moored boat. My father, standing on the bank, extended his hand in greeting, just as the boy leaned over and was sick.
I winced. Not a very propitious beginning for a new apprentice. Father s shoes were likely spoilt.
I sighed. I knew I should go down to them. Father had not seen me there or he would have called for my help. He always did. With Mother gone and my only brother slow of mind, many responsibilities for both the household and shop fell to me.
But no. I would wait and meet young Mr. Baylor later, once he d had a chance to collect himself. I would brew ginger tea for him and find an old cloth for Father s shoes. But first I wanted a few more moments on the bridge.
Several minutes later, a red-and-blue narrowboat approached from the west, from as far away as Bristol, perhaps, on its way to the Thames and then to London some eighty miles east. A man led one boat-horse along the towpath. A lone person sat in the curved bow deck. Far behind, aft of the cabin, two crewmen stood on the tiller deck.
As the boat drew nearer, I saw that the figure in the bow was a woman, head low, as if in prayer. Or perhaps she was reading. A wide bonnet concealed her face from the sun, from me. My heart leapt. Something about the woman s posture and tilt of her head struck me as familiar. Mother loved to read .
I leaned across the wide brick ledge, peering hard, heart beating. The boat drew closer. I saw that the man leading the horse was deeply tanned and broad-shouldered. The man she left us for? As he led the boat-horse along the strip of land beneath the bridge, he disappeared from view. The bow of the boat reached the shadow of the bridge, and one of the crewmen gaped up at me. I barely saw him. Instead I read the vessel s name painted in decorative lettering on the side, The Gypsy, and I thought, How apt. Still, I could not see the woman s face.
I whirled and raced to the other side of the bridge, hoping my angle would be better, that I would see her from that side as they passed.
Perhaps she does not even realize where she is , I thought, engrossed as she was in her reading. Should I call to her?
I only stared, afraid to be a fool before this woman, before the men labouring at the nearby timber mill. If only I could see her face. . . .
I squinted. Tried to focus. Dimly, I heard a voice. Someone was calling my name.
Lilly!
The boat passed further down the canal and she began to disappear all over again. Look up! I urged silently. See me.
The woman stood and looked up, but away from me-ahead toward the man and horse. The back of my mind registered pounding footsteps. The voice grew urgent. Is she calling me?
Lilly!
Here I am! I called.
The woman turned around. She held a hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes from the sun. Her brow wrinkled in perplexity as she stared back. I raised my hand and waved.
The woman slowly, tentatively, raised her own hand. Not in greeting, but in somber salute. The motion revealed her face-a stranger s face-kind and plain. In her hand, not a book but a rumple of cloth. Mending.
A hand shook my shoulder. Lilly?
Numbly, I tore my eyes from the fading sight of the woman and turned. My younger brother, Charlie, stood before me, clearly agitated and breathing hard. I called you. Why did you not answer?
I . . . thought . . . I blinked away the pathetic vision of what I had thought and in its place saw his wide eyes, his frightened