Page 26 of Libby's London Merchant
Libby felt her anger return in a rush that left her breathless. Hot words rose to her lips, but he spoke before she could.
“Miss Ames, I wish to God that you would hurry away from the door,” he said, his voice tight with strain. “Please, Miss Ames, I beg you, step lively and you’ll be safe enough.”
Mystified, she did as he said.
He still would not look at her. “Miss Ames, it is only that there is such a cluster of snakes on the door frame that I feared for you. And do watch your step. The floor is writhing.”
Startled, she looked back at the door, gleaming white and cheery in the morning sunlight that streamed through the curtains. She looked down at the floor, which admitted of nothing more terrifying than an old Persian carpet of intricate design.
“Sir, there is nothing here, nothing at all.”
He shook his head, still not looking toward the door. “I wish you would come away from there.”
Without another word, she hurried to the bedside and sat down. She poured him a drink of water. As the water dribbled into the cup, he opened his eyes hopefully and turned toward the sound. When he saw it was only water, he sighed, but did not look away. She raised his head up and he drank enough to wet his lips.
His tone was more conversational then, reasonable. “I merely need a small drink, Miss Ames,” he said, his voice smooth, except for a slight tremor that did not escape her ears. “That is all.”
“No.”
Libby looked on in horror as he began to cry, sobbing out loud, begging for a drink. She wanted to leap from the chair and run from the room, her hands over her ears. Through it all he lay there rigid, his hands clenched into tight fists as he wailed and begged. Libby stared at him a minute more and then tentatively reached out her hand and touched him on the arm.
In another moment, she had worked her fingers into his closed hand, which she clasped in a firm grip. Libby moved her chair closer. She stroked his arm with her other hand until he began to relax, little by little. When his tears stopped, she dabbed at his eyes with her apron, all the while holding tight to his hand.
He slept finally, and she relaxed in the chair, wishing that Candlow would come with a pillow. When the door opened, she looked toward it expectantly and then felt her stomach plummet to her shoes.
It was a little woman with a big nose and a red face and could only be Aunt Crabtree. Uncle Ames called her “the family aunt,” the impoverished member of the family who lived from relative to relative, depending on the needs of respective households.
“Aunt Crabtree?” she whispered.
The bonneted head nodded vigorously, but the old lady came no closer. “Is he contagious?”
Libby almost said no, when a wonderful idea filled her mind. It was a stroke of genius that Cousin Lydia would chortle over, were she here.
“Oh, Aunt Crabtree, he is fearsomely contagious.”
The woman leapt back into the corridor with a little shriek that made the merchant twitch and shift about.
Libby freed her hand and tiptoed to the door. The old lady, the rest of her face as red as her nose now, sat and fanned herself from a chair halfway down the hall. Libby hurried toward her, gave her a peck on the cheek, and took her hand.
“How grateful I am that you did not go in there, my dear. Uncle Ames would never forgive me.” Libby steadied her voice and looked about in conspiratorial fashion. “Aunt, it is culebra fever.”
She paused for dramatic effect and also to assure herself that Aunt Crabtree was unacquainted with Spanish. The woman, her hat on crooked now from her strenuous exertions to get far away from the still-open doorway, nodded seriously, her eyes wide, and Libby continued.
“It is highly contagious. I had it in Spain when I was a child and I am immune.” She paused and dabbed at her dry eyes. “We can only be grateful that the man happened to faint practically on this doorstep, Aunt, or else no one could have tended him.”’
Aunt Crabtree gulped. “How merciful are the ways of Providence, child,” she said.
“Merciful indeed, Aunt,” said Libby, crossing her fingers and hoping that God was far away from Kent at the moment. “I recommend that you keep away from this hallway until I tell you it is safe. And even then, well, who knows?”
Aunt Crabtree was already heading for the stairs. “I will direct Candlow to put me in the housekeeper’s old room downstairs,” she said as she scurried down the steps. “If you need anything, my dear . . .”
The rest of her sentence was gone. Libby heard pattering feet, impressed that a lady of such age and bulk could trot so fast.
Libby stayed where she was another moment, wondering where her scruples had vanished. “It is merely that I cannot deal with you right now, Aunt Crabtree,” she excused herself.
Hours passed. She was mindful of Candlow peering into the room and then sending a maid to clean the oatmeal off the door. A steaming pot of tea appeared at Libby’s elbow. She sipped gratefully as she held tight to the London merchant and watched him drift in and out of restless sleep.
Mr. Duke woke once with a start as the afternoon shadows climbed across the bed. He looked around in alarm at his surroundings and closed his eyes again, as if he feared what he saw. Libby wiped his forehead dry of sweat and did not relinquish her hold on him.
