Page 93 of Libby's London Merchant
“Goodbye, Nez. Don’t make yourself a stranger if you should ever choose to come this way again. You will be welcome.”
He shook her hand, but did not release it. ‘‘I will be back to see you two. ” He raised his eyebrows. ‘‘I could still threaten to take up the bottle again if you won’t marry me. ”
Libby kissed his cheek. “But you won’t, my dear.”
“No, I won’t. I couldn’t. ” He sighed and released her hand. “Do you love me just a little bit?”
“Just a little bit,” she agreed. “But I love the doctor much more. Only think how comfortable I am about to make his life. ”
The duke groaned. “That is precisely what I do not wish to think about!” He climbed back onto his curricle and tipped his hat to her. “Good day, you minx. God keep you both.”
In a frame of mind that belied her dismal appearance, Libby strolled back to the house, humming to herself. She knew Anthony would not come to dinner. He would likely send a polite little note saying that he had told the vicar, and that he wished her well in her new venture.
Well, sir, we shall see, she thought as she mounted the front steps two at a time and burst into the house.
Mama gasped in horror at the sight of her. She took in the stained and bloody dress and Libby’s blackened face and arms, walking about her several times and then hugging her tight.
Libby hugged her back. “It was dreadful, Mama.” She clung to her mother, thinking how much she would miss her in the coming days, but taking comfort in the knowledge that Mama would only be a field away.
“Where is the duke?” Mama asked finally.
“I sent him on his way, Mama,” Libby said, and patted her mother’s cheek. “Now, what would I do with a duke? This one didn’t wear too well in a crisis, and he is a bit shopworn for me, I fear.” She tugged at her hair, smelling the singed ends. “Oh, dear! And Anthony Cook has cried off. I wouldn’t expect him for dinner. Tell me, can I find a bath, and soon?”
She sat in the bathwater, humming to herself, dribbling the sponge over the little places on her arms where the hops had burned her, hopeful that they would not show under her wedding gown. Her hair had been singed up the back and she would have to take the scissors to it.
She was still sitting in her bathwater when Uncle Ames arrived from London. Mama must have spent some time with him in the sitting room, because by the time she was dressed and downstairs again, he was drinking sherry thoughtfully.
‘‘Puss, what are you up to?” he asked. ‘‘I already sent a wedding gift to Dr. Cook. Figured that under the terms of that abominable trust of my father’s, I had better not give any of it to you.”
She sat down next to her uncle. “You are a dear, sir.”
“It’s not nearly enough,” he said gruffly, and smiled when she kissed his cheek. “Perhaps if you put it in the Funds, it might be the bare bones of a hospital someday.”
‘‘What an excellent notion, Uncle William,” she said, her voice serene. “We can add to it over the years.”
Mama stood up and paced the room. “You are sitting there so calm. You have this day driven away the duke and your other prospect has changed his mind, and you sit there smelling of April and May. If I do not grow distracted with you, then I am an unnatural parent.”
Libby laughed. “Mama, trust me. Candlow is lurking about in the hall, ready to announce dinner, and it is getting late. When dinner is over, I fear I am destined to come down with a fearsome case of ... of something. It will require a hasty note next door. Put all your emotions into that note, Mama.”
She jumped to her feet, kissed her uncle on the cheek, and danced from the room. “Do your best, Mama. I think I am getting sick already.”
After a leisurely dinner that tried her mother to the outermost limits, Libby went upstairs and straightened her bedroom. She finished packing her clothes and boxed the books. She opened the wardrobe for another look at her wedding dress and sighed with delight, shaking out the material and listening to the rustle of the taffeta. Mama will be so pleased as I crackle down the aisle tomorrow, she thought. And Anthony will stare.
A look through her bureau turned up a nightgown of ecru lace so impractical that she had stuck it in the back of the drawer years ago and forgotten about it. In another moment, she was out of her clothes and into the gown. She looked at herself in the mirror, blushed, and then laughed.
The bed was softer than she remembered, and she realized it had been so long since she had enjoyed a peaceful night’s rest. Likely there would be none in the future, either. There would be a husband to love as well as time permitted, and children to tend, and people knocking at all hours of the night.
She put her hands behind her head. If it gets too uncontrollable, I can kidnap Anthony every so often and drag him to Brighton for a day or two. I doubt we’ll ever get up to London.
Ah! She heard the sound of something crashing over in the front hall and put her hand to her mouth, her eyes merry. Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Taking them two at a time, are we, Doctor? she thought as Dr. Cook opened the door and came into her room.
“I came as fast as I could, Elizabeth,” he said, out of breath.
He had washed and changed, but his eyes were still red from the oast fire. He carried his black bag and he was giving her the professional eye.
He came closer. “Your mother said you were fearsome sick, Elizabeth. Where does it hurt?”
She patted the bed and he sat down. She pointed to her breast. “Right here. I think there is something wrong with my heart.”
