Page 7 of Libby's London Merchant
“I am only sorry that Father foisted Aunt Crabtree on you.”
“I must have a chaperone, and you know it, Lydia,” Libby replied. “I am sure she cannot be all that bad.”
Lydia’s lips flattened into an uncustomary thin line. “You never seem to have any trouble doing all that is proper, so I doubt she will get your back up. I would rather be chaperoned by Lucrezia Borgia, or . . . or . . .,” Lydia groped about for another bad example. “Well, any of those dreadful women. At least they would be interesting. Aunt Crabtree will bore you to death, and make you play cards.”
“Goose! I can deal with Aunt Crabtree. Come, come. You must flee to Brighton to escape the dread Eustace Wiltmore.”
Lydia rang for the footman, who loaded the trunk on his back and took the smaller bag in hand. She picked up her traveling case and then set it down decisively. “I still think you should come, too. You would meet someone who would fall amazingly in love with you and—”
“Run for the hills when he discovered my pockets were entirely to let, you silly goose,” chided Libby, who picked up the bag and handed it back to her cousin.
Lydia folded her arms, intent upon this new tack. “You’re the goose, Libby. Some wealthy man need only look at your face and fall in love and he will forget there is no fortune.”
“Men are more practical,” Libby assured her cousin, who scowled, picked up her traveling case, and then took one last survey of her room.
“I suppose you are right.” she said finally, her eyes roving over the bedspread and draperies. “Libby, be a dear while I am gone and have the draperies cleaned. And don’t trust it to the laundress. Do it yourself. I want the thing done right.”
“Very well, Lydia, very well,” Libby said as she pushed her cousin out the door.
Mama sat on the bottom step, weeping. Libby smiled and sat beside her beautiful parent, putting her arm around her mother’s slight shoulders and drawing her close. “Mama! We will be fine here.”
Mama only buried her nose deeper into her handkerchief. “I have never left you and Joseph alone for such a time. Only think what your dear papa would think, if only he knew.”
Libby handed her mama a dry handkerchief. “Papa would tease you and wonder why in blue blazes you hadn’t done it sooner!”
“Don’t be so vulgar, Libby,” Mama scolded. She blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes. “I suppose you are right, my dear. You’re certain you can manage?”
Libby hugged her mother. “What is there to manage? The servants—most of them—will be on holiday, now that Uncle and Lydia are away. You will be maintaining Uncle, not me. The groom here will see to Uncle’s horses.” She gave her mother another squeeze: “And I will finally have time to paint.”
Mrs. Ames smiled at her daughter and touched her cheek. “I heard what Lydia said upstairs, pet. I wish you could come along and meet someone special.” She sighed. “I wish it were possible.”
“Maybe someday,” Libby said as she tugged her mother to her feet, straightened her bonnet, and retied the bow just under her ear. “There now! You look smashing, my dear!”
Mama pokered up. “I wish you would not use stable slang.” She frowned. “Which reminds me: I depend entirely upon you to keep Joseph and Squire Cook away from each other.” Mama stared at her gloved hands. “How that gloomy man could sire someone like Dr. Cook I cannot fathom!” She colored. “Dear me, that was indelicate.”
Libby laughed. “But how true. I will keep them far away from each other, depend upon it. I will remind Joseph as many times as it takes that his uncle’s trout streams are entirely accessible—and that the fish will swim in our direction, too, if given the opportunity.”
Mrs. Ames nodded. “Very good, Libby.” She hesitated. “And…”
“…and I will check on Joseph at all odd hours of the day, Mama, you know I will.”
“I know you will.” Mrs. Ames patted her daughter’s arm. “But I worry anyway.”
“Don’t,” Libby said.
Breakfast was a dismal, hurried-up affair, with Mama sniffing in her napkin and Lydia eager to be on the road. Libby abandoned her plate finally and walked the delicate line of curbing Lydia’s sprits and raising Mama’s. By the time the last drop of tea had been drained, Libby’s head was beginning to ache.
With nothing but relief, she nodded when Candlow announced the arrival of the carriage at the front door. Trying not to sound overeager, Libby helped Mama inside the carriage, nodding as her mother told her again what to do with the melons in the succession house, how to make sure the butcher did not cheat her, and to look out for gypsies in the field beyond the hop gardens.
“Mind, we want them in late July when the hops are ready for picking, but not before, Libby. Make sure they understand,” Mama said. She sighed and opened the door. “Perhaps I should stay.”
“Mama,” Libby exclaimed, closing it. “I wish you would not worry. After all, I am twenty.”
Mama regarded her seriously. “I suppose you are.”
“Mama!”
Mrs. Ames looked out the carriage door, a smile at odds with the tears in her eyes. “Joseph,” she said.
