She had dragged herself from the coach, took a whiff of the salty sea air, and had just managed to secure for herself a room at the Inn of the Golden Trident before taking to her bed, such as it was.
What day was it? How long had she lain ill like this? For a moment Livia knew a hazy sort of indignation. She, who never got sick! She had never had the ague in her life! This brief spurt of vivifying indignation faded abruptly into miserable self-pity and she wept a little, tears trickling from the corners of her eyes which she didn’t even feel she had the strength to wipe away, which only made everything worse. Then she was roastingly hot again. And shiveringly cold. Eventually she managed to drift into an uneasy sleep in which she dreamed of endless rides in drafty dirty coaches and suspicious innkeepers; Surmont Hall, so beautiful and welcoming, and Gabriel, Gabriel, his beloved face above her own . . .
A big warm hand was lifting her head, and a deep voice was saying, “Drink this,” and the light, pleasant taste of barley water was in her mouth. Eagerly she gulped at it, felt her head eased back onto the pillows, and sleep came hard upon her.
Fragments. Being lifted in strong arms, cradled like an infant. The feel of smooth sheets, warm quilts, a mattress without nasty lumps. A blind, aching exhaustion. Hot, cold, hot, cold. Her head lifted up and that deep voice, commanding her to drink, over and over again. Cool, fragrant cloths on her forehead. Sweet oblivion.
Then, at last, Livia swam up to consciousness and back into the world of the living. She felt better. In fact, she felt good. She opened her eyes, to a large, airy room—a different, nicer room in the inn?—in which—
In which Gabriel himself was there. Oh, how she hoped this was real, and not a dream. She didn’t think she could bear it otherwise. He was sitting in a chair next to the bed in which she lay. His long legs in shining boots were stretched out before him, crossed at the ankle. He wore buff-colored buckskins and a handsome dark-green jacket and his neckcloth was tied very neatly and attractively.
He seemed solid.
Hope—wild, fluttering—leaped into life within her breast.
Gabriel had been reading a book, but as if sensing that she was awake he turned his head and looked at her.
He didn’t say anything, which daunted her for a moment, but then she saw that his eyes were warm. So she said, tentatively:
“You came for me.”
“Yes.”
“And took care of me when I was ill.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you.”
Without moving a muscle, she let his words sink in. Reverberate. Settle in her bones. Was this much happiness even possible? Joy so great one couldn’t even smile?
“Say it again.”
“I love you.”
“Again.”
“I love you, Livia. I’ve loved you for weeks—for months—quite possibly from the moment I met you. But it’s taken me far too long to understand that. Understand myself.”
“Can you say it one more time?”
“Yes. I’ll be saying it every day for the rest of my life, if you’ll let me. I love you.”
She sighed, deeply, as if breathing in happiness and exhaling all her misery of those difficult weeks and months.
“Why did you break off our engagement?”
“I saw you in Hugo’s arms. And I assumed that you’d fallen in love with him.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Apparently.”
“I didn’t mean what I said, Gabriel.”
He smiled a little. “Can you be a bit more specific?”
“When I told you the other day that I hoped never to see you again. I was hurt. And angry.”
“Naturally you were. I was behaving—ah—idiotically.”
“Oh, let’s not think about that awful conversation! Tell me instead how you managed to find me.”
“On—er—good advice I came to Bristol and searched for you, but you weren’t here then, so I went to Severn, Chittening, and Portishead, just in case. Ultimately I came back to this inn because I was looking for a yellow pitchfork.”
“A yellow pitchfork?”
“Yes. This is the Inn of the Golden Trident.”
She would ask him later to unravel these confusing details. Right now she had more important things on her mind. “Do you know that I love you, too?”
“So Hugo assured me. But I’m glad, Livia—so very glad—to hear it from your own lips.”
“I’ll never get tired of saying it. Are we going to be married, then?”
“If you’ll have me.”
“I will. With all my heart. Although—” Livia hesitated, and saw the look of highly gratifying concern on Gabriel’s face as he said: