Chapter Four

A few hours later, at 87 Harley Street, London .

T he day had dragged on, but Alfie’s mind wasn’t in his apothecary. He sorted the paper packets of chamomile, calendula, and fennel teas into the wooden drawer by the strongbox under the counter, where he kept the day’s earnings. Though he’d recorded every transaction, he didn’t truly take note.

Instead, his mind wandered to the stunning woman he’d encountered at the ball—or outside the ballroom, to be more precise. Lady Beatrice. Even though they only worked together briefly to administer the ipecac to Pippa’s father, the clandestine operation had quite an impact on him. He couldn’t explain it nor rationalize it. Why he was so depressed that it was over—when their mission had been such a success? Alfie found himself unable to return to his usual life—the boring one without her in it—but there was nothing he could do about it.

It made no sense, of course, but it didn’t need to, for the feeling to be real.

Alfie had been a lucky man, able to have every woman he’d ever fancied in any way that he’d wanted her. Yet, each woman now faded into a distant shadow in his memory, outshone by the sparkle in Bea’s eyes and the quirky asymmetry of her smile. Bea had an innate beauty that had altered something within him, like that whispered tilt of dawn or dusk, when the skies blend seamlessly into one another, and time itself seems to pause in reverence.

It was ironic, truly, as Alfie’s medical education had trained him to appreciate symmetry, yet with Bea, he realized that all he ever knew fell short of the perfection she embodied. He was in awe of her. In fact, Bea was so perfect in every way that this tiny quirk endeared her to him even more. He’d noticed it the first time Pippa had introduced her, but at the ball last night, he had the enormous pleasure of watching it build slowly: Her smile. It started first in the corner of her left side, rose to a slight dimple, and then the other caught up, bringing out her rows of immaculate white teeth. Her lips, painted by nature’s own delicate brush, promised tender kisses and passionate declarations that could soothe the weariest of souls. She had a million intelligent thoughts but seemed to suppress them, unwilling to share, yet casting an expectant gaze as if she waited to see if he could guess.

And that was the problem.

She was meant to want more and to declare her love to some aristocrat. A titled man of the Ton would one day woo her, kiss her, and—Alfie nearly cast up his accounts—make her his wife. Alfie hated the lucky bastard already.

And he hated himself for standing before her without so much as paying her a proper compliment the night before.

Instead, he’d promised to pick orange blossoms. Why didn’t he suggest weeding her garden or fixing her roof while he was already there? It wasn’t as though he could ever lay a hand on her.

Yet, he hadn’t been able to think of anything else.

The bell over the door rang, and a customer walked in. Alfie sighed and let his daydreams fade into the present.

“Mr. Collins, how do you do?” Viscount Mountbatten-Clyde was nearly fifty, with gentle eyes and a hunched back. Although he suffered from various minor ailments, he’d been generally in good health until his recent diagnosis of palpitations.

“I’m here to try the foxglove,” the viscount said. “Is it ready yet?”

“Of course, Lord Mountbatten-Clyde, but I would have delivered it to you myself,” Alfie said as he opened one of the little drawers that covered part of the wall behind him.

“You’ll learn one thing, son: never assign something to others that you truly need. If you want it done right, there is no better way than to do it yourself.”

“Well, I have three dosages here and recommend starting with an infusion of the leaves. No more than three per day to begin.”

The viscount accepted the paper envelope with dried digitalis leaves and smelled it. Despite his station, Alfie knew he never sent a servant to pick up his medicine. He also knew he couldn’t tolerate anything bitter and always chose the blandest mixtures Alfie could offer.

“Blah! What’s the second option?”

Alfie momentarily shut his open demeanor as if drawing the curtains on his patience. He couldn’t tell his patient how many hours he’d spent finding just the right teas to mask the taste of the foxglove and how it had affected him tasting a medicine he didn’t need so that he could create a palatable version for the viscount. I know you despise the bitterness. That’s why I tasted your medicine.

“Very well, my lord, the next would be the powdered leaf. This only requires two doses daily.” Alfie retrieved a small measuring spoon the size of a ladle for dolls that measured exactly five grams. “Don’t exceed two doses per day, one in the morning and one at night.”

The viscount uncorked the glass flask with the grayish-green powder and grimaced. “What should I mix this with? Whiskey?”

“Nothing. You may drink tea afterward to help swallow it.”

The older man shook his head. “I’m afraid that this won’t work, Mr. Collins.”

Alfie suppressed the urge to groan and looked at the wall clock over the shelf. It was already after four o’clock. He’d wanted to harvest the petals nearly twelve hours ago at daybreak when the dew was forming. Now, it was already late in the afternoon, and he hadn’t seen Bea—not that he would have at daybreak, but he’d wished to be closer to her than he was now.

He was no fool. He knew he couldn’t have her, but he was drawn to her like Icarus to the sun, knowing that his waxen wings would melt the closer he got. But Bea was the kind of woman for which one would plummet into the open sea. She was sweet and intelligent, yet she had a warmth about her that was utmostly feminine. She’d administered the most bitter-tasting ipecac to the Duke of Sussex, and he hadn’t even noticed. She was brilliant.

