Page 16 of Libby's London Merchant
“You and everyone in England,” Libby said.
She watched as the doctor cut the last of the fabric and gently lifted the sleeve from the oddly twisted arm. “What are you going to do?” she asked finally, and would have preferred that he not answer, because she thought she knew, and the prospect was not pleasing.
The doctor didn’t answer for a moment, so intent was he on cutting through the shirt and exposing the man’s arm and chest.
“It is as I thought,” he said to Libby, who stared, wide-eyed, at the dislocation. “Dear me, how I dislike these presentations.” He touched the man’s forehead and smoothed back the merchant’s rumpled hair with that same gentle gesture that so intrigued Libby. “Why could you not have done this in someone else’s backyard?”
Libby shivered in spite of herself and clutched the unconscious man closer to her. “What are you going to do to him?” she quavered. “I do not think I like it.”
The doctor grimaced. “Joseph,” he called. “I need you.” Libby closed her eyes and bowed her head over the merchant, who chose that moment to open his eyes.
“My God, you are beautiful,” he said, his voice faint and faraway. “An angel? Have I died?”
Libby sucked in her breath and slid closer to the doctor, who leaned over the man and opened his eyes wider with his fingers.
“A pardonable mistake,” he murmured. “She will introduce herself later, sir.” He pulled down the skin below the man’s eyelids and then passed his hand slowly across the merchant’s face. “Ah, excellent, sir. Pupils in equal alignment and movement.”
The doctor took a deep breath and gently manipulated the merchant’s shoulder. Nez sucked in his breath and held it so long that Libby began to fidget. When she was about to cry, he let his breath out slowly and drew a shuddering breath, and another. He shifted his weight and groaned. “My leg...”
“ ... will wait,” finished Anthony Cook. “We will worry about it after your arm has rejoined your body.”
In spite of her growing agitation, Libby stole an admiring glance at Dr. Cook. Something had happened to the awkward, formal man in the sitting room. Dr. Cook knew precisely what he was doing. Libby held the candy merchant closer and forgave Anthony Cook that entire mess in the sitting room.
“Joseph, you are just the man I need,” the doctor was saying. “Take Mr. Duke, is it? Take him by that arm. Gently, gently. When I tell you, start pulling on it slowly and evenly. Can you do that?”
Joseph turned white and started to back away, but Anthony Cook fixed him with a stare that stopped him where he was. Without a word, Joseph took the merchant by the arm. Libby made an inarticulate sound in her throat.
“Just hang on to him,” the doctor said as he rose up on his knees.
“Yes, by all means,” the injured man murmured. He smiled at her. “Libby, is it? I am in the right place, then,” he added, more to himself than to her. He closed his eyes resolutely and set his jaw.
“All right, Joseph, begin,” said the doctor quietly.
Libby braced herself as the injured man cried out. Joseph pulled steadily, even as tears streamed down his cheeks, and Dr. Cook guided the arm back into the shoulder socket. There was an audible click, and the man fainted.
Libby felt remarkably light-headed. She swallowed, shook her head, and made no complaint when Dr. Cook pulled her away from the injured man and without any ceremony pushed her head down between her knees. She stayed that way until her head cleared and the humming went away, and then she raised her head, embarrassed.
Dr. Cook paid her no attention. He had cut away Mr. Duke’s pant leg below the knee and surveyed the ruin. Joseph took one long look and directed his attention to Nesbitt Duke’s horse again.
The man was still unconscious. Libby cleared her throat. “That was foolish of me,” she apologized.
Dr. Cook rubbed his hand across her hair, the impulsive gesture careless and comforting at the same time. “Don’t give it a thought. You should have seen me the first time I watched that piece of work. I thought you came through very well.” He smiled. “Although I don’t doubt you wish you had gone to Brighton after all.”
She could only agree silently. Libby forced herself to look at the man’s injured leg. “What are you going to do?” she asked.
“Carry him to Holyoke Green, if you think that will do,” he said.
“Certainly, of course,” Libby said at once. “Your place is a bit closer, but I doubt. . .” She paused.
“You doubt my father would be sufficiently interested to nurse a bloke of the merchant class?” the doctor finished. He laughed at her evident chagrin. “You are entirely right. Mr. Duke of Copley’s will fare better at your place. Let us leave Joseph to see to the horse.”
With scarcely any effort, Dr. Cook lifted the injured man in his arms and started down the road with his burden, cradling him close. Libby snatched up the worn bag that had burst open in the road and stuffed the clothes back inside. She hurried to catch up with the doctor. Libby tugged at the doctor’s sleeve. “You’re not . . . you’re not going to have to amputate, are you?” she whispered.
Anthony Cook looked down at her and smiled as though he were out for a Sunday stroll and had nothing more serious than dinner on his mind. “Lord, no, you goose,” he chided in his good-natured way. “What I do think is that I will be spending a good portion of this day picking out the gravel.”
Libby blinked back her tears. “I’m not very good at this, Dr. Cook,” she said. “He looks dreadful.”
“And so would you, if you had just graded up the road with your body. Hurry on ahead like a good girl and find a room for this poor purveyor of candies.”
