Page 75 of Libby's London Merchant
Anthony relaxed in the chair again, his feet up. “Father managed to carry on through the years. I suppose he would still be normal enough, if you and your brother and mother had not moved in with Sir William. Father was reminded all over again of his son.”
“So that’s it.”
“There’s a rub to it, of course, my dear. Isn’t there always a rub, a bit of sandpaper where it grates the most? He saw how happily Joseph fit in your family, how devoted the two of you are, and how everyone found simple tasks that Joseph could do quite well. I think it harrowed him up, knowing that perhaps he could have done the same for his boy. He’s taking out his punishment on your brother. I’m sorry, Elizabeth, but that’s the story, as near as I can gather it together.”
“Where is he now?”
“I finally convinced him to go upstairs to bed, along about dawn. He was talking wildly then, intent upon suicide, so I have sedated him heavily. I sat with him until I couldn’t stand it anymore and came in here. The scullery maid sits with him now.” He closed his eyes, and she thought he would sleep, but after a struggle with himself, he opened them.
“How long can you keep this up?” Libby asked. When he did not answer, she stood up. “I’m going to help you upstairs to your own room,” she said, “and when you are comfortable there, I am going to sit with your father so the maid can go about her duties.”
“I can’t ask you to do that,” he protested.
“You didn’t ask me; I told you,” she replied, and was gratified when he managed a weak grin. “When the maid finishes her duties, I will send her for Candlow. Come, sir.”
He did as she said, leaning on her for a moment before he found his balance. “I feel like a baby,” he grumbled as she helped him up the stairs.
“You would probably be a dreadful patient,” she replied. “See that you stay healthy, sir, and spare the world.”
They walked slowly down the hall to the room where the door was open and his father lay sleeping. Anthony stopped in the doorway watching the squire out of bleary eyes suddenly alert through sheer force of medical habit.
“Should he come around while you are sitting with him, another two drops will put him under for an hour or so, and that will be enough for me,” he said.
“It is not enough,” Libby said indignantly. “You can’t do this to yourself.”
“I can and will,” he said firmly. “The first rule of medicine is, ‘You must attend.’ Don’t be a snip, Elizabeth.”
He motioned to the next door and she opened it, not at all surprised to see the same order and neatness of the surgery downstairs. Her quick glance took in more books, piles of books, old dark furniture smelling strongly of polish, shabby and lived-in, and a bed with a homely sag in the middle.
The doctor sat down on the bed, opened his mouth to say something, and closed his eyes before anything came out. He sank back wearily on the bed.
His shoes were downstairs, so Libby covered his legs with a light blanket at the end of the bed and unbuttoned his waistcoat with the blood caked on it.
“You are a great lot of trouble, Dr. Cook,” she said out loud, and stepped back in surprise when he opened his eyes.
“So are you, my dear,” he said, and then closed his eyes. In another moment he was snoring.
Libby laughed softly to herself and went to the escritoire by the window, rummaging about for paper, pen, and ink. Sitting in the chair with a padded seat conforming to the doctor’s ample contours, Libby composed a note for Candlow that briefly outlined the events. She begged him to hurry over and, while he was at it, to think of a steady couple who could be prevailed upon to restore order to a household at sixes and sevens for years and years.
She folded the letter and affixed a wafer, her eyes straying to Anthony Cook, who lay as though dead in the middle of the bed. She came closer, peering at him, amazed how completely he could abandon himself to sleep. She touched his hair. I wonder when you last had a good night’s sleep with no interruption, she thought. I suppose that is the unenviable lot of physicians.
The scullery maid was relieved to see her. She jumped up and darted to the door almost before Libby could grab her by the arm, shove the note at her, and urge her to hurry. The maid took the note, curtsied, and paused in the safety of the doorway for one last look at the squire. She crossed herself and ran down the hall.
Libby allowed her eyes to adjust to the gloom and came closer to the bed, peering down at the squire. Such stillness, she thought. He seemed hardly to breathe and she found herself watching anxiously for the rise and fall of his chest. She pulled the chair closer and sat down.
He looked so old, so unlike the lively man who had come to her uncle’s stables only two days ago, full of restless energy and vituperation. His strong-featured, handsome face was sunken now, fallen in upon itself like rotting fruit. She searched for some resemblance between the squire and his son, who slumbered in the next room, and saw none.
Libby noticed the black bottle on the night table. Quickly she picked it up and took it to the bureau, where it was out of the squire’s reach. On the bureau was a small mound of coins and keys, the contents of a man’s pockets and waistcoat. There was a watch and fob. She picked up the fob and turned it over. Tears came to her eyes as she gazed at the miniature of the little boy, a charming light-haired child with startling blue eyes and cheeks pink and glowing with health. If there was something vague about the expression, it was nothing anyone would notice at cursory glance. He was a handsome child, much like his father.
Libby sat down again by the bed, prepared to hate the man she watched, the man who had ruined the life of the little boy in the miniature, blighted the existence of his wife, worked his mischief daily with his living son, and nearly killed her own brother. She found that she could not hate him. She took his hand.
The squire struggled to open his eyes, as if a great weight were pressing against them. He succeeded finally, through that sheer force of will that she did recognize as a characteristic of his son. His eyes were dark and muddied by the drug that sedated him, and huge in his fallen face. He stared at her, uncomprehending, and then a flicker of interest came into his eyes. He struggled now to speak, and she leaned closer.
“Your brother?” he asked.
“He will be fine,” she said, speaking slowly and distinctly into his ear.
The squire tried to say more, but the sedative overcame him.
