Carla Kelly (11 page)

As he lay there, considering his own flaws, he heard Libby Ames crying.

It could have been a housemaid, but surely the maids slept in the attic or belowstairs, he told himself. It wasn’t Joseph, who had left his room in a decidedly more cheerful frame of mind. It could only be Libby.

He got out of bed, tugged down his nightshirt until it covered his ragged knees, and went into the hall. A single lamp glowed at the end of the hall near the stairs. He walked toward it in his bare feet, careful to stay on the carpet runner that traveled the length of the hall, listening at each door until he found Libby Ames’ room.

He raised his hand to knock, but only stood there and listened to Libby Ames crying as if her heart were being squeezed dry.

He stood outside her door until she blew her nose, sniffled a bit more, and the room was silent. Without a word, he tiptoed back to his own room and crawled into bed again.

“What can you possibly have to cry about, my dear Miss Ames?” he asked the ceiling, until his eyelids drooped and he slept.

8

AS she lay in bed the next morning, Libby Ames took the time to give herself a silent scold and a mental shake.

I am turning into an air dreamer, she thought, recalling with some embarrassment her noisy tears of last night and wondering again why she had spent the better part of the evening flung across her bed, sobbing like some character out of one of those feverish novels that Papa had always growled about.

She had been too agitated then to attempt an analysis of her mood. As sunlight spread its warmth across her bed, she attempted to understand her own mind.

With a sudden smile, Libby quickly dismissed the crack-brained notion that she was in love with Dr. Cook, as the chocolate merchant had said. The very thought made her roll her eyes and laugh out loud.

Her misery was wrapped up in her own words, her announcement to Mr. Duke that she wasn’t good enough for the squire’s son. Not that she wanted the squire’s son, she reminded herself quickly, for she did not. It was just the idea that burned.

I am a poor match for anyone, she thought. The words did burn, so she said them out loud, letting her ears and heart get used to the blunt reminder.

It would be so easy to blame Papa, cheerful, handsome Papa, who always looked so grand in his regimentals, even if the cuffs were twice-turned, the gold braid faded, and his trousers too shiny. He was one of the few officers in Wellington’s army forced to support himself and his hopeful family entirely on army pay, and it was never enough, even for the most careful economizers.

Libby sighed. Dear Papa was the dashing kind of man who would catch the eye of any number of susceptible females, even a tobacconist’s daughter. No one but impetuous, thoughtless Thomas Ames would have courted her and married her, secure in the knowledge that because he loved beautiful Marianne Gish, others would, too, his father included.

But Grandfather Ames had turned them away from his door. Mama used to tell the story, and her dark eyes would flash with anger at the memory, then cloud over with the humiliation that still burned like phosphorus, long after the event was past. “He just took me by the collar and pointed me toward the door,” Mama had said during their Channel crossing with Papa’s coffin in the ship’s hold and Joseph lying seasick across both their laps. “As though I were a dog that had wandered on the place by mistake,” she finished softly, the pain no less, even though the incident was twenty years gone.

The rest of the story Libby had heard from Uncle Ames, dear Uncle Ames, who had witnessed the blow that Thomas Ames struck his father. Uncle Ames, in hushed tones, had told how the old man, dabbing at his broken nose, had risen from the floor as though pulled by invisible strings, and ordered his son and daughter-in-law from his presence forever.

After Papa’s shocking death in Toulouse, Mama had sat up all night by the camp fire, burning all letters and papers. She had shown Libby the lawyer’s documents detailing her father’s disinheritance. “I don’t know why he kept these all this time,” Mama had remarked as she tore the infamous document into tiny bits and sprinkled them in the fire. “Take that, you evil man,” Mama had whispered.

Libby had seen her Grandfather Ames once when Papa, nearly destitute and on half-pay while recuperating from a wound, had taken her and Mama to Holyoke Green to ask for no more than a place to stay until he was recalled to active duty. She was only six, but Libby remembered watching through the bars of the gate as the fierce old man with the shock of white hair rode right past his son without even a glance in his direction.

They had scuttled away in embarrassment to Portsmouth and the little flat over the tobacconist’s shop, where they had remained for three months before Papa was recalled to Spain. Libby remembered with painful clarity the relief they all felt to return to that land of war that seemed so much more friendly than Kent.

It was at her late Grandpa Gish’s crowded flat where the second set of lawyer’s documents had reached Papa, this set a copy of the one Uncle Ames had signed, declaring that now that he was the legal heir, he would never give any money, property, or goods of any sort to Thomas Ames or his wife and child, on pain of losing his own inheritance.

