Page 59 of Libby's London Merchant
Mastering her own emotions, she reached for her brother, even as he wrenched himself away from her, turned, and ran out the back door. Her face tight with unwelcome tension, she watched him run with his curious loping gait to the stable. She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the door frame. In another moment, she heard the sound of horse’s hooves.
Joseph was gone.
She watched him ride away, hunched low over Uncle Ames’ horse. He took the fence toward Fairbourne with his usual ease and disappeared in the trees. Libby stood there, knowing he would return later in the day, hungry and tired and with only a sketchy memory of what had gone on before. The only danger was that he would ride too far and forget where he lived. And then what do I tell Mama? she thought as she rubbed her arms.
She longed to throw herself on her knees in front of Mama and pour out the whole dismal story into her lap. It would be such a relief to cry herself out and to feel her mother’s gentle hand on her hair. She would take the next mail coach to Brighton.
In the next moment, Libby knew she would do nothing of the kind. Mama must never know of any of this. It would only shame her and deepen her mother’s own sense of failure. Mama had suffered enough at the hands of her father-in-law. They had roamed Europe for years and years not only because Thomas Ames had been a dedicated soldier, but also because there had never been a home to return to in England, no kind welcome from relatives on either side.
Libby turned away from the door. Mama must never know that this same rejection extended to her beloved daughter and son. I owe you that, Mama, she thought. She would swallow the misery all by herself and count herself lucky that she had not got any deeper into the mess.
The only thing that remained was to sneak upstairs, plead a headache, and stay there until Eustace, Lydia, and the Duke of Knaresborough left for London. Aunt Crabtree would chide her for her inhospitality, but that couldn’t be helped. She started for the stairs on tiptoe.
“Ah, Miss Ames, I have been looking for you,” Candlow said, coming toward her on the half-trot that usually indicated catastrophe. “The cook is in an uproar over some remark that the Earl of Devere made about his croissants, and I need you in the kitchen. Your aunt tried and has retreated to her card table.”
“Won’t it wait?”
“No, it will not, Miss Ames. This is serious.” He paused for breath and then threw in his weightiest argument. “Didn’t Sir William expect you to keep house for him this summer?”
Yes, this summer, and all summers to come, and then when Mama died, she would be housekeeper for life. She would be the one to welcome the Earl and Countess of Devere to Holyoke Green for the occasional holiday, standing with the other servants, but slightly apart, for she didn’t belong with them, either. And when the Wiltmores had their friends down from London, she would be there, too. Oh, God.
I only hope I do not become the family joke, like poor Aunt Crabtree, Libby thought as she followed the butler belowstairs. I hope they do not point me out as the one who had pretensions. Pray God they will not laugh about me after I have served them tea, and twitter among themselves that I thought myself good enough for the Duke of Knaresborough. Silly woman, she thought to snare a duke. I wonder that the Wiltmores keep her on.
Several cups of tea and a tumbler of Uncle Ames’ best smuggled brandy convinced the cook that the Earl of Devere wouldn’t know a muffin from a croissant it if leapt off the plate and smote him across the chops.
“I won’t cook for him again,” the cook insisted, tipping the brandy glass for the last drop.
“I believe they are leaving this morning.”
“And good riddance to rubbish, is what I say,’’ declared the cook.
This was certainly not the time to tell the cook that the Earl of Devere would likely have his feet under the dining-room table for more meals to come. She took another sip of her tea and wished it were brandy. Some things shouldn’t have to be faced all at once.
When she could gracefully escape from the cook, who grew more garrulous the lower the level in the bottle dropped, Libby tiptoed up the back stairs. With any luck she could avoid the other inmates of Holyoke Green until the moment of departure. If they did not linger long with farewells and instructions, she could maintain her composure and then go about the arduous and unwelcome task of putting the Duke of Knaresborough far from her mind and heart.
The maid and footman were hurrying down the hall with the bandboxes, portmanteaux, and hatboxes that Lydia considered essential for a London stay. From the look of resignation evident on the footman’s face, this was not his first trip down the stairs.
The duke was nowhere in sight. Libby knew how limited was his wardrobe. Probably he was already packed and standing by the carriage, eager to be off, relieved to put behind him the embarrassment she had caused. By the time the carriage rolled into London, he would likely have forgotten she ever lived.
Lydia hurried from her room, tying the bow of her bonnet under one ear, calling to her abigail in breathless tones to hurry up or be left behind.
“Do you know, cousin, I think I will procure a dresser when I get to town,” she said as she tucked her arm in Libby’s and pulled her along to the landing. “Dear Eustace says I am to throw myself on the mercy of his mother for these details. He says she is a frivolous lady, but that we should deal admirably. ”
Libby was not surprised that the irony of her statement flew over Lydia’s head. She could only pat her cousin’s hand and descend the stairs, keeping her peace.
At the bottom of the stairs, Lydia laughed. “Libby, I must tell you the most delicious thing. You will go into whoops when I tell you, but last night...” Lydia put her face close to her cousin’s. “Last night the duke said he was going to offer for you. Isn’t that amusing? How I laughed when I heard him!” She laughed again, a merry peal that was painful to Libby’s ears. “Naturally, I set him straight, and wasn’t he surprised! Men will do the strangest things when they think they are in love.”
“I suppose they will,” Libby agreed, winking back her tears.
Lydia looked at her cousin. She dabbed her handkerchief at Libby’s eyes. “You dear thing! I will miss you, too.” She danced out the door, calling to Eustace.
Libby walked out into the open doorway and watched as the footman, his collar dark with sweat and his mouth set along grim lines, poked bags and boxes here and there at Lydia’s command. The duke stood apart with his friend the earl. He looked at Libby once and there was scarcely a flicker of recognition in his eyes.
She urged the footman on silently and was grateful beyond measure when Candlow found a pressing matter of house business to occupy Lydia so the man could finish his task in peace. In another moment, the coachman was in his seat and Lydia buried herself into her cousin’s arms for one last embrace.
“I’ll write, Libby dear, but it may be easier for you to write me,” she said, hugging her cousin dose. “I think you will likely have more time than I will. Do take care, my dear.”
“That I shall do, Lydia dear,” Libby said, and kissed her cousin. “If Uncle Ames should send you one of his famous letters of good advice, do take some of it.”
