Page 37 of Libby's London Merchant
After Papa’s shocking death years later in Toulouse, Mama had sat up all night by the camp fire, burning all letters and papers. She had shown Libby the lawyer’s documents detailing her father’s disinheritance. “I don’t know why he kept these,” Mama remarked as she tore the infamous documents into tiny bits and sprinkled them in the fire. “Take that, you evil man,” Mama whispered.
Libby had seen her Grandfather Ames once when Papa, nearly destitute and on half-pay while recuperating from a wound, had taken her and Mama to Holyoke Green to ask for no more than a place to stay until he was recalled to active duty. She was only six, but Libby remembered watching through the bars of the gate as the fierce old man with the shock of white hair rode right past his son without even a glance in his direction.
They had scuttled away in embarrassment to Portsmouth and a little flat over the tobacconist’s shop, where they had remained for three months before Papa was recalled to Spain. Libby remembered with painful clarity the relief they all felt to return to that land of war that seemed so much more friendly than Kent.
It was in her late Grandpa Gish’s crowded tobacco shop where the second set of lawyer’s documents had reached Papa, this set a copy of the one Uncle Ames had signed, declaring that now he was the legal heir, he would never give any money, property, or goods of any sort to Thomas Ames or his wife and child, on pain of losing his own inheritance.
“My father never said in writing that I could not take you in as a housekeeper,” Uncle Ames told her mother two years ago when they returned to bury Papa in the family graveyard.
Grandfather Ames was long cold there, too, and Mama had hesitated before putting her beloved Thomas in the same soil. “If I could have afforded a plot elsewhere ...” Mama had murmured as the coffin was lowered in the ground. She had stood in silence until the grave was covered, then turned and accepted Uncle Ames’s offer.
But there would be no dowry for Libby. Marriage to anyone of similar background was out of the question.
Libby’s thoughts wandered to the London merchant. “Too bad you are a cit,” she said out loud. “Mama would never allow me to align myself with a cit, no matter how refined you seem.”
It had always touched her that the daughter of a common tobacconist could live in such propriety and with better manners than most, but that was Mama. She never would have given her late husband or his cruel father any cause to be embarrassed.
Another thought followed, one more chilly, that made her sit upright and hug her knees, as though the June air had suddenly turned to February.
“Dear London Merchant, you would expect a dowry too, wouldn’t you?” she asked herself. “How silly of me to think it would be otherwise.”
The realization that she belonged in neither class settled on her shoulders like a clammy blanket, as she shivered and hugged herself. Mama had never put it into words, but Libby understood her own future. She could only learn her mother’s duties well, and someday hope to inherit her set of housekeeping keys. She would likely spend her days in the service of others, too genteel for one half of her family, and not genteel enough for the other, the impoverished daughter of a disinherited son.
And when Mama died, the burden of Joseph would rest squarely on her shoulders alone.
“Joseph, what will we do?” she asked. Libby thought of the squire’s threats and resolved anew to keep Joseph in sight as much as possible. I suppose if Squire Cook truly wanted, he could declare Joseph a public nuisance and have him put away. Libby closed her eyes tight against the thought and felt a great anger rise at her own powerlessness.
She snatched a hasty breakfast and gave her orders for the day to Candlow, who assured her that Joseph had risen earlier and was busy in the stables.
“And do you know, I have remembered where I put that London merchant’s traveling case,’’ he said, his face perfectly composed.
“Candlow, you are a wonder,” Libby teased.
He cleared his throat. “I took the liberty . . .’’
“Yes?” Libby prompted.
“His one trousers were ruined during the accident, of course, and he has only one other pair, so I found some of the major’s old pants,” the butler said. “Sir William had been keeping than in his own dressing room. I think they might fit the merchant.”
“Good of you, Candlow,” Libby said, only the slightest quiver in her voice. “Papa always did hate to see things wasted.”
Before she went upstairs to visit the merchant, her guilty conscience compelled her to scrawl a hurried note to Lydia and Mama in Brighton, telling them of the candy merchant’s precipitate arrival in their household. She assured Lydia that her draperies were clean now, and told Mama that the maids had been released for a well-deserved holiday, with only Candlow remaining of the house servants, and the cook, who refused to leave, as usual. She inquired about Uncle Ames’ gout, told Lydia to breathe deep of the sea air for her, and closed it all with affection unbounded, theirs truly.
She sighed and rested her chin on her hand. And now I must deal with Aunt Crabtree, she told herself.
Libby went downstairs to the servants’ quarters and paused outside the housekeeper’s door. Inside, she heard the faint slap of cards on the table. Two more slaps were followed by silence and then an unladylike oath. Aunt Crabtree was losing at Patience.
“Aunt?” she called through the door.
“Yes, my dear?” her aunt inquired, opening the door almost at once. She peered closer at Libby’s face. “Tell me, is something the matter with your candy merchant?”
“Oh, no, Aunt. Actually, I have come to announce that Mr. Duke is much improved. In feet, we can pronounce him almost cured,” she concluded in her most casual tone, looking everywhere but at her aunt.
“Almost?” Aunt Crabtree asked. Libby heard all her suspicion.
“He is well enough to walk in the orchard,” Libby said, and then sidled closer and lowered her voice. “I do not believe he is contagious anymore.”
“But you are not certain?”