“My father never said in writing that I could not take you up as a housekeeper,” Uncle Ames had told her mother years later when they returned to bury Papa in the family graveyard. Grandfather Ames was long cold there, too, and Mama had hesitated before putting her beloved Thomas in the same soil. “If I could have afforded a plot elsewhere . . .” Mama had murmured as the coffin was lowered in the ground. She had stood in silence until the grave was covered, then turned and accepted Uncle Ames’ offer.

But there would be no dowry for Libby. Marriage to anyone of similar background was out of the question.

Libby’s thoughts wandered to the chocolate merchant. “Too bad you are a cit,” she said out loud. “Mama would never allow me to align myself with a cit, no matter how refined you seem.”

Another thought followed, one more chilly, that made her sit upright and hug her knees, as though the June air had suddenly turned to February.

“Dear Chocolate Merchant, you would expect a dowry too, wouldn’t you?” she said. “How silly of me to think it would be otherwise.”

The realization that she belonged in neither class settled on her shoulders like a clammy blanket, and she shivered and hugged herself closer. Mama had never put it into words, but Libby understood her own future. She could only learn her mother’s duties well, and someday hope to inherit her set of keys. She would likely spin out her days in the service of others, too genteel for the one half of her family, and not genteel enough for the other, the impoverished daughter of a disinherited son.

And when Mama died, the burden of Joseph would rest squarely on her shoulders alone.

“Joseph, what will we do?” she asked. Libby thought of the squire’s threats and resolved anew to keep Joseph in sight as much as possible. I suppose if the squire truly wanted, he could declare Joseph a public nuisance and have him put away. Libby closed her eyes tight against the thought and felt a great anger rise at her own powerlessness. Tears smarted behind her eyelids again, but it was time to get up.

She snatched a hasty breakfast and gave her orders for the day to Candlow, who assured her that Joseph had risen earlier and was busy in the stables.

“And do you know, I have remembered where I put the chocolate merchant’s traveling case,” he said, his face perfectly composed.

“Candlow, you are a wonder,” Libby teased.

He cleared his throat. “I took the liberty . . .”

“Yes?” Libby prompted.

“His one trousers were ruined during the accident, of course, and he has only one other pair, so I found some of the major’s old pants,” the butler said. “Sir William had been keeping them in his own dressing room. I think they might fit the merchant.”

“Good of you, Candlow,” Libby said, only the slightest quiver in her voice. “Papa always did hate to see things wasted.”

Before she went upstairs to visit the merchant, her guilty conscience compelled her to scrawl a hurried note to Lydia and Mama, telling them of the candy merchant’s precipitate arrival in their household. She assured Lydia that her draperies were clean now, and told Mama that the maids had been released for a well-deserved holiday, with only Candlow remaining of the house servants, and the cook, who refused to leave, as usual. She inquired about Uncle Ames’ gout, told Lydia to breathe deep of the sea air for her, and closed it all with affection unbounded, theirs truly.

She sighed and rested her chin on her hand. And now I must deal with Aunt Crabtree.

Libby went downstairs to the servants’ quarters and paused outside the housekeeper’s door. Inside, she heard the faint slap of cards on the table. Two more slaps were followed by silence and then an unladylike oath. Aunt Crabtree was losing at solitaire.

“Aunt?” she called through the door.

“Yes, my dear,” her aunt inquired, opening the door almost at once. She peered closer at Libby’s face. “Tell me, is something the matter with your chocolate merchant?”

“Oh, no, Aunt. Actually, I have come to announce that he is much improved. In fact, we can pronounce him almost cured,” she concluded in her most casual tone, looking everywhere but at her aunt.

“Almost?” Aunt Crabtree asked, her suspicion deepening.

“He is well enough to walk in the orchard,” Libby said, and then sidled closer and lowered her voice. “And I do not believe he is contagious anymore.”

“But you are not sure?”

“No, I am not sure,” Libby replied, amazed that her conscience gave her not a twinge. I am turning into a hardened prevaricator, she thought as she smiled sweetly at her aunt.

“Well, I will wave at him from a distance, dear Libby.” Aunt Crabtree kissed her. “You are a dear child to be so concerned for my welfare.”

Libby blushed and could not look at her aunt. She kissed the air near her ear and backed out of the room.

