Was it possible she had been, on some deep level, expecting this dismissal for some time? Wasn’t it, after all, the story of her life?
At least there was a certain, cheerless consistency to it all.
Livia felt like a child’s slate which had, at a stroke, been wiped blank.
There was nothing left.
Nothing to strive for, nothing to fight for.
Go talk to him, urged some desperate little voice within her.
And do what? she answered herself. Beg him to reconsider? Plead with him to love me? Keep waiting and hoping, like the blind fool that I am?
No.
It was time to take action, to change her own story, to take life into her own hands.
And she knew what she had to do.
It might have been ten minutes or ten years that she sat there, perfectly upright and absolutely still.
“Oh, Miss Stuart! I hope I am not intruding?”
It was Mr. Markson.
“Good day, sir,” she said, pleasantly, numbly. “Do come in. Won’t you sit down? Shall I ring for some tea?”
“No, please don’t bother.” Mr. Markson came and sat on the sofa opposite. “I apologize for bursting in on you like this, but I’ve come to see Mrs. Penhallow and she isn’t quite ready for me. Apparently she is in the Green Saloon, interviewing candidates for the housekeeper’s position.”
“Is she?”
“Yes, Mrs. Worthing is to go and live with her sister’s family—the mother of your Little Walter. Quite contented she seems, and she’s to receive a generous pension.”
“I’m glad.”
“Yes, it is the Penhallow way. I’m so happy to see it reinstituted.”
“I too.”
There was a moment’s silence. Mr. Markson cleared his throat, and said:
“We’re starting a school, you see, for the village children. Mrs. Penhallow is to be our benefactress, of course.”
“What good news. Won’t you tell me more about it?”
Mr. Markson replied at once, and Livia, nodding and smiling, didn’t hear a word of it; eventually she realized that he had stopped talking and it was as if he had seen the most wonderful thing in all the world. His plain face had been transfigured into something approaching real handsomeness. She half-turned: there was Miss Cott, her countenance white except for two burning spots of color on her cheeks.
“Oh,” said Miss Cott, very quietly, “I didn’t know you were here, Arthur. Miss Stuart, I came to ask—but it can wait. Excuse me, please—”
She said no more, but hurriedly left the room.
“I—I must go,” said Mr. Markson, himself very pale. “Matters at the Rectory—please extend to Mrs. Penhallow my apologies. I will come again—will send a note first—good day, Miss Stuart.”
Swiftly, he too left.
Livia pushed aside all sense of self; her heart was dead but her mind was turning, conjecturing, troubled to see these two gentle souls in such obvious distress. She ran up the stairs and caught up with Miss Cott on the landing. “What’s wrong?” she asked softly.
“It’s—it’s nothing,” faltered Miss Cott. “Ancient history only, surely of interest to no one.”
“I am interested. Please won’t you sit? I’m worried for you.” There was an alcove nearby, in it an intimate grouping of chairs as well as an old rococo chaise longue; Livia drew Miss Cott to this and coaxed her down next to her. She took the older woman’s hands in hers, and felt their trembling. “Oh, Miss Cott, you look so sad. Won’t you tell me why?”
There was a silence, an indrawn breath, and then, finally, a quiet reply. “There’s not much to say. Long ago, when I was a very young lady, I fell in love with Arthur Markson. And I believe he with me. I was happy, Miss Stuart—Livia. So happy.”
“And so?”
“You already know, I think, what happened next. My friend Henrietta Penhallow lost the love of her life, her Richard, and her collapse was so complete that I feared for her sanity, even for her life. She needed me. How could I fail her in her darkest hour?”
“Of course you couldn’t,” answered Livia. “But Miss Cott, that hour became much more than that, didn’t it? That hour became—years.”
“Somehow it did. I don’t know how it happened. But I’ve never stopped worrying about Henrietta.”
“You’re so good, Miss Cott,” said Livia, impulsively hugging her. “You’re the kindest person I’ve ever known. Do you still love your Arthur?”
“Yes. How foolish of me, don’t you think?” A single tear rolled down Miss Cott’s pale cheek and quickly she reached into her reticule for a handkerchief with which to dab it away. Livia had already made up her mind; she said: