Page 22 of Love Thy Enemy (The Vaughns #4)

A gentleman didn’t debase himself with money.

Never mind that every life was directly impacted by income; a gentleman of standing ought never to pursue it in any overt fashion.

One must possess money, not earn the gauche stuff.

Even the landed gentry preferred for a steward to manage the estate and, most especially, the collecting of rent.

Then they needn’t dirty themselves with receiving the few coins their tenants scraped together—lest the master be mistaken for someone in trade. Heaven forfend.

Thankfully, Gregory Vaughn was not a gentleman. Not in a traditional sense.

Of course, times were changing, and what was once a rigid definition of a man without profession (except a very few acceptable pursuits) now encompassed a far broader sense of the word.

With each passing decade, the gentry’s estates and tenant farmlands were being sold off as those families refused to economize and acknowledge the shifting winds.

As physicians were considered gentlemen whilst surgeons were denied that lofty title, the Vaughns had often skirted the line of acceptability, as country physicians often dabbled in both.

But thankfully, being proper Doctors of Medicine gave Edward and Father a cachet that allowed them to straddle the line of gentility.

They were no mere “Mr.,” which was more than most gentlemen could claim.

However, an apothecary was not acceptable in any fashion.

Most especially one who dared to open a shop front and sell his wares like a common tradesman.

Never mind that the work they performed wasn’t any different than that of physicians, who were known to prepare their own remedies and sell them to their patients.

But such was done behind closed doors, so everyone could ignore that glaring hypocrisy.

Thankfully, Violet Vaughn’s love of medicine and her husband’s disinterest in holding to social strictures led them to open this most beautiful of shops.

The moment one stepped inside, it was clear that nothing had been placed by accident.

Shelves rose in perfect lines along the walls, each one crowded with neatly labeled jars and bottles, bringing color and scent to the space with the bright bite of lemon balm, dried lavender, and hints of mint and camphor weaving through the richer notes of licorice root and myrrh.

The counter gleamed, wiped down to a polish, and even the scales—brass and well-used—rested like showpieces upon a velvet mat.

For all its modest footprint, Vaughn & Co.

stood as a quiet marvel of industry and precision.

A childhood spent at his mother’s side as she mixed and fashioned the medicines her husband prescribed had given Gregory a love of these herbs and spices, but his natural propensity for business had transformed the small shop into a well-oiled enterprise, with shipments reaching the apothecaries of Leeds and Manchester—and even drawing inquiries from London.

And people across the county spoke of “Vaughn’s” as if it were a long-standing institution.

Gregory had earned every inch of this success, one mortarful at a time.

And yet—blast it all—the shop was so very small.

“Vaughn’s is the first place the villagers go for medical advice,” said Mr. Sparks, motioning to the displays of ready-made powders and tablets. “As many cannot afford a physician’s fees for minor illnesses, apothecaries are often called upon to diagnose coughs, headaches, and fevers.”

Reed College wasn’t a mighty institution, so Gregory hadn’t anticipated Jackson’s class to be so numerous. But perhaps it was merely that the room was far too tight for an additional dozen bodies. Most especially boys, with their utter lack of awareness of their surroundings.

“Mind your elbows,” Gregory called as a lanky schoolboy nearly knocked over a trio of bottles resting on the countertop.

Mr. Sparks paused in his explanation and straightened it before Gregory did so, and then the fellow continued with his lecture about the shopfront.

As grateful as he was for Mr. Sparks volunteering to lead the presentation, Gregory couldn’t help wondering if the fellow was suited for the task as the boys grew more and more restless.

There was a difference between being skilled in a subject and teaching it, and it seemed Mr. Sparks was no better at the latter than Gregory.

“Boys,” whispered Walter, dragging their attention back to the lecture.

Meeting his assistant’s eyes, Gregory nodded toward the door at the back of the shop, and Mr. Sparks motioned the group toward it.

“Now, let’s see the workshop,” he said, guiding them into the corridor that divided the apprentices’ space and Gregory’s. “Do not touch anything unless you fancy a rash or a nasty burn.”

