Carla Kelly (3 page)

Brighton. She had been there once before, during one of her father’s rare leaves from Spain. She remembered the crowds that frightened her as much as they intrigued her: the soldiers in their regimentals strolling about with their ladies on the Promenade; the painter who sketched her portrait as she sat, and then did another one because he declared to her proud papa that she was too beautiful for one drawing only. She wrinkled her nose and remembered the smell of the pilings when the tide was out, and the sharp fragrance of pomaded gentlemen in crowded Assembly Rooms. And the ladies, oh, the ladies, with their more delicate scents, and rustling silks, and sidelong glances.

“I would like to be someone’s lady,” she whispered, and then looked about to make sure that no one had overheard the practical Elizabeth Ames talking to herself.

The goose girl was busy organizing her charges down at the pond; the groom had followed Joseph back into the stables. The air was so quiet that she thought she could hear the bees in the orchard, busy about their work.

“But mostly, I want some peace and quiet.”

And now the house was empty. Without Mama there to admonish, she could wear her old, comfortable dresses, arrange her hair only if she chose to, and maybe even walk barefooted into the orchard with her box of paints, canvas, and easel tucked under her arm.

She had never been a person who needed crowds about her, or admiration. Libby had learned at an uncomfortably early age that she was a beauty, and there was nothing she could do about the stares and second glances that came her way on the most mundane walk into Holyoke, or a mere look-in at the lending library. It embarrassed her to be blatantly admired for something she had no control over. It struck her as strange that all her defects of character—so obvious to her—could be so generously overlooked in the worship of beauty.

I would like to spend this summer with myself, she thought as she watched the goose girl scold her flock. I need to think about where I am going. She smiled to herself. Papa would have understood. He had been a handsome man who turned heads, and he took as little thought of it as she. His one passion had been the army, and he had soldiered until the day he died.

“But what is there for me?” Libby asked out loud. It was a question that had begun to nag her in recent weeks, particularly as she celebrated her twentieth birthday with no prospects in sight.

She had known all her life there would be no prospects for her, but the issue hadn’t mattered until Papa, her dear Papa so impervious to bullets, was struck down by camp fever as Wellington prepared to march from Toulouse to Paris.

They had all assumed she would marry into the army, but Papa’s death sent them back across the Channel to a country they scarcely remembered. True, there were offers among the military before they left Toulouse, but the offers were quietly withdrawn when Mama informed the officers that there was no dowry.

“Officers do need to marry well,” Mama had said as she closed the door on the last captain of the regiment. “Heaven knows those uniforms are expensive, child.”

And so they came home to Kent. It was Papa’s home, a place he was unwelcome as long as he lived and his own papa still breathed. Foolish Papa, with no more sense than to follow his heart and marry a tobacconist’s daughter. Grandfather Ames had never forgiven him. Not only was there no provision for Major Ames’ wife and orphans in the will, but Uncle Ames was forbidden by that same will to give them any, under threat of losing his own inheritance.

If Uncle Ames was unable to aid them directly, there was nothing in the will that said he could not provide a roof, which he did, and promptly, too.

“Mind, I never could fathom Father’s distempered freaks about your eligibility,” he had assured Libby’s mother when they arrived at Holyoke Green. “And stap me if I’ll let my little brother’s near and dear starve while there’s breath in this body.”

Kent it was, then, with Mama soon settling in as housekeeper and Joseph kept busy about the stables. Over Uncle Ames’ protests, Libby gravitated to the kitchen, which suited her right down the ground. Uncle Ames had not surrendered willingly. He shook his head the first time he saw her, apron about her waist, kneading bread in the kitchen. “Don’t know why we can’t find you a husband somewhere,” he had muttered to himself, and he had snapped off a piece of dough to tuck in his cheek. “Don’t know what’s wrong with young men these days.” He was still grousing to himself as he climbed the steps, careful to favor his gouty heel.

She had rubbed along happily enough in Kent for the past two years, enjoying her Uncle’s obvious affection, and Lydia’s gentle tyranny, and doubly pleased with the way Mama took to managing a normal household that didn’t have to pack up and move with the army.

