Page 8 of Libby's London Merchant
Joseph Ames hurried across the lawn from the stable. Libby watched his progress, her eyes alive with amusement. He was wet again, his brown hair curlier than usual from the river. She held out her hand to him and he took it. “Joseph,” she said in her sternest voice, “have you been swimming again?”
He mimicked her frown perfectly, down to the crease between her eyes, and then tucked her arm close to his body. “Libby, I remembered this time, I remembered! I took off my clothes first this time.”
Libby smiled up at her younger brother and touched his dry sleeve. “So you did, Joseph. I am proud of you.”
He looked at her earnestly. “You don’t think I’m foolish?”
“I never think you are foolish, Joseph.”
His expression changed. There was shame in his eyes now as he ducked his head. Libby cringed to see his face fall, and tightened her grip on his arm.
“The lads down the road ... I heard them say I was a moonling as I walked by,” He shook his head. “I don’t understand how they can be that way. Didn’t I help their papa when his sheep had the staggers?”
“You did, Joseph,” Lydia agreed. She loosened her grip on her brother and pulled him toward the carriage. “Say goodbye to Mama, my dear,” she directed.
Joseph stood on tiptoe and kissed his mother, who was leaning out of the carriage window and sobbing in good earnest now. He looked at her tearstained face in surprise. “Mama, you’re not going to America.” When she made no reply, except to shake her head helplessly, he kissed her again. “Mama, I will be good,” he said simply, and then stepped back as the coachman chirruped to the horses and the carriage set its ponderous course toward Brighton.
Lydia leaned out of the other window and waved to her cousins. “Libby! Tell Reginald I will return!”
Libby raised her arm. “And you tell Uncle I hope his gout is better.”
“Good-bye, my dears,” called Mrs. Ames as the carriage picked up speed and lumbered through the gates.
Brother and sister stood shoulder to shoulder until the carriage was a cloud of dust.
“I like to say good-bye to people,” Joseph said at last as they turned, arm in arm, toward the house again.
Libby stopped. “Whatever do you mean, Joseph?”
Joseph tugged at his ear and engaged himself in thought for some moments. Libby knew better than to interrupt him. He let go of his ear finally. “Libby, when I say good-bye to someone, that means I am staying behind.” He looked around him and took a deep breath. “I like it here.”
Libby gazed at her brother. How tall you have grown, Joseph, she thought as she admired his handsome face. No one would know, except for the slight blankness in his eyes, that he “wasna’ entirely home there,” as Tunley the groom put it. She hugged him.
“I know what you mean,” she said.
“And do you know something else?” he asked. He leaned closer and whispered. “1 think Lydia is the moonling. Why would anyone be in such a pelter to leave this place?”
Libby burst into laughter. “I couldn’t agree with you more. Why, indeed?” She stood on tiptoe to smooth down Joseph’s hair, where it stuck up in the back, still damp from his bathe in the river. Her voice became conspiratorial. “Joseph, she is running away.”
He laughed. “And taking Mama with her? I call that odd.” He hugged her, pecked her on the cheek, and headed back toward the stable, whistling as he meandered along.
“Odd, indeed,” Libby said to his retreating back. With a slight smile on her face, she turned toward the sun and took a deep breath, too.
All of Kent was in bloom. She could not remember a June that was more beautiful than this one. The rains of spring had come in timely fashion, and had exited promptly, yielding to the aching loveliness of fields and fields of daffodils and jonquils, dancing about on March winds. The hawthorn and apple blossoms of May had been gracefully supplanted by clover in bloom, and lilies of the valley and wild violets, half-hidden here and there.
I could never leave this place, she thought as she shaded her eyes with her hand and strained for one last glimpse of the carriage. And yet. . .
Brighton. She had been there once before, during one of her father’s rare leaves from Spain. She remembered the crowds that frightened her as much as they intrigued her: The soldiers in their regimentals strolling about with their ladies on the Promenade; the painter who sketched her portrait as she sat, and then did another one because he declared to her proud papa that she was too beautiful for one drawing only. She wrinkled her nose and remembered the smell of the pilings when the tide was out, and the sharp fragrance of pomaded gentlemen in crowded Assembly Rooms. And the ladies, oh, the ladies, with their more delicate scents, rustling silks, and sidelong glances.
“I would like to be someone’s lady,” she whispered, and then looked about to make sure that no one had overheard the practical Elizabeth Ames talking to herself.
The goose girl was busy organizing her charges down at the pond; the groom had followed Joseph back into the stables. The air was so quiet that she thought she could hear the bees in the orchard, busy about their work.
“But mostly, I want some peace and quiet.”
And now the house was empty. Without Mama there to admonish, she could wear her old, comfortable dresses, arrange her hair only if she chose to, and maybe even walk barefoot into the orchard with her box of paints, canvas, and an easel tucked under her arm.
She had never been a person who needed crowds about her, or admiration. Libby had learned at an uncomfortably early age that she was a beauty, and there was nothing she could do about the stares and second glances that came her way on the most mundane walk into Holyoke, or a mere look-in at the lending library. It embarrassed her to be blatantly admired for something she had no control over. It struck her as strange that all her defects of character—so obvious to her—could be so generously overlooked in the worship of beauty.
