Page 39 of A Potion for Passion

Chapter Nineteen

Flora found she thoroughly enjoyed playing the part of Madame Julietta—at least after the tooth-pulling incident receded in her memory. There was no further trouble from soldiers or petty criminals in the remaining days of the Dorchester fair, and the weather improved considerably after the dismal rain. When the fair broke up, she and Lawrence took the wagon on the road to visit nearby towns and villages, returning to Dorchester only after nightfall so she could don the cloak of respectability before seeking her chamber at the King’s Arms.

She soon came to think of Madame Julietta as a remarkably courageous woman. She’d helped Lawrence work his magic on those who flocked to see his show or came to his wagon in between times with ailments or requests they didn’t want aired in public. Julietta undertook tasks which would have put other women to the faint, like cleansing and stitching wounds, using maggots to eat out dead flesh, and applying leeches.

“I believe, in my soul,” Lawrence would proclaim from the stage, “that there’s no such thing as a panacea, whatever other doctors or apothecaries may tell you. The balance of humors in each of us is different, so where one medicine might be suitable to use with a phlegmatic sufferer, it would not work for a sanguine or melancholy man. My remedies are all made from herbs, tried and tested by myself, and based on centuries of arcane knowledge passed down from one healer to another. Once I have the measure of a man or woman, I am like a tailor or a mantua-maker, matching my remedy to their own particular blend of the four humors.”

This serious patter was interspersed with moments of pure foolishness which the crowd loved, such as Charley performing his balancing tricks, “talking” to Lawrence after drinking a mystical elixir (in truth, made from mutton broth), and the times when Flora emerged wailing from the wagon, the part of her face below her mask covered in a hideous rash. With great flair, Lawrence would remove the rash instantly with Dr. L. E. Campaign’s Patent Cure for the Pox. The crowd always laughed, taking this for the self-mockery it was intended to be.

Sometimes Lawrence joined the mummers, playing the part of the Apothecary in St. George and the Dragon. Flora could barely keep a straight face as, dressed up like an Indian fakir, he solemnly proclaimed his ability to cure “the itch, the stitch, the palsy, and the gout, the raging pains within, and raging pains without.”

Some of her experiences had been gruesome, but many of them were funny. Some of her adventures had filled her with little bubbles of excitement, but some had been quite terrifying.

Other things were just irksome, like being outdoors in all weathers, and being too tired by the end of the day to bother with the bonnet-trimming project she’d brought with her. Men leered at her when she was in costume—particularly the peddler Barnabas. So much so that she was tempted to knock his tray of trinkets and ribbons askew, tip its contents onto the ground, and trample on everything.

Nearly three weeks had already gone by, and another day’s labor was now over. Flora sat alone in her chamber in the busy King’s Arms, letting out the occasional sigh. Below in the courtyard, she could hear the clip-clop of hooves as visitors arrived on horseback, and downstairs, the regular hustle and bustle of the inn, the cries of “landlord!” and the occasional clatter of an earthenware plate falling to the floor. Through the warped oak floorboards, the scent of pipe tobacco rose, mingled with the unpleasant smell of spilled beer and stale humanity.

What had brought on her current fit of melancholy? Was it the prospect of her imminent return to Fortuneswell with the constant meddling of the Daniells? Was it the fact that she’d failed to find a milliner with whom to go into partnership, after Lawrence had ruined her hopes for joining Sally Matthews?

Or might she—God forbid—be missing Lawrence? He was never around after dusk, which was always the loneliest time for her. He’d leap onto his horse after supper and ride away at speed, and every morning he’d be back at his wagon, cooking his breakfast and greeting her with a wicked twinkle in his eye.

Placing the unfinished bonnet in her lap, she rethreaded her needle, and once again taxed her mind with the question of his whereabouts at night. When asked directly, he’d told her he was delivering medicine to wealthy clients in person, because they didn’t like to be seen publicly supporting a traveling doctor.

She’d seen right through that answer. There was something else going on, she was sure of it. He must be up to no good, like getting drunk or gambling in dubious company. Except, he always seemed too fresh and cheerful in the morning for that to be the likely scenario. Was he involved in criminal activity? She desperately hoped not.

The only remaining solution she could think of was almost more depressing; he was making covert visits to female clients and taking his pleasure with them.

She made a few desultory attempts to stitch ribbon onto the bonnet, but her mind was elsewhere. A knock on the door shocked her out of her thoughts and made her jab the needle into her finger.

Lawrence? Who else could be visiting her after dark? Sucking her finger, she tiptoed across to the door and listened.

The knock came again, louder, followed by a whisper in his familiar voice. “Flora, are you awake? Can I come in?”

Her heart thundered to life, and her imagination bounded off to a number of places it had no business going. Struggling to quell her nerves—and her excitement—she let him in, despite the impropriety. Besides, they’d already kissed, so it was a bit late to worry about that.

He brought with him the fresh smell of outdoors and the faint odor of horse. She wrinkled her nose. Was there a hint of a lady’s perfume, as well?

With his chest heaving and his raven-black hair tousled by his exertions, he was utterly desirable.

Her throat went dry and she just looked at him.

He paused in the doorway and his gaze slid to her mouth. She’d forgotten she was still sucking on her injured finger.

“What have you done?” he asked with a frown.

“Oh, I just nicked my finger when I was sewing,” she replied, whisking it behind her back.

“Let me see,” he ordered.

Reluctantly relenting, she expected him to produce a small bottle of Dr. L. E. Campaign’s Rapid Wound-Healing Nostrum from his pocket. She was stunned when, instead, he put her finger in his mouth and sucked on it himself.

Something uncurled inside her, like a great beast waking from sleep. She was shaken by the force of its awakening.

His eyes held hers, and a spark flew between them. No, it was more than a spark. More like a cannon firing and shattering the air.

How could he weave his spell so quickly? All she could think about was her need for his touch. She could feel tension and the heat of desire emanating from his body, though they were barely touching. The expression on his face said he wanted her.

All lies.