Carla Kelly (19 page)

He was dressed in buckskin breeches and a shirt without a neckcloth, which he held in his hand. He ran his fingers through his curly dark hair with the other hand and managed to boost his spectacles higher on his nose, all in one gesture.

“Miss Ames,” he exclaimed. He came closer to feel her forehead. “You’re not ill?”

“No, sir, I am not,” she said, feeling suddenly shy to be standing on Anthony Cook’s doorstep. “I need to talk to you, though. Have you a moment?”

He smiled and somehow the exhaustion left his eyes. “I have more than a moment, Miss Ames. Do come in. That will be all, Mrs. Weller.”

The cook seemed reluctant to leave what promised to be an interesting interview. “Can I bring you some biscuits, Dr. Cook?” she asked.

He nodded. “And a little sherry, if the maid hasn’t drunk it all.” He gestured down the hall. “Come to my surgery, Miss Ames.”

“Libby,” she corrected. “Didn’t we decide on that the other day?”

“So we did,” he agreed. “I had wondered if you would remember.”

They passed open doors on the way to the back of the house. Libby couldn’t help but peer into rooms either empty of furniture or stuffed with furniture and shrouded in Holland cloths. What a curious house, she thought.

Anthony must have understood the process of her mind, for he grimaced. “We have been without the services of a housekeeper since the last one took umbrage. ’Twas in 1813, I believe.” He gestured with his head in the direction Mrs. Weller had disappeared. “She’s a dreadful substitute, but can she cook!”

He opened the door to his surgery and she stepped in, looking about her in delight.

It was an oasis of calm in an untidy house. The room was as neat and clean as the rest of the house was chaos. One wall was lined with books, each carefully in place but all bearing the unmistakable look of volumes well-read and much-thumbed-over. There was a large desk by the books, and a diploma with many seals and elaborate scrollwork framed on the wall. A handsome screen stretched across one corner of the room. Libby could see an examining table behind it, and rows of instruments, all gleaming, under glass.

“I wish we had a hospital hereabouts, like in Edinburgh,” he said, gesturing to a chair. “As it is, I dream that I will chance upon a nabob in need of a good physicking, whom I will heal of an incurable illness, and he will build me a hospital to show his deep gratitude.”

Libby laughed and removed her hat. “And all you get is Farrell Frink!”

He reached out impulsively, ruffled her hair, and laughed along with her. “Do we ever get what we want, Libby Ames? I doubt it.”

“I suppose we do not, Anthony, but, how we try,” she said, and sat down.

She thought she would be embarrassed to bother Anthony Cook with her trouble, especially if he sat behind that intimidating desk. Instead he pulled up the other chair opposite her and relaxed himself into it.

“What’s troubling you, Libby?” he asked quietly.

She took a deep breath. “Joseph has run away, and I don’t know where to look. I hate to bother you, but I am afraid he might be in trouble.”

There was a scratching on the door, and Mrs. Weller opened it and peeked around, carrying a tray laden with biscuits and sherry.

The doctor held up a glass, sighed, and wiped it out with his neckcloth. He poured in silence, his face red. “I wish we had a housekeeper, Libby.” He offered her a biscuit.

She selected a promising morsel and bit into it, uttering exclamations of delight. “You certainly don’t want for a cook, Anthony.”

He downed two biscuits to her one. “That’s why we keep her on, Libby, and, yes, let us go find your brother.” As she nibbled on the biscuit, he took her hand. “There is something else troubling you, isn’t there?” he asked.

“No . . . no,” she stammered, her face as red as his. “That is, nothing of any great importance.”

He let go of her hand and leaned back in his chair, eyeing her carefully. “Do you know, some of my best patients only come to talk?”

I cannot tell him about the duke. It would be too painful, she thought as she looked into his kind face.

After another moment of silence, he got to his feet, putting a hand on her shoulder to keep her in the chair. “Stay where you are and I will arrange for the gig. Have another biscuit.” He patted her shoulder, gave up on his neckcloth, and tossed it on the desk. “It will be dark soon enough. We’d better find the wanderer.”

