Page 18 of Libby's London Merchant
“I am sure that if you hold his hand, when he wakes, he will not be so frightened, my dear,’’ she said to her brother.
“Then I will do it.” Joseph took the man by the hand, his eyes on his face, anxious for the first signs of returning consciousness.
Libby bent over her work again, pulling out fragments and dabbing at the blood with the cotton wadding. Dr. Cook loomed over her as he carefully ran his hands through the man’s hair, searching for further injury.
The man looked as though he slept, so relaxed did he appear.
“A candy merchant?” Libby asked out loud, and then glanced at Joseph, who was subjecting the man to intense scrutiny. “Joseph, I should think that a candy salesman would be round and jolly, rather like . . .” She paused in embarrassment.
“Like me?” supplied the doctor, and then chuckled as she blushed.
There was an awkward pause as Libby devoted all her attention to the man’s leg. The blush left her cheeks in a moment, and she turned to the doctor.
“You are right to tease me,” she said, and then smiled. “But I will say this, Dr. Cook: you were a fierce competitor in the footrace.”
He bowed. “I will depend upon you never to let the medical faculty at Edinburgh know that I had to run after a patient.”
She giggled behind her hand, her good humor restored.
“Beg pardon,” said a faint voice from the bed. “If I’m not asking too much . . .”
The candy merchant’s eyes were open and the pain in them made Libby wince. Impulsively she leaned forward and laid her hand upon his chest, and then touched his face. “You are in excellent hands, Mr. Duke,” she said.
“Oh, I am well aware,” he murmured, turned his face toward her hand, and kissed it. “Now, is there a doctor, too? My joy would be complete.”
His eyes closed again.
Libby snatched her hand away and stared down at him in astonishment. “Dr. Cook, he is a shocking flirt. One would scarcely think he would feel like jollying the ladies.”
“Shocking,” murmured the doctor as he gazed at Libby, then shook his head, cleared his throat; and shoved his wandering glasses more firmly upon his nose. “Let us continue. Thank you, Candlow. I was needing that.”
The butler held out his black bag and whispered in the doctor’s ear. “Mrs. Weller said your father had a particular message for you, Doctor. Said to make sure the merchant has money in his pockets before you even put so much as a stitch in him.”
Dr. Cook sighed. “Do you know, Miss Ames, I think that my father and Hippocrates would never have seen eye to eye on the matter of payment for hire.” He touched her arm. “Those are embedded rather deeply, Miss Ames. You dab now and I will tweeze.”
The stones cut deeper around the man’s knee. Dr. Cook worked one out before the merchant opened his eyes again, reached down, and grasped the doctor’s hand.
“Hold him, Libby,” said Dr. Cook.
She took his arm and held it tightly in her hands. “Now, now, sir,” she said. “He’ll be through soon.”
To her horror, the man began to cry. Joseph let go of his other hand and retreated from the room. “Anthony,” she gasped, forgetting her manners, “what do we do now?”
Dr. Cook dropped the tweezers and reached for his black bag, drawing out a vile of amber-colored liquid. “A drop of this will simplify things,” he murmured as he reached for a cup. “Now then, sir.”
Tears streaming down his cheeks, the merchant struggled to sit up. He knocked the basin off the bed and the stones rolled across the floor.
Libby took his face in her hands. “Oh, please, sir. Dr. Cook only wants to help.”
The man ignored her, reaching for the doctor again. He grasped Dr. Cook’s arms. “No. Not any of that.” His hand began to tremble. “If you would, I could manage a drink.’’
The doctor looked at him thoughtfully and put the cork back in the bottle. “As you wish, sir. Candlow, can you concoct a mild cordial for our guest?”
“I’d rather have whiskey,” said the merchant. Dr. Cook shook his head. He lifted the man’s hand gently off his arm and held it steady, watching the slight tremor. “I think a cordial will be more than sufficient, Mr. Duke, is it? Doctor’s orders, sir.”
When Candlow returned, Libby raised Mr. Duke up and tipped the glass to his lips.
The man took a surprisingly strong grip on the glass and downed the cordial. “More, please,” he gasped, tugging at Libby’s hand. “Oh, please!”