At that, the boys’ attention sharpened, their spines straightening as they craned to look into the room whilst Mr. Sparks led them to where Mr. Caney and Mr. Wolsey worked.

The air in the workshop thickened with the tang of ground minerals and vinegar distillations.

A large work table filled the room, leaving just enough space for the young men to walk around it, though with the added bodies, it was difficult.

Thankfully, the apprentices had cleared the table of its usual parchments, herbs, and pestles, leaving only that which was required for the demonstration.

The students squeezed between them in a disorderly shuffle, each one trying to see everything at once while avoiding contact with the large glass alembics arrayed in the center.

Gregory resisted the urge to sigh. It was a beautiful little shop.

His life’s work. His pride and joy. But as the boys jostled and craned their necks, their heads nearly knocking into the low-hanging bunches of comfrey and meadowsweet, he could no longer deny the simple truth: the shop was simply not large enough. Not anymore.

As their wares grew more popular, they required more space to make them.

And while Gregory was pleased to have such a healthy venture situated in Thornsby, the village simply did not boast the capacity to maintain the shop’s growth.

Even assuming he could find land on which to build, the cost of constructing a new shop would be astronomical compared to the many ready buildings in the cities.

For all that he had needed to meet with various suppliers and shops in Leeds, Gregory ought to have stayed at home.

He hadn’t intended to look at properties, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself from noticing the building sitting vacant not far from his inn.

No doubt it would be occupied before long, but it was such a perfect location with a nice storefront and close access to the railway station to transport their goods to every corner of the country.

And the space! Large enough for him to hire clerks and assistants or take on a dozen more apprentices. To say nothing of the vast selection of rooms to let nearby.

Mr. Wolsey lit the burner beneath the alembic, a bright burst of fire spiking up to lick the bottom of the rounded jar, and like moths, the boys drew closer with gasps of excitement.

“Careful,” warned Walter, pulling back one of the boys who reached over to grab it.

Glass clinked as another lad backed into the shelves that held the ingredient bottles, and Walter steadied the objects before they fell.

With another word of warning, they continued their demonstration of the distillation process, but Gregory glanced over the group and noticed Jackson wasn’t among them.

Turning about, he searched through the group, but the lad was nowhere to be seen—then Gregory spied his workshop door open with Jackson standing just inside.

Crossing into that room, he found Mother there, showing the lad how to roll out tablets.

She guided his hands as he fashioned a long rope from the paste, and once it was the right thickness, Mother ran a metal paddle over the top to slice it into proper doses.

“See that?” she said, motioning for Jackson to try.

His hand slipped as he moved the paddles, but she simply had him roll it out once more and try again.

Mother smiled, and a knot in Gregory’s chest loosened.

There was a brightness in her expression that he hadn’t seen in several days, and it only grew as the lad tried once more.

“You make medicines?” asked Jackson, glancing up at the lady.

“Like many physicians’ wives, I assisted him in his work,” said Mother. “My husband managed the diagnosis and the patient care whilst I did what I do best. Though I have turned the operation over to Gregory, I still assist when I can.”

With an easy glide of her hand, she sliced the paste into small tablets and urged Jackson to lay them out on the sieve to dry.

Mother looked so pleased with her work, and Gregory felt another pang in his heart.

It wasn’t as though he’d truly considered relocating to Leeds, yet he still felt he’d betrayed her by allowing the thought to pass through his mind.

Father was struggling with the transition into total blindness, and Mother adored helping in the shop, so not only would he be abandoning them, but he would be taking away something his mother dearly enjoyed doing.

Gregory supposed he could keep the shop open in Leeds as well (the villagers would require medicines, after all), but managing two stores on top of everything else was too much at present.

To say nothing of the eagerness with which Jackson worked alongside her as she helped him measure ingredients. The Stuarts were finding their place amongst his family, and to pull them away would be cruel.

“Afternoon,” called Edward as he swept into the workshop like the dervish he was. Bussing mother on the cheek, he snatched a vial from Gregory’s shelf and tucked it into his medical bag. “I restocked up front, but you are low on rhubarb powder.”