Page 10 of Libby's London Merchant
“Dear me,” he uttered, out of breath, as though he had been
running. He squinted at her and then touched her forehead in such a professional manner that she did not think to draw away, even though he stood too close and the room seemed to shrink about them. “I trust that will not swell, Miss Ames,” he managed finally, when his fingers ceased probing.
“No, I think it will not.”
He stood in flustered silence, staring at her, his dark brown eyes magnified by his glasses, the sweat beading on his forehead, even though it was cool for June. As the desperation left his eyes, it was replaced by an expression that mystified her.
To her growing discomfort, he seemed content to stand and gaze upon her. Libby cleared her throat, the small sound in the quiet room recalling Dr. Cook to his errand.
“I have some powders somewhere here for your uncle,” he explained, slapping his pockets until an acrid cloud of white powder heralded the location of the medicine.
Libby coughed and stepped back as the powder billowed out and enveloped her. She threw open the window and leaned out, wondering, as her eyes began to fill with tears, if she could survive the doctor’s visit this morning. I should have gone to Brighton, she thought. I would be safer.
“My dear,” exclaimed Dr. Cook as he patted her back. He grabbed up the account book on the desk and began to fan her with it as loose pages tucked inside scattered about the room. “Oh, blast!”
Libby drew her head in, wiped her eyes, and looked about the room that had been so tidy only moments before. White dust settled on the plants in the window, and the canary began to chitter and scold.
“I am sorry, Miss Ames,” Dr. Cook said. He pulled out the offending packet and laid it carefully upon the desk. “Is Sir William about this morning? I have only a few instructions to accompany this medication,” he said, his face a flame of red and his eyes looking everywhere but at her.
“I am sorry, Dr. Cook, but he is not here,” she said. “He has gone to Brighton this past week and more.”
“Brighton?” repeated the doctor. Libby nodded and opened a window by the canary cage. “I will be happy to forward the powders to Uncle, if you think it advisable.”
He nodded. “Tell him he is to take a teaspoon in water every three hours.” He smiled then as he brushed the powder off his sleeve. It was a self-deprecating smile that took the embarrassment from his eyes. “Mind you tell him he is to drink, in addition, two glasses of water every hour, without fail.” His smile broadened and Libby smiled back. “Don’t tell him this, but I suspect that the water will do more good than the powders.”
Libby laughed out loud. “Then why do you prescribe your powders, Dr. Cook?”
He leaned closer to her in a moment of rare abandon. “Because, Miss Ames, it is expected of physicians.” He blushed. “Do emphasize the water when you write to him.”
“I shall.” She smiled at the doctor, who ran his finger around the inside of his collar. “Now, tell me truly, sir, if the waters were nasty, like the waters at Bath, would that be even more efficacious, at least in the eyes of the patient?”
“Indubitably,” he agreed, and dabbed at his sweating forehead. “And now you understand doctors. The nastier the brew, the better the cure, eh?” He sighed and then his good humor restored itself. “I suppose now that, as a doctor, I have no secrets from you.”
Libby smiled. “None, sir. I am on to you, and all doctors. Water it will be, and so I will tell my uncle.”
There was nothing more to say, but Dr. Cook made no move to leave. Libby cleared her throat again, but it had no effect this time. Anthony Cook seemed content to regard her over the top of his spectacles, which were rapidly in danger of falling off again.
As the glasses slid down his nose, he grabbed at them and planted them firmly again. “Well, well, Miss Ames. No one is sick here?” he asked, and the hopeful note in his voice brought the smile into her eyes again.
“We’re all quite well, doctor,” she said.
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.” Libby permitted herself a small chuckle. “Mama always did say I had the constitution of a cart horse.”
“So I have observed.” If he sounded disappointed, Libby chose to overlook it.
Dr. Cook bowed, pushing his spectacles up again, and went to the door, careful this time to circle the offending chair that had nearly caused him grief on his entry into the room. Instead, he backed into the coat tree, which toppled to the floor, striking the bird cage and setting its inmate fluttering and scolding.Libby grabbed the coat tree and righted it, grateful that Lydia was gone and not standing by, dissolved into a fit of the giggles.
A lesser man would have fled the scene. Anthony Cook threw up his hands—narrowly missing a lamp by the door—and shook his head. “Bull in a china shop, eh?” he commented, then smiled. “The wonder of it, ma’am, is that I do not frighten babies.’’
“I don’t think you could frighten anyone,’’ Libby said honestly, and was amazed how quickly the doctor turned red. “It is merely an observation,” she added hastily, and felt her own face grow warm. What is the matter? she thought. Being around Dr. Cook seems to rub off in a most disconcerting manner.
She walked with him into the hallway, grateful that there were no buckets or mops or chairs out of place to offer the doctor any danger.
“You did not wish to go to Brighton?’’ he asked finally as they approached the open door.
She shook her head. “No, I did not. Someone must keep an eye on Joseph, and it has been so many years since Mama has been on holiday.”
