Carla Kelly (7 page)

He said no such thing, but merely enjoyed the spectacle of a man in love staring at the totally oblivious object of his admiration. It delighted the duke; it enervated him; it made him envious.

Poor sod, he thought. The only way someone as tame as you are could possibly win this prize would be by incredible subterfuge or unthinkable default.

At the thought he shifted himself and groaned as the sheet rubbed against the gauze on his leg.

The involuntary murmur from the chocolate merchant recalled Libby to the moment. “Oh, you poor man,” she said as she hurried to his bedside, her eyes filled with concern.

She glanced up at the doctor and looked away quickly. His face was red. She had a terrible feeling that his father had been scolding him about his visit to Holyoke Green last night.

“Good morning, Miss Ames,” said the doctor. “And you, sir, how did you sleep?”

“Well enough,” said the merchant. He pulled himself into a sitting position.

“Shall we see then if you are well enough?” asked Dr. Cook. He pulled back the bed covers and examined the chocolate merchant’s leg. He gently worked off the gauze and stared at it some more. “You’ll do,” he said at last. “I would prefer for the air to get at it now.” He glanced at Libby’s expression. “And don’t look so shocked. We learned the latest methods in Edinburgh.”

“We do live in a modern age,” Libby said. “Very well, sir, I will see that his bed is pulled closer to the window.”

“Very good, Miss Ames.” He turned from his contemplation of Libby and regarded the merchant again. “I doubt you’ll be bounding about for a few days.”

“I hadn’t planned on it,” Nez agreed. He winked at Libby and felt himself vastly rewarded by the returning twinkle in her eyes. “I will trust to my charming hostess to tolerate my distempered convalescence.”

The doctor raised expressive eyebrows over his spectacles. “Yes, I suppose you will,” he said in a different tone of voice, a proprietary tone that sounded to Libby remarkably like the squire.

The doctor sat on the bed and unbuttoned the merchant’s nightshirt. He felt the man’s shoulder. “Be careful with that,” he said finally. “They have a habit of slipping out again, once it has happened.” He peered closer at the man in the bed. “And this is not the first time, is it?”

“No, sir,” said the merchant promptly. “It has happened once before.”

“At Waterloo?” ventured the doctor.

Startled, the merchant nodded. “Hougoumont, to be more specific. How the devil did you know?”

“You carry sufficient souvenirs of battle on your person to make you highly suspect,” said the doctor mildly as he buttoned the man’s nightshirt again. “But how did you dislocate your shoulder?”

“Dangling off the roof of a burning farmhouse,” the merchant replied, and then closed his lips in a firm line.

The doctor returned the merchant’s gaze. “And that, I take, is all you choose to say about it.” When Nez made no reply, the doctor touched the man’s head in a gesture oddly protective. “I’ll not pry further.”

There was an awkward silence. For some reason, the merchant appeared to be wavering on the edge of tears. Libby looked away, troubled by the strange tension between the two men. She thought about leaving the room, so palpable was that tension, but she stayed where she was.

The doctor patted the merchant’s good leg and stood up. The cordial bottle caught his eye. He held it up to the light and shook it, then set it down. Without a word, he grasped the duke by the wrist and raised his hand, watching the fine tremor. Deep in thought, he held the man by the wrist, then grasped his hand and squeezed it.

“Well, sir, you could use some breakfast, I am convinced,” Dr. Cook said at last. “The rumor circulating about the neighborhood testifies that Miss Ames is an excellent cook, so you could be in for a beatific experience.”

Nez shook his head. “I do not doubt you, but I’m not hungry. What I really would like—”

The doctor did not allow him to finish the sentence. “A bowl of oatmeal with cream, and an apple tart.” He bowed to Libby. “Could you produce such a menu?”

“No . . . I—” began the duke. His voice became sharper then, querulous. “Now, see here, I know what I want and it is not oatmeal.”

Dr. Cook stuck his hands in his pocket and walked to the window. “But, sir, that is my prescription. I wasn’t in Edinburgh for four years for nothing. Oatmeal, Mr. Duke, oatmeal.”

Libby observed the merchant’s evident agitation. “Dr. Cook, it would be no trouble to locate another bottle of cordial,” she said. “Indeed, Uncle often takes it with his breakfast.”

He froze her with a look. “No.”

She stepped back in surprise. “Very well, sir,” she said, her voice frosty. “But I am not a very good hostess, then, am I?”

