Page 42 of Libby's London Merchant
The boy did as he said, but instead of retreating, he came closer to the squire, a smile on his face. “Sir, your mare has a beautiful colt. Isn’t that a fine thing?”
Libby cried out as the squire, his face a study in fury, struck her brother across the chest with his riding crop. Joseph gasped, more from surprise than pain, and stared at the man on horseback.
“You don’t understand, sir,” he cried, and then sank to his knees, trying to cover his head and his bare shoulders as the squire struck him again and again.
With a cry of her own, Libby sprang into action. She darted closer to the squire’s rearing, plunging horse as she tried to drag Joseph away.
“Joseph, please,” she urged. “Let us go. Stop, Squire Cook. We mean no harm.”
Libby tried to haul Joseph to his feet as the blows rained down on them both. She could hear someone shouting from the fence, but still she tugged on her brother’s arm as he tried to protect his head, the squire’s horse dancing dangerously close.
“By God, you Ames are a nuisance,” the squire shouted. He pushed at Libby with his booted foot and, when she would not retreat, struck her with his riding crop.
She staggered and fell down in the deep grass, practically under the horse’s hooves. Someone grabbed her around the waist and she struck out blindly in protest, kicking her feet.
Her rescuer shoved her to one side. She stayed where she fell as the candy merchant, a set look on his face more frightening than the squire’s blows, stepped in front of the bleeding boy and grabbed the reins.
“I wouldn’t lift that crop one more time,” he said, his voice, soft but with that steely edge of command that Libby had wondered about before.
The squire’s hand shook as he slowly lowered the riding crop. The vein in his neck stood out and Libby stared at it in horrified fascination, almost as if she could hear the pulse pounding just under his skin. As she kept her eyes on the squire, Libby touched her fingertips to her face. The skin felt hot and her cheek was swelling already, but there was no blood.
No one spoke. The only sound was the squire’s labored breathing. Libby looked more closely at Joseph then and cried out in dismay. The crop had lifted the skin off his cheek near his ear. The blood mingled with the sweat that glistened on his neck. Libby reached for his hands and pulled him toward her, clutching him close as they knelt together in the grass.
The candy merchant, his knee stained bright red through his trousers, did not take his gaze from the squire, who glared back.
Libby held her breath. Some instinct, surfacing through her own personal fear, warned her that if the squire made a move, Nesbitt Duke would pull Cook off his horse and kill him with his bare hands.
She had no doubt that he could do it. Murder was in his eyes and on his face. Have you forgotten where you are, sir? she thought even as she looked away, unable to stand the sight of what was nearly inevitable.
Through the soles of her shoes, Libby felt the thundering presence of another horse and rider. She looked around to see Dr. Anthony Cook’s horse take the fence in one graceful motion and race toward them. She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment, relieved all out of proportion to see the doctor coming toward them.
His face registering shock and high color, Dr. Cook rode more slowly toward the strange tableau in the pasture. Without a word, he kneed his horse between the candy merchant and the squire, forcing Mr. Duke to drop his death’s hold on the reins. In silence, he held his hand out to his father for the riding crop.
Squire Cook will never surrender that crop, Libby thought as her hand strayed to her cheek again. She held her breath as the doctor sat on his horse so calmly and waited.
With an oath that made the hair prickle on Libby’s neck, the squire slapped the quirt into his son’s hand. He made to grab up his reins again, but the doctor was too quick. Anthony Cook held the reins tight in his gloved hand.
“No, Father,” he said, his voice scarcely audible over the squire’s labored breathing. “Stay where you are until I find out what is going on.”
The squire pounded his hand upon his saddle. He pointed a shaking finger toward Joseph. “That imbecile was trying to steal my-horse,” he shouted.
“I think that hardly likely,” Dr. Cook said, his voice dry and clinical and utterly without emotion. “We could ask Joseph, sir.”
“The boy is an idiot,” the squire screamed, unable to contain himself any longer.
Dr. Cook sighed and dismounted. He slapped his horse away, but he did not leave his position between his father and the others. He motioned to Joseph, who looked at the squire, hesitated, and gave him a wide berth as he came closer to the doctor.
“It’s not your horse, lad,” the doctor reminded him as he touched Joseph’s face, turning it toward him. He ran his hand lightly over the gash by his ear.
“I know it is not my horse,” Joseph said as he twisted out of the doctor’s grasp. “The horse followed me into this pasture. I swear it. She was only trying to give birth.” He gestured toward the mare again and the colt that had finished nursing and lay practically hidden in the grass.
After another long look at his father and the candy merchant, who still eyed each other with considerable distaste, the doctor crouched in the grass, looking at the little animal. He smiled for the first time and looked at Joseph.
“Maybe you should have run for my father’s groom,” he suggested as he ran his hand down the mare’s leg and then stood up. “This is too expensive a piece of blood and bone to throw a colt in a pasture like a carter’s hack.”
Joseph shook his head. “I tried, Doctor, but the groom was drunk.”
“That’s a lie,” shouted the squire.