14

LIBBY was still eating biscuits, drinking sherry, and feeling very much better when the doctor returned to his surgery. By then she had propped up her feet on the other chair and had sunk down further in the overstuffed armchair, on the verge of a nap. Libby sat up quickly when he came into the room and began to dust the crumbs off her lap.

Anthony merely stood there looking at her, a slight smile on his face. “Here, here, my dear. I leave you alone for fifteen minutes and return to see such dissipation. And see here, you left me no biscuits. I shall have to live off my fat for the duration of this adventure, obviously.”

Libby brushed the wrinkles from her dress and put her hat back on, tying it in the reflection of the glass-fronted bookcase. “If I came here too often for Mrs. Weller’s remedy for depression, ennui, and general lethargy, I would have to be lifted out of that chair with a block and tackle.”

The doctor patted his stomach. “I daresay we should let her go. Then I could get down to my fighting weight again.” He rubbed his chin, his eyes merry, the fun in them infectious. “Of course, I never was much of a fighter, and Father, on the other hand, has never added so much as a stone to what he took to Cambridge years ago. Life, Libby, is not fair.”

She could only agree with this sentiment, particularly when they ventured outdoors to a gray day. The blue sky and cotton-puff clouds had metamorphosed into something less congenial.

The doctor lifted her into the gig as though she weighed nothing, and climbed in after her. A quiet word to the horse set them on their way down the long drive from the house. Libby turned around to look behind her.

“Do you know, Anthony, you really should plant a row of flowering crab apple or hawthorn along either side of this lane,” she said. “It would be a delight in the spring and would afford such shade in deep summer.”

He nodded, his eyes on the road. “I’ll give it some thought. Which way do we go, Libby? I am yours to command.”

“I think we should find the gypsies,” she said, her voice decisive. “Joseph may have decided to throw in his lot with them. You know that he is horse-mad.”

“Very well.” He tugged on one rein and the gig turned away from Holyoke.

They rode in silence for a considerable distance. Libby could feel him glancing at her every now and then. She could sense that he was on the verge of saying something, but some reticence kept him bereft of speech.

One mile passed, and then another, and then he gathered the reins in one hand and turned to her. “Why did he run away, Libby? It seems so unlike Joseph.”

She could not look at him, but replied in a small voice. “We had a misunderstanding. He felt himself at fault. I tried to explain, but he would not listen.”

She twisted her hands together in her lap, longing to spill out the whole story of the duke’s infamous offer and her rejection, but the subject was too delicate. She sat in silence and flogged herself for her lack of courage. Hen-hearted, Libby, that’s what you are, she thought. He’s giving you a perfect opportunity to unburden yourself, and you sit here like Lot’s wife.

Another mile and then they passed beyond the boundaries of the Ames estate. Another mile, and the doctor stopped the gig. The cart creaked as he turned sideways to face her. “I really have to know something, Libby, and I am sorry if it is none of my business, but tell me this: am I to wish you happy?”

She couldn’t even look him in the eye, but merely shook her head and tried to make herself small on her side of the gig. This proved to be no easy task, because the doctor filled most of the space.

Libby wanted to speak, but she could only sit there in miserable silence.

The doctor touched her shoulder. “And here I sit probing away at what seems to be an open wound. I am sorry, my dear, truly I am, but I was certain that the duke would offer for you.” He sighed. “It seemed inevitable.”

Libby looked up then and spoke without thinking. “Oh, he made me a generous offer, Anthony. He offered me a house in Half Moon Street, a high-perch phaeton, jewels and furs, a box at the opera, and everything but his name.”

She blanched to see the anger rise so fast in his face. In his rage, he suddenly looked older and very much like the squire. While she watched in alarm as his high color became even more vivid, Libby wondered that she had never noticed the resemblance before.

“It doesn’t matter,” she assured him. “Please don’t get into a taking about it.”

“I will call him out,” he said in a voice of deadly calm. “How could
anyone
take such advantage of a young women with really no one to stand up for her? Damn his eyes.”

