Page 73 of Libby's London Merchant
Suddenly the room was too close, too airless. Libby opened the windows by the examination table, averting her eyes from the bloody basin and wads of crimson cotton waste still scattered about. She pulled the draperies farther apart and leaned out, grateful for fresh air, dizzy with the odor of blood and disinfectant.
When her head was clear, she found a clean glass, and poured the doctor a drink of water. She put it in his hand. “Drink that,” she ordered.
He did as she said, still staring straight ahead. He leaned forward then and rested his elbows on his desk, as if he had not the strength to sit upright. To her relief, he smiled briefly and handed her the glass again. She refilled it and he downed it quickly.
Anthony looked about him. “Place is a mess,” he said. “Sorry, Elizabeth.”
He looked down at himself in disgust. “And I am worse.” He sighed. “This begins to remind me of the worst days in Edinburgh, except that I cannot put in my seventy-two hours and leave the hospital.”
Libby pulled a chair close. “What happened, Anthony? You have to tell me.”
“I do?”
“Yes, you do,” she insisted. “You spend days and nights listening to everyone’s problems. Now it’s your turn. Where is your father?”
He passed his hand in front of his eyes and all the weariness returned. She thought for a moment that he would cry, but he did not. He sagged back in the armchair and then leaned forward, and rested his head in her lap.
Her legs tensed in surprise; she put her hand on his head. “Tell me, Anthony,” she urged, bending close to his ear, smelling again the rank odor of blood and sweat about him, but not repulsed.
He was silent, his breathing regular, and she thought he slept. She continued to stroke his hair until he sat up again.
“My father is upstairs. We spent a long night together, my dear.”
He sat there and she got him another glass of water, which he drank dutifully. She wanted to shake the words out of him, climb in his lap and beat on his chest until he talked, but she merely regarded him.
“Libby, I learned something most interesting last night.”
Again the silence. Again she wanted to scream. “I learned that I had a brother.” He paused and took a deep breath. “A brother like Joseph.”
16
“No!” Libby shook her head in disbelief.
The doctor took her hand. “You are a perfect mirror of my own reaction last night. Why do we always deny what we do not wish to hear? I have puzzled about this for some years.” He stood on unsteady feet. “Elizabeth, I am so weary, but I cannot sit still and talk of this.”
He went to the window and leaned against the frame, not looking at her, but out at the field where she had last seen his father slumped in the grass. “We sat outside there and Papa talked until the cock started to crow.”
He looked away. “It seems I have been doing my best work lately out in fields.” Libby gritted her teeth. Get to the point, Anthony, get to the point, she thought, and was instantly ashamed of herself. He would tell her when he was ready, and not a moment sooner.
When he walked back to the desk finally, she took him by the arm and steered him to one of the armchairs in front of it. He sank down with a sigh. Without a word, she pulled up the other chair and propped his feet on it, brought him one more glass of water, and made him drink it.
He handed back the glass. “Tyrant,” he said with a slight smile.
“It’s about time someone tyrannized over you,” she retorted. “Now tell me, and then you can sleep.”
He did as she ordered, his voice flat, monotone at first and then becoming more animated as his own clinical discipline took over.
“He was born in 1776, so he dates me by ten years precisely, my dear. Papa carried a miniature of him on his watch fob.” He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “I have seen it many times, but he never would say and I never would ask.”
“How strange,” Libby murmured.
He looked sideways at her, not moving. “Not if you know the squire. One didn’t ask needless questions.”
“But he is your father!”
Her outburst elicited no response, and she was ashamed, thinking of the myriad questions she had pelted at her own father and his elaborate discussions of tactics and weapons with a child who adored him. And to think that I have been feeling angry of late because Papa was not wiser, or that he left me in uncomfortable straits, she thought as she watched Anthony’s agony. How foolish I have been.
“As far as I could glean from what my father said, they knew right away that the boy was not normal. He was slow to do things and resistant to change in routine.” He took her hand, resting it on his chest. “A pillow fight like the one at the Caseys would probably have been beyond his ken.”
