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You May Kiss the Bride(32)

By:Lisa Berne


“Certainly, ma’am,” replied Miss Cott with her usual calm affability.

Livia wrinkled her brow but said nothing and took a small, careful bite of her artichoke. Why did it have to be raw? Grimly she began to chew.

“I understand from Madame Lévêque that yesterday while I had absented myself from the room,” the old lady said in a chilly tone, “you refused to be fitted for a riding-habit. This is nonsensical. All the Penhallows are superior equestrians. Why, I was on my first pony before I was three, although I may say that I was unusually advanced for my age. Indeed, I was jumping fences at four. When Madame Lévêque returns, I expect no further displays of inexplicable obstinacy.”

She looked sternly at Livia, obviously waiting for a response, but Livia was still chewing. There was no doubt in her mind that she looked exactly like a cow working on an especially dense cud. It was yet a full minute before she was able to safely swallow. The old lady could order her around in very nearly every other aspect of her life, but here was where Livia was going to make her stand. She had just opened her mouth when Mrs. Penhallow, losing patience, went on talking about horses for the rest of the so-called meal and all the way up the stairs and into the drawing-room, and for the next fifteen or twenty minutes.

Livia, sitting in her chair and watching Mrs. Penhallow, had stopped listening quite some time ago, but marveled all over again at the sheer force of the old lady’s personality. It was a shame, she thought, that women weren’t allowed in Parliament, because Mrs. Penhallow could have talked all those men down in a single afternoon. And, probably, make them pass a law which exempted Penhallows from being forced into marriage with nobodies.

“Tomorrow, Miss Stuart, you are—I beg your pardon,” the old lady said awfully, “have I been boring you?”

“By no means, ma’am.” There, Livia congratulated herself, you’re learning to lie quite beautifully! “You said something about tomorrow, I believe.”

“Yes. Tomorrow. You are to make your début. It seems wisest to me to begin in a very small way, so we shall visit the Pump Room. I’ve sent a note round to Gabriel requesting his presence as well. Restrict your remarks to the weather and inquiries as to the state of others’ health. Leave the rest to me. There shan’t be the slightest public indication that I am anything other than pleased with your imminent entrance into the family.”

“It’s very good of you, ma’am,” said Livia, so meekly that the old lady’s gaze sharpened suspiciously. What she might have retorted remained unsaid when there was a soft knock on the door and Crenshaw, the butler—who alarmed Livia with his seemingly inhuman unflappability—entered the drawing-room and spoke in his measured, sonorous voice.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am. Dr. Wendeburgen has arrived, and has indicated his desire to be admitted at once.”

“In matters of health, one can’t be too diligent,” said Mrs. Penhallow. “Bring him in, Crenshaw.”

“Certainly, ma’am.”

It was but a few minutes before the doctor bounced into the drawing-room. Livia eyed him with distaste. He looked like a tawdry advertisement in a magazine, with his wavy corn-colored hair, elaborately curled mustachios and little pointed beard (a different shade of yellow), round blue eyes, round red cheeks, round stomach. How on earth could he be plump if he followed his own dietary recommendations?

“Guten Morgen, dear ladies, guten Morgen,” he greeted them jovially.

“Good morning, herr doktor,” replied Mrs. Penhallow. It would not have been accurate to say that her face was wreathed in smiles, but she was, Livia had observed, at her most gracious when Dr. Wendeburgen was around. She herself gave him only a small, cold bow, exactly the sort—if memory served her—one would offer a coxcomb whose pretensions one wished to dampen.

Talking volubly of liver imbalances, skin discoloration, phlegm, and the dangers of a swelling tongue, Dr. Wendeburgen swept Mrs. Penhallow off to be bled without delay, Miss Cott placidly in tow in order to hold the bowl.

Left, unusually, to her own devices, Livia hesitated for a few moments, then quickly rose to her feet and made her way downstairs and toward the kitchen. Never having been there, she made a few false turns and ended up in an empty closet and on the stairwell to the cellar. Retreating, she caught a glimpse of one of the maids hurrying along a corridor and followed hopefully. As she did, she reflected that one good thing about Uncle Charles—quite possibly the only good thing—was that he did ensure a palatable table was laid for meals.