Page 74 of Libby's London Merchant
She moved closer, resting her hand more comfortably on his chest. “Surely they tried to work with him. Joseph has learned so much since his accident.”
“Apparently they did not, my dear.” The doctor shifted restlessly. He tensed to rise again and continue his fruitless pacing, but Libby pressed her hand down firmly and he stayed where he was. He looked at her sharply, then relaxed. “You are a determined minx, aren’t you?” he asked, half in exasperation, half in amusement.
“Oh, yes, Dr. Cook. Stay still. You are exhausted.”
He removed his spectacles, handing them to her, and rubbed his eyes. “Oh? Is that why I feel so tired? Bless my soul. No, Libby, no one seems to have given my father very good advice. And Father was—is—a proud man. You know him. You have seen him. He is a handsome devil with a quick wit and a shorter fuse. The knowledge that a child of his loins could be less than perfect must have been a real abomination.” He grimaced. “When I came along later, I suppose he was more prepared for the shock.”
“Anthony ...”
He kissed her hand and placed it closer to his heart. “Well, Father was, shall we say, somewhat incoherent last night, but I gathered from what he said that one of my uncles, mercifully long dead now, suggested that the boy be placed in an asylum in Tunbridge Wells. And so it was done. That was when my parents moved here.”
“That would explain . . .”
“ .. . why no one around here ever chose to enlighten me. No one knew. This estate was one of Papa’s from his mother, and he apparently had long been contemplating such a move. The timing was perfect.”
“How old was your brother then, do you know?”
“As near as I can gather, around eight.”
“Oh, God,” she said, unable to keep the sadness from her voice. “He must have been terrified.”
His hand tightened over hers. “An active little lad who was slow in the head, sent to an asylum in Tunbridge Wells.” He rested his other hand on his eyes, as if to shield them from sights only he could see.
He slept then, as if sleep was something he could no longer put off. Libby did not waken him, did not remove her hand from his chest. She tried to keep her mind a deliberate blank, but all she could see was a small boy being led to an asylum, the gates clanging shut behind him.
Some minutes later the doctor woke, looking about him in surprise and some embarrassment. “My apologies, Elizabeth,” he said, his voice rusty, “but the physiology of the body is such that if you put one in a comfortable position that has not slept for a long time, it will sleep.” He patted her hand. “At least you did not take advantage of the lull to escape.”
“Certainly not,” she said calmly, considering. “I think the time to escape was back when we set that gypsy child’s leg, Dr. Cook.”
He stared at her, an arrested look on his face. “I suppose it was,” he agreed. “Never thought of it that way.” He settled himself more comfortably in the armchair. “Two years after my brother’s incarceration—Father never visited; he could not bring himself to visit—he received a letter from the asylum’s director, advising him that the boy was near death. Papa went immediately to Tunbridge Wells.”
Anthony swallowed convulsively several times. “Libby, I feel so cold!” His heart pounded rapidly and sweat broke out on his forehead.
“Tell me,” she urged, “tell me!”
“When Father got there, riding all night in the rain, my brother was dead. He went into the room . . .”
Anthony leapt to his feet, unable to remain still any longer. He went to the window, leaning out for a long moment as she had done earlier.
Libby did not move, fearful of breaking his concentration. She stared at him, dry-eyed, her heart in her throat.
Anthony was crying. He wiped his eyes and forced himself to continue. “For two long years he had been chained to that bed and kept in the dark. Good treatment, his keeper said, for lads who kept trying to escape. Father said . . . Oh, Libby, he said that my brother’s fingers were worn down to bloody stubs where he had been scraping at the wall, trying to get out.”
Libby ran to the window and threw her arms around Anthony, burying her face in his chest, as he sobbed and held her close. Tears streamed down her face and she forced herself to think of Joseph in such a place—Joseph a little slow, never to be normal now, but harmless, likely as harmless as Anthony’s brother had been.
They clung together for a long time, then he freed himself and drank the rest of the water directly from the carafe. His eyes looked like two coals in his dead-white face.
“He’s buried in Tunbridge Wells, God rest his soul.”
He allowed her to lead him back to the chair and sat down again. “Papa had to have an heir. I gather that my mother wanted nothing more to do with him after the boy died.” He shook his head to clear it, unable to meet her eyes. “Father’s a big man, and strong. He got what he wanted from an unwilling wife. God, I only hope that my mother conceived quickly. Imagine the torture, if you can.”
Why are some people so cruel to those they love? she thought, touched at the intimacy of what he was telling her. She said nothing, knowing that he would continue when he was ready. His wound needed no further poking about. It bled freely enough already.
“She died when I was born. Except for my height, I am her image. We can safely say that Father was disappointed and draw a curtain over that little episode.”
Libby sat in troubled silence, hands tight together in her lap. The doctor, astute even in exhaustion, noted her puzzled expression. “You are wondering where all this leads with Joseph, aren’t you?”
She nodded. “Joseph never did your father a harm.”