“You’ll have to run that risk, Miss Ames,” said the doctor, his voice serene again. He nodded toward the bed, where the merchant was making sputtering sounds. “And if Mr. Duke does not like it, why, he can get out of bed and leave this place.”

“Only get me my clothes, and I will be off,” shouted the duke.

The doctor stuck his glasses more firmly on his nose and looked elaborately about the room again. He picked up the bag in the corner, carried it to the window, and threw it out. Libby gasped in surprise.

Her surprise deepened as the merchant threw himself back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. As she watched in amazement, sweat broke out on his face.

But Dr. Cook was watching her. He nodded to her. “Miss Ames, I have a matter to discuss with you.”

Without a word, she followed him from the room. In silence, he tucked her arm in the crook of his elbow and steered her down the hall. She hurried to keep up with his long stride, wondering what possessed him to behave in such a cavalier fashion, and grateful, at the same time, that the squire could not see them so close together.

He sat her down on the top of the landing and seated himself below her several steps. He seemed at a loss for words and looked at her hopefully. When she only stared at him, he sighed and began.

“Miss Ames, the chocolate merchant is a drunkard.”

“What?” she shrieked, and then clutched his arm and lowered her voice. “You cannot be serious. He seems so nice.”

The doctor shrugged and patted her hand. “My dear, you must disabuse yourself of the notion that all drunkards look like Hogarth’s rake. I am sure he is nice. Tell me, did you leave that bottle of cordial on the night table? I distinctly remember putting it on the bureau.”

She thought back to the night before. “I did pour Mr. Duke another cordial,” she said. “And I must have left the bottle on the night table. Could he have drunk the whole thing?”

“It is a distinct possibility, unless you have extremely agile mice in this house, and I cannot imagine your mama would ever permit that!” He smiled. “Ah, that is more like it, Miss Ames. You really have a fine dimple.” He took her by the hand absently.

“But a drunkard, sir?” she asked, her eyes wide.

“I am sure of it. He is not hungry, and he should be famished. His hands tremble. Did you notice the sweat on his face?”

She nodded. He held her hand gently and began to massage her knuckles. He was obviously troubled, so Libby allowed him to continue.

After another moment’s reflection, he looked down at her hand and let go of it quickly. “Beg pardon, Miss Ames,” he said.

She refused to let the moment embarrass her, but scooted down another step until they were at eye level with each other. “I suppose it would be a simple matter to let the man rest here a few days, give him his cordial, and then send him on his way.”

“It would be,” he agreed. “I could overlook all this. We could keep him well lubricated and then wave good-bye to him and let him become someone else’s problem.” He fastened an inquiring eye upon her.

“Or we could keep him here a few weeks and sober him up,” Libby said. “Uncle would have a fit. You know how he feels about the consumption of excessive spirits. And Mama . . . Mama would be aghast.”

“They are not here,” the doctor reminded her.

“Oh, but, Doctor, my Aunt Crabtree—Uncle Ames’ aunt, actually—she will be arriving today. I fear she will take great exception to this little scheme.”

“Surely she will not dump out an invalid who is already in residence.”

She felt a flash of irritation at Dr. Cook’s calm reason. “I think you could cajole me into keeping Napoleon himself in the best guest room.”

“I could try, if he were a patient of mine, my dear,” he replied. “Now, throw out your other objections and let us get them aired and out of the way.”

“I had planned to spend the next few weeks in blissful solitude,” Libby mused, “painting and subjecting myself to absolutely no exertions.” She jabbed a finger toward the doctor’s ample chest. “Surely Hippocrates does not cover this in his oath.”

“You are correct, of course, Miss Ames. But I might also add that nowhere does it say in the Hippocratic oath to leave well enough alone, so I do believe I will meddle in this man’s existence.”

“He won’t thank you for it,” Libby pointed out.

“Not now, he won’t, but he may someday.” The doctor rose to his feet and pulled Libby up after him. “We may be doing him a greater good than he could ever have expected from an accident.” He chuckled. “Poor Mr. Nesbitt Duke! He had the misfortune to overturn his gig in front of a most meddlesome house. Someone should have warned him about selling chocolates in this part of Kent.”

The doctor looked at his pocket watch. “And now I must be off. Lord Lamborne of Edgerly Grange in convinced that if I do not lance a carbuncle this morning, he will likely cock up his toes by evening, although why this has not bothered him anytime in these past six weeks, I cannot tell you. Good day, Miss Ames.”

