Page 16 of The Love Remedy (The Damsels of Discovery #1)

16

Thorne listened intently to the sermon that Sunday, hoping for some insight into his addictions. He closed his eyes and sighed when the reverend quoted Corinthians. The Bible promised that God would not tempt Thorne more than he could manage.

The Bible also said he shouldn’t eat oysters.

In the end, conquering an addiction came down to a faith larger than one that needed to be memorized or foisted on others. It came down to a faith in oneself, an acceptance that the right way was always going to be the hard way.

Thorne mulled this over as he left church. On the notice wall near the exit was a flyer for a Guardians of Domesticity rally that week. After quickly looking around, Thorne pulled it down and pocketed it.

If Duncan Rider hadn’t a hand in the disappearance of Lucy’s formula, Thorne might have to look harder at the Guardians. It would be a feather in their cap to close a woman-owned apothecary, and they certainly had it out for Juliet and her clinic.

“I believe we should bring Lester back to where you found him,” Sadie confided as they walked home from church. For once, the sun had appeared, and the wind blew its sullen self away to torture folks in other counties.

“Lester,” he repeated.

Thorne relished the sensation of his daughter’s hand in his as they walked home leisurely. He’d started a roast that morning, and it would be simmering in gravy by the time they arrived. Inspired by the women around him, he’d been thinking like a scientist these days, grating the carrots finely before setting them in with the roast with the hypothesis that Sadie wouldn’t notice them, or at least wouldn’t mind eating them in a different state.

“Lester is the frog you borrowed from the park last night,” Sadie reminded him. “Today, the sermon was about doing unto others, and I wondered if God meant animals when he said ‘others.’?”

This made sense to Thorne.

“I don’t see why not. If God created the creatures on earth, he must have an interest in their welfare, too,” he said.

Sadie sighed. “Yes. And if it were me living with my family happily by the pond and some giant took me home to be dissected, well, I shouldn’t like it. Should you?”

“No, indeed.”

As it was, they came home and set their dinner aside for later. They took a quick meal of bread and apples before heading back out with Lester to the Serpentine, having decided to return him to the bosom of his family.

Thorne was so intent on helping Sadie down to the edge of the water that he paid little heed when a man approached on horseback. It was Sadie who stood first, shielding her eyes against the sharp lemon light of the November sun and greeting the stranger.

“Have you come looking for frogs?” she asked.

“I believe it’s too cold for frog hunting,” said the man. The hairs on the back of Thorne’s neck straightened with shock, and he turned to stare.

Seated firmly on an excitable young gelding was his father.

“Jonathan,” his father said in greeting.

“Sir.”

It took forever for Thorne to stand, his knees creaking loudly in the silence. The entire time, he met his father’s gaze. With a little tug, Sadie slipped her muddied hand into his.

Thorne had been fond of horses as a boy and enjoyed spending summer afternoons in the lazy heat of the stables, lulled by the sound of nickering and the rustling of hay. His father’s stables were well regarded in racing circles. Unlike some of his peers, Blackstone held on to his horses that didn’t live up to their potential, letting them out to pasture for the rest of their lives.

“You don’t punish an animal for not being what you want,” his father would say. “God made all creatures for a reason.” Thorne had forgotten until right now his father’s interest and respect for animals.

“First, we meet at the Physic Garden and now by the shores of the Serpentine,” his father said. “You always did have an affinity for the outdoors.”

Sadie pressed her hand on Thorne’s. She would be curious who the man on the horse was and why he used Thorne’s first name, but he could likely get away with a nonanswer. Another lie.

Or he could tell the truth.

“It is my daughter who is the naturalist.” Thorne glanced down, and his heart looked back at him from behind her eyes. “She is an avid student of the sciences and has been learning the anatomy of amphibians.”

“Student of sciences?” his father asked. “I do not know many young ladies with that interest.”

Rather than a sneer of disdain, his father’s expression was one of open interest. All Thorne could think about was the last time he’d seen his father at home. He’d come with Sadie and asked his parents to care for her until he could win a few more prizes and buy a town house in London for them.

