Megan Soja
Boston, 1774
A chill, damp breeze swept over Copps Hill, tugging at Lydia’s scarlet cloak as she climbed to the height of the burying ground. Mist crept between the gravestones and shrouded Boston harbor beyond. She shivered and clapped a hand over her hood. Perhaps she should have kept to the street, but crossing the hill was the fastest way to reach Grandmama’s house.
Gripping her basket of freshly baked gingerbread, she breathed the sweet and spicy aroma that drew a noisy growl from her stomach. She would not miss her weekly tea with Grandmama, no matter how foul the weather. It was a tradition they’d begun when Lydia was young, and now at age two-and-twenty, she still cherished their precious time together.
Ahead of her, a tall form emerged from behind a tree, his gray coat blending with the overcast sky. His broad back was to her, and he seemed completely unaware of her presence. As Lydia drew closer, she heard him muttering to himself.
“Marrubium vulgare . . . Rosa canina . . .”
Lydia raised her brows at the odd language and shifted her path, hoping the strange man would not notice her. She risked a glance in his direction and failed to see the root jutting out of the ground until it was too late. Her foot caught. She stumbled forward, arms outstretched in an attempt to break her fall. The basket tumbled to the ground as her right hand scraped against the rough edge of a gravestone, but a firm grasp closed around her left arm and pulled her upright. Instead of landing on the cold, hard ground, she found herself pressed against a warm, solid chest.
“Are you hurt, miss?”
Lydia swallowed as she lifted her head, her gaze colliding with a pair of deep brown eyes, full of concern. The man she’d been trying to avoid held her in his arms. She backed away, putting a respectable distance between them.
“I am unharmed, thank you.” Her wobbly voice belied her words. Was it the fall that left her shaken or this stranger’s presence?
He stooped to gather her fallen basket. “It appears the contents are safe.” He extended the basket to her, but when she took it, his attention shifted to her hand. “You are indeed hurt.”
She glanced down. Her palm was scratched and red, with dots of blood marring her skin.
Closing her fingers into a fist, she tried not to wince as she tucked it beneath her cloak. “It is only a small scrape.”
“Calendula officinalis.” His voice was little more than a whisper.
Lydia furrowed her brow. “What?”
“Did I say that aloud?” Pink crept up his neck above his cravat. “Please excuse me. I meant . . . your hand. You may wish to—”
“I beg your pardon, but I must be off. My grandmother is expecting me.” Lydia mentally scolded herself for the rude interruption, but she had to get away from this man. His peculiar behavior and the intensity of his stare made her heart beat a little too fast. “Good day to you.”
She didn’t wait for a reply but spun away and hurried down the hill. She reached Grandmama’s house a few minutes later and rapped on the door, anxious for the comforting warmth and the rich conversation they would share. But no answer came. Lydia knocked again, a thread of concern weaving through her middle.
Pushing the door open, she rushed inside. The quiet that greeted her only increased her fears.
She peeked into the kitchen. Empty.
“Grandmama?” Lydia stepped into the parlor.
No one there, either.
Lifting her petticoats, she scurried upstairs, halting at the sight of her grandmother in bed, pale but awake, a frail smile on her face.
Lydia rushed to her side. “What is wrong? Are you ill?”
“Just a bit of a cold. Don’t worry so.” Grandmama coughed as she sat up. “Though I am sorry to spoil our tea.”
“Nonsense. We can still enjoy it together right here.” Lydia tucked the coverlet around her.
A knock on the door echoed up the stairs.
“Best answer that,” Grandmama said. “I’m expecting the apothecary.”
Lydia hurried back down and tugged the door open, her eyes widening when she saw the stranger from Copps Hill standing there.
He blinked in surprise.
“You?”
“What are you doing here?”
Their voices collided, and they both stuttered to a halt.
“Are you the apothecary?”
“Aye. James Wolfe. When we crossed paths, I was just on my way to pick up some remedies from my shop for Mrs. Reed. And you are?”
“Her granddaughter, Lydia Reed.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“So those odd words you were muttering—”
“Latin. My apologies, I have a bad habit of thinking out loud and was considering the medicine I would need for your grandmother.” He chuckled as he reached into his pocket, pulling out two small vials. “Marrubium vulgare and Rosa canina: Hoarhound syrup and rose hip jelly.”
Now it was Lydia’s turn to laugh. “And the last one you mentioned?”
His gaze grew intense, as it had been when they first met on the hill, but now she sensed a warmth there, an interest that shifted the air between them.
“Calendula officinalis: calendula ointment.” He reached for her hand, turning it over to examine the wound. “Though I don’t have any with me.”
Lydia drew in a breath as his fingers brushed hers, sending heat up her whole arm.
His eyes flicked back to her face. “There is another treatment that might help.”
She peered up at him. “What is its Latin name?”
“I don’t know, but in a case like this, I believe it works better than any tincture or poultice.”
Holding her gaze, he raised her hand to press a gentle kiss against her sore palm. The soft touch of his lips and the look of hope in his eyes sent a thrill through her.
“Aye, Mr. Wolfe, better indeed.”
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