The greatest pleasure had been watching Joseph, who had gone from a tongue-tied, bewildered boy who dreaded the stares and pity of others, to a more assured young man, aware of his obvious limitations, but serene in the knowledge that there was a home for him always at Holyoke Green.

Libby stood another moment in reflection, grateful for her good fortune, wondering about her future. Now would be a good time to plan some strategy for the rest of her life. She would do that while everyone else was in Brighton.

She squared her shoulders and walked up the front steps, pausing for one look up at Lydia’s bedroom windows. “And I have draperies to clean,” she said, and then smiled. “Lydia, you
are
a goose. Joseph is right!”

Her good humor regained, she grabbed up a corner of her apron and polished the brass door knocker. “Someone will have to drop himself upon my doorstep,” she said, “and it will be true love.”

Libby giggled and put her hand to her mouth. It would likely be Dr. Cook, looking about in his squinty-eyed fashion for his favorite patient. How disappointed he will be when I tell him that Uncle has been in Brighton this past week.

It was prophecy. No sooner had she reentered the house and opened Mama’s book of household accounts than Candlow appeared at the book-room door.

“Miss Elizabeth, it is Dr. Cook,” he said, and his eyes twinkled in spite of himself.

Libby could appreciate his humor. It was difficult for the old retainer to be serious about a person, even a doctor, who had been rescued from trees as a child and spanked on more than one occasion for disturbing the Ames beehives.

“Show him in, by all means, Candlow,” Libby said. She patted her hair and closed the account book.

Dr. Cook filled the doorway, as he likely filled every threshold he had ever crossed. As he stood there a moment, the width of his shoulders an impressive sight, Libby couldn’t help but remember her first glimpse of Anthony Cook after her years in Spain. Mama had stared, goggled-eyed, and whispered to her, “Never mind who is it: what is it?”

No one could have called Dr. Cook fat. He was solid, well-built and massive, rather like a ship, thought Libby as she watched him exchange some pleasantry with Candlow in the doorway. He was no flashy man-o’-war or yacht, not by any reach of the imagination. Anthony Cook reminded Libby of a clinker-built coal barge, the kind of sturdy vessel that plied the waters from port to port, year in, year out, in all weathers—totally reliable, utterly dependable.

He was dark like many Kentsmen, with curly hair that never seemed to be in place, and black eyes remarkably nearsighted. He fumbled with his glasses, settling them more firmly on the end of his nose, as Libby came around the end of the desk and held out her hand to him.

Dr. Cook came forward in a rush, as he did everything, narrowly avoiding a collision with a chair that seemed to reach out to trip him.

“Beg pardon,” he said, as though it were animate.

Libby looked away and mentally shook herself. “Can I get you some refreshment, Doctor?” she asked when the danger was averted and he was safely into the room and standing before her.

He shook his head, and the glasses slid down farther, dangling for a moment on the end of his rather indeterminate nose, and fell to the carpet.

“Oh, blast,” he said, and dropped to his knees and began patting the carpet.

Libby knelt beside him. He turned suddenly in surprise and they cracked heads. Libby sat back and felt her forehead, hoping that she would not have to explain a bump to Candlow, and at the same time resisting a fierce urge to go off into great gusts of merriment, which would only cause the good doctor further agonies of embarrassment.

When she had command of herself, she got to her feet again and left the search to the doctor. After getting down on all fours and peering under the desk, Dr. Cook found his glasses and hastily replaced them upon his nose.

“Dear me,” he uttered, out of breath, as though he had been running. He squinted at her and then touched her forehead in such a professional manner that she did not think to draw away, even though he stood too close and the room seemed to shrink about them. “I trust that will not create a swelling, Miss Ames,” he managed finally, when his fingers ceased probing.

“No,” she said doubtfully. “I think it will not.”

He stood in flustered silence, staring at her, his black eyes magnified by his glasses, the sweat beading on his forehead, even though it was cool for June. As the desperation left his eyes, it was replaced by an expression that mystified her.

To her growing discomfort, he seemed content to stand and gaze upon her. Libby cleared her throat, and the small sound in the quiet room recalled Dr. Cook to his errand.