Libby went upstairs and knocked on the chocolate merchant’s door. She inclined her ear toward the panel out of habit and nearly fell into the room when he opened the door.

“Whoa, there, Miss Ames, are you taking clumsy lessons from Dr. Cook?” he asked as he grabbed her. “Or do you always listen at keyholes?”

“I never listen at keyholes,” she said firmly, pressing her hands to her face to tame the sudden color there. Her eyes lighted on the sample case. “I see Joseph has been here this morning,” she said, grateful for this excuse to change the subject.

“Last night.”

“I told him not to bother you so late,” she said in dismay. “But he was so proud that he found it. I hope he did not disturb you.”

The merchant shook his head. “Not a bit. He provided me with some intriguing food for thought.”

“Joseph?” Libby asked, her eyes wide.

He opened his eyes wide in imitation of her, and grinned. “The very same. I shall not tell you any more, madam. You have promised me a walk in the orchard, and I am eagerness itself.”

“Very well,” she agreed. “What must I do to find out more? Joseph is not noted for his scintillating conversation.”

“No, he isn’t, is he?” the duke agreed. “He is blunt and to the point, and would never make a splash in London society.”

Libby frowned, and he took a step back, clutching his chest as though he had been wounded.

“And now you are going to give me a bear garden jaw because I have been making fun of your brother,” he said.

“Well, I was, too,” she admitted, “so I will be generous this time.”

Libby scooped up her paints and easel on the way downstairs, and her bonnet off a convenient shelf by the door that led into the gardens. “I am attempting weeds and small rocks this week, so we must go into the orchard,” she explained breathlessly as she hurried along. “Do tell me if I am going too fast for you.”

“I shall,” the merchant replied promptly, took the easel from her, and strolled along beside her with scarcely a limp.

They traveled the formal gardens in silence, Libby stopping every now and then to pluck a few weeds in the stone-lined beds and then hurrying to catch up with Mr. Duke, her hand tight to her head to keep the bonnet from flopping off.

When she reached him, he took her by the shoulders and pulled her closer to him. Libby stared up at him. She automatically closed her eyes and raised her face, and then opened them in surprise when he tied the strings of her bonnet, gave her shoulders another pat, and turned her loose, chuckling to himself.

“There now. If you must dawdle at every flower bed, at least you will not lose your hat. You must have been a charge to your mother when you were younger.”

She laughed out loud. “Do you know, they used to tether me to the flagpole when they were in garrison?”

“I don’t doubt it for a minute,” the merchant replied. “The temptation must have been great to leave you there when they marched away.”

Libby joined in his laughter.

“Much better, Miss Ames. You seemed a trifle down-pin earlier, and I am glad to know that you have not forgotten how to make merry. I could ask you why the melancholy, but you would not tell me, so I shall save my breath.”

They continued in silence, passing through the formal garden and into the kitchen garden, where Libby stopped again and tackled the weeds among the radishes.

The merchant watched her, a smile on his face. “I am wondering how you ever manage to make it to the orchard for your painting,” he exclaimed at last when she finished the row of radishes and cast her eyes upon the peas.

“Sometimes I do not, sir,” she replied, and started toward the peas.

Nesbitt Duke grabbed her by the arm. “Miss Ames, you have promised me the orchard, and I have been looking forward to this event. I tolerated the radishes, but I do not care for peas.”

“Very well, Mr. Duke,” she said, and gently disengaged herself.

“And another thing, Miss Ames—can I not call you Libby?” he asked. “After all, you have been tending to my hairy legs this past week and putting up with my alcoholic fidgets. Surely we are on close-enough terms to call each other Libby and Nez.”

She considered the issue. “I suppose we are, although you have not seen me at my worst yet, and perhaps
I
should still insist upon Miss Ames.”

“Scamp.”

He set up the easel for her in the orchard, moving it several times to suit her and then plunking it down and glaring at her when she suggested another location. Libby laughed and moved the easel herself, waving him toward a boulder where he could perch in relative comfort. He sat down carefully, his look of pained concentration warning her that he had probably walked enough for one day.

“Will you be all right?” Libby asked, and he was dismayed to think that some of the pain must have registered on his face.

“I will be fine,” he said firmly.

Libby nodded, her mind already on her task, and turned to her paints. She selected the browns and yellows she wanted, and applied them to her well-used palette and then raised her brush, only to set it down, and exclaim, “Drat!”

He looked up from his idle perusal of her trim ankles. “H’mmm?”