You May Kiss the Bride(33)

Her stomach rumbling wistfully, she passed through a doorway and found herself in the kitchen at last. It was a large, high-ceilinged room, and a quick glance around showed her that it was immaculately clean. It also revealed to her a scene of melancholy. The staff, seated on either side of a long wooden table, were either gazing morosely at their plates or chewing like—she had to admit it—sad cows.

At her entrance they all promptly stood up and looked expectantly at her. Taken aback, Livia wiped her suddenly sweaty palms on the front of her gown, stopped herself from doing it again, and turned her head with relief when her dresser Flye inquired politely:

“Was there anything you was wishful for, miss?”

Livia said, rather shyly, “Well, I was . . . I was wondering what you were eating.”

There was a puzzled silence.

Finally a woman in a long white apron stepped forward, dipped a curtsy, and, in the same tone in which one might announce All my family has recently perished in a fire, said: “Turnip cakes, miss.”

“With artichoke bottoms?” asked Livia, hope beginning to fade.

“Yes, miss,” the woman replied, then suddenly burst out: “With mushrooms, and a sauce I’d be ashamed to serve to a dog! It’s that horrid foreign doctor, miss, and his strange notions! For nigh on a year the mistress has made us all eat like this!” She sobbed, wiped at her damp eyes with her apron, and added: “I’m sorry, miss, it’s just the hunger talking! Once when poor Sally over there was sick with an ague, I brought in a bit of pork to make a nice restorative jelly, but when the mistress found it in the accounts, she nearly took my head off!”

Livia nodded. She knew the feeling. “You’re the cook?”

“Yes, miss.”

She had a fresh, open countenance and under normal circumstances, would, Livia guessed, be a cheerful sort, but it was impossible not to notice that her cheeks were sagging and the bones underneath them sharp. Livia thought of rotund Dr. Wendeburgen and felt a flash of anger. Impulsively she said:

“I think it was very brave of you, Cook, to not conceal the purchase of the pork.”

“As to that, we’re a good lot here, miss, no finer could be found elsewhere. It’s just that—well, do you know what we do on our afternoons off? We go and eat, miss, we eat till we’re about to burst!”

I’ll go with you, Livia was tempted to say, but instead she responded, thinking out loud, “If you spend your wages on food, how can you put anything aside for—for needful things, or for an emergency?”

“We can’t, miss, and that’s a fact,” Cook said bleakly.

Livia looked around at all the unhappy faces. Gaunt faces. She took a deep breath. And said the only thing that could be said.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

But Mrs. Penhallow was so irritable and snappish for the rest of the day, and in the morning, too, that Livia’s courage failed her. What, she wondered, was her next move? She had to do something.



Standing next to Mrs. Penhallow in the Pump Room, Livia looked at her in astonishment. Had the old lady really just said, with every sign of complaisance, “Dear Miss Stuart is such a pleasure, and how gratifying to think of the nursery at Surmont Hall filled once more”?

Yes, she had.

How very, very strange life had become.

Murmurs of “Delightful,” “Splendid,” “The sooner the better, to be sure” filled the air, and to her exasperation Livia found herself blushing furiously. Initially, while accepting the cascade of congratulations on her grandson’s engagement, Mrs. Penhallow had seemed just a trifle stiff, then had gradually warmed to her own recitation—“Yes, it was all quite unexpected, but when two young people form such a decided attachment, we must simply rejoice with them” and “Miss Stuart’s is a fine old family in Wiltshire” and “I expect I shall be quite the doting grandmother”—until Livia could feel her mouth dropping open. Why, Mrs. Penhallow seemed actually to believe her own little fairy tale!

Her plump, discreetly rouged friend Lady Enchwood, swathed in an expensive silk shawl of a size sufficient to entirely drape a barouche, interposed with something between a simper and a cackle, “It’s all so romantic! I vow, Miss Stuart, you’re the most fortunate young lady alive!”

Romantic? thought Livia. It isn’t the least bit romantic. It’s a farce, actually. One in which I am a willing participant. Aloud she said only, mindful of her instructions from Mrs. Penhallow and ready to master yet another new lesson in the social niceties: “Yes, ma’am.”

“I believe this is your first time in Bath, Miss Stuart?” Lady Enchwood went on. “What is your impression thus far?”