Chapter 8
It was exactly one week after her discussion with Gabriel about the scientific method that late one night, alone in her magnificent bedchamber, Livia lay in bed with her eyes wide open.
She should have been tired; she ought to have been sleeping. For the past seven days she’d been whisked from one glittering affair to the next, and more were scheduled for tomorrow.
But she had done something, earlier in the evening, which had shocked her. Made her deeply ashamed of herself. And frightened her.
In the Upper Rooms, while waiting for the concert to begin, she’d been chatting with a little group of young ladies. To one of them she had sweetly said, Your gown is so charming, it has such a delightful old-fashioned quality.
Oh, thank you, Miss Stuart, the young lady had submissively replied.
Hard upon that, another young lady had felicitated her upon her engagement, and she’d smiled and said, Yes, and only think of my jewels and carriages! I’ll be moving in quite the highest, most fashionable circles, you know. After all, the Penhallows came to England with the Conqueror, and it’s said that the Conqueror bowed to them.
And that young lady had smiled fawningly back.
In the dimness of her bedchamber, Livia pulled the covers higher around her. She thought again about her conversation with Gabriel. Her experiment was a success, but in a horrible way.
She really had become Cecily Orr.
It seemed she was going to marry Gabriel Penhallow and continue to take, take, take, without giving anything in return.
Not that he wanted anything from her. He’d made it clear they would live with the complete and total absence of affection.
Did she care about that?
Her mind stretched back to those long, lonely years at Ealdor Abbey. She’d gotten used to the lack of love.
Now, its absence was only magnified amidst the clatter and noise and endless activity in which she found herself.
She’d thought she was capable of coldly, calculatingly marrying Gabriel because of what he was, not who he was. Marrying him because he could give her things. In short, for his money.
And there was a name, a detestable name, for women who sold themselves to men for money.
A heavy weight seemed to come upon her now, and she struggled to fill her lungs with air.
She imagined herself at the altar, the vows spoken, and Gabriel turning to kiss her.
It would be the emptiest, most meaningless kiss in the world.
Was she really going to go through with this preposterous engagement?
The ladies sat at breakfast, Mrs. Penhallow sorting through a pile of notes, letters, advertisements, and, of course, the gilt-edged cards of invitation which poured daily into the house.
“Hmm,” she said, “hmm. An evening party at the Courtenays’. A driving expedition to Stanton Drew, to view the Great Circle of Druidical monuments. Possibly. Hmm! Lady Enchwood invites us to dine Tuesday next, and to join their party at the theatre. A new production of Macbeth is being mounted. Not, perhaps, my favorite among the Bard’s tragedies, but nonetheless a worthy treatise on the dangers of overweening ambition. Most instructional. We’ll say yes. What’s this—why, I haven’t heard from Sarah Douglass in an age. A distant connection, whom I met in London decades ago,” she explained to Livia.
She broke the wafer, unfolded the missive, and rapidly scanned it. “She says the sheep are doing very well, save for a touch of bloody scours and rupturing blisters . . . Dear me, life in Scotland! It’s always about the sheep, isn’t it? Two daughters wed, both of them increasing, and she’s just married off the youngest. Still no luck with the eldest.”
The old lady’s silvery brows drew together in a sudden frown. “She feels I ought to know that Alasdair Penhallow is, according to common report, continuing to engage in disgraceful behavior—consuming spirits to excess, presiding over debaucheries, and in general scandalizing the Eight Clans of Kilally. I wonder what she thinks I can do to influence that young scapegrace? I can only be grateful that he’s at such a vast remove I’m spared more frequent knowledge of his shocking way of life.”
Livia pulled herself out of her abstraction. “Who is Alasdair Penhallow, ma’am?”
Mrs. Penhallow laid down the letter with a sniff. “He is Gabriel’s cousin, and the head of the Scottish branch of the Penhallows—we here in England have nothing to do with them as they are a backwards, uncouth lot. This Alasdair is evidently an utter wastrel and is known, among our own intimate circle, as the black sheep of the family. A highly appropriate term, given the Clans’ apparent obsession with their sheep. For myself, I have never cared for mutton, but Dr. Wendeburgen says under extreme circumstances, such as a fit of sneezing that lasts more than an hour, consuming it in pureed form is of the utmost urgency.”