“Certainly not,” his mother had said, eyebrows to her hairline in outrage. “You will put her in a home somewhere with a respectable family.” She’d ignored Sadie as though the little girl were an uninvited pet. “That is what gentlemen do with their natural-born children. You pay the family a monthly stipend and help broker a match for her when she’s grown.”

When Thorne had insisted that he wanted to raise Sadie with his name, he might as well have slapped his mother.

“Your name? You don’t even know if the child is yours, for God’s sake.”

His father had said nothing, silently deferring to his wife in this matter as in so many questions of a social nature. Thorne didn’t know if the pained look of disappointment in his father’s eyes was due to Sadie’s presence, or the part Thorne played in her creation. Either way, Thorne made his decision. Leaving his family behind, he’d taken a name of his own to share with Sadie.

It was this name he offered when he introduced his daughter to her grandfather.

“Lord Blackstone, may I present my daughter, Miss Sadie Thorne. Sadie, this is my... this is Lord Blackstone.”

Sadie curtsied as prettily as she could in the muck. “How do you do?”

“Tell me what you have learned about frogs,” his father said.

Before Thorne could stop her, Sadie repeated her favored fact about the astounding size of a frog’s feces.

Blackstone hid a smile behind his hand and pretended to cough as his mount stepped sideways.

“Did you know,” Blackstone asked her, “that in the Dutch East Indies they drink coffee made from beans that are rescued from the civet cat’s poo? It is called kopi luwak.”

Sadie’s eyes grew wide. “I’ve never heard of a civet cat. Is it enormous? Does it smell of coffee? Who rescues the beans?”

“These are good questions,” his father said. “If you give me your direction, Miss Thorne, I shall send you a portfolio I found recently filled with pictures and information about exotic animals. Would that please you?”

“Oh, yes,” Sadie replied.

“And you?” Blackstone asked him.

Was his father asking if it pleased him that Sadie be given a gift, or that his father had approached them in the first place?

“I suppose it does,” he’d answered. To both questions.

Blackstone had opened his mouth but shut it again when nothing emerged. He’d touched his fingers to his hat in farewell and rode away into the purple light of an early dusk.

Thorne had no vocabulary for the feelings that swirled in his chest after his father left, but he tried to name them. Anger, certainly, that his father could speak so easily to the granddaughter he had refused to acknowledge. Sadness, that Sadie had to grow up without any grandparents or family other than Thorne.

Something else, too. Some strange lightness that he ignored until later that night, once the roast had been eaten and Oliver Twist read and discussed. Sadie fell asleep within seconds of the candle being snuffed, and Thorne sat in his room and stared out the window.

He had vowed never to speak with his parents again after they rejected his plea. A line he’d drawn in red, never to be crossed. Other lines followed as he remade his life.

No parties. No gambling.

Never again would a drink pass his lips.

Never again would he love a beautiful woman.

Red lines everywhere until he lived securely within his restrictions. His rules had saved his life, but had they also diminished it? For the past seven years, Thorne had spent his time and energy on protecting himself and Sadie from any trials.

Was it time to test himself?

Or was testing himself a prelude to indulging?

He did not lie to himself and deny that speaking to his father had prompted these reflections, but it was his attraction to Lucy that gave him the most pause. Even right now in the midst of his soul-searching, as if he were a scrap of iron and Lucy’s presence a magnet, his body leaned toward the front door of his apartment, a visceral ache in his chest and a buzzing at the base of his spine.

The air was as clear as it could be in the middle of London. Buildings scored black lines against the purple night sky and slivers of the cold outside slipped in through the loose windowpanes. Thorne searched for some sign of the stars even though he knew it would be futile.

These second thoughts could be dangerous and self-serving. On the street below, people indulged in their weaknesses and suffered for it—more importantly, those around them suffered. Children went without food when their parents spent their pay at gin houses. Women were forced into workhouses while their husbands gambled their money on dice or cards.

Most people could be redeemed, but Thorne was unsure if the same was true for him.

As always, he returned to the question he’d asked of himself seven years ago. How do you live a good life without living a life of excess?

Thorne picked at that question through the long dark hours of the early morning while he rubbed some of Lucy’s ointment onto his aching hands.