Libby clutched at the doctor’s arm. “You cannot leave me like this. What am I do with my chocolate merchant?”

Dr. Cook threw back his head and laughed. Libby stamped her foot and shook his arm. He pried her fingers from his sleeve. “Careful, my dear, or you’ll rumple the superfine,” he said, and was rewarded with a laugh.

“And you, Doctor, must resist the urge to sleep in your suits,” she scolded. “What you need, Dr. Cook, is a wife.”

“So I do, Miss Ames, so I do,” he agreed. “I also need patients who have babies during daylight hours or who do not stumble into trees coming home late from the public house.” He touched her cheek. “Don’t worry, Miss Ames. He won’t bite. He may growl and snap a bit, but just bully him into some food, keep him warm, and hold his hand.”

Anthony Cook rubbed lightly at the little frown that appeared between her eyes. “You know where to get in touch with me, my dear, uh, Miss Ames. Now, go do your good deed for the summer and rescue this chocolate merchant from himself.”

6

“RESCUE the chocolate merchant, indeed,” Libby grumbled after she saw Dr. Cook out the door, warned Joseph strictly to stay out of the squire’s fields, and took her reluctant way back up the stairs.

Candlow had left a covered tray with breakfast on it outside the door. Libby armed herself with it and knocked.

There was no answer. She sighed and knocked louder, and was rewarded with a gruff, “Oh, Lord knows you’re coming in anyway,” from the inmate within.

She squared her shoulders. “Indeed I am, Mr. Duke,” she said in her cheeriest voice, and was rewarded with a frosty glance that reminded her forcefully of her father with new recruits on parade.

She set the tray alongside the bed. “You must be hungry,” she said, and took the lid off the oatmeal.

The chocolate merchant screwed up his face and looked with vast distaste at the offering before him. “I only require some more cordial,” he said after a thoughtful perusal of the treat before him.

“What you require is food in your stomach, sir,” she replied.

He fixed her with that frosty stare again, and her toes curled in her shoes. One would think you had commanded a regiment at Waterloo, she thought as she returned his stare. You must have been a sergeant major at least.

“I ought to know what I need,” he said slowly, drawing out each word and clipping it off.

He raised his hand to his hair to smooth it back and Libby noticed again how his hand shook. The sight gave her heart and strengthened her own resolve.

“Until the time comes when you do know what you need again, I think you will dance to the doctor’s tune,” she said, her own voice soft but just as precise as his.

“Dance,” he roared. “I can barely walk!”

Libby tightened her grip on the tray of oatmeal and resisted the sudden urge to dump it on his head. “Do you want this oatmeal?” she asked.

“No. Not now, not ever. If you won’t give me some cordial to ease the pain a bit, I want my pants.”

Libby shook her head. She set the tray back on the night table within easy reach. “Candlow has retired your bag to regions unknown in this house.”

“You could ask him,” came the comment, barely under control.

“But I am not curious, sir,” she replied.

“Damn your eyes,” he roared, but the fire had gone out of his voice. The merchant threw himself back on the pillow and closed his eyes. He shivered involuntarily.

Libby took a step closer to the bed. “Can I help you?” she asked.

He opened his eyes and glared at her. “You can bring me something to drink,” he insisted.

“I will not.”

“Then go to the devil.” His voice was quiet, but she could tell he meant it. The gooseflesh marched down her spine as she walked to the door and then paused for a last look.

“Very well, Mr. Duke,” she said, her voice matching his, calm for calm. “If you need help, you need only summon me.”

She left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. She ducked instinctively as the bowl of oatmeal hit the other side of the door. Libby pursed her lips tightly together. “Dr. Cook, I will beat you about the head when I next see you,” she declared out loud, and then shook her head. “Providing I could reach your head. Sir, you are safe.”

There was no other sound from the room. Libby stood there a moment, wavering, and then went to her own room. She grabbed up her chip-straw bonnet, the old one Lydia had judged unfit, and tucked her box of paints under her arm. The orchard had lost its bloom, but she knew she was still in time for the flowering of red clover in the meadow. She could spend the day sketching and absorbing the sun, and return in the late afternoon, refreshed and ready to join battle again with the imperious chocolate merchant.

She picked up her easel and went into the hall. She almost made it past the door to the guest bedroom, but she stopped to listen.

There was no sound within. The silence should have satisfied her, but it did not. With a sigh, Libby set down her easel and paints and quietly entered the room.

