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 two years ago 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 True, there were offers among the military before they left Toulouse, but the offers were quietly withdrawn when Mama informed the officers that there was no dowry.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 a 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’s 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 to 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 two years, enjoying her Uncle’s obvious affection, and Lydia’s gentle tyranny, and doubly impressed 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 to 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 he grinned in spite of himself.
Libby appreciated his humor. It was difficult for an old retainer to be serious about a person, even a doctor, who in much younger days had been rescued from trees and spanked on more than one occasion for disturbing the 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 dark eyes remarkably nearsighted. He fumbled with his glasses, settling them more firmly on the end of his noise, as Libby came around the end of the desk and dipped a curtsy more playful than formal.
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 agonies of embarrassment.
When she had command of herself, she got to her feet 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.
