The Lost Apothecary(84)

“I think I’m good,” James said, patting his jeans to make sure his passport was in place. Between us was the unmade bed in which I’d slept—alone—for the past several nights. It was a force between us now, a white, billowy reminder of everything we were meant to share on this trip, yet hadn’t. Only days ago, I’d hoped desperately that our baby would be conceived in this bed. But now, I couldn’t fathom making love to the man standing across the room ever again.

What I imagined for this “anniversary” trip had been nowhere close to reality, but I felt this horror story had been a necessary lesson. After all, what if I hadn’t discovered James’s infidelity, and we’d gotten pregnant, and the truth had come out after the baby’s arrival? Or what if both of us developed a slow-burning resentment—for our jobs, our routine or each other—and the result was a cataclysmic end of our marriage and the ripping apart of our maybe-family-of-three? Because this wasn’t just about James. I’d been just as dissatisfied with life as he was, and I’d buried those feelings deep inside of myself. What if I had been the one to snap? What if I had been the one to make an irreversible mistake?

I checked the time; it was five till one. “Wait,” I said, setting down my phone and standing from my chair. James frowned, his fingers clutching the handle of his luggage. I leaned over my own suitcase, shoving aside the sneakers I wore while mudlarking, and reached for something that had been hidden at the bottom. It was so small, it fit easily in the palm of my hand as I lifted it out.

I wrapped my fingers around the cool, hard object: the vintage box meant for James’s business cards. It was my ten-year anniversary gift to him, which I’d kept tucked away since that fateful afternoon in the bedroom closet.

I crossed the room. “This isn’t forgiveness,” I said softly, “or even a path forward. But it belongs to you, and it’s more fitting now than I could have dreamed when I originally purchased it.” Then I gave him the box, which he accepted with a trembling hand. “It’s made of tin,” I explained. “It’s the traditional gift for ten-year anniversaries because it represents strength and—” I took a deep breath, wishing I could see into the future. In five or ten years, what would our lives look like? “Strength, and the ability to withstand a fair amount of damage. I bought it to symbolize durability in our relationship together, but that’s not the important thing anymore. What’s important is strength on our own. We both have a lot of hard work ahead of us.”

James wrapped me in a tight hug; we stood that way so long, I felt sure the clock ticked past one, and then some. When he finally released me, his voice shook. “I’ll see you soon,” he whispered, his fingers still clutching my gift.

“See you soon,” I said in return, and an unexpected quiver made its way into my own words. I walked James to the door and we glanced at each other a final time, then he left and shut the door behind him.

Alone, again. And yet the freedom was so penetrating and real that I stood motionless, almost stunned, for a moment. I gazed at the floor, waiting with dread for the inevitable wave of loneliness to wash over me. I waited for James to run back, asking for another chance to stay. I waited for my phone to ring, the hospital or police calling with news, bad news, more bad news.

I waited, too, for the stab of regret; I did not tell James about the apothecary. I didn’t tell him that I broke into a hidden subcellar. I didn’t tell him about Gaynor or Bachelor Alf or the serial killer whose secrets I still held safe.

I didn’t tell him any of it.

I stood in front of the door a long while, waiting for guilt, or regret, to rush its way into me. But nothing of the sort plagued me. Nothing festered, and no scores were left to be settled.

As I turned away from the door, my phone dinged—a text from Gaynor. Sorry for the delay! she said. Parish records show a Lady Bea Clarence died at St. Thomas’ hospital, edema, on 23 Oct 1816. No surviving children.

I stared at my phone, dumbfounded, and lowered myself onto the bed. The hospital note was indeed a deathbed confession, written—perhaps with a guilty conscience—by Lord Clarence’s widow twenty-five years after his death.

I picked up the phone to call Gaynor and tell her what I’d learned.

After I explained the existence of Miss Berkwell, the mistress—who I knew about not from the articles Gaynor printed for me, but from the entry in the apothecary’s register—Gaynor was quiet for some time.

There was only one thing I hadn’t told her, and this was about the register entry made the day after the apothecary supposedly died, bearing the name Eliza Fanning.

I kept this to myself.

“This is astounding,” Gaynor finally said through the phone. As I pondered how utterly unbelievable the entire thing was, how utterly spectacular the whole thing was, I could imagine Gaynor shaking her head in awe at all that I’d solved. “And all of this due to a little vial in the river. I can’t believe you pieced it all together. Excellent detective work, Caroline. I do believe you’d be an asset to any PI team.”

I thanked her, then reminded her I’d been a little too close to the police force in recent days.

“Well, if not a PI team,” she replied, “then maybe you could join the research crew at the library.” I felt sure she meant it in jest, but she’d struck a tender nerve. “I’ve seen the spark in you,” she added.