Oatmeal smeared the door. She pushed the bowl aside with her foot and peered closer at the man on the bed. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, his hands clenched at his sides, the knuckles so white that she feared they would burst the skin. The chocolate merchant was sweating, even as he shivered.

As she watched in amazement, his mouth opened in a soundless scream. The hair rose on her neck, as if she heard it. Libby hesitated only one moment more and then put the clover and the meadow from her mind. She took a deep breath and cleared her throat.

Slowly, almost painfully, the man on the bed turned his head toward her and then looked away, as if the sight was more than he could bear.

Libby felt her anger return in a rush that left her breathless. Hot words rose to her lips, but he spoke before she could.

“Miss Ames, I wish to God that you would hurry away from the door,” he said, his voice tight with strain. “Please, Miss Ames, I beg you, step lively and you’ll be safe enough.”

Mystified, she did as he said.

He still would not look at her. “Miss Ames, it is only that there is such a cluster of snakes on the door frame that I feared for you. And do watch your step. The floor is writhing.”

Startled, she looked back at the door, gleaming white and cheery in the morning sunlight that streamed through the curtains. She looked down at the floor, which admitted of nothing more terrifying than an old Persian carpet of intricate design.

“Sir, there is nothing here, nothing at all.”

He shook his head, still not looking toward the door. “I wish you would come away from there.”

Without another word, she hurried to the bedside and sat down. She poured him a drink of water. As the water dribbled into the cup, he opened his eyes hopefully and turned toward the sound. When he saw it was only water, he sighed, but did not look away. She raised his head up and he drank enough to wet his lips.

His tone was more conversational then, reasonable. “I merely need a small drink, Miss Ames,” he said, his voice smooth, except for a slight tremor that did not escape her ears. “That is all.”

“No.”

Libby looked on in horror as he began to cry, sobbing out loud, begging for a drink. She wanted to leap from the chair and run from the room, her hands over her ears. Through it all he lay there rigid, his hands clenched into tight fists as he wailed and begged. Libby stared at him a minute more and then tentatively reached out her hand and touched him on the arm.

In another moment, she had worked her fingers into his closed hand, which she clasped in a firm grip. Libby scooted her chair closer. She stroked his arm with her other hand until he began to relax, little by little. When his tears stopped, she dabbed at his eyes with her apron, all the while holding tight to his hand.

He slept finally, and she relaxed in the chair, wishing that Candlow would come with a pillow. When the door opened, she looked toward it expectantly and then felt her stomach plummet to her shoes.

It was a little woman with a big nose and a red face and could only be Aunt Crabtree. Uncle Ames called her “the family aunt,” the impoverished member of the family who lived from relative to relative, depending on the needs of the respective households.

“Aunt Crabtree?” she whispered.

The bonneted head nodded vigorously, but came no closer. “Is he contagious?” Aunt Crabtree asked.

Libby almost said no, when a wonderful idea filled her mind. It was a stroke of genius that Lydia would chortle over, were she here.

“Oh, Aunt Crabtree, he is fearsomely contagious.”

The woman leapt back into the hallway with a little shriek that made the chocolate merchant twitch and shift about.

Libby freed her hand and tiptoed to the door. The old lady, the rest of her face as red as her nose now, sat and fanned herself from a chair halfway down the hall. Libby hurried toward her, gave her a peck on the cheek, and took her hand.

“How grateful I am that you did not go in there, my dear. Uncle Ames would never forgive me.” Libby steadied her voice and looked about in conspiratorial fashion. “Aunt, it is culebra fever.”

She paused for dramatic effect and also to assure herself that Aunt Crabtree was unacquainted with Spanish. The woman, her hat on crooked now from her strenuous exertions to get far away from the still-open doorway, nodded seriously, her eyes wide, and Libby continued.

“It is highly contagious. I had it in Spain when I was a child and I am immune.” She paused and dabbed at her dry eyes. “We can only be grateful that the man happened to faint practically on this doorstep, Aunt, or else no one could have tended him.”

Aunt Crabtree gulped. “How merciful are the ways of providence, child,” she said.

“Merciful indeed, Aunt,” said Libby, crossing her fingers and hoping that God was far away from Kent at the moment. “I recommend that you keep away from this hallway until I tell you it is safe. And even then, well, who knows?”

