Page 23 of Libby's London Merchant
She glanced up at the doctor and looked away quickly. His face was red. She had a terrible feeling that his father had been scolding him about his visit to Holyoke Green last night.
“Good morning, Miss Ames,” said the doctor. “And you, sir, how did you sleep?”
“Well enough,’’ said the merchant. He pulled himself into a sitting position.
“Shall we see then if you truly are well enough?” asked Dr. Cook. He pulled back the bed covers and examined the merchant’s leg. He gently worked off the gauze and stared at it some more. “You’ll do,” he said at last. “I would prefer for the air to get at it now.” He glanced at Libby’s expression. “And don’t look so shocked. We learned the latest methods in Edinburgh.’’
“We do live in a modern age,” Libby said. “Very well, sir, I will see that his bed is pulled closer to the window.”
“Very good, Miss Ames.” He regarded the merchant again. “I doubt you’ll be bounding about for a few days.”
“I hadn’t planned on it,” Nez agreed. He winked at Libby and found himself vastly rewarded by the returning twinkle in her eyes. “I will trust to my charming hostess to tolerate my distempered convalescence.”
The doctor raised expressive eyebrows over his spectacles. “Yes, I suppose you will,” he said in a different tone of voice, a proprietary tone that sounded to Libby remarkably like the squire.
The doctor sat on the bed and unbuttoned the merchant’s nightshirt. He felt the man’s shoulder. “Be careful with that,” he said finally. “They have a habit of slipping out again, once it has happened.” He peered closer at the man in the bed. “And this is not the first time, is it?”
“No, sir,” said the merchant promptly. “It has happened once before.”
“At Waterloo?” ventured the doctor.
Startled, the merchant nodded. “Hougoumont, to be more specific. How the devil did you know?”
“You carry sufficient souvenirs of battle on your person to make you highly suspect,” said the doctor mildly as he buttoned the man’s nightshirt again. “But how did you dislocate your shoulder?”
“Dangling off the roof of a burning farmhouse,” the merchant replied, and then closed his lips in a firm line.
The doctor returned the merchant’s gaze. “And that, I take, is all you choose to say about it.” When Nez made no reply, the doctor touched the man’s head in a gesture oddly protective. “I’ll not pry further.”
There was an awkward silence. For some reason, the merchant appeared to be wavering on the edge of tears. Libby looked away, troubled by the strange tension between the two men. She thought about leaving the room, so palpable was that tension, but she stayed where she was.
The doctor patted the merchant’s good leg and stood up. The cordial bottle caught his eye. He held it up to the light and shook it, then set it down. Without a word, he grasped the duke by the wrist and raised his hand, watching the fine tremor. Deep in thought, he held the man by the wrist, then grasped his hand and squeezed it.
“Well, sir, you could use some breakfast, I am convinced,” Dr. Cook said at last. “The rumor circulating about the neighborhood testifies that Miss Ames is an excellent cook, so you could be in for a beatific experience.”
Nez shook his head. “I do not doubt you, but I’m not hungry. What I really would like…”
The doctor did not allow him to finish the sentence. “A bowl of oatmeal with cream, and an apple tart.” He bowed to Libby. “Could you produce such a menu?”
“No . . . I…” began the duke. His voice became sharper then, querulous. “Now, see here, I know what I want and it is not oatmeal.”
Dr. Cook stuck his hands in his pocket and walked to the window. “But, sir, that is my prescription. I wasn’t in Edinburgh among the Scots for four years for nothing. Oatmeal, Mr. Duke, oatmeal.”
Libby observed the merchant’s evident agitation. “Dr. Cook, it would be no trouble to locate another bottle of cordial,” she said. “Indeed, Uncle often takes it with his breakfast.”
He froze her with a look. “No.”
She stepped back in surprise. “Very well, sir,” she said, her voice frosty. “But I am not a very good hostess, then, am I?”
“You’ll have to run that risk, Miss Ames,” said the doctor, his voice serene again. He nodded toward the bed, where the merchant was making sputtering sounds. “And if Mr. Duke does not like it, why, he can get out of bed and leave this place.”
“Only get me my clothes, and I will be off,” shouted the candy merchant.
The doctor stuck his glasses more firmly on his nose and looked elaborately about the room again. He picked up the bag in the corner, carried it to the window, and threw it out. Libby gasped in surprise.
Her surprise deepened as the merchant threw himself back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. As she watched in amazement, sweat broke out on his face.
But Dr. Cook was watching her. He nodded to her. “Miss Ames, I have a matter to discuss with you.”
