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,
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,
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