‘I find the heroine courageous and impressively strong in her will,’ Sarah said.
From her expression she could tell Mina did not share this opinion.
‘I found her rather frustrating,’ Mina observed. ‘But upon reflection I realise that this frustration was born of recognising that I share certain of her traits. And what might seem strong-willed decisions to a younger woman appear more like follies with the wisdom of experience.’
‘What do you consider follies, ma’am?’
‘I feared she was being too exacting in what she sought in a husband, with the consequential danger that she may end up with no one. It ends well enough for her, as it only can in the realm of novels, but the real world is usually less forgiving.’
Sarah knew that Mina had been romantically disappointed on more than one occasion; promises made and then broken. She knew also that there had been suitors Mina considered beneath her expectations, something Sarah admired in her.
‘I have not finished the story, but is it not better for a woman to remain alone than to be married to someone unsuitable? Someone who does not meet whatever standards she sets?’
‘That is a question I ask myself ever more frequently as the years pile one upon the other. I would not consider an unsuitable man, but I would admit that what I consider suitable has changed. I have long since discarded the foolish notions of my youth. I think there is much to commend a companionate marriage: a man I respect, whose work I admire and whose household I would be proud to run. I confess that in this I am envious towards my sister. She has all of this with a man she truly loves, and who truly loves her.’
Sarah was always flattered to be the recipient of such candour, but the feeling only ever lasted until she remembered that Mina felt free to be so open with her because she didn’t count. She would never be so candid with anyone of status.
Following a detour into Kennington and Jenner to examine their silks, they arrived outside the druggist’s. It was a premises with which Sarah was very familiar and more than a little fond. She was frequently sent there on errands, Dr Simpson’s practice always having a need for items such as dressings, plasters, ointments and unguents.
Mr Flockhart was a surgeon as well as a druggist, and both he and his partner Mr Duncan had many friends among the medical practitioners of the city. They were intelligent and innovative gentlemen: excellent practical chemists who could turn their hand to the production of any medicinal product, and according to Dr Simpson, the results were always of the highest standard. Sarah was in no position to judge such matters, but she had found Mr Duncan to be a kindly man, always willing to share his expertise regarding the healing properties of certain medicinal plants which he grew in his herb garden, just outside the city.
As she pushed open the door the little bell above it tinkled and she smiled to herself. This was one of her favourite places in Edinburgh.
The shop was dominated by a marble-topped counter, behind which shelves containing rows of glass bottles stretched all the way to the ceiling. The bottles held powders, liquids and oils with exotic-sounding names. Some she was familiar with – ipecac, glycerine, camphor – while others were labelled with abbreviated Latin terms she could not decipher.
When they entered, the druggist’s assistant was carefully weighing out a powder on a set of brass scales. He looked up and winked at Sarah, his expression at once lecherous and self-satisfied. Sarah hated having to deal with this one. His lasciviousness was matched only by his stupidity. She wasn’t sure what effect he believed his wink to have: whether she was supposed to be intimidated by his worldliness or weak-kneed in delight.
‘Good afternoon, Master Ingram,’ she said, flashing him a smile that was as broad and confident as it was insincere.
Master Ingram rapidly lost his concentration and the powder he was measuring spilled across the counter. He stopped what he was doing and rushed through to the dispensing room at the back of the shop, presumably to find someone more competent to help him. Mr Flockhart duly emerged.
‘Ladies,’ he said, opening his arms as if he was planning to embrace them. ‘How may I be of assistance?’
Mr Flockhart was a tall man, as effervescent as the stomach powders he sold. He was a great enthusiast for social gatherings and functions, and as such he always had stories to tell and gossip to impart. Mina made straight for him.
Meanwhile, Mr Duncan emerged from the back, presumably to tidy up the mess left by his assistant.
‘Are you in need of anything today, Sarah?’ he asked as she approached the counter.
‘Not today, thank you.’
Mr Duncan took in her weary face and suggested she place her parcels upon a chair in the corner of the shop. He glanced over at Mina, who was enthusiastically engaged in conversation with Mr Flockhart.
‘You could be here for some time.’
Once she had divested herself of her packages, Mr Duncan told her: ‘I have something for you to try. I have been experimenting with a new confection made with icing sugar and flavoured with lemon and rosewater.’
He held out a piece of wax paper bearing two round comfits, one pink and one yellow, each with a little heart-shaped pattern imprinted on one side. Sarah tasted each in turn. They fizzed on her tongue and flooded her mouth with sweetness. She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, Mr Duncan was smiling at her.
‘They’re wonderful!’ she said. ‘What are they called?’
‘Haven’t decided yet,’ he said, wrapping a few more for her to take home.
Sarah took the proffered paper parcel and quickly put it in her pocket, reasoning that if Mina saw it, she might object. She had rules of etiquette which defied any rational explanation and which she applied with equal measures of vigour and caprice. The only consistent element appeared to be that they interfered with whatever Sarah happened to be doing or saying at any given time.
The junior assistant had still to reappear and Sarah wondered if he was being punished somewhere – perhaps being forced to make a large batch of a particularly pungent and malodorous ointment. She hoped so. She watched as Mr Duncan cleaned up the mess on the counter. He transferred a quantity of the powder from the scales to a mortar and began to grind it.
‘What do you look for when taking on a new assistant?’ she asked, thinking about the daft lad who had already gained a position there.
Mr Duncan paused before answering and looked towards the back of the shop as though trying to remind himself.
‘We require someone who can read and write well,’ he said, continuing to pound away with his pestle. ‘They must have a good grasp of mathematics in order to accurately calculate totals on bills of sale. They must be industrious and well presented.’
He paused again and smiled.
‘An ability to decipher hieroglyphics is also useful. Some of our customers write their requirements on slips of paper and their command of the written word is not always their greatest strength.’
He pushed a soot-soiled scrap of paper towards Sarah. On it was written in childish script: ‘Dull water for eye cups’.
Sarah could make nothing of it. She looked at Mr Duncan and shrugged.
‘Dill water for hiccups,’ he said, laughing. ‘Why do you ask about the job of assistant? Do you know someone who might be interested in a position here? A brother or a cousin perhaps?’
Sarah thought for a minute about her own abilities. She had a neat hand, a good head for numbers (she always checked Mrs Lyndsay’s account books before they were presented to Mrs Simpson and they were seldom in error) and was already familiar with a host of herbal remedies. She looked over at Mina, who was testing out a hand cream and was oblivious to Sarah’s