Page 43 of Libby's London Merchant
Dr. Cook turned to his father slowly, deliberately, and raised his eyebrows. Libby watched in fascination as the squire subsided. She looked at Dr. Cook with new respect. Gracious, she thought, I would never have dared level such a look at my father.
Apparently the candy merchant had similar thoughts. He nudged Libby and whispered in her ear. “A cool customer, eh, Libby?”
She nodded and whispered back, “He tends to come through in emergencies in the most astounding way, so I am discovering.”
“Who would have thought it? Surely not I,” the duke murmured, his eyes on Dr. Cook.
“Go on, lad,” said the doctor.
Joseph shrugged. “I don’t know what else to tell, sir. The mare followed me into this pasture. I didn’t think I could keep her from throwing the colt, sir, no matter whose field it was.”
“I can understand perfectly,” agreed Dr. Cook, a touch of humor back in his voice. “Females of most species seem to know what to do at times like this.”
The squire swore another dreadful oath and looked away. He gathered up the reins and dug his spurs into his horse, guiding the animal closer to his son and the colt. He sat in silence for a long minute, looking down at the colt.
“I suppose you will tell me I should be grateful this moonling was here to witness this blessed event,” he growled.
“I wouldn’t presume to tell you anything, Father,” Anthony Cook replied, “although a little charity would not be out of place.”
The squire turned to Joseph. “I make no apologies. Your uncle will have a letter from me in the morning.”
They watched him go, cantering across the field, pausing to look at the fence, which was in ill repair, and then continuing on until he was gone from sight.
Joseph looked up at the doctor, who stood watching his father. “Sir, should I lead them back to your stables?”
The doctor shook his head. “Best not, lad. My father is in rare ill humor. He will probably pour a bucket of water on that worthless groom of his and send the poor wretch on the errand.” Dr. Cook nodded to Libby. “I think I will take dinner at your place tonight, Miss Ames, if it is agreeable. I do not imagine there will be overmuch conversation of an uplifting nature around my own table this evening.”
Libby nodded. “Of course you may eat with us, Dr. Cook. Sir, what will he do? You know, eventually?”
“He will call me an unnatural son for siding with you and dredge up all the arguments he has thrown at me for the last eight years since I first mentioned my plans to seek a medical degree—no matter that this has no bearing on anything that has happened here. He will rail on and on about a man of the leisure class engaged in such dirty business. Father rarely forgets a good argument. When he feels better, he will stamp off to bed.”
“How do you tolerate him?” Libby burst out, close to tears.
The doctor did not answer for a moment. He petted the colt one last time and rubbed the mare’s long nose. “He is my father, Miss Ames. I owe him that, surely.” He peered at her more closely then for the first time, and the color drained from his face. He touched her inflamed cheek. “Merciful heavens, Miss Ames, I had no idea. Did he—”
“I fell down,” she lied, devastated by the look in Anthony Cook’s eyes. “In all the excitement, I must have tripped.”
“Onto your face?” The doctor tugged at his coat, his knuckles white on the lapels. “I am so ashamed,” he said.
Libby’s heart went out to the doctor. Without a word, she stood on tiptoe, put her arm to his neck, and pulled him down. She kissed his cheek. “Please don’t be,’’ she whispered in his ear. “I will be fine.”
He put his arm about her waist for a brief moment and then motioned to Joseph. “Well, lad, you have earned yourself a place in the annals of thoroughbred midwifery.”
Joseph’s face fell. “I am sorry,” he said.
The duke smothered a laugh, and Dr. Cook glared at him over his spectacles.
“No, lad, it is a good thing. Maybe sometime you can really help a mare throw a colt.”
“Do you think I could do that?” Joseph asked.
“I expect you could, with the right instruction,” the doctor replied. “But let us endeavor in future to see that you practice on your own patients.”
Joseph nodded. “I know, sir. You are right. I meant no harm, and nothing went wrong, sit? Cannot your father see that?”
The doctor shook his head. “I don’t understand it, lad. For some reason, you rub him raw.” He looked at the others. “Let us go indoors and see if there is some Mystic Soother for your back, Joseph.” He peered at the duke again. “From the looks of his trousers, our London merchant could use some, too.” He peered next at Libby, and his eyes softened. “And maybe there is a dab for your cheek,” he said. “Where you fell down.”
The Duke of Knaresborough took his mutton that night clad in his dressing gown, his knee covered again with Mystic Soother and bandaged. Libby insisted that he join them in the breakfast parlor for his meal.
