Chapter 4

iv

I will give you peace and quietness

Genesis 21:22

I feel as though I have not seen daylight in months. So standing here in the humble grounds of my family home my eyes scream at me and burn in the unforgiving sun. It is late summer. I still see the same bright blue sky, the same patterns in the clouds but it also seems to me that the days of all my childish dreaming are well and truly over. I sit quietly in the kissing chair in front of the parlour window and extend my hands so that they are level with my eyes. I stare at my hands. So much change in so little time. My small child like hands are both red raw, chapped and covered in calluses of hard skin produced of course by hard endeavour. I haven't even had the courage to look at myself in a mirror. I know that I will have dark circles and pits underneath my eyes and that I will look years older than my few years. I close my eyes a second and the heat of the day makes me drift a little.
It is two months now since Francoise joined us here. Since he was adopted by my father as his ward.I must admit I was more than taken with him that day of his arrival. I drift further back thinking of that day...It was early morning at the beginning of July, warm with a light breeze rolling in off the sea. I remember smelling the saline in the air that morning whilst collecting lavender from the garden. The dew was still on the floor and I had just rejoined my father in the laboratory. A small plain black cab had rolled up onto our drive and stopped outside the door. Sylvie burst into papa's laboratory like a woman possessed and announced the arrival of the cab to my father who seemed to know automatically who it was. Papa and I had been hard at work since the break of dawn: we were still making the magic sanitising powder. I looked to Papa his face is virtually aglow with excitement, it is all that he can do to politely push Sylvie to one side and dash up the old stairs. I still have a cold marble pestle and mortar in my hands. I lay these down on the workbench before me, tying the golden headscarf that I have holding my hair out of my eyes tightly against my forehead and tiding any loose strands of hair I have hanging over my shoulders. I brush myself down hurriedly with my raw hands and try to make myself look more like a young lady than a servant. I wash my hands hurriedly and dip them in the rosewater bowl inhaling sharply as the sting burns through my skin. I follow my father up the stairs followed hotly on the heels by Sylvie who is dying to see who the 'visitor' is. I remember at the very top step that my work apron is still tied around my waste, so I fumble with the knot around the back and hand it to Sylvie who makes a small ball of it and places it in her huge apron pocket.It must have been very daunting for him to see us all there lined up in the doorway waiting to greet him. If he was nervous then he did not show it at all. He walked silently towards my father who kissed him on each cheek as was the custom and gave him the warmest of hugs. I studied his features; perhaps a little too hard, as he came closer. He gave me a shy smile from underneath his long dark eyelashes. He was built very slim, but muscular; slightly taller than I. He was perhaps fifteen or sixteen. His eyes are what caught me, deep brown, drawing a person into them, hypnotising you. It was obvious to anyone at that point that he had been quite seriously ill as his skin had the pale slightly translucent edge to it. My breath caught somewhere in between my lungs and my throat, I was taken from the first moment that I saw him. I felt the familiar faint blush rising upwards from my chest up my neck and creeping into my cheeks. I tried to maintain dignity by thinking that it was preparation time for us all, inclusive of Francoise. He was here to be studied, anatomically and physically.
Papa extended his arm around Francoise guiding him Masterfully down the line introducing him to mama, and then the house staff finally reaching me at the very end of the line. I felt the blush deepen as he once again gave me the same awkward smile. I noticed a sincerity about him, a serenity and kindness. I curtsied appropriately and laid my hand out before him, suddenly jerking my arm to a stop remembering the state of my nails and rough appearance of my fingers and hands. He read my reactions perfectly, taking my hand gently but firmly in his and bringing it up to his soft full lips. My heart beating wildly in my chest, trying to escape, beating so loud I'm sure all in line could hear it. I was getting more and more crimson.
'Hannah, meet Francoise, who has kindly offered to be an aid in these dark times. Francoise this is my daughter Hannah' we stared at each other a little too long. Eyes locked together, reading each other. Father turned on his heel almost dragging Francoise away with him forcing him to let go of my hand. Papa of course excited to get his work underway and study his newest subject, noticing nothing of what had passed in unspoken words underneath his nose.That was our first meeting. Francoise and I have only had a few stolen moments since that first meeting.The last outbreak of the death was only but five miles away. We expect Marseilles to be inflicted any day now.
I am brought back to reality by my father calling my name I stand up rubbing the slumber from my eyes. I shake off the warmth of the day and run down to the cool laboratory flushed. I resume position by the worktable. We have done as much as we can in the past months in the way of preparation, hundreds of pomanders, even handed small favours, or packets of the lilac powder for sanitation, to the local people, so that they can wash their floors and their linen. I have never been more exhausted. I stifle a yawn as I prepare yet more of the linen squares. Francoise stands the other side of the worktable from me. We are now having to use twine instead of ribbon and muslin. On the heavy workbench before me everything is laid out. I reach out lazily for a square of material, and feel the warmth of a hand there. I stop in my tracks. I feel some strange energy emanating from his fingers as I look down and skirt the outline of his fingers and ruffled shirt hungrily with my eyes. Following the line of his arm up to his neck, his jawbone and finally lingering on his eyes. I do not blush, but give him a small knowing smile which his lips reciprocates; neither of us pulling our hands away until papa walks towards the bench startling us back into action.I'm stuck in the daydream again and I think back to the day I spent looking and watching the clouds go by. It seems so far away. In the last few weeks I have mostly felt apprehensive. Dark times lay ahead for us, like a dark wave creeping it's way along the outskirts of mt home. I am scared out of my whits. I know that we all may die. I will certainly loose people that I love. But those eyes, those eyes with that light within them drives me on.Foolishness perhaps, that he gives me some hope.

