that he should take the horse to the stables before he called but a very real fear of being shown away made him hang on to the reins.
“Can I help you?” demanded a woman’s voice behind him.
The Apothecary spun round and found himself confronting a vision in grey. For not only was she dressed in that most boring of colours but had eyes, skin and hair to match.
Fie gave a deep bow. “Madam, I do apologise for appearing like this. I was hoping to see Sir Francis Dashwood and discuss the possible introduction of the Penny Post in Dublin with him. But, alas, I was informed at the lodgehouse that he is in London. Therefore it was my intention to see his wife and ask her if I might have the honour of being granted an appointment with the Postmaster General at some time in the future.”
The ugly face stared back at him, not moving a muscle by way of changing its expression. Eventually it opened its mouth. “Who did you say you were?”
John gave an even deeper bow. “I didn’t, ma’am. Allow me to present you with my card.”
He produced one from an inner pocket and handed it to her with a flourish.
She became slightly human. “I cannot read it without my spectacles. Be kind enough to do so out loud.”
The Apothecary cleared his throat. “The Honourable Fintan O’Hare, Ballyconnell Castle, Cavan, Eire. And may I ask, madam, to whom I have the honour of speaking.”
“I am Lady Dashwood,” she said coldly.
John gave the deepest bow of all. “Madam, I am overwhelmed. Truly.”
He said this last with a definite Irish accent and looked up with a twinkle in his eye. The lady did not respond but continued to regard him with a grim visage.
“Why do you wish to discuss the Penny Post with Sir Francis?” she asked.
“Well, madam, as the fourth son of the Earl of Cavan it has befallen on me to make a living for myself and I am trying my hand at writing a little in Dublin newspapers and journals. I thought that an interview with the Postmaster General would be a grand thing, so it would.”
He was trying the Irish charm to the best of his ability with a stunning lack of success.
Lady Dashwood gave him an icy stare. “I cannot speak for my husband. You’d best come back when he is in residence.”
“Of course I will. Thank you so much. When are you expecting him?”
She hesitated, wondering whether to answer him, then reluctantly said, “He is returning from town tonight.”
“Then I shall call tomorrow if I may.”
“As you wish. I cannot guarantee that he will see you, mark you.”
“No, naturally not. I shall just have to rely on fate.”
All the time he was talking John’s eyes were taking in the beauty of the landscape and of the delightful villa, wishing that she would take pity on him and invite him inside. And then as luck would have it the central door in the colonnaded entrance facing him opened. A very sickly looking man of about thirty-five appeared in the doorway, shielding his gaze against the high sun, then strolled out onto the terrace, sinking down into a chair.
“Sarah,” he called in a feeble voice, “Sarah.”
“I must go to my cousin,” Lady Dashwood said abruptly. “He is rather poorly. I bid you good day, sir.”
“Can I help at all?” John asked, momentarily forgetting his pose.
She shot him a poisonous look. “Most certainly not…”
But at that moment the man on the terrace let out a terrible scream, tore at his cravat and fell with a loud thump onto the stone floor. John did not hesitate but ran forward, followed by Lady Dashwood, panting a little as she ran. Reaching the invalid first, the Apothecary picked him up and was rewarded by the creature being violently sick all over him.
“God’s wounds,” said John, side-stepping as the man retched profoundly once more.
Fortunately this avalanche missed him and hit the floor of the terrace, spattering as it landed. The Apothecary spared a thought for the wretched servant who was going to have to clean it
“Can I help you?” demanded a woman’s voice behind him.
The Apothecary spun round and found himself confronting a vision in grey. For not only was she dressed in that most boring of colours but had eyes, skin and hair to match.
Fie gave a deep bow. “Madam, I do apologise for appearing like this. I was hoping to see Sir Francis Dashwood and discuss the possible introduction of the Penny Post in Dublin with him. But, alas, I was informed at the lodgehouse that he is in London. Therefore it was my intention to see his wife and ask her if I might have the honour of being granted an appointment with the Postmaster General at some time in the future.”
The ugly face stared back at him, not moving a muscle by way of changing its expression. Eventually it opened its mouth. “Who did you say you were?”
John gave an even deeper bow. “I didn’t, ma’am. Allow me to present you with my card.”
He produced one from an inner pocket and handed it to her with a flourish.
She became slightly human. “I cannot read it without my spectacles. Be kind enough to do so out loud.”
The Apothecary cleared his throat. “The Honourable Fintan O’Hare, Ballyconnell Castle, Cavan, Eire. And may I ask, madam, to whom I have the honour of speaking.”
“I am Lady Dashwood,” she said coldly.
John gave the deepest bow of all. “Madam, I am overwhelmed. Truly.”
He said this last with a definite Irish accent and looked up with a twinkle in his eye. The lady did not respond but continued to regard him with a grim visage.
“Why do you wish to discuss the Penny Post with Sir Francis?” she asked.
“Well, madam, as the fourth son of the Earl of Cavan it has befallen on me to make a living for myself and I am trying my hand at writing a little in Dublin newspapers and journals. I thought that an interview with the Postmaster General would be a grand thing, so it would.”
He was trying the Irish charm to the best of his ability with a stunning lack of success.
Lady Dashwood gave him an icy stare. “I cannot speak for my husband. You’d best come back when he is in residence.”
“Of course I will. Thank you so much. When are you expecting him?”
She hesitated, wondering whether to answer him, then reluctantly said, “He is returning from town tonight.”
“Then I shall call tomorrow if I may.”
“As you wish. I cannot guarantee that he will see you, mark you.”
“No, naturally not. I shall just have to rely on fate.”
All the time he was talking John’s eyes were taking in the beauty of the landscape and of the delightful villa, wishing that she would take pity on him and invite him inside. And then as luck would have it the central door in the colonnaded entrance facing him opened. A very sickly looking man of about thirty-five appeared in the doorway, shielding his gaze against the high sun, then strolled out onto the terrace, sinking down into a chair.
“Sarah,” he called in a feeble voice, “Sarah.”
“I must go to my cousin,” Lady Dashwood said abruptly. “He is rather poorly. I bid you good day, sir.”
“Can I help at all?” John asked, momentarily forgetting his pose.
She shot him a poisonous look. “Most certainly not…”
But at that moment the man on the terrace let out a terrible scream, tore at his cravat and fell with a loud thump onto the stone floor. John did not hesitate but ran forward, followed by Lady Dashwood, panting a little as she ran. Reaching the invalid first, the Apothecary picked him up and was rewarded by the creature being violently sick all over him.
“God’s wounds,” said John, side-stepping as the man retched profoundly once more.
Fortunately this avalanche missed him and hit the floor of the terrace, spattering as it landed. The Apothecary spared a thought for the wretched servant who was going to have to clean it
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