You May Kiss the Bride(25)

“That,” he said coldly, “remains to be seen. Shall we go?”

“One moment.” Livia went briskly to the door and opened it, only to see Mr. Bagshawe loitering in the dim passageway. She almost laughed at the expression on his face; clearly he didn’t know whether to bow low before her, or order her back into the kitchen. She untied the dirty apron and gave it to him.

“There was a plate,” she said. “A broken plate.”

“Ah—yes—one of my best pieces—”

“You can apply my wages toward its cost. They should suffice.”

“As to that, I don’t think so—an expensive item, it was—an heirloom—”

Livia felt, rather than saw, Mr. Penhallow coming up behind her. And then Mr. Bagshawe did bow.

His nose practically scraped the ground.

“Yes, miss,” he said. “Thank you, miss.”

Livia nodded. Regally, just like that ghastly old Mrs. Penhallow would. Oh yes: her new life was already beginning.





Chapter 5




Livia stood on the uneven stone steps leading up to the Abbey—or away from it, depending on one’s perspective—gripping in her hand a battered brown leather portmanteau. Stamped on one side in peeling gilt were the letters js. It had been her father’s bag, and then hers on that sad, seemingly interminable journey from India so long ago. As she had packed her few possessions late, very late, last night, Livia had felt like crying.

But didn’t.

Crying never helped.

Besides, she had nothing to cry about.

Everything was going to be fine.

No, better than fine. It was going to be wonderful.

Into the portmanteau had gone nothing that had once belonged to Cecily Orr, and this morning she was wearing a faded blue gown of figured muslin (yes, she knew the hem was too short), a dark blue pelisse, and an antiquated bonnet in the French style, with a blue satin ribbon that matched absolutely nothing. Ugh. It was the best she could do. But what did it matter? She wasn’t going to worry about a thing.

She certainly wasn’t going to be concerned that her face was as white as snow, save for heavy dark circles under her eyes, from lack of sleep; a final glance at the little mirror in her bedchamber had shown her that. She had firmly tied the bonnet ribbon under her chin, then had gone to say her farewells.

Aunt Bella had still been in bed, and woke from a deep sleep too fuddled to comprehend what was happening. “Stop crashing about, Livia, do,” she murmured petulantly, “and ring for my cordial as you go.”

Livia found Uncle Charles at the breakfast table. “So you’re off?” he had said, and took a large bite of kidney pie. “Well, be sure you mind your manners,” he went on, speaking through a mouthful of pie, “and don’t be expecting any blunt from me. Old Mrs. Moneybags is paying the shot from now on. Aren’t you the lucky girl?”

“Oh yes, I’m a very lucky girl, Uncle.”

“Indeed you are! And don’t think you can come back, for I won’t have you. On your own now.”

Livia had bitten her lip against the angry rush of words that wanted to tumble out: Goodbye and good riddance! I’d rather die than rot here another day!

Now she shivered a little in the cool morning breeze and gripped her portmanteau more tightly. To her ears came the sound of carriage wheels and sure enough, lumbering—no, gliding—her way was a coach. The biggest, blackest, shiniest coach she’d ever seen. Riding alongside was Gabriel Penhallow on his big black horse, looking obnoxiously well-rested. His composure was once more absolute.

“Good morning, Miss Stuart. You’re very punctual. A delightful quality.”

She gave him a hostile glance but said nothing. A footman (much better dressed than she was) had jumped down from the coach and now he took her portmanteau, put down the steps, and opened the door for her. Livia caught a glimpse of luxurious crimson silk panels, the forbidding countenance of old Mrs. Penhallow, and another face, that of a short, slender, gray-haired lady she’d never seen before.

Livia took a deep breath, and put one foot on the steps. But something tugged at her, pulled at her—

“Pray make haste, Miss Stuart,” Mrs. Penhallow said sharply. “I don’t care to be kept waiting.”

“What, afraid?” said Gabriel Penhallow, mockingly. “I don’t think my grandmother will bite you. Or will you, Grandmama?”

“Don’t be impertinent! Why you seem to find this situation humorous, Gabriel, is beyond my capacity to understand.”

“You mistake me. I am as serious as the grave.”

The old lady’s still vivid blue eyes were flashing angrily. “I am not sure you are. Miss Stuart, if you do not get in immediately I shall instruct the footman to push you in here.”