Page 15 of Libby's London Merchant
“Where, Joseph?” he asked, his voice distinctly professional. “Tell me quickly.”
“Just a quarter-mile down the road toward your place. I could see it happen from the hayloft.’’ He scratched his head and began to tug at his earlobe. “It was the strangest thing, Libby. He went back and forth several times over the same little bit of road, and then went really fast and tried to stop. I wonder he did not see the gravel. I would have seen the gravel.”
“I am sure you would have,” the doctor agreed. “Joseph, are you up to a footrace?”
“Sir?”
“We’d better see if there is anything to salvage on the road.”
Joseph grinned and the troubled look left his face. “I can beat you, Dr. Cook,” he exclaimed.
“You can try, lad,” said the doctor.
To Libby’s openmouthed surprise, Dr. Cook shoved his spectacles into his pocket and took off after Joseph. She watched them run down the road, Joseph well in the lead but Dr. Cook coming up surprisingly fast for one so big.
“Lydia will be sorry she missed this sight,” Libby murmured to herself. She looked about, picked up her skirts, and chased after them.
Her side was aching before she reached the scene of the accident. Joseph had already untangled the horse from the traces and had tied the animal to a tree across the road. He was standing nose to nose with the trembling horse, talking to it, as Libby hurried up, gasping for breath.
The doctor knelt over the lone figure on the road. Libby took a deep breath and came closer until she was peering over the doctor’s broad shoulders.
A man lay stretched out on the gravel, his face skinned and already starting to swell, blood dripping from a cut over his right eye. His shoulder was oddly twisted under him and his pant leg below his right knee was torn. Libby gulped and rested her hand on the doctor’s shoulder to steady herself.
Dr. Cook looked over his shoulder and touched her hand. “You’ll be all right, Miss Ames,” he said.
Libby nodded and knelt beside the doctor. “We’re not the branch of the Ames family that faints,” she said, her voice thin, but determined in a way that made Anthony Cook smile at her, despite the concern in his eyes.
“I didn’t think you were. Move around here, Libby,” he said, calling her by her name for the first time. “Let’s rest his head in your lap.”
She did as she was told. Gently the doctor rested the unconscious man’s head against her legs. She hesitated only a moment before she dabbed at the cut over his eye with her apron. In a moment, the bleeding had stopped.
“It’s not as bad as I thought,” she said.
“It rarely is,” the doctor replied. From the deep recesses of his coat pocket, he extracted a pair of scissors and began to cut up the man’s sleeve. “Seems a shame to do this,” he said out loud. “Good material. I wonder . . .” He glanced at Libby. “Feel around in his breast pocket. See if he has any identification.”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Libby said.
“Of course you can.”
“If you’re sure he won’t mind,” she said finally, and reached toward the man’s coat.
“Libby, how will he ever know?” Dr. Cook asked, his voice alive with amusement.
Slowly, carefully, as if she expected the unconscious man to reach up and seize her, Libby slid her hand down his chest and into his coat. She felt about, noting how well-muscled his chest was, but did not turn up a wallet.
“Try his pants pockets,” said the doctor as he resumed snipping away at the coat.
“I will not,” she declared. “It’s improper.”
Dr. Cook sighed, and there was a touch of asperity in his voice. “Don’t be a goose, Libby. I’d like to know who this is. ”
“I shouldn’t, you know,” Libby said. “Mama would never approve.” After another moment’s hesitation, Libby slid her hand into the man’s pocket and pulled out a wallet.
She held it between thumb and forefinger and then opened it. It was stuffed with bank notes. She pulled out a card and held it out so Dr. Cook could see it, too.
“ ‘Nesbitt Duke,’ ” she read. “ ‘Merchant to Copley Confections, by appointment to His Majesty George III.’ ”
“We seem to have a candy merchant here,” said the doctor as he finished cutting around the sleeve. “He must be a good one. I wish I could afford a suit of this quality. Copley’s, eh? I’ve bought a few pounds from them before.”
