Page 71 of Libby's London Merchant
He whipped the horse into action again and raced to the fallen boy, who had not moved from where he lay. Anthony barely spared a glance for the squire, who still sat astride his horse, the musket across his lap now. He noticed his son for the first time and gestured triumphantly.
“He was thieving my horses, son,” he shouted. “I will have him put away, if he is not dead.”
The doctor jumped from the gig while it was still in motion and threw himself down beside the boy, heedless of the horses that moved about his head restlessly. Libby ran after him and grabbed the reins of Joseph’s horse. Not daring to look at the ground, she led the horse to a tree, tethered it, and led the others after.
She ran back to her brother and knelt by his body. Blood was everywhere, staining the grass, covering the doctor’s lap as he ripped off his neckcloth and pressed down firmly on the wound. Libby held Joseph’s hand, feeling for his pulse. To her infinite relief, it was faint but steady. She let out her breath slowly.
Joseph lay on his back. Libby’s eyes caught something shiny in the sodden grass, not far from him. She peered closer and picked up the ball.
“Look, Anthony.”
“Thank God! I was afraid it was lodged somewhere in his head.” He touched the wound, feeling the track where the ball had grazed his cheek. “Well, Joseph,” he said, his voice shaky, “you don’t have any choice but to get better. Thank God Father’s aim was off.”
A shadow fell across the doctor and Joseph. Libby looked up into the squire’s smiling face.
“I got the little beggar, didn’t I?” he said, barely able to contain the excitement in his voice. “He won’t steal my horses again, because he will be in an asylum.”
With cry of rage, Libby leapt to her feet and threw herself on the squire, scratching him and kicking him. “He was bringing your horses back,” she screamed at him, pounding his chest with her fists. “He learned that the gypsies had stolen them and he was bringing them back!”
She sank down in the grass again, covering her face with her hands, shivering in the warmth of the summer’s day.
“That’s the biggest taradiddle I ever heard,” said the squire, dabbing at his face where she had scratched him. “Son, are they both daft?”
“Libby, tear off a string from your bonnet,” was the doctor’s only comment.
She did as he said. Deftly the doctor tied the satin ribbon around Joseph’s face and knotted it securely across the bloody neckcloth.
“I’ll do it better in a moment, lad,” he assured Joseph, whose eyes were wild like an animal’s, as he tried to speak. “Don’t, laddie, don’t. Let’s get you into the house. Libby, bring the gig over here.”
She did as he said. Anthony picked up Joseph, wincing when Joseph moaned. He set him in the gig and commanded Libby to climb in the small space behind the seat and hold him up. The squire watched the proceedings and then stepped in the path of the horse as Anthony prepared to climb into the gig. “Not to my house,” he said, his voice deadly quiet. “Yes, to your house!” Anthony shouted, his face pale.
“Libby was right, you old fool. We found Joseph yesterday with your horses. He was bringing them back from Dewhurst, where the gypsies had taken them to trade in the horse fair. He was lost.”
“It can’t be true,” said the squire in a hollow voice as the words finally sank in. He shook his head as if to clear it. “You’re both lying.”
Wearily, the doctor shook his head. “Another inch and you would have killed a lad who was doing you a favor.”
The squire sank to the grass as though his legs had lost all power to hold him upright. He was still sitting there as Anthony started the horses forward and Libby held Joseph upright in the gig. She looked back once as they made their painful way across the field. He slumped there, head bowed.
In the surgery, Dr. Cook worked silently and swiftly, his face set, his eyes rock-hard. Libby addressed several questions to him, but he seemed not to hear her as he worked, pressing against the wound until the bleeding stopped and then cleaning it carefully. With a shudder, Joseph fainted when the doctor began to sew the underlying muscle of the wound together.
Anthony sighed with relief. “It’s easier this way,” he muttered, working faster to take advantage of Joseph’s respite.
While he worked, Libby sat huddled small in the armchair in front of the desk. She went to the window once. The squire sat where they had left him.
When Anthony finished, he dropped the needle in the porcelain basin and sat down in the stool beside the examining table, his head between his knees. Libby came closer and touched his hair, suddenly fearful. He looked up, and the pain in his eyes made her step back as though he burned. He held out his hand to her, but it was flecked with blood and she came no closer.
“He should heal well. It was a clean wound.” He shook his head. “When I think how close . . .” His voice trailed off. He washed his hands and stood by the window, drying them. “How long will he sit there, do you think?” he murmured, more to himself than to Libby.
“Till he rots, I hope,” Libby said suddenly, and then put her hand to her mouth, surprised at her own vehemence.
To her further amazement, the doctor reached out and gave her tumbled hair a sharp yank. “Enough of that,” he ordered, and then bent and kissed her cheek swiftly. “I’m sorry, but really, Libby, there has to be more here than we are aware of. I wonder ...”
Libby dabbed at her eyes. Her scalp ached, but she was alert now and not sunk in the bitterness that had enveloped her since she knelt in the bloodstained grass. She reached out tentatively and put her hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “Perhaps you had better go to him.”
“Perhaps I had better,” he agreed. He turned to her suddenly. “Elizabeth, I am so ashamed.”
She was silent for a long while as they stared at each other. Libby spoke first. “Come, Anthony, help me get Joseph back into the gig. I am taking him home.”
