Page 9 of The Scent of Intuition
And that was the problem.
She was meant to want more and to declare her love to some aristocrat. A titled man of the Ton would one day woo her, kiss her, and—Alfie nearly cast up his accounts—make her his wife. Alfie hated the lucky bastard already.
And he hated himself for standing before her without so much as paying her a proper compliment the night before.
Instead, he’d promised to pick orange blossoms. Why didn’t he suggest weeding her garden or fixing her roof while he was already there? It wasn’t as though he could ever lay a hand on her.
Yet, he hadn’t been able to think of anything else.
The bell over the door rang, and a customer walked in. Alfie sighed and let his daydreams fade into the present.
“Mr. Collins, how do you do?” Viscount Mountbatten-Clyde was nearly fifty, with gentle eyes and a hunched back. Althoughhe suffered from various minor ailments, he’d been generally in good health until his recent diagnosis of palpitations.
“I’m here to try the foxglove,” the viscount said. “Is it ready yet?”
“Of course, Lord Mountbatten-Clyde, but I would have delivered it to you myself,” Alfie said as he opened one of the little drawers that covered part of the wall behind him.
“You’ll learn one thing, son: never assign something to others that you truly need. If you want it done right, there is no better way than to do it yourself.”
“Well, I have three dosages here and recommend starting with an infusion of the leaves. No more than three per day to begin.”
The viscount accepted the paper envelope with dried digitalis leaves and smelled it. Despite his station, Alfie knew he never sent a servant to pick up his medicine. He also knew he couldn’t tolerate anything bitter and always chose the blandest mixtures Alfie could offer.
“Blah! What’s the second option?”
Alfie momentarily shut his open demeanor as if drawing the curtains on his patience. He couldn’t tell his patient how many hours he’d spent finding just the right teas to mask the taste of the foxglove and how it had affected him tasting a medicine he didn’t need so that he could create a palatable version for the viscount.Iknowyou despise the bitterness. That’s why I tasted your medicine.
“Very well, my lord, the next would be the powdered leaf. This only requires two doses daily.” Alfie retrieved a small measuring spoon the size of a ladle for dolls that measured exactly five grams. “Don’t exceed two doses per day, one in the morning and one at night.”
The viscount uncorked the glass flask with the grayish-green powder and grimaced. “What should I mix this with? Whiskey?”
“Nothing. You may drink tea afterward to help swallow it.”
The older man shook his head. “I’m afraid that this won’t work, Mr. Collins.”
Alfie suppressed the urge to groan and looked at the wall clock over the shelf. It was already after four o’clock. He’d wanted to harvest the petals nearly twelve hours ago at daybreak when the dew was forming. Now, it was already late in the afternoon, and he hadn’t seen Bea—not that he would have at daybreak, but he’d wished to be closer to her than he was now.
He was no fool. He knew he couldn’t have her, but he was drawn to her like Icarus to the sun, knowing that his waxen wings would melt the closer he got. But Bea was the kind of woman for which one would plummet into the open sea. She was sweet and intelligent, yet she had a warmth about her that was utmostly feminine. She’d administered the most bitter-tasting ipecac to the Duke of Sussex, and he hadn’t even noticed. She was brilliant.
“Mr. Collins?”
Alfie woke from his stupor and shook his head. “I’m so sorry. If you experience anything out of the ordinary, stop using this and come back,” he said as he wrapped the vial with the clear alcohol solution of distilled foxglove in a piece of paper and tied it with a string.
“Everything gives me palpitations, so I don’t know what would be out of the ordinary.” The viscount corked the vial with the powder and returned it to the counter. “Thank you for the liquor version; it’ll be easier to swallow.”
“You must not take more than one drop. Should you accidentally put two in your glass, throw it out, rinse it, and take another.”
“I don’t rinse my glasses, Mr. Collins. But all right. What am I looking for inforce majeuresituations?”
“Nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, blurred vision, seeing halos or yellow-green distortions around lights, confusion, or any unusual sensation in your chest,” Alfie said, cutting the string he’d just tied and handing the medicine to the Viscount.
“Thank you.” The Viscount added it to his tab and left.
Alfie eyed the clock. It was almost time for dinner.
“Alfie!” Andre’s voice emanated from the hall, and the bell over his door rang. “I need some arnica ointment for a little patient.” He walked in and carried a young girl in his arms. She was no older than six and had two thick, black braids.
“Who have we here?” Alfie said kindly, trying to forget that the time to harvest the orange blossoms had almost passed. There wouldn’t be time to see Bea again.