—

Last night Lucy had lain awake for hours staring at the ceiling. On the other side of the wood and plaster, Thorne was reading Sadie a story. They were a family of two, but their love made them seem bigger, somehow.

Love.

Lucy turned the word around in her head like a piece of marble. So much weight, so many sides to it... if cherished, it could build monuments that stood for thousands of years. But it could just as easily shatter into pieces that would cut you if you weren’t careful.

This morning, Mr. Gentry had settled himself behind the counter while Lucy fetched cures for customers. “Did you hear about the one tumor they found in a man’s brain that measured ten inches lengthwise and was said to have resembled the Mona Lisa ?”

Every time she rested her feet, he would regale her with stories of objects found in human beings.

“Did you know they’ve worms in Africa that can live in your stomach and measure seven feet long?”

“Should I get married, do you think?”

Gentry’s mouth fell open at Lucy’s question. After a moment, he recovered himself and shook his head fast as though dislodging water from his ears.

“Should you what now, Miss Peterson?”

“I just thought—” Lucy paused when a customer approached, but Gentry stood up from the stool behind the counter and waved the man away.

“I know what you want, Albert Smith, and you’re better off not drinking coffee if it’s going to mess with your insides like it do. If you won’t use the common sense God gave you, you’ll be wanting a tin of Winter’s Stomach Ease pastilles. Go ask Katie, they are right on that second shelf over there.”

Mr. Smith wandered off sheepishly, and Gentry turned his attention back to Lucy.

“Marriage?” he asked.

“What if it isn’t coffee?” Lucy asked, somewhat taken aback by Gentry’s willingness to dispense medical advice. “What if it’s a bleeding ulcer?”

Gentry shook his head at Lucy’s question. “Albert visited his mother-in-law at the seaside two weeks ago and had no coffee for the entire time. Came back ten pounds heavier and looking ten years younger.”

Holding up a hand, Gentry placated Lucy with a resigned air. “Don’t worry, Miss Peterson, I would never advise one of your customers on a condition I know nothing about. I just know Albert and I know how many times he visits the necessary after a cup of coffee.”

Satisfied that Gentry wasn’t practicing medicine on her customers without her knowledge, Lucy returned to the subject at hand.

“I could marry someone who would take over the books and day-to-day chores at the shop. This way, I would have more time to develop new cures and perfect the old ones. I could keep up with my chemistry journals and go to lectures now and again. Certainly, I wouldn’t have to work so hard anymore,” she explained.

Gentry squinted his eyes and tilted his head one way, then the other.

“You could apprentice another apothecarist. That would free up your time at the counter,” Gentry suggested.

Here was an idea. Lucy tapped her chin in thought. Katie had a bright mind but little interest in treating patients. An apprentice would cost money, however. Every day their coffers grew lighter. No matter how clever Lucy had become at saving coin on household expenses, there was only so thin one could pinch a penny.

“Course an apprentice isn’t going to warm your bed on a cold night or give you babies,” he continued, startling Lucy from her worries.

“Warm my bed? Babies?” Lucy repeated the foreign words back to the man. “I’m talking about a business arrangement whereby I receive more help at work than—”

“Go on wi’ you. Marriage isn’t like hiring an assistant.” Gentry’s chuckle petered out as grief appeared, momentarily haunting his face. “Marriage is...” He swallowed once, then once more, as though feeding the pain back into himself. Lucy leaned over and put her hand on his.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to remind you—”

“No, no. You don’t have to apologize.” While his eyes remained wet, his lips turned upward into a rueful smile. “My Betty and me, we’d only seen each other once, at a church fete it was, before her parents came up to visit with mine and set our match.”

This was a story Lucy had never heard before. She leaned her elbows on the counter and stared out the front door at the mass of people moving back and forth. Two women passed by outside, one of them sporting a pink and blue silk poke bonnet.

“Did you think she was pretty?” Lucy asked.

“I thought she had a sharp nose and a sharper tongue,” Gentry said. “There wasn’t a day went by before the wedding that she said anything nice to me. My shoes were unpolished, my grammar was terrible, my teeth were too crooked, and I wasted my time reading when I could have been working to save money for our life together.”

