1. The Year of Our Lord, 1894
“Welcome to E.S. Holton’s!” said the druggist, his demeanor bright and cheerful. “How may I help you?”
Constance noticed the way he seemed to make an exaggerated point of setting aside the ledger he’d been updating as she stepped through the pharmacy’s door; he immediately closed the book, carefully rotated it ninety degrees upon the polished countertop, and using the fingertips of both hands, deliberately slid it out of sight behind a stack of unlabeled boxes. At no point did he break eye contact with her, nor did his smile falter.
The shift in his attention felt like the enacting of a ritual. At risk of blasphemy, she allowed her sinner’s heart to wonder what sort of god a man might make of figures and debts, and what sort of man would worship his calculations. She thought briefly of her late father, but banished the memory as quickly as it arose.
“I—” she began, and lost her nerve. As her voice failed her —or rather, as she failed it— she found herself returning his smile, just to fill the space her dumbstruck tongue had left.
“Please do come in, fair lady!” He swept his arms apart grandly. “Everything this humble establishment has to offer shall be marshaled to your peculiar purpose, whatever it may be. Allow me the honor of seeing to your every need!”
“I—“ she began again, but this time was cut off.
“Kindly come in, my lovely girl,” he insisted, motioning toward the counter behind which he stood. “Your sweet voice would no doubt shame an angelic chorus, and I’d love to hear it soar above the rabble’s roar.”
She allowed the heavy door to swing shut behind her, the clamor and chaos of the street fading away as she shuffled toward him. A blush bloomed upon her cheeks as she approached, and she found herself examining the fit of the floorboards with unexpected urgency. He laughed gently, in a way that deepened the blush but emboldened her.
“You have the look of a visitor to our fair and storied city,” he said without a trace of irony, seemingly oblivious to the overpowering charnel stench of the town’s slaughterhouses wafting along it’s filthy, dangerous streets. “In town for the Columbian Exposition, I’m sure.”
“I—“ she began yet again, and suddenly remembered that she hadn’t actually meant to enter the pharmacy; that she’d been looking for the offices of her late father’s attorney, E.F. Houston, only to be led astray by the misleading directions of a rude and disinterested hotel doorman, who seemed to know even less about Chicago’s streets and thoroughfares than he did the comportment of an honest gentleman in the company of a lady.
She knew she should excuse herself and leave, but she did not. Something made her want to stay; she told herself that it was a passing need for respite from the hustle and bustle outside, but his eyes had a grasp like iron, and she liked the way they clutched at her.
“I— I’m afraid I’ve become parched from the sun,” she said instead.
“Goodness no!” he cried, as if she’d offered an open wound for treatment. He gestured toward a nearby bench. “I shan’t have so perfect a vision as yourself suffer on my premises! Please, please sit!”
Constance thanked him and did so. He fetched a heavy glass from beneath the counter, wiped it vigorously with a rag, and assessed her critically.
“Hm. Yes, yes I think so,” he said, as if inwardly conferring with the incorporeal wisdom of his trade. Directly to her, he continued, “Have you not been sleeping of late?”
She blinked. “Pardon, sir?”
“It’s the circles,” he said, his continued polishing of the glass yielding diminishing and unnoticed returns. “The dark ones under your eyes, I mean. On so vibrant a young flower as yourself, they stand out like a stain upon snow.”
“R— really…?” she asked. “I didn’t know anyone—“
“Alas, it is the nature of beauty’s glow to be outshone by its own slightest flaws,” he said with a sigh, although his expression never changed. “It saddens me to see you brought low by the means of haunted dreams and the cold comfort of an unfamiliar bed.”
Her eyes widened at the mention of her bed, and the presumption inherent to his speculation about its nature. She was almost offended, but he continued to smile, she was struggling in the heat, and she was finding it unexpectedly difficult to worry about anything but the questionable state of her appearance.
“Do you—?” she asked hesitantly. “Is— is there anything you have, that I can— that would help?”
“But of course!” He put down the glass, turned —thus breaking his gaze and making her feel strangely alone in the room— and plucked a large, dark bottle from a shelf behind him. He placed it on the counter next to the glass, and then she watched as he took a moment to methodically realign the remaining bottles into an orderly display.
His work done, he turned his full attention back to Constance.
“This,” he said, tapping the bottle, “is laudanum. A fine medication that has wrought many fruitful outcomes for those enduring ailments both genuine and feminine. In your case, a due and proper dosage will convey you promptly to a state of deep and abiding sleep that will leave your mind refreshed and your face radiant upon waking.”
“That sounds… quite lovely,” she admitted.
“Alas, the poppy’s dew will not do for you, not so early in a busy day,” he said. “It is a nighttime treatment, you see. It softens and melts rigid consciousness, leaving the afflicted in a patient and pliable state that is both conducive to sleep and exceedingly vulnerable.”
“Oh,” she said, the blush returning.