Aunt Crabtree was already heading for the stairs. “I will direct Candlow to put me in the housekeeper’s old room downstairs,” she said as she scurried down the steps. “If you need anything, my dear . . .”

The rest of her sentence was gone with the slamming of a door.

Libby stayed where she was another moment, wondering where her scruples had vanished. “It is merely that I cannot deal with you right now, Aunt Crabtree,” she excused herself.

Hours passed. She was mindful of Candlow peering into the room and then sending a maid to quietly clean the oatmeal off the door. A steaming pot of tea appeared at her elbow. She sipped gratefully as she held tight to the chocolate merchant and watched him drift in and out of restless sleep.

He woke once with a start as the afternoon shadows were climbing across the bed. He looked around in alarm at his surroundings and closed his eyes again, as if he feared what he saw. Libby wiped his forehead dry of sweat and did not relinquish her hold on him.

After the sun went down, she tried to let go, but the man whimpered and stirred about restlessly in the bed until she gave up the attempt. Joseph brought her dinner on a tray and cut up the beef roast for her while she ate with one hand.

“Is he going to die?” Joseph asked when she finished, his voice a loud whisper.

“No, my dear, I think not. He will be better in a few days,” she whispered back.

Joseph shook his head, his eyes wide. “I hope you do not catch what he has,” he declared.

Libby smiled at her brother. “I do not think it is contagious.”

Joseph peered at the man in the gathering darkness. “He doesn’t seem to be throwing out any spots, Libby. That is a good sign.”

“No, no spots,” she exclaimed, and then patted her brother on the knee. “It is nothing for you to worry about, so do not exercise your mind.”

Her answer satisfied Joseph. He sat with her until he began to yawn, then kissed her on the cheek and took himself off to bed.

Libby yearned to follow, to go down the hall to her own room, throw herself down on her bed, and not even worry about removing her shoes. Instead, she remained where she was, holding tight to the chocolate merchant’s hand as he mumbled in his sleep, perspired, and shook.

She had never seen a man so destroyed with liquor before, not even among the hard-drinking officers of her father’s regiment in Spain.

“What have you been doing to yourself?” she murmured as she toweled off his sweating face and neck where the perspiration had puddled on the sheets. “What is so bad that you must see it through the bottom of a bottle?”

He did not answer her, but only opened his mouth again and again in that soundless scream that so unnerved her, his eyes opened wide upon some nameless horror that she could not see. In desperation, she put her hand over his eyes until she felt his eyelids close under her palm.

What a shame your commanding officer has taken so little interest in your plight, she thought, remembering the care that her father took to know the whereabouts of each man discharged from duty. When she was old enough, he had pressed her into service as he dictated letter after letter to hospitals and places of employment, seeking help for his soldiers invalided out of the service.

Libby removed her hand from the merchant’s eyes and touched his face, noting the fine bones in his cheeks and the handsome shape of his lips. What a pity you did not soldier for my father, she thought as she rested the back of her hand against his neck for a moment. He would have seen to your welfare, as any good commander should.

Libby was lost in contemplation of her father when the door opened and Dr. Cook stuck his head in. She motioned him closer, rubbing her eyes with her free hand and wondering why the house was so still and what the hour was.

The physician loomed over the sleeping man and then gently felt for the pulse. When he seemed satisfied, he unbuttoned the merchant’s nightshirt and knelt down, head on his chest, to listen to his heart beat.

“Good steady rhythm,” he murmured at last as he got to his feet. “The man must have the heart of a Hercules.”

“I don’t know why it is you must always sound so bereft when you discover people in good health,” she observed, but not unkindly.

“Hush,” he commanded, and then weakened the order with the self-deprecating smile she was coming to appreciate. “It is merely a hazard of the profession, Miss Ames.” He touched the man’s pulse again. “Be aware that I did not rend my garments and sit among the ashes.”

She smiled back, despite her exhaustion. “Why did you stop? It must be terribly late. And I wish you would not sleep in your suits. You must be the despair of your housekeeper.”

“Which inquisition shall I respond to first?” he asked, his voice alive with good humor. “I stopped because I noticed the light in the window. It is past midnight. I put this particularly handsome suit of clothing on fresh since I last saw you this morning, but I sleep when I can, and it is rumpled. Excuse it. Father’s housekeeper gave me up long ago, and I have never been able to maintain a valet, for obvious reasons.”

Libby giggled, but did not relinquish her grip on the chocolate merchant.

“Won’t he let you go?” the doctor asked.