Lucy turned and regarded him. “She sounds awful.”

Gentry’s head tipped back as he laughed. “She was wonderful. She was simply scared. She’d never spent the night in any bed but the one she shared with her two sisters, and now she would marry a perfect stranger. For the rest of our lives together, whenever she complained about my dirty shoes or shoddy grammar, I knew to sit her down with a wee drop of brandy and find out what was scaring her.”

Lucy faced front again and pulled his words apart in her head.

“Not that marriage wasn’t business, too. Betty’s da was a farmer, but his older brother owned a bookbindery, and I wanted to learn the trade.”

This made sense. Lucy’s father had been her maternal grandfather’s apprentice. Her mother used to tease that it was easier to marry the boy already living in her home than to go out and find one on her own.

All it cost her parents was the money to paint over the name Stefanson’s and change it to Peterson’s.

Gentry spoke again. “Once Betty got past her fright, we found that marriage was lots of times an adventure. Sometimes it was a plod, sometimes it was grand, and sometimes...”

Lucy’s throat closed in sympathetic sorrow.

“How long were you married?” she whispered.

“Twelve years,” he said, his voice thick with pain. “I miss her and the girls every single day.”

Lucy knew in her bones that if she’d gone ahead and married Duncan, she would never have forged a love like Gentry’s for his wife.

She was better off without a love that powerful.

“Listen here, Miss Peterson,” Gentry said, as though he’d heard Lucy’s thoughts. “Was it Mary Wollstonecraft that said it was far better ‘to be disappointed in love, than never to love’?”

“I don’t know,” said Lucy. “I haven’t read her books.”

“Well, you should.” Gentry stood from his stool and absently patted Lucy on the shoulder. “You should read scandalous philosophies and dance with a few fellows and not marry anyone who you wouldn’t trust with your darkest secret.”

“I don’t have any dark secrets,” Lucy said, hopefully in a convincing manner.

Mr. Gentry smiled and tapped a finger to the side of his nose.

“What if...” Lucy fell silent as the sentence rearranged itself in her head. “What if the one meant for you is unavailable?”

Gentry’s knowing smile melted on the sides as an expression of sympathy crossed his face. Lucy colored, the heat from her flush rushing from her throat to her ears. What did he know?

“Miss Peterson. Is something wrong?” asked Thorne.

Lucy tore her gaze from Mr. Gentry and settled it on Thorne, who must have come downstairs while she was distracted by the conversation. Her flush deepened and even her palms started to burn.

“No,” she said. “It’s just a little warm in here.”

Thorne’s expression was, as usual, unreadable. His torso bent toward her, and he thrust his hands into his coat pockets while his eyes touched her face—her lips, her cheeks, her chin.

“Miss Peterson is telling me about the man of her dreams,” Mr. Gentry interjected.

What? Oh, how humiliating.

Lucy shot a nasty look at Mr. Gentry, but he pretended obliviousness. Meanwhile, Thorne’s only response was to raise his brows a fraction of an inch.

For anyone else, this would be a sign of profound shock.

“Pray tell, Miss Peterson, what would this paragon look like?” Thorne asked.

“It wouldn’t matter to me what he looked like,” she said before she could reflect too deeply. “I judge a man by his character, not his face.”

Thorne flushed, and Lucy’s hands clenched beneath the counter.

“You’re a mop,” Gentry exclaimed genially. “You should be judging a man by the size of his purse and the quality of his compliments.”

“Or the quality of his purse and the size of his compliments,” Thorne added.

Now it was Lucy’s turn to blush. “Mr. Gentry, don’t you have somewhere to be?” she asked desperately.

“Aye,” Gentry answered, turning to Thorne. “I’m headed to the Lion’s Den for a pint. Do you—” He cut himself off abruptly as he recalled Thorne’s status as a teetotaler.

“No,” said Thorne easily, “but I’ll walk you there, as I have to stop by my bank.” With a wicked smile, he winked at Lucy. “If you’re interested in the size of my purse or my compliments, you can always ask.”

“Go on with you both!” she cried.

The men left the shop chuckling like little boys, and Lucy wore a stupid smile for the rest of the day.