He leaned down, placed his elbows on the counter, and assumed a posture every bit as relaxed as it had been formal mere seconds before. When he spoke, his voice was hushed and conspiratorial.
“I should also warn you, as your diligent servant in the realms of medicine,” he said, gesturing toward the framed medical degree on the wall. She was surprised to note that he was no pharmacist; she was speaking to a physician. “…that such a potent elixir, prescribed for the purposes of sleep, may prove a tempting solution to many of the… small troubles in a lass’s narrow life.”
“So— so you advise against this treatment?” she asked in a deflated tone.
“Not at all! In fact,” he said, snatching up the laudanum and slipping it into a paper bag retrieved from beneath the counter, “I offer you this particular vessel gratis, as both a demonstration of my confidence in its efficacy and fundamental safety, and as an unworthy tribute to the custom of such a ravishing traveler from far-off… where did you say you were from?”
“Kansas,” she replied, unsure of why she was so quick to answer. She was even more mystified to hear herself say, “Topeka.”
“How exciting!” he said with his own regrettable haste. The knowing confidence in his eyes faded for a moment, as if he’d disappointed himself. “But look at me, chattering at you like one of your numerous admirers and not your steadfast guide on the path to health! I do apologize.”
“No, please sir, not at all! You’ve been very helpful,” she assured him.
“Very well then,” he said, taking her kindness as permission. “If the seductive Lady Laudanum is a creature of the bedchamber and lover of luna, you still need something to help you rise to the hurried challenge of sol’s demanding day. And for that, I have just the thing!”
He brought the glass to his soda fountain and filled it, whistling a little tune. As the foam subsided, he plucked two paper straws from a dispenser and, winking at her, used them to stir in a powder from a vial he kept in his pocket.
“This is my own special concoction,” he said, carrying the glass to her with great care, as if he were bearing something more volatile than carbonated water and cocaine. She accepted it just as gingerly. “I’m sure you’ll find it provides an efficacious and enjoyable elevation of vim and vigor. And, I might add, it can help compensate in those trying times when the previous evening’s comfort,” he said, offering her the packaged bottle, “has become the morning’s burden.”
She took a tentative sip of the soda, and noting his eager expression, felt pressed to make extravagant noises of satisfaction. It would be some time later, on the carriage ride back to the hotel, that the drink would truly kick in, and she would realize that even the most effusive praise would have been insufficient to convey the thrill that rushed through her body.
“It is a delight to serve you— Miss…?” he prompted.
“Constance,” she replied without hesitance, apparently anxious that he should know her. “Constance Merry.”
“A name that foretold its bearer’s charms,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Merry.”
She felt her heart begin to race, and sought to sedate it with curiosity.
“So, Doctor, If I should… run out,” she asked, testing the weight of the laudanum before placing it in her small handbag and taking another, much deeper drink of the soda, “or find myself otherwise troubled, would it— would it be an imposition to again seek your advice?”
He took her gloved hand in his and patted it with what she felt was an unearned and yet somehow welcome familiarity. No man in Topeka had ever taken such liberties; her blush consumed the whole of her body.
“No such blessed occasion could ever be an imposition,” he promised, leaning in close. She could feel the warmth of his breath. “I insist you return at the first indication of need. I shall endeavor to make myself… personally available, day or night.”
She shuddered slightly as he gently pulled her to her feet. As she turned to approach the door, she felt his grasp on her hand tighten; so tight that she winced in discomfort and froze in place.
“Day or night,” he whispered hotly in her ear, before abruptly releasing her and ushering her out the door. She blinked rapidly in the bright sun, and glanced over her shoulder to see him disappear behind the door’s etched glass.
Inside, the young doctor returned to his counter and ledger. He did not look up when an even younger woman quietly entered from the storeroom, where she had secreted herself upon Miss Merry’s arrival.
“You were very forward,” said dour Dessa, in the manner of a critic who has seen many similar performances. He didn’t look up. “And yet you let her go.”
He grunted disinterestedly and turned a page in his book, his eyes continuing to scan the columns and the scribblings they contained.
“She’ll empty that bottle in a couple days,” Dessa continued, taking up a broom that leaned against the wall. She swept her way aimlessly across the shop floor. “She’ll want more. Something to get up, and something else to come down.”
He plucked a fountain pen from a drawer and made a few notations in his book.
“She was awfully pretty. As was her dress.” Dessa halted her meandering labor to consider —with scarcely concealed disappointment— her own plain and crudely-patched frock. “She surely comes from money, or has it within reach.”
He looked up from the ledger, opened one of the unmarked boxes, and began counting its contents. Dessa scanned the floor for errant dust. Silence filled the room, until he punctured it with an abrupt command.
“Go up to the third floor, take your sister,” he ordered, without pausing his count. “Both of you make sure the blood stains are scrubbed from the wall in 304. And make up the bed.”
She silently nodded her understanding, and turned toward the stairs. She could hear him muttering to himself as she began her ascent.
“Miss Merry from Topeka will be our guest soon enough.”
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