You May Kiss the Bride(30)

A dancing master came three times a week. In the long, light-filled drawing-room, with his assistant at the pianoforte, Monsieur Voclaine taught her the country-dance, the cotillion, and the quadrille under the sharp, watchful gaze of Mrs. Penhallow and the milder one of the ever-present Miss Cott.

At first, Livia found the complicated steps horribly confusing, nor did it help to overhear Mrs. Penhallow commenting complacently to Miss Cott, “I was universally considered quite the best dancer in London; even Richard said so, the first time we met.”

Miss Cott smiled and nodded, but even as she did a stiff mask seemed to swiftly descend upon the old lady’s features and she called out in a cold voice, “If that is how you perform the glissade, Miss Stuart, you shall never be ready to appear in Polite Society.”

“Again, s’il vous plaît, mademoiselle,” coaxed Monsieur Voclaine. “If you will slide the foot, thusly . . .”

Livia clenched her jaw and tried again. And again. Both she and Monsieur Voclaine were sweating by the time Mrs. Penhallow pronounced her glissade to be passable. “But you are visibly damp, Miss Stuart, and that is simply not done. Change your gown and we will continue.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Livia muttered grimly and made for the door, while Monsieur Voclaine turned away and discreetly mopped his brow.

“And do not do it yourself!” Mrs. Penhallow called after her. “That is the purview of your dresser! You have not always summoned her and this behavior must stop. It displays an abhorrent lack of refinement.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Livia repeated, trying not to sound surly, and whisked herself out of the drawing-room. How did the old lady know these things?

Then there was the matter of her education, both academic and social. Every afternoon, while Mrs. Penhallow napped, Livia met Miss Cott in the library which, like every other room she had seen in this enormous, high-ceilinged house, was furnished and decorated with impeccable good taste. It contained hundreds of books, lined up neatly on burnished mahogany shelves, as well as inviting armchairs, a merry little fire always burning for their comfort, and plenty of light.

The first time Livia had entered, she looked around it in wonder: it was so different from Uncle Charles’s study, which was dark, untidy, odorous, and lacking in reading matter other than a few old tomes about horse-breeding.

“How lovely!” she’d exclaimed unguardedly.

“Yes.” Miss Cott had smiled her soft, slight smile. “This was one of Mrs. Penhallow’s favorite rooms, for she was a great reader.”

“Was?”

“Her eyesight for close work is not what it used to be. Shall we sit down?”

It was clear to Livia within minutes just how intelligent, how widely educated, how kind Miss Cott was. Under the older woman’s patient tutelage she was exposed to literature, geography, mathematics, history, music, even a smattering of French and Italian. She was given newspapers to read, globes to study. She devoured it all, painfully conscious of her ignorance, and eager to learn. In the evenings Mrs. Penhallow quizzed her, made her read out loud, and ruthlessly corrected her many stumbles and mistakes.

There were lessons, too, in deportment, manners, propriety, and address. How to enter a crowded assembly room; acceptable topics of conversation; the intricacies of the peerage. Who to acknowledge and who to cut. At table, the precise arrangement of plates, glasses, forks, knives, spoons. How best to drape a shawl, utilize a fan, settle one’s skirts. Morning calls and leaving one’s card; the best times to drink the waters; the critical importance of safeguarding one’s reputation at all times (she had, in fact, learned this the hard way); and never, ever accepting anything more potent than lemonade while at a ball.

These lessons Livia found less interesting, and quite often pointless and silly, but at them she labored diligently. This was, as she frequently reminded herself, her chance. She could hardly wait to show herself off to Gabriel Penhallow, and flaunt her metamorphosis in his face. Much better than throwing coins into the mud!

But for this pleasure she had to wait. Two, then three weeks went by, and still he absented himself from his grandmother’s home. Mrs. Penhallow grumbled about his undutiful attitude, then in the very next breath added that it was just as well, for she would, she announced, forbid his presence anyway, until Miss Stuart was no longer a half-savage, unlettered, ill-spoken, maladroit, freckled tatterdemalion.

“I’m not freckled, ma’am,” was all Livia could think to answer, and then promptly felt like a fool.

“Not freckled, you say? You are free to delude yourself, Miss Stuart, if you choose,” frostily replied Mrs. Penhallow. “The Penhallows never have freckles. Have Flye apply the Milk of Almonds twice today. Now! Suppose you have just been introduced to—let us say—the Duke of Egremont. How do you greet him?”