Anthony’s anger made her forget for a minute her own misery. “You’ll not call him out,” she declared, flinging off her hat and throwing it behind her so she could see him better. “He would likely drill you through.”

“He probably would,” the doctor agreed, his anger receding as quickly as it had come. “I would have to be my own surgeon, and I am squeamish about physicking myself.” He looked at her, bewildered. “I do not understand why he would do such a thing.”

“I suppose it is a matter of pride,” she said, grateful that she was not dissolving into tears as she feared she would, and thankful for the doctor’s matter-of-fact air. “Anthony, how would it look? A duke married to a penniless nonentity who knows how to use the right fork and never scratches in public, but whose father was disgraced and whose grandfather sold tobacco to tars?”

“And I suppose he was surprised when you turned down his perfectly reasonable offer.”

“I do believe he was,” she replied, considering the matter.

The doctor took up the reins again and the horse moved on. “Tell me now where Joseph fits into this picture, and then I will back out of your affairs, Libby.”

“I think he must have overheard my refusal only, and blamed himself,” she said, the frustration back in her voice again. “Oh, Anthony, Joseph feels his lacks too acutely. I wish it were not so. He thought that I turned down the duke because Nez would have considered him an embarrassment in London. I tried to reason with Joseph, but that is never easy to do. And now he is gone, and he is probably lost.”

She began to sob in good earnest. Without a word, the doctor stopped the gig again and took her in his arms. “Go ahead and cry, my dear,” he said when she tried to push him away, “You’ll feel better soon enough. You need your mama at a time like this, and I am but a poor substitute.”

Libby raised her tearstained face to his and shook her head. “I daren’t breathe a word of this to Mother. She would be so ashamed that it is her background that makes such an alliance so impossible. I would never hurt her that way. And Aunt Crabtree?” Libby rolled her eyes. “She would fall prostrate upon the carpet, and how would I ever explain that to Uncle Ames?”

“For the Lord’s sake, then, don’t carry your burdens around any longer,” the doctor said. “Have a really good washout, Libby dear, and then let us find this stubborn brother of yours.”

“You don’t mind?” she sniffled, groping unsuccessfully in her reticule for a handkerchief.

“I don’t mind.”

She took the doctor at his word and sobbed until her nose started to run and her eyes felt raw. The doctor made no comment other than to tell her to blow when he held his handkerchief to her face. His arms were tight about her, and she wept out her misery on the most comfortable shoulder she could have hoped for.

When her tears had subsided to an occasional hiccup and then one more strengthy session with the handkerchief, Libby pried herself from the doctor’s arms and sat upright again. Her hair had come loose in a tangle about her shoulders and there was a nest of hairpins in her lap and on the seat. She began to gather them together.

“I must look a fright,” she said.

“You are—” he paused to consider a moment—“a veritable antidote.” He had released her, but his arms still rested across her shoulders. “I cannot but wonder about the fact that for two days running now, I have surely seen you at your worst, and find you not in the least disgusting. I must be in my dotage.”

Libby managed to chuckle as she attempted to twist her hair back up on her head again. “What you are is extremely obliging and much too kind, sir, for your own good. All your patients will cheat you and watery damsels will destroy your coats. What you need, sir, is management in your life, and then you would be too well-organized to be forced to listen to sad tales from silly women.”

“You are describing a wife, Libby,” he said mildly as he unwound the reins and started the horse in motion again.

It was on her lips to say something amusing, but she could think of nothing, particularly in light of her recent refusal. Why does that plaguey proposal not disappear from my mind? she thought, irritated with herself and embarrassed at the same time.

Libby tucked her hair here and there, deeply conscious of the fact that Anthony had deliberately left the conversation unfinished. She looked away from him across a meadow flowered with yellow daisies and lupins. Yes, by all means, find yourself some sensible woman who will not be afraid to bully you and your father, clean up that midden of a house, plant some flowers, and raise your children.

The silence that stretched between them should have felt strained and difficult, but it did not. Libby replaced her hat as the doctor slowed the gig again. He pointed to the next field. “See there, Libby, they have gone away.”

