Page 24 of Libby's London Merchant
Without a word, she followed him from the room. In silence, he tucked her arm in the crook of his elbow and steered her down the hall. She hurried to keep up with his long stride, wondering what possessed him to behave in such a cavalier fashion, and grateful, at the same time, that the squire could not see them so close together.
He sat her down on the top step of the landing and seated himself below her several steps. He seemed at a loss for words and looked at her hopefully. When she only stared at him, he sighed and began.
“Miss Ames, the chocolate merchant is a drunkard.”
“What?” she shrieked, and then clutched his arm and lowered her voice. “You cannot be serious. He seems so nice.”
The doctor shrugged and patted her hand. “My dear, you must disabuse yourself of the notion that all drunkards look like Hogarth’s rake. I am sure he is nice. Tell me, did you leave that bottle of cordial on the night table? I distinctly remember putting it on the bureau.”
She thought back to the night before. “I did pour Mr. Duke another cordial,” she said. “And I must have left the bottle on the night table. Could he have drunk the whole thing?”
“It is a distinct possibility, unless you have extremely agile mice in this house, and I cannot imagine your mama would ever permit that!” He smiled. “Ah, that is more like it, Miss Ames. You really have a fine dimple.” He took her by the hand absently.
“But a drunkard, sir?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“I am sure of it. He is not hungry, and he should be famished. His hands tremble. Did you notice the sweat on his face?” She nodded. He held her hand gently and began to massage her knuckles. He was obviously troubled, so Libby allowed him to continue.
After another moment’s reflection, he looked down at her hand and let go of it quickly. “Beg pardon, Miss Ames.”
She refused to let the moment embarrass her, but slid down another step until they were at eye level with each other. “I suppose it would be a simple matter to let the man rest here a few days, give him his cordial, and then send him on his way.”
“It would be,” he agreed. “I could overlook all this. We could keep him well lubricated and then wave good-bye to him and let him become someone else’s problem.” He fastened an inquiring eye upon her.
“Or we could keep him here a few weeks and sober him up,” Libby said. “My uncle would have a fit. You know how he feels about the consumption of excessive spirits. And Mama . . . Mama would be aghast.”
“They are not here,” the doctor reminded her.
“Oh, but, Doctor, my Aunt Crabtree—Uncle Ames’s aunt, actually—she will be arriving today. I fear she will take great exception to this little scheme.”
“Surely she will not dump out an invalid who is already in residence.”
She felt a flash of irritation at Dr. Cook’s calm reason. “I think you could cajole me into keeping Napoleon himself in the best guest room.”
“I could try, if he were a patient of mine, my dear,” he replied. “Now, give me your other objections and let us get them aired and out of the way.”
“I had planned to spend the next few weeks in blissful solitude,” Libby mused, “painting and subjecting myself to absolutely no exertions.” She jabbed a finger into the doctor’s ample chest. “Surely Hippocrates does not cover this in his oath.”
“You are correct, of course, Miss Ames. But I might also add that nowhere does it say in the Hippocratic Oath to leave well enough alone, so I do believe I will meddle in this man’s existence.”
“He won’t thank you for it,” Libby pointed out.
“Not now, he won’t, but he may someday.” The doctor rose and pulled Libby up after him. “We may be doing him a greater good than he could ever have expected from an accident.” He chuckled. “Poor Mr. Nesbitt Duke! He had the misfortune to overturn his gig in front of a most meddlesome house. Someone should have warned him about selling candy and chocolates in this part of Kent.”
The doctor looked at his pocket watch. “And now I must be off. Lord Lambourne of Edgerly Grange in convinced that if I do not lance a carbuncle this morning, he will likely cock up his toes by evening, although why this has not bothered him anytime in these past six weeks, I cannot tell you. Good day, Miss Ames.”
Libby clutched at the doctor’s arm. “You cannot leave me like this. What am I do with my chocolate merchant?”
Dr. Cook threw back his head and laughed. Libby stamped her foot and shook his arm. He pried her fingers from his sleeve. “Careful, my dear, or you’ll rumple the superfine,” he said, and was rewarded with a laugh.
“And you, Doctor, must resist the urge to sleep in your suits,” she scolded. “What you need, Dr. Cook, is a wife.”
“So I do, Miss Ames, so I do,” he agreed. “I also need patients who have babies during daylight hours or who do not stumble into trees coming home late from the public house.” He touched her cheek. “Don’t worry, Miss Ames. He won’t bite. He may growl and snap a bit, but just bully him into some food, keep him warm, and hold his hand.”
Anthony Cook rubbed lightly at the little frown that appeared between her eyes. “You know where to get in touch with me, my dear, uh, Miss Ames. Now, go do your good deed for the summer and rescue this London merchant from himself.”
6
“Rescue the London merchant, indeed,” Libby grumbled after she saw Dr. Cook out the door, warned Joseph strictly to stay out of the squire’s fields, and took her reluctant way back up the stairs.
