Page 17 of Libby's London Merchant
She did as she was bid. Candlow, never one to succumb to nerves, took one look at the doctor coming up the steps with the man cradled in his arms and led the way upstairs. He looked back once and shook his head, but there was just a tinge of satisfaction in his eyes. “This reminds me of any number of scrapes your father found himself in, Miss Ames,” he said fondly. “Ah, but your Uncle Ames is devilish dull.”
“Candlow,” Libby exclaimed. “You have never spoken of my father.”
The butler managed a slight smile in her direction. “I don’t know that we were allowed to speak of him, miss, at least while your grandfather was alive. Indeed, it became a habit, something I have not thought about until the arrival of this person. ”
“Perhaps that will change now?” Libby asked, her voice soft.
“It might,” the butler answered, his voice equally quiet. “May you give way now for the doctor, miss.”
Libby hurried ahead and stripped back the bedspread, smoothing out the pillow and then standing aside as Dr. Cook lowered the man carefully to the sheet. He stood silent then, towering over the man on the bed, just regarding him, his lips pursed, the frown line between his eyes quite pronounced.
“Doctor?” Libby asked when he appeared not to be attending to the matter at hand.
He started visibly and then shook his head. “Just wondering where to begin, Libby . . . Miss Ames,” he said, correcting himself. “I don’t suppose your uncle ventured all the way to Brighton without his valet?”
“Oh, no, Doctor. I couldn’t imagine such a thing.”
“Nor I,” he agreed, “but I had hopes. Well, let us summon Candlow. Miss Ames, I suggest that you find other matters to occupy you.” He started to unbutton the unconscious man’s shirt. “In fact, take his bag into the hall and see if there is a nightshirt within.”
Libby did as she was bid. She opened the bag but could not bring herself to put her hand inside and rifle through the stranger’s belongings. After a moment spent in serious contemplation of the sad fact that she was going to ruin, and Mama scarcely out of sight, Libby plunged in her hand and pulled out a handful of clothes.
She found a nightshirt straight off, a cheerful blue-and-white affair that reminded her of mattress ticking, and a dressing gown that looked more valuable than the Bayeux Tapestry.
Libby fingered the rich material. Candy must pay beyond my wildest imaginings, she thought. Robe in hand, she spun a story to herself, imagining that Mr. Nesbitt Duke must be no mere salesman, but part owner at least.
Her speculations were disturbed by steps on the stairs. Joseph was coming slowly up the stairs, hand over hand on the railing like an old man.
“Joseph, are you all right?” she asked as he sat down beside her and wrung his hands together.
“Will he die, Libby?” Joseph asked, his voice a monotone, his eyes suspiciously red.
Libby put her arm around her brother. “Joseph, I think not!”
He allowed her to hold him, and he clung to her, even when the door opened and the doctor came into the hall.
If Dr. Cook was surprised to see the two of them holding on to each other, he did not show it. Without a word, he put a large friendly hand on Joseph’s head and rested it there until Joseph looked up.
“That’s better now, Joseph,” the doctor said. “You did a capital job back there on the road. His shoulder is fine. Now if Libby will spare me that nightshirt. . .”
She handed it to the doctor. “May I help, Dr. Cook?” she asked, half-hoping that he would say no. She glanced at her brother, who sat so still beside her. “And Joseph will help too, won’t you, dear?”
He thought a moment, his hand straying to his earlobe. “If you are there, Libby,” he managed at last.
“Then it is settled,” she said decisively, and got to her feet, holding out her hand for Joseph. “You will tell us what you to do, Doctor.”
“Joseph, you and Candlow will get him into his nightshirt. I will go downstairs and send the footman for my bag. Deuced foolish of me to leave it home, but then, we didn’t expect to find a candy merchant plowing up the road in front of Holyoke Green, now, did we? Miss Ames, you can get us a basin and some tweezers.”
When she returned with the basin and tweezers and enough gauze and cotton wadding to upholster a chair, Joseph was inside the room. He stayed close to the wall, but the fear was gone from his eyes. Dr. Cook had removed his coat and was rolling up his sleeves.
“Very good, Miss Ames,” he said, and took the basin and tweezers from her. He sat on the bed, draped a towel on his breeches, and pulled the man’s leg into his lap. He perched his glasses firmly on his nose, picked up the tweezers, and began to extract little bits of gravel. In a moment, he was whistling tunelessly to himself as he plinked the gravel into the basin. Joseph began to grin, and Libby smiled in spite of herself.
The doctor looked up and noticed the amusement in her eyes. “Miss Ames, Mozart is efficacious for more than the concert hall, don’t you know?”
“I prefer a little Bach now and then,” she teased, and they laughed together.
“When it is your turn, you may whistle Bach,” he said generously, and reapplied himself to his task until the bottom of the basin was covered with stony fragments. He paused then and rubbed his eyes. “Now it is your turn, Miss Ames. I haven’t the eyes for this.”
They changed places. The man stirred and muttered something when the doctor moved his leg into Libby’s lap, but he did not appear alert. She took the tweezers from the doctor and continued the search for gravel. In a few moments, Joseph seated himself across from her. Libby looked up long enough to nod in his direction.
