Carla Kelly by Libby's London Merchant Page B

eyes. “We can only be grateful that the man happened to faint practically on this doorstep, Aunt, or else no one could have tended him.”
    Aunt Crabtree gulped. “How merciful are the ways of providence, child,” she said.
    “Merciful indeed, Aunt,” said Libby, crossing her fingers and hoping that God was far away from Kent at the moment. “I recommend that you keep away from this hallway until I tell you it is safe. And even then, well, who knows?”
    Aunt Crabtree was already heading for the stairs. “I will direct Candlow to put me in the housekeeper’s old room downstairs,” she said as she scurried down the steps. “If you need anything, my dear . . .”
    The rest of her sentence was gone with the slamming of a door.
    Libby stayed where she was another moment, wondering where her scruples had vanished. “It is merely that I cannot deal with you right now, Aunt Crabtree,” she excused herself.
    Hours passed. She was mindful of Candlow peering into the room and then sending a maid to quietly clean the oatmeal off the door. A steaming pot of tea appeared at her elbow. She sipped gratefully as she held tight to the chocolate merchant and watched him drift in and out of restless sleep.
    He woke once with a start as the afternoon shadows were climbing across the bed. He looked around in alarm at his surroundings and closed his eyes again, as if he feared what he saw. Libby wiped his forehead dry of sweat and did not relinquish her hold on him.
    After the sun went down, she tried to let go, but the man whimpered and stirred about restlessly in the bed until she gave up the attempt. Joseph brought her dinner on a tray and cut up the beef roast for her while she ate with one hand.
    “Is he going to die?” Joseph asked when she finished, his voice a loud whisper.
    “No, my dear, I think not. He will be better in a few days,” she whispered back.
    Joseph shook his head, his eyes wide. “I hope you do not catch what he has,” he declared.
    Libby smiled at her brother. “I do not think it is contagious.”
    Joseph peered at the man in the gathering darkness. “He doesn’t seem to be throwing out any spots, Libby. That is a good sign.”
    “No, no spots,” she exclaimed, and then patted her brother on the knee. “It is nothing for you to worry about, so do not exercise your mind.”
    Her answer satisfied Joseph. He sat with her until he began to yawn, then kissed her on the cheek and took himself off to bed.
    Libby yearned to follow, to go down the hall to her own room, throw herself down on her bed, and not even worry about removing her shoes. Instead, she remained where she was, holding tight to the chocolate merchant’s hand as he mumbled in his sleep, perspired, and shook.
    She had never seen a man so destroyed with liquor before, not even among the hard-drinking officers of her father’s regiment in Spain.
    “What have you been doing to yourself?” she murmured as she toweled off his sweating face and neck where the perspiration had puddled on the sheets. “What is so bad that you must see it through the bottom of a bottle?”
    He did not answer her, but only opened his mouth again and again in that soundless scream that so unnerved her, his eyes opened wide upon some nameless horror that she could not see. In desperation, she put her hand over his eyes until she felt his eyelids close under her palm.
    What a shame your commanding officer has taken so little interest in your plight, she thought, remembering the care that her father took to know the whereabouts of each man discharged from duty. When she was old enough, he had pressed her into service as he dictated letter after letter to hospitals and places of employment, seeking help for his soldiers invalided out of the service.
    Libby removed her hand from the merchant’s eyes and touched his face, noting the fine bones in his cheeks and the handsome shape of his lips. What a pity you did not soldier for my father, she thought as she rested