You May Kiss the Bride(100)

She could mend it.

Livia went to the big armoire, opened one of the doors, and slid out a drawer. A dozen reticules, more, in a variety of styles and colors, lay within; Flye had evidently been through them because the one Livia had been thinking about wasn’t there. Perhaps Flye had noticed the fray, too.

As Livia tucked the reticules back into neat order her eyes fell upon a small white one decorated with shiny little artificial pearls. Her hand lingered upon it. Something was niggling at her memory, something unpleasant, something unhappy.

I’ve been thinking about your situation quite a bit. And so I have a gift for you. Something to help you achieve your ambitions.

Cecily, at the evening-party, just before Mrs. Penhallow had collapsed.

Pressing into Livia’s hand a little package.

Now Livia opened the little white reticule and found Cecily’s gift, wrapped in silver paper.

Inside was a fifty-pound note and two golden guineas.

Fifty-two pounds.

Somehow, the guineas were worse—more insulting—than the note.

Livia stared at them, then, very carefully, wrapped them up again and put them back into the reticule.

On Sunday there was church. She went with Gabriel and his grandmother, to hear Mr. Markson’s sermon. Miss Cott stayed at the Hall, with a headache, she said. Livia brought her a feverfew tisane before she left.

On Monday and Tuesday it rained, and on Wednesday, the weather having cleared, Livia decided to walk to the lodge. Repairs there had not yet begun, she saw, and a single peek through a cloudy window into the dirty abandoned interior was enough.

She walked back to the Hall, but instead of going inside she went to the lip of the ornamental pond—still only half-filled—and stood there idly, watching the reflections of clouds drifting by overhead. She wondered what she would do next. It was a long time till the dinner hour. She could walk some more, down to the river, or she could go to her bedchamber, and finish The Seasons. It was full of depressing poems. She didn’t know why she felt obligated to read it till the end. After all, there were so many other books she could borrow from the Hall’s library.

And reading was a very worthy way in which to pass the time.

Waiting, waiting . . .

A sound from behind her, from the wide path that joined up with the carriage sweep, jolted her from her reverie: slow hoofbeats crunching on gravel. Quickly Livia turned. A man on horseback was riding toward her, looking none too steady in the saddle.

She narrowed her eyes, shielding them from the bright sun. She didn’t know the man; was he drunk? As he drew closer, she saw that he had a crop of thick hair, the color of gold and cut severely short, and the face of a Greek god—at present frighteningly white and creating a sharp contrast to his eyes which were the vivid blue color of a jay’s wing.

She saw one of his ungloved hands pulling a little at the reins, and the other slide beneath his unbuttoned greatcoat, toward his abdomen. A frisson of alarm danced along her spine; could it be that he was reaching for a pistol?

“How do you do,” he said, unevenly, but in the unmistakable accents of a gentleman. “I beg your pardon, but is this Surmont Hall?”

“Yes,” answered Livia warily.

“That’s all right, then. I apologize for the intrusion, but—I’ll explain later—that is—” He smiled hazily and swayed from side to side. “Gad, you’re pretty. I—oh, damn it to hell, I’m going to—I’m Hugo, you see. Hugo Penhallow. I’m most awfully sorry, but I’m afraid I’m going to pass out.”

With that he toppled off his horse and fell with an alarming thud onto the gravel. His horse shied away, and with an exclamation of horror Livia flew to Hugo Penhallow, who lay sprawled and unmoving. His greatcoat had been flung open in his fall, and blooming through the fabric of his waistcoat was a red stain.

Blood.

Horrified, Livia ran to the front door which was already opening. Crenshaw, with the uncanny instincts of the truly great butler, came onto the porch with a pair of footmen in tow.

“Crenshaw!” said Livia, with breathless urgency, “it’s Mr. Hugo Penhallow, and he’s bleeding horribly.” She pressed her hands to her eyes in a moment of blind panic. There was no time to consult with Gabriel or his grandmother. She pulled her hands away and rapidly led them toward the prone figure on the gravel. “Lift him—carefully, please!—and take him to a saloon off the Great Hall. Not the one that smells bad! There’s the one with a big wide sofa—let’s take him there. Crenshaw, who is the doctor here? Can you send for him immediately?”

Once inside the Hall, Livia saw some of the maidservants, goggling at the unconscious man being carried inside. “We’ll need—clean cloths, hot water; Sally, to the kitchen, please! Mary, go find Mr. Gabriel and Mrs. Penhallow immediately. And Miss Cott.”