Something a little bit different....

I promised something a little different this time and I've been busy pottering about trying to write a short story. Please tell me what you think of it as I will add to it. I'm an old fashioned writer and commit everything to paper first and type it up when I get the time. So here you have the beginnings of something that has taken me over the last few weeks.
It's a way of developing a writing style. I don't really know what mine is yet but I know I can write poetry so I've been rather underconfident in exploring new horizons. I would like to thank two people for pushing me and overlooking my work. You know who you are. All I can do is thank you, I hope it's what you wanted to see from me :) So here we go, please comment I love reading what you think even if it's a critique.

The Apothecaries Daughter

And lo a pale horse; and he that sat on him was called Death

Rev 6:8

Prologue

1664-The English Channel

We are headed for London. This much I know. I have sat here as silently as I possibly can be; feeling the sensation of the waves rocking us from slumber. Sometimes as gentle as a whisper, sometimes fierce and uncontrollable. I struggle to keep myself breathing at a steady, even pace. Trying not to fall ill, praying I do not. I am petrified to this one spot. Huddled in this cramped little corner utterly surrounded by the overpowering reek of death. I sit here in the wooden belly of the beastly cargo hold, listening to the groaning and screaming of the dying, crescendo all around me. Lord knows how many will survive to shore. Andas for father, poor Papa tending to the needy. As usual the stoic apothecary reaching for his stock of leeches to bleed the patient, tending to their humours. My father is a hero to them; even though there is little he can do for them in the dark hold. They are all but lost to their makers when the bulbous appear, prepairing to face their uncaring God or whatever redemption they pray for.
So, we turn our backs fleeing our beloved, but dying France. Gentle gentile Marseilles is overrun. Father stayed as long as he could, drawing in quickly a sea of new patients as the virulence ebbed into homes of strangers and then friends. Soon ebven he could not cope with the new patients on his daily rounds. They took us hurriedly to Paris, commanded by the Royal Cout, and it followed us there. Papa was to help the gentry, but he soon became anxious and overrun: and then mama got ill. This bulbous sickness is the worst thing papa has ever had to deal with. It stole her from us.
So here I sit, motherless, fatherless, completely on my own with my lilac pomander securely fastened to my nose. Even still, I can smell the decay, the sweet acrid smell of putrid flesh.
We go to London. The air is clean there thus far, and papa has hopes of making a new life for us. I am fourteen, barely marrying age and my raven hair betrays us for our true lineage. We are Jews. Whether we will be welcome in the City of the Saxon we do not know, for our kind is being persecuted and laid to blame for this pestilence. Our fair skin is a grace, perhaps we will be able to hide, to blend in with the other commoners, although we are not of their kind. My father was a reputable medic; his ethic will not allow him to rest where there is suffering. My name is changed from Hannah, my given Hebrew name to Mary. A good solid English name. I wrap my arms tighter around my small frame. I have made myself as small as I can in my corner but these numerous dying hands keep clawing out for me. I wish I could go back to a time before. When I had more than just the ghosts for company.