Libby clutched his arm. “Oh, could you just look and make sure they have not left that child behind? Maybe there will be some sign of Joseph.”

He got out of the gig and vaulted over the fence in that same easy fashion as his father. He walked on until he was out of sight in the copse of trees. He emerged on the distant side at the place where she had sat with the child in the driving rain.

It all seemed so long ago, she thought as she watched him reappear and grow larger again. Anthony Cook walked with an easy stride that reminded her of her own father. Funny, she thought, he has not bumbled into anything lately, or stumbled over his feet, or cracked his head. Lydia would be amazed to see him. She giggled, her hand to her mouth. I suppose like Kate the Shrew he is merely cursed in company. This must mean that we are friends now and he feels easy with me. He must have forgotten that ridiculous proposal. Thank the Lord for that.

He leapt the fence again and held up his hands to her. “Nothing. They’re gone as though they had never been.” He leaned against the fence. “What now, my dear?”

“No tracks to follow?”

“None.” He shrugged. “I must amend that. Perhaps if I were a Mohican, I could find a bent blade of grass.” He climbed into the gig again. “I vote that we go to the next town and just look about.” He sat a moment in thought and then brightened. “What day is it, Libby?”

“Friday, I believe.”

“Silly, I know that! The date, please.”

“June twenty-fourth. Oh, Anthony, is it the week of the midsummer fair in Dewhurst?”

“Precisely. If we cannot find gypsies at a horse fair, then we obviously should send others on our errands.”

They found gypsies in Dewhurst, camped on a woody knoll by the river. They were her gypsies, but they had been joined by others in more elaborate wagons. After several glances full of suspicion, and whispered conversations, the gypsies ignored them.

“Do you see Joseph anywhere?” Anthony asked, keeping a firm grip on the reins. “No,” she said, and then glanced down when someone tugged at her skirts.

It was the little girl from the field. She hobbled on crutches and the splinted bandage was dirty, but it had not been removed. She could almost feel the relief that seemed to flow from Anthony.

With a helping hand from Anthony, Libby left the gig and stood beside the child, careful not to touch her.

“Your brother was in our camp.”

“Oh, you do speak English!” Libby exclaimed. “Where is my brother now?”

“I do not know. He came into our camp around noon, talked to our men, and then rode away. My sister Iviva saw him sneak back and steal two of our best horses.” She paused and then added scrupulously, “Horses that we had traded for fairly.” She looked over her shoulder at her mother, who stood close to the wagon, afraid to come closer. “Mama said I was to say that.”

Libby thought about the stolen gift she had received only that morning. “My brother is a scoundrel. Will your father and the other men track him?”

The little girl glanced again at her mother for reassurance. “Mama says that would depend on which direction he is traveling.”

Libby nodded. “Thank you, my dear.” She leaned closer. “Stay off your leg all you can.”

The girl smiled then and hurried away.

Libby let Anthony help her into the gig again.

“I wonder whose animals Joseph recognized and is bearing away?” he asked when they left the village.

“Your father’s, I think,” she said. “The squire told me only this morning that he was missing two horses.”

The doctor managed a thin smile, his eyes troubled. “My father doesn’t deserve such kindness from Joseph.”

They drove from Dewhurst, no wiser than before about Joseph Ames’ whereabouts. “All we really know is that there are two more horses now,” Libby said, taking inventory. “I doubt Joseph knows the way back to your father’s estate. Oh, Anthony, and now it is getting dark.”

It should not have been dark so soon, on this week of the midsummer’s fair, but the sky was gray with clouds that grew blacker as they traveled in the general vicinity of Holyoke, trying little-known paths the doctor barely remembered from his childhood, and backtracking when they thought they saw something among the trees.

The rain began as they backed out of yet another dead-end path that had appeared so promising. Without a word, Anthony stripped off his coat and wrapped it around her. It could have gone around her twice, but Libby pulled it close, thankful for the warmth.

“I should have done that sooner,” he said, his eyes squinting into the gathering gloom. “You’ve been shivering this past half-hour and more. Sprig muslin is not fabric suited for adventuring, although it is remarkably attractive on you.”