Page 65 of Libby's London Merchant
“For the Lord’s sake, then, don’t carry your burdens around any longer,” the doctor said. “Have a really good washout, Libby dear, and then let us find this stubborn brother of yours.”
“You don’t mind?” she sniffled, groping unsuccessfully in her reticule for a handkerchief.
“I don’t mind.”
She took the doctor at his word and sobbed until her nose started to run and her eyes felt raw. The doctor made no comment other than to tell her to blow when he held his handkerchief to her face. His arms were tight about her, and she wept out her misery on the most comfortable chest she could have hoped for.
When her tears had subsided to an occasional hiccup and then one more strengthy session with the handkerchief, Libby pried herself from the doctor’s arms and sat upright again. Her hair had come loose in a tangle about her shoulders and there was a nest of hairpins in her lap and on the seat. She began to gather them together.
“I must look a fright,” she said.
“You are—” he paused to consider a moment—“a veritable antidote.” He had released her, but his arms still rested across her shoulders. “I cannot but wonder about the fact that for two days running now, I have surely seen you at your worst, and find you not in the least disgusting. I must be in my dotage.”
Libby managed to chuckle as she attempted to twist her hair back up on her head again. “What you are is extremely obliging and much too kind, sir, for your own good. All your patients will cheat you and watery damsels will destroy your coats. What you need, sir, is management in your life, and then you would be too well-organized to be forced to listen to sad tales from silly women.”
“You are describing a wife, Libby,” he said mildly as he unwound the reins and started the gig in motion again.
It was on her lips to say something amusing, but she could think of nothing, particularly in light of her recent refusal. Why does that plaguey proposal not disappear from my mind? she thought, irritated with herself and embarrassed at the same time.
Libby tucked her hair here and there, deeply conscious of the fact that Anthony had deliberately left the conversation unfinished. She looked away from him across a meadow flowered with yellow daisies and lupins. Yes, by all means, find yourself some sensible woman who will not be afraid to bully you and your father, clean up that midden of a house, plant some flowers, and raise your children.
The silence that stretched between them should have felt strained and difficult, but it did not. Libby looked where doctor pointed toward the next field. “See there, Libby. they have gone away.”
Libby clutched his arm. “Could we check and make sure they have not left that child behind? Maybe there will be some sign of Joseph.”
He got out of the gig and vaulted over the fence in that same easy fashion as his father. He walked on until he was out of sight in the copse of trees. He emerged on the distant side at the place where she had sat with the little gypsy in the driving rain.
It all seems so long ago, she thought as she watched him reappear and grow larger again. Anthony Cook walked with an easy stride that reminded her of her own father. Funny, she thought, he has not bumbled into anything lately, or stumbled over his feet, or cracked his head. Lydia would be amazed to see him. She giggled, her hand to her mouth. I suppose like Kate the Shrew he is merely cursed in company. This must mean that we are friends now and he feels easy with me. He must have forgotten that ridiculous proposal. Thank the Lord for that.
He leapt the fence again and held up his hands to her. “Nothing. They’re gone as though they had never been.” He leaned against the fence. “What now, my dear?”
“No tracks to follow?”
“None.” He shrugged. “I must amend that. Perhaps if I were a Mohican, I could find a bent blade of grass.” He climbed into the gig again. “I vote that we go to the next town and just look about.” He sat a moment in thought and then brightened. “What day is it, Libby?”
“Friday, I believe.”
“Silly, I know that! The date, please.”
“June twenty-fourth. Oh, Anthony, is it the week of the midsummer fair in Dewhurst?”
“Precisely. If we cannot find gypsies at a horse fair, then we obviously should send others on our errands.”
They found gypsies in Dewhurst, camped on a woody knoll by the river. They were her gypsies, but they had been joined by others in more elaborate wagons. After several glances full of suspicion, and whispered conversations, the gypsies ignored them.
“Do you see Joseph anywhere?” Anthony asked, keeping a firm grip on the reins.
“No,” she said, and then glanced down when someone tugged at her skirts.
It was the little girl from the field. She hobbled on crutches and the splinted bandage was dirty, but it had not been removed. She could almost feel the relief that seemed to flow from Anthony.
With a helping hand from Anthony, Libby left the gig and stood beside the child, careful not to touch her.
“Your brother was in our camp.”
“You speak English!” Libby exclaimed. “Where is my brother now?”
“I do not know. He came into our camp around noon, talked to our men, and then rode away. My sister Iviva saw him sneak back and steal two of our best horses.” She paused and then added scrupulously, “Horses that we had traded for fairly.” She looked over her shoulder at her mother, who stood close to the wagon, afraid to come closer. “Mama said I was to say that.”