When I was much more than just the apothecaries’ daughter.

i

Stands and lift your head redemption is drawing near

Luc 21:22

Marseilles 1661

'Hannah! Hannah!'I am aware as I lay on my back in the corn, the magnificent golden sun beating down on my flushed skin that far away, someone is calling my name. It reverberates around my head for a second as I question if it was reality or my imagination. I have been daydreaming again, watching the perfect white clouds in the azure sky forming their patterns. Creating animals, people I've known and those I am yet to meet: humming softly to myself the songs of Provence, the day lazily passing in reverie. I sit up urgently and frown, shaking my head out of the dream which keeps pulling me back to her safety. I look down at myself, my linen dress is covered in corn dust which I hurriedly sigh over and brush away from it's creases. I stand, rather unsteadily as I have been lying down for hours.

The sight of Marseilles always takes my breath away. From here in the golden field of corn I can see the grape and olive vines growing further up the rolling hill. Standing tall on the top is the Castille de Vaux le Vicante, the virgin protectors, built to guard us from attack from the North. An attack which has not yet come. Down from here is the port town and the magnificent Sapphire sea housing tiny wooden boats, some visiting to port: some making their way for the vast expanse before them.

'Hannah, Hannah, Ou est Vous?' The call comes again, snapping me away from another dream I was too ready to fall into. And then, I see her. Or rather I see her hair wrappings as she climbs the hill. It's only Sylvie our servant. She moves slowly through the corn, her hair wrapped in material of pure blood crimson, pulling up her heavy skirts almost to her ankles; obviously puffing and panting in her concern. I move towards her deftly, poor Sylvie, probably summoned by my mother to locate her way wood daughter-yet again.

'Sylvie, Comme ca?!' I skip towards her smiling as she comes into full view, sweat is dripping from her forehead, her cheeks flame red.

'Hannah, what on earth are you doing all the way up here on a day like today? What if THEY had decided that today was the day to invade Marseilles?'She looks at me genuinely distraught, taking stock of my light summer dress and fussing lightly over me like an old mother goose. The fact that she is only a few years older than me is irrelevant, I am her ward. She knows full well that I have been up here amusing myself with my stories and impossible dreams. She catches her breath and sighs an impossibly long winded sigh.

'One of these days Hannah, I'm going to be unable to climb up this old hill and if they do decide to invade they will surely steal you away from us and; Sacre Bleu, Lord knows what will become of you'I find this highly amusing and take her by the arm as we make our way home down the hill to the Jewish quarter of the old port town'What exactly do you dream of in that head of yours? Where do you go?

''That would be telling' I giggle. In truth most of my dreams are very menial. Escaping France, escaping the war. I have few friends of my own age. Young men of my age are sent to lessons to learn the Torah. Girls are taught to look pretty and prepared for marriage. I laugh at myself internally for thinking this, the dreams that I dare to dream are of independence, of carrying on my fathers' work.

'Bonne Hannah, ma petite Ceur: your papa has returned home this day'

'Papa? He is home from Provence?' I quicken my pace slightly to almost a skip. My father, my hero has returned.

'Mon petit Fleur, he's only been gone a week!'Yes, A short time I know but I am my fathers shadow. There is only me. A rarity for a Jewish family. One girl. I am aware that they all whisper of the poor apothecary, his barren wife and the simple child. But we are happy. Mama is content and papa is the most dedicated physician in the South of France. What he reads is mine to read. I devour his journals on medicine and his writing on physic, humours and mew illnesses. In a fairer world than this I would be free to follow in his footsteps. Instead I am shackled to a dress, made to look pretty and learn the newest dances until I become old enough to marry and bear children. The Jewish quarter is alive today, stalls of the finest clothes and gold, silks, traded goods, all easily accessible now from the new worlds by boat. The smells of leaven bread cooking the traditional way, on heated stones. Life is good. Papa is home.