Carla Kelly by Libby's London Merchant Page A

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