You May Kiss the Bride(4)

It was stupid of her, she knew, to react like that to the Orrs. But it was hard, so hard, when Cecily had everything and she had so very little. No parents, no brothers or sisters; no money, no education, no prospects.

Your future must be thought of, too.

It was strange, now that she considered it, how little time she had spent thinking about her future. Possibly because there was no point to it. In her existence here she was like a great hoary tree, deeply, immovably, rooted into the earth.

She couldn’t even hang on to the morbid hope of inheriting anything from Uncle Charles when he died. He’d run through most of Aunt Bella’s money ages ago, and year by year everything had slowly declined, dwindled, faded away. Now there wasn’t much left; the estate barely brought in enough for Aunt Bella to pay for her cordial, and for Uncle Charles to spend his days hunting, drinking, and eating. Speaking of romantic marriages.

Well, it could be worse. At least she didn’t have a mother like that revolting Lady Glanville. Imagine having her breathing down one’s neck all day.

Still, this was only a small consolation.

A very small consolation.

Livia thought about Cecily’s beautiful white gown and those elegant kid slippers with the dainty pink rosettes.

It was those rosettes that did it.

Envy, like a nasty little knife slipping easily into soft flesh, seemed to pierce her very soul.

Abruptly Livia twisted onto her side and stared at nothing.

She would not cry.

Crying never helped anything.

There came to her, suddenly, the memory of the first time she had met Cecily, some twelve years ago; they’d both been around six. Cecily and her mother had come to call. Livia, recently arrived from faraway India, desperately lonely, was so anxious to be friends with the lovely, beautifully dressed girl with the long shining curls. Shyly she had approached, trying to smile, and Cecily had responded by saying in a clear, carrying voice:

“Oh, you’re the little orfin girl. Your papa was sent away from here and he died. And your grandpapa was a runaway and he drownded. And your mama drownded, too. Why is your skin so brown? Are you dirty?” And she had backed away, to hide behind the skirts of her mother Lady Glanville, who had said to her, with that same cold smile that never reached her eyes, “Poor little Livia isn’t a native, my dear, she’s every bit as English as you and I. The sun shines quite fiercely in India, and she had no mama or papa to make sure she stayed under her parasol. Do you see?”

Livia had never forgotten the burning sense of shame from that day. Nor had Cecily made it any easier, for from time to time she would laughingly recall the occasion of their first meeting and how she had thought Livia to be unwashed, as if it was the funniest anecdote in all the world.

Livia did not like to remember, even if only hazily, how when she was four, the monsoon season struck Kanpur with devastating onslaughts of rain. Both her widowed mother and her grandfather had died in a great flood, and it was with grudging reluctance that Uncle Charles had sent money for his niece’s passage to England.

Upon arriving in Wiltshire, Livia was not so much welcomed into the home—if such the ancient, rambling domicile known as Ealdor Abbey could be so termed—of Uncle Charles and Aunt Bella, as absorbed. Aside from grumbling within earshot about the expense of feeding her, Uncle Charles barely noticed her. Aunt Bella, childless, somnolent, always unwell, with interest in neither Society nor useful occupation, accepted Livia’s presence without a blink but also without care or concern for the little girl for whom she was, ostensibly, responsible.

Oh, you’re the little orfin girl.

Livia smiled without humor.

Yes indeed, Cecily certainly had a knack for getting to the heart of things.



Gabriel Penhallow rode alongside the large, old-fashioned, perfectly sprung coach in which sat his grandmother and her companion Miss Cott. Its stately black panels as always were polished to a blinding gleam. Behind the coach, at a respectful distance, followed the light carriage bearing her dresser and maidservant as well as his valet, along with an astonishing quantity of his grandmother’s luggage.

He turned his head to look inside and saw his grandmother dozing, sitting bolt upright and her mouth firmly closed. Even in her sleep she was indomitable, he thought with a flicker of amusement. Miss Cott, slim and short, sat opposite Grandmama, gray hair tucked neatly inside her serviceable bonnet and holding in her lap her employer’s enormous jewelry case. She was gazing out the window, away from Gabriel, her expression calm and remote.

He had known Miss Cott nearly all his life, and never once had he seen her shaken from her pleasant equanimity, no matter how extreme were Grandmama’s outbursts of impatience or anger. Or how frequent her orders to move a sofa cushion, freshen her pot of tea, fetch a stepstool, ring for a maidservant, write a dozen letters, rearrange flowers in a vase, summon the doctor, even put on a different shawl not so distasteful to her employer.