Page 82 of Libby's London Merchant
“When you feel like talking, my dear, I feel like listening,” was all she said.
In another moment, Libby was on her knees beside her mother, sobbing out the whole story of the London merchant, his actual title, and his impertinent offer. She told her of Dr. Cook’s impulsive proposal and his sudden reluctance to have her around. Mama heard it all, interjecting no more than an occasional “Oh, my” into the narrative, her hand resting on Libby’s head.
“I wasn’t going to tell you, Mama,” Libby sobbed, “for I knew how deeply wounded you would be over this matter with the duke.”
Mrs. Ames stroked her daughter’s hair. “I knew, Libby, I knew,” she soothed, “or at least I suspected. Trust Lydia to write pages and pages with the funny tale that the duke had planned to offer for you, and didn’t I think that droll?”
She pulled her daughter closer. “Well, I did not! I know you are not one to kiss and tease. Your heart must surely have been engaged in the matter, too. I am sorry that it came to what it did.” She sighed. “If your Papa and I had been wiser . . .” She kissed Libby. “If we had been wiser, you never would have been born, so cheer up.”
Finally there were no more tears to cry. Libby leaned against her mother’s leg and waited for some reassurance, some further relief for her mangled emotions. From La Coruna to Salamanca, from Badajoz to Vitoria, Mama had been the regimental mainstay in matters of the heart, a regular font of wisdom. Long after she should have been asleep, Libby remembered Mama dispensing good advice to the men of her husband’s command, counseling the lovelorn. Now it was her turn to benefit from this sagacity. Libby waited.
Mama said nothing. Libby raised her face from her mother’s skirts to observe her gazing out to sea, her eyes soft as she turned the wedding ring on her finger around and around.
Libby plumped herself down across from her mother in the window seat. “Mama, have you listened to a word I have said?” she accused, exasperation just barely edging out amusement.
“I have heard enough, my darling,” Mama said quickly, her eyes no less dreamy. “I only wish I had some good advice for you.”
Libby stared at her in disbelief. “Mama, you gave advice all across Spain. Have you none for me?”
Mama shook her head and picked up her knitting.
“At least tell me how to know if I am in love,” begged Libby. “Lydia seems so sure about Eustace, but I cannot tell. And who am I in love with, for goodness’ sake?”
“Lydia is a pea goose,” Mama said decisively. “I love her dearly, and so do you, but she hasn’t a clue as to why Eustace was suddenly so enamored of her. Perhaps by the time she realizes he married her for the Ames fortune, she will have a handful of children to console her.”
“Mama, that is no answer. Who am I in love with?” Libby insisted.
Mama looked her daughter full in the face and smiled in a way that Libby considered entirely unacceptable. “My dear, you’ll know.” She looked at the ocean again, her eyes far away. “When you find that you can’t bear one more minute without him ...” She laughed. “Or when you discover that if he does not go away soon, you will spit nails!”
“Mama,” Libby wailed, then laughed despite herself. “You are no help.”
“No, I am not, am I?” said Mama agreeably. “Men can be fearsomely irritating, my dear, totally without wisdom, creatures of random impulse, as I fear your candy merchant duke was. Libby, he probably regrets every word he spoke to you that morning.”
Mrs. Ames shook her head. “As for Dr. Cook, I do not know, Libby. He is most definitely a wild card. Somehow I never thought of our fubsy doctor as someone who would be essential to your happiness. Still, stranger things have happened, I suppose . . .”
Mama put her hand to her mouth to smother a laugh that would not be stopped.
Libby joined in, immeasurably refreshed, and put one ghost to bed. She took her mother’s hands and said with mock seriousness, “If I should chance to receive a better offer from the duke, I will consider it. At the very least, I will hold out for a manor in the Cotswolds.”
“You do that, my dear,” said her mama, her voice equally droll. And then she was suddenly serious. “I wish that circumstances were different for you, but this is real life.” She kissed her daughter’s cheek. “Poor honey! You have had all the real life you can stand for a while, I suspect.”
Libby nodded, lapping up her mother’s sympathy like a kitten its cream.
“I will go your Dr. Cook’s prescription one better. Tomorrow you must venture to the circulating library and get us several good novels. Let us consider them serious research into how others solve problems of the heart.”
“And we will wallow on your bed in our shimmies and eat macaroons while we read. I think I will be cured, Mama,” Libby said.
Mama’s regimen proved to be remarkably efficacious, except that Joseph took exception to it several weeks later and exclaimed over breakfast, in a much ill-used tone that it would not do at all.
“Libby, you must walk with me along the Promenade today,” he insisted. “There are fine horses at the Pavilion mews, and you must see them.”
“My dear, do you think the gypsies have been here?” she teased.
Joseph frowned at her. “I seriously doubt it, Libby.” He looked at her and grinned. “You are joking me, aren’t you?”
“Certainly!”
“Well, sometimes I cannot tell,” he said. “Let us leave immediately after breakfast.”
