Page 12 of The Laudanum Ladies' Society

‘If you want to sell, then you have to be brave. Just think of the profits we’ll make. Some of the products in the magazines are complete quackery, yet people buy them. And our product works.’

Mrs Walters looked a little easier and laughed. ‘Mr Walters is of the opinion that all of them are flimflam. Sugar-water and laudanum coloured with treacle or cochineal.’

‘Doesn’t our tincture contain laudanum?’ Jenny asked.

Our.She shivered with exhilaration. A joint venture was going to be such fun, and she was happier than she could articulate that Mrs Walters had proposed the idea herself.

‘Ours contains opium, from which laudanum is derived. In the pure form, it is much more potent,’ Mrs Walters answered. She frowned. ‘You will have to be careful to whom you offer my creation. It isn’t something that the lower classes would be safe with. It would be ripe for abuse.’

‘Of course,’ Jenny agreed. ‘We want to do some good, not create habits of dependence in the women of the working classes. They have gin for that, which is evil enough.’

She caught herself sounding callous. It wasn’t the fault of the women that society led them to be so weak-willed and susceptible to addiction. Living in poverty would drive anyone to drink.

‘What if no one wants to try it?’ Mrs Walters asked.

Jenny sucked her lip, thinking. ‘They will. I am sure of it. Especially if we feign reluctance. Nothing interests a woman more than being told she can’t have something. You must not too readily agree to provide it. I believe it was Thomas Payne who once said that getting things too cheaply devalues them.’

‘I don’t think I am acquainted with him, but I must respectfully disagree, as I am most pleased when I find a bargain in the market,’ Mrs Walters said with a gentle laugh.

Jenny laughed at her earnestness. ‘Then we shall not price it too high.’ In what she would later reflect was a monstrous temptation of fate, she added, ‘I can’t think of anything that will go wrong.’

Chapter Five

Although Gwen had always been grateful to Mr Rosewood for employing Archibald and housing their family, she found it hard not to feel resentful when she attended the afternoon tea party at the Rosewoods’ house three days before Christmas. Compared to the humble surroundings in which she and Archibald lived, Conrad Rosewood’s house was like a palace.

A young maid in an immaculate dress and starched cap led Gwen to a spacious parlour at the rear of the house, where the warmth hit her like an inferno. The fire was banked high, and the gloomy afternoon was kept at bay by heavy brocade curtains in rich turquoise and gold.

This was what came from owning the businesses rather than working in the pharmacies, and not for the first time she wished Archibald had been daring enough to go into partnership with Mr Rosewood years ago when Conrad had asked him to invest. It soothed Gwen’s slight guilt at using opium from the store cupboard, and she felt eager to discover if there was a potential market for selling the tincture.

Unlike her lavish surroundings, Miss Rosewood wasn’t dressed in the manner one would expect of the only heiress to what must be a considerable fortune. Her dress was green wool, with a lighter green piping at the bodice and sleeves, but was otherwise very plain. There were slightly shiny patches at the wrists where the material had worn smooth through use. Was that by choice or because her uncle was miserly with her allowance?

It gave Gwen pause to consider what Miss Rosewood’s life was like living on the charity of her uncle, and perhaps explained why she, too, was so keen to make a little pin money for herself.

Gwen took a seat on one of the well-stuffed chairs, accepting a china cup so thin that the tea danced in the light of the fire that shone through it.

There were four other guests. One of Gwen’s own age, one of about Miss Rosewood’s who told Gwen she had recently given birth to her third child (which explained why she was slightly wild eyed with exhaustion) and two older matrons, one of whom was the wife of the curate at the church Miss Rosewood attended. Gwen wouldn’t have presumed to socialise with the wife of her own vicar and felt a touch of admiration for Miss Rosewood’s boldness.

‘Mrs Walters’ husband manages one of Uncle Conrad’s pharmacies,’ Miss Rosewood explained.

Gwen wished she had concealed the relationship, because it immediately made her feel the status of an employee, whereas these women were apparently the wives of doctors, vicars and lawyers. None of them were in trade, and from the slightly patronising murmurs of ‘Oh, how interesting,’ that the information received, Gwen decided she would quite happily relieve them of some money.

Gwen nodded to each woman as Miss Rosewood introduced her, wondering which of them was most likely to bring up the matter of health and ailments.

The first to do so was Mrs McAllister: a woman whose steel-grey-hair was barely contained beneath an emerald velvet toque that Gwen thought beautiful. She declined a second piece of Battenberg cake, patting her abdomen in a way that seemed very forthright to Gwen.

‘I would love to, but unfortunately it plays the very devil with my constitution. I was in such discomfort the last time I ate marzipan that I swear I almost helped myself to the colic medicine my daughter-in-law gives her child.’

‘We’ve all done that at one time or another,’ replied Mrs Browne, the young mother. ‘When my tooth was bad last winter, I drank half of an entire bottle of Godfrey’s Cordial and slept soundly. It was rather wonderful, I must admit, even though it did mean I missed Anabelle-Sarah crying. Her nursemaid had to wake me, which was mortifying indeed.’

‘When you reach the next stage in your lives, you will all look back on those days with fondness,’ intoned Mrs McAllister. ‘I positively long for the state of exhaustion that motherhood brought. A full night of sleep has become a distant memory.’

‘Wouldn’t it be delightful to have something which could ease the daily trials of womanhood?’ Miss Rosewood sighed, passing around the plate of salmon-paste sandwiches.

This led to a number of comments from the mothers, both young and old, declaring that Miss Rosewood had no idea of the ills that faced a woman who had borne children.

Gwen had been initially reluctant to join in the conversation but, drawn in by the outspoken exchange of confidences, she found herself bemoaning the early days of motherhood. It was quite delightful to speak so openly about matters that she hadn’t even discussed with Archibald and had blushed aboutwhen consulting her doctor. Was this confidence and indelicacy something that came with the trappings of wealth?

For a few minutes the conversation turned to the various children the women had borne, all at different ages. From then, the conversation moved to discussions of their husbands. Gwen watched Miss Rosewood surreptitiously. It wasn’t very tactful, considering their hostess was unmarried and childless and must surely be mourning every passing day when the likelihood of achieving either was slipping away.