“Mr. Collins?”

Alfie woke from his stupor and shook his head. “I’m so sorry. If you experience anything out of the ordinary, stop using this and come back,” he said as he wrapped the vial with the clear alcohol solution of distilled foxglove in a piece of paper and tied it with a string.

“Everything gives me palpitations, so I don’t know what would be out of the ordinary.” The viscount corked the vial with the powder and returned it to the counter. “Thank you for the liquor version; it’ll be easier to swallow.”

“You must not take more than one drop. Should you accidentally put two in your glass, throw it out, rinse it, and take another.”

“I don’t rinse my glasses, Mr. Collins. But all right. What am I looking for in force majeure situations?”

“Nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, blurred vision, seeing halos or yellow-green distortions around lights, confusion, or any unusual sensation in your chest,” Alfie said, cutting the string he’d just tied and handing the medicine to the Viscount.

“Thank you.” The Viscount added it to his tab and left.

Alfie eyed the clock. It was almost time for dinner.

“Alfie!” Andre’s voice emanated from the hall, and the bell over his door rang. “I need some arnica ointment for a little patient.” He walked in and carried a young girl in his arms. She was no older than six and had two thick, black braids.

“Who have we here?” Alfie said kindly, trying to forget that the time to harvest the orange blossoms had almost passed. There wouldn’t be time to see Bea again.

“Miss Charlotte Harrington,” a young woman with a dignified accent said as she followed Andre into Alfie’s apothecary.

Andre set the little girl down on a chair and pulled the stool from underneath so she could rest her leg on it. “She fell off the swing.”

“Oh, that hurts. It happened to me once,” Alfie said kindly, tilting his head toward the top right drawer where he had a tin of arnica ointment ready. Andre took it out behind the counter while Alfie squatted before the little girl. “When I fell off the swing, I thought for a moment that I could fly.”

“Really?” The little girl sniffled and licked a tear that had rolled onto her lips.

“Oh yes. It was in Austria, in the Alps. When you swing so high in the mountains, the air is thin, and you think you can soar like a bird. Did you feel like that?”

She shook her head and eyed her bruised knee. The skin was barely scraped, but a swelling was building underneath. It would heal in less than three days unless she fell again on the exact same spot—which children sometimes did.

“How did it feel in the moment just before the landing?” Alfie asked.

“I don’t know.” She sniffled again.

Andre rustled behind Alfie and produced a cold compress, which he carefully laid on the girl’s knee. She winced.

“You know, there’s glory in the landing, too. Mine at the time was more like a flop.” Alfie watched the girl grimace as the essential oils from the compress began to take action. He smelled the witch hazel Andre had applied, which would have been his preferred astringent, too.

“I came upon Miss Charlotte and her nanny at Regent Park on my way home,” Andre explained.

That was the first time Alfie paid attention to the woman who’d watched them. She was pretty, with lush lips and dark lashes. There was a time when he would have invited her for a glass of wine and perhaps more, but that time seemed so long ago. He couldn’t explain why, but even last week seemed a lifetime ago—a lifetime before he’d met Bea.

Andre removed the compress, and the little girl hissed. Her knee was bony, but her shins still had such a childish layer of fat that Alfie had to smile.

“I’m sure that you’ll heal quickly, and if you ever fall again, you remember that there is glory in the thump you make when you land,” Andre said as he opened the ointment and scooped a glob out with a spatula from Alfie’s drawer. They worked seamlessly together, as Andre knew where to find the most common medicines he needed daily. Correspondingly, Alfie had learned to make sure the supplies were replenished every morning.

“There’s also glory in getting up again,” the woman said.

“This is Miss Cassandra Shaw, a substitute teacher at St. George’s School for Girls,” Andre explained with a man-to-man stare that spoke volumes. Alfie shared a look of his own: Don’t worry, she’s yours.

At the same time, he said, “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Shaw.” Alfie inclined his head but then turned back to the little girl. “And if you limp a little until the swelling goes down, remember that anyone who limps has once fallen but has also had the strength to get up.”

“So this is a glorious injury?” The little girl said with a half-smile.

“And a most honorable one. A rite of passage, if you will.”

“Passing to what?” the girl asked.

“From a child to a professional on the swing. You’ll be more careful from now on, but you’ll also hold on better and swing higher.”

“Like a bird in the sky?” She beamed. “Or the trapeze artist at the circus?”

“As long as you’re safe, you can be anything you want.” Alfie winked at her.

“Let’s put some ice on this now.” Andre scooped her back up in his arms.

After Andre and his little patient with the pretty teacher had gone, Alfie shut the door. Ice was an excellent idea. Perhaps he should cool his mind and try not to think of Bea lest he swing too high and plummet most inelegantly to his doom. Getting caught with a nobleman’s daughter wouldn’t allow him a second chance in life. And becoming the apothecary he was with a practice in the heart of London had cost him too much—he wasn’t willing to squander his career and livelihood for a fling.

Then why did the thought of not going after Bea sting so much?