Page 27 of Libby's London Merchant
After the sun went down, she tried to let go, but the man whimpered and stirred about restlessly in the bed until she gave up the attempt. Joseph brought her dinner on a tray and cut up the beef roast for her while she ate with one hand.
“Is he going to die?” Joseph asked when she finished, his voice a loud whisper.
“No, my dear, I think not. He will be better in a few days,” she whispered back.
Joseph shook his head, his eyes wide. “I hope you do not catch what he has,” he declared.
Libby smiled at her brother. “I do not think it is contagious.”
Joseph peered at the man in the gathering darkness. “He doesn’t seem to be throwing out any spots, Libby. That is a good sign.”
“No, no spots,” she exclaimed, and then patted her brother on the knee. “It is nothing for you to worry about, so do not exercise your mind.”
Her answer satisfied Joseph. He sat with her until he began to yawn, then kissed her on the cheek and took himself off to bed.
Libby yearned to go down the hall to her own room, throw herself down on her bed, and not even worry about removing her shoes. Instead, she remained where she was, holding tight to the London merchant’s hand as he mumbled in his sleep, perspired, and shook.
She had never seen a man so destroyed with liquor before, not even among the hard-drinking officers of her father’s regiment in Spain. “What have you been doing to yourself?” she murmured as she toweled off his sweating face and neck where perspiration had puddled on the sheets. “What is so bad that you must see it through the bottom of a bottle?”
He did not answer her, but only opened his mouth again and again in that soundless scream that so unnerved her, his eyes opened wide upon some nameless horror that she could not see. In desperation, she put her hand over his eyes until she felt his eyelids close under her palm.
What a shame your commanding officer has taken so little interest in your plight, she thought, remembering the care that her father took to know the whereabouts of each man discharged from duty. When she was old enough, he had pressed her into service as he dictated letter after letter to hospitals and places of employment, seeking help for his soldiers invalided out of the service.
Libby removed her hand from the merchant’s eyes and touched his face, noting the fine bones in his cheeks and the handsome shape of his lips. What a pity you did not soldier for my father, she thought as she rested the back of her hand against his neck for a moment. He would have seen to your welfare, as any good commander should.
Libby was lost in contemplation of her father when the door opened and Dr. Cook stuck his head in. She motioned him closer, rubbing her eyes with her free hand and wondering why the house was so still and what the hour was.
The physician loomed over the sleeping man and then gently felt for a pulse. When he seemed satisfied, he unbuttoned the merchant’s nightshirt and knelt down, head on his chest, to listen to his heartbeat.
“Good steady rhythm,” he murmured at last as he got to his feet. “The man must have the heart of a Hercules.”
“I don’t know why it is you must always sound so bereft when you discover people in good health,” she observed, but not unkindly.
“Hush,” he commanded, and then weakened his order with the self-deprecating smile she was coming to appreciate. “It is merely a hazard of the profession, Miss Ames.” He touched the man’s pulse again. “Be aware that I did not rend my garments and sit among the ashes.”
She smiled back, despite her exhaustion. “Why did you stop? It must be terribly late. And I wish you would not sleep in your suits. You must be the despair of your housekeeper.”
“Which inquisition shall I respond to first?” he asked, his voice alive with good humor. “I stopped because I noticed the light in the window. It is past midnight. I put this particularly handsome suit of clothing on fresh since I last saw you this morning, but I sleep when I can, and it is rumpled. Excuse it. Father’s housekeeper gave up long ago, and I have never been able to maintain a valet, for obvious reasons.”
Libby giggled, but did not relinquish her grip on the London merchant.
“Won’t he let you go?” the doctor asked.
She shook her head. “Poor man! I wonder how much in his life he has been solitary. He looks so wretched, sir, as though he were used to seeing himself through difficulties alone.” She searched for understanding in the doctor’s face and found it. “No one should be alone in desperate situations.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said the doctor. “He sleeps soundly now. Try turning loose.”
Libby did as he said, and the merchant slumbered on.
“I could sit with him now, Miss Ames,” Dr. Cook said.
She leaned back in the chair, free of the merchant, but shook her head. “No. You keep far worse hours than I do.” Libby smiled at him. “Besides, Dr. Cook, I would not forgive myself if you could not return to your house and rumple up another suit.”
“Silly nod,” he said mildly.
Libby was surprised at this side of the staid, clumsy Dr. Anthony Cook. Cousin Lydia will be amazed when I tell her that Dr. Cook is human, she thought.
After a long moment spent in idle contemplation of her face, which should have discomfited her, but did not, the doctor turned to his patient again. “Has be eaten anything, Miss Ames?” he asked, his voice all business again.
