Page 31 of Libby's London Merchant
“Hold up your hand, sir,” he asked, and nodded in approval. “Much steadier, Mr. Duke, much steadier.” He observed the toast crumbs on the merchant’s sheet and eyed the teapot. “What, no oatmeal?”
“Not now, and not ever, Doctor,” said Nesbitt Duke. “I’d rather sip my own phlegm.”
Libby laughed out loud and then put her hand over her mouth.
“Oatmeal does have that quality about it,” the good doctor agreed. “Possibly that is why the Scots are so dour.”
“I am certain of it, sir,” replied the merchant. He pulled back the sheet and exposed his legs. “I think I will mend rapidly, Doctor.”
Dr. Cook smiled, pushed his glasses up higher on his nose, and poked and prodded. “Not a pretty sight, Mr. Duke, and destined to scar, but then, how often are your limbs bared to view, anyway?”
The duke shrugged. “Since I don’t swim with the Brighton crowd, I think it a matter of concern to me alone.”
After another careful perusal, the doctor replaced the sheet. He put his hands in his pockets and went to the window. “I don’t suppose we have any real reason to keep you here, Mr. Duke.”
Libby sighed and the little sound seemed to fill the room, and, oddly enough, lodge in his heart. She looked at Mr. Duke, who folded his hands across his lap and made himself appear to be deep in thought. When he said nothing, Dr. Cook addressed him.
“Really, sir, it is your decision. We cannot force you to stay here against your will. As much as I would like to,” he added softly.
“Why?” asked the duke. “What possible interest can you have in me?” His tone was not belligerent. It was a serious question. He regarded the doctor with real interest.
Dr. Anthony Cook removed his spectacles and polished them with the tail of his coat. “Dear me, lad,” he replied, as if startled anyone would ask such a foolish question. “How can you ask such a question? I care. That is all. Libby—Miss Ames does, too.”
Nez looked from Libby to the doctor. She held her breath as he appeared to waver.
“You don’t even know me,’’ he said, wondering what he was about to get himself into.
“Hardly matters, Mr. Duke,’’ the doctor said brusquely. “If you were the archbishop of Canterbury or a peer of the realm, it would make no difference to me.”
“No liquor?’’ he asked, his voice soft.
“None, lad. Not a drop. Not even a whiff.”
Nez sighed and sank lower in his pillows. “The issue is settled, then, sir,” he declared. “Besides that, no one seems to know where my trousers are.” He gestured toward Libby. “And we care what the neighbors think, don’t we, my dear Miss Ames? I am yours, sir, and yours, Miss Ames. Do your best.”
“Oh, I shall,” Libby declared.
7
She was as good as her word. Without a complaint or murmur, Libby Ames set about her task of stitching the Duke of Knaresborough’s broken body and spirit back together. Somehow she seemed to sense that there were deeper wounds that she could not salve away with Dr. Cook’s marvelous “Mystic Soother,” a balm he had concocted during his Edinburgh days and used on everything from tooth canker to saddle sore.
Morning and night, she smoothed on the balm, humming softly to herself, completely unmindful that young ladies usually didn’t set eyes on hairy masculine legs until marriage. The duke mentioned something about that to her once and she laughed.
“I suppose you are shocked, Mr. Duke,” she agreed, wiping her hands on her apron and placing one layer of gauze over the worst of his gouges. “I spent too many years with Wellington’s army to let a little thing like that bother me.”
He was aghast, and his face showed it. “Surely you didn’t tend the battlefield wounded?” he asked, irritated with himself that his voice came out in such an undignified squeak.
She stared at him in equal surprise. “And was I to stand by, wring my hands, and faint when there was so much to be done, Mr. Duke? ’Tis no wonder you didn’t last in the army beyond Waterloo.” She was silent a moment, her face set as she finished her gentle task and covered his legs with the sheet again. “Forgive me,” she said at last, “but that was unkind.” She stood up straight and looked him right in the eye. “It was some small way that I could help. That’s it, simply put, sir. I never begrudged a moment of it.”
He could tell from the conviction in her voice that she did not, and he had the sudden, heartening thought that there probably wasn’t anything horrible that she had not seen and dealt with. And how have you managed to survive so unscathed? he asked her, but only silently. He hadn’t the courage to put his thoughts into words, because they would only mean more questions he wasn’t prepared to answer.
“We could have used you at Waterloo,” he said finally.
Her eyes clouded over and she sat down on his bed, almost without realizing it. He shifted himself obligingly to give her more room.
“I would have been there, too—at least in Brussels, Mama and I—if Papa had not died in Toulouse,” she said.
Her voice was calm, composed, and he sensed, more than heard, the great sorrow behind her words. He took her hand and held it for a brief moment.
