Page 38 of Libby's London Merchant
“No, I am not,” Libby replied, amazed that her conscience gave her not a twinge. I am turning into a hardened prevaricator, she thought as she smiled sweetly at her aunt.
“I will wave at him from a distance, dear Libby.” Aunt Crabtree kissed her. “You are a dear child to be so concerned for my welfare.”
Libby blushed and could not look at her aunt. She kissed the air near her ear and backed out of the room.
Libby went upstairs and knocked on the candy merchant’s door. She inclined her ear toward the panel out of habit and nearly fell into the room when he opened the door.
“Whoa there, Miss Ames, are you taking clumsy lessons from Dr. Cook?” he asked as he grabbed her. “Or do you always listen at keyholes?”
“I never listen at keyholes,” she said firmly, pressing her hands to her face to tame the sudden color there. Her eyes lighted on the sample case. “I see Joseph has been here,” she said, grateful for this excuse to change the subject.
“Last night.”
“I told him not to bother you so late,” she said in dismay. “But he was so proud that he found it. I hope he did not disturb you.”
The merchant shook his head. “Not a bit. He provided me with some intriguing food for thought.”
“Joseph?” Libby asked, her eyes wide.
He opened his eyes wide in imitation of her, and grinned. “The very same. I shall not tell you any more, madam. You have promised me a walk in the orchard, and I am eagerness itself.”
“Very well,” she agreed. “What must I do to find out more? Joseph is not noted for his scintillating conversation.”
“No, he isn’t, is he?” Nez agreed. “He is blunt and to the point, and would never make a splash in London society.” Libby frowned, and he took a step back, clutching his chest as though he had been wounded.
“And now you are going to give me a bear garden jaw because I have been making fun of your brother,” he said.
“I suppose I was,” she admitted, “so I will be generous this time. Come along, Mr. Duke.”
Libby scooped up her paints and easel on the way downstairs, and her bonnet off a convenient shelf by the door that led into the gardens. “I am attempting weeds and small rocks this week, so we must go into the orchard,” she explained breathlessly as she hurried along. “Do tell me if I am going too fast for you.”
“I shall,” the merchant replied promptly, took the easel from her, and strolled along beside her with scarcely a limp.
They traveled the formal gardens in silence, Libby stopping every now and then to pluck a few weeds in stone-lined beds and then hurrying to catch up with Mr. Duke, her hand tight to her head to keep the bonnet from flopping off.
When she reached him, he took her by the shoulders and pulled her closer to him. Libby stared up at him. She automatically closed her eyes and raised her face, and then opened them in surprise when he tied the strings of her bonnet, give her shoulder a pat, and turned her loose, laughing.
‘‘There now. ff you must dawdle at every flowerbed, at least you will not lose your hat. You must have been a trial to your mother when you were younger.”
She laughed out loud. “Do you know, they used to tether me to the flagpole when they were in garrison.”
“I don’t doubt it for a minute,” the merchant replied. “The temptation must have been great to leave you there when they marched away.”
Libby joined in his laughter.
“Much better, Miss Ames. You seemed a trifle down-pin earlier, and I am glad to know that you have not forgotten how to make merry. I could ask you why the melancholy air, but you would never tell me. I shall save my breath.”
They continued in silence, passing through the formal garden and into the kitchen garden, where Libby stopped again and tackled the weeds among the radishes.
The merchant watched her, a smile on his face. “I am wondering how you ever manage to make it to the orchard for your painting,” he exclaimed at last when she finished the row of radishes and cast her eyes upon the peas.
“Sometimes I do not, sir,” she replied, and started toward the peas.
Mr. Duke grabbed her by the arm. “Miss Ames, you have promised me the orchard, and I have been looking forward to this event. I tolerated the radishes, but I do not care for peas. ”
“Very well, Mr. Duke,” she said, and gently disengaged herself.
“And another thing, Miss Ames—may I not call you Libby?” he asked. “After all, you have been tending to my hairy legs this past week and putting up with my alcoholic fidgets. Surely we are on close-enough terms to call each other Libby and Nez.”
