You May Kiss the Bride(58)
She spared him a few moments of pity—imagine feeling compelled to love Cecily Orr!—before detaching herself, but in the days that followed, it seemed that Cecily was everywhere, the very picture of grace and charm. Livia’s ears were practically ringing with the continual praise she heard for Cecily’s beauty, Cecily’s poise, Cecily’s good manners. Even Grandmama said—with Livia standing right next to her—in a horribly pointed sort of way: “Now there’s a proper young lady for you! Never quarrelsome, suitably obedient to her elders, always smiling.”
Worse, Grandmama continued to embroider on this theme, alternately commenting bitterly about lost opportunities and wistfully remarking on Cecily’s manifold attributes. These Livia managed to shrug off, but in her secret heart she cringed whenever she saw Gabriel standing near Cecily—his own dark good looks seeming to enhance her delicate blonde ones—and when he danced with Cecily, it felt as if she was being ripped to shreds with stupid pointless jealousy. Livia wondered if Gabriel found Cecily desirable; if he wanted to kiss her, and more . . .
Oh, this was awful.
She began to feel not unlike a little bug struggling in a spider’s web. And so, defiantly, desperately, Livia openly encouraged the attentions of the dashing Captain Arbuthnot. She knew that he was secure with his income of five thousand a year and in no hurry to be married, and that he dangled after her only to discourage matchmaking mamas.
The atmosphere at Upper Camden Place grew icier by the day.
And then Livia discovered that Cecily did, in fact, have the ability to make things worse.
Gradually she became aware that maliciously insinuating gossip about her was making the rounds of Bath.
Miss Livia Stuart had a dark and mysterious past in India.
Miss Stuart grew up in a crumbling abbey, living as a veritable savage, dressing—most peculiarly—in rags.
Miss Stuart had never had a governess or a chaperone; it had been whispered that she was overly familiar with her uncle’s stable-boys.
Miss Stuart’s aunt was practically bedridden with an obscure illness, said to have been caused by her distress at Miss Stuart’s wild behavior.
Miss Stuart had set her cap in the most overt and vulgar manner at the Honorable Tom Orr. Then she had done the same thing with Mr. Gabriel Penhallow. And why was it, by the way, that their marriage plans had been so precipitously advanced?
As she looked at Cecily’s innocently benign face, as bland as an infant’s, lines from Hamlet floated grimly