“I have some powders somewhere here for your uncle,” he explained, slapping his pockets until an acrid cloud of white powder heralded the location of the medicine.

Libby coughed and stepped back as the powder billowed out and enveloped her. She threw open the window and leaned her head out, wondering, as her eyes began to fill with tears, if she could survive the doctor’s visit this morning. I should have gone to Brighton, she thought. I would be safer.

“My dear,” exclaimed Dr. Cook as he patted her back. He grabbed up the account book on the desk and began to fan her with it as loose pages tucked inside scattered about the room. “Oh, blast!”

Libby drew her head in, wiped her eyes, and looked about the room that had been so tidy only moments before. White dust settled on the plants in the window, and the canary began to chitter and scold.

“I am sorry, Miss Ames,” Dr. Cook said. He pulled the offending packet out and laid it carefully upon the desk. “Is Sir William about this morning? I have only a few instructions to accompany this medication,” he said, his face a flame of red and his eyes looking everywhere but at her.

“I am sorry, Dr. Cook, but he is not here,” she said. “He has gone to Brighton this week and more.”

“Brighton?” repeated the doctor.

Libby nodded and opened a window by the canary cage. “I will be happy to forward the powders to Uncle, if you think it advisable.”

He nodded. “Tell him he is to take a teaspoon in water every three hours.” He smiled then as he brushed the powder off his sleeve. It was a self-deprecating smile that took the embarrassment from his eyes. “Mind you tell him he is to drink, in addition, two glasses of water every hour, without fail.” His smile broadened and Libby smiled back. “Don’t tell him this, but I suspect that the water will do more good than the powders.”

Libby laughed out loud. “Then why do you prescribe your powders, Dr. Cook?”

He leaned closer to her in a moment of rare abandon. “Because, Miss Ames, it is expected of physicians.” He winked and then blushed. “Do emphasize the water when you write to him.”

“I shall.” She twinkled her eyes at the doctor, who blushed again and ran his finger around the inside of his collar. “Now, tell me truly, sir, if the waters were nasty, like the water at Bath, would that be even more efficacious, at least, in the eyes of the patient?”

“Indubitably,” he agreed, and dabbed at his sweating forehead. “And now you understand doctors. The nastier the brew, the better the cure, eh?” He sighed and then his good humor restored itself. “I suppose now that, as a doctor, I have no secrets from you.”

Libby smiled. “None, sir. I am on to you, and all doctors. Water it will be, and so I will tell my uncle.”

There was nothing more to say, but Dr. Cook made no move to leave. Libby cleared her throat again, but it had no effect this time. Anthony Cook seemed content to regard her over the top of his spectacles, which were rapidly in danger of falling off again.

As the glasses slid down his nose, he grabbed at them and planted them firmly again. “Well, well, Miss Ames. No one is sick here?” he asked, and the hopeful note in his voice brought the twinkle into her eyes again.

“We’re all quite well, doctor,” she said.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

“Positive.” Libby permitted herself a small chuckle. “Mama always did say I had the constitution of a cart horse.”

“So I have observed.” If he sounded disappointed, Libby chose to overlook it.

Dr. Cook bowed, pushing his spectacles up again, and went to the door, careful this time to circle the offending chair that had nearly cost him grief on his entry into the room. Instead, he backed into the coat tree, which toppled to the floor, striking the bird cage and setting its inmate fluttering and scolding.

Libby grabbed the coat tree and righted it, grateful that Lydia was gone and not standing by, dissolved into a fit of the giggles.

A lesser man would have fled the scene. Anthony Cook threw up his hands—narrowly missing a lamp by the door—and shook his head. “Bull in a china shop, eh?” he asked her, and then smiled. “The wonder of it, ma’am, is that I do not frighten babies.”

“I don’t think you could frighten anyone,” Libby said honestly, and was amazed how quickly the doctor turned red. “It is merely an observation,” she added hastily, and felt her own face grow warm. What is the matter? she thought. Being around Dr. Cook seems to rub off in a most disconcerting manner.

She walked with him into the hallway, grateful that there were no buckets or mops or chairs out of place to offer the doctor any danger.

“You did not wish to go to Brighton?” he asked finally as they approached the open door.