“Not foolish at all. You were going to your room? I’ll send a maid to you, with some tea, perhaps?”
“Yes, I’d—I’d like that. Thank you. And—thank you for listening.”
They parted, and Livia sped downstairs, found a maidservant, then went quickly to the Green Saloon. Mrs. Penhallow was alone, sitting at a gilded escritoire after the style of Louis XIV, looking through some papers. At Livia’s knock on the open door she looked up, frowning a little.
“I’m quite busy. Mr. Markson is waiting to see me.”
“I’m afraid he had to leave. May I speak with you?”
A little irritably Mrs. Penhallow laid aside her papers. “If you must.”
“It’s about Miss Cott,” said Livia, coming forward, “and Mr. Markson. She loves him, you see, and I believe he loves her.”
The old lady’s frown deepened. “I don’t understand. I don’t think Evangeline has even seen Arthur Markson since our arrival here.”
As briefly Livia explained, a look of mingled sadness and bitterness came like a shadow upon Mrs. Penhallow.
“I see, once again, how far I am from a true perception of things,” she said slowly, when Livia had done. “Of course I’ll release Evangeline at once, and force her to marry Arthur Markson if I have to.”
“Forcing people to marry may not always be the wisest course, ma’am,” Livia replied quietly. “I suspect that Miss Cott needs your blessing to the match more than anything. She cares deeply for you, you know.”
“I’m not sure why. I’m an overbearing old fool.”
Livia felt a sudden rush of sympathy at seeing the indomitable Mrs. Penhallow looking so stricken, so defeated. She couldn’t help herself and went to her, embraced her warmly. “I must go. Goodbye.”
Mrs. Penhallow looked a little cheered. “You have disarranged my fichu,” she complained, but Livia was not deceived.
She would miss the old lady. Miss them all.
For a moment, standing in the hall outside the Green Saloon, Livia stared blankly at nothing. Then, as if moving beyond her own volition, her steps took her, inexorably, to the Hall’s ancient chapel. Here, for centuries, in this sacred space had the Penhallows gathered, worshipped, wed, found solace, mourned the passing of their loved ones. But the neglect of recent years manifested itself in a dank, damp odor; its oaken pews were filthy, the chancel’s floorboards rotting.
Livia slowly looked around.
There wouldn’t be—couldn’t be—a wedding here.
She thought of another wedding, in distant India, before she was born. Her father Jonathan, rejecting the pursuit of money so abhorrent to him, and instead following his true avocation; and in this way finding love and happiness with his Georgiana, Livia’s mother. What a joyful wedding that must have been.
And even before that, Georgiana’s parents, fleeing England and the separation others were trying to force upon them. How bravely they had fought for their future, settling for nothing less than what was in their hearts. Theirs must have been a joyful wedding, too.
This, Livia thought, was her heritage.
She wouldn’t settle for anything else than what was real and true. Surmont Hall no longer held that for her. If it ever had.
She knelt, bowed her head, prayed for the strength she’d need for the dark, lonely days ahead.
Afterwards, Livia felt an odd sense of calm certainty, but even so, she hadn’t been quite courageous enough to come down to dinner. She told Flye she had a headache and refused an offer of a tray sent up to her. She’d regret that later, she knew, but for the sake of pretense it was how it had to be.
At midnight she dressed in her oldest gown, and finally—finally—put on the boots she had brought with her from the Abbey. She took a long look at the money Cecily had pressed upon her with such spiteful malice, and tucked it into a pocket bag she had secretly sewed and now tied underneath her petticoat. Who, Livia wondered, would have the last laugh now? Cecily would have the satisfaction of knowing that Gabriel had not married his little country miss; on the other hand, Cecily had given Livia her freedom.
One last thing occurred to her.
Should she leave a note?
Oh, and what could she say?
I’m sorry you don’t love me. But it’s as Lady Glanville says, life isn’t fair. A disagreeable fact, but what can one do?
No, she’d leave no note.
Decisively, she put on her old dark-blue pelisse and buttoned it up to her throat. She doubted she’d be warm enough, but, after all, one couldn’t have everything one wanted in life.
And then, observed by not a soul, she left.
Gabriel hadn’t been able to bring himself to join the family at dinner. Instead he had gone out to one of the barns, put on a laborer’s smock, and helped the other men with the threshing until it had gotten dark. He’d returned to the Hall, bathed, had his meal sent up to him, wondering all the while why doing the right thing also felt like he had cut himself off from all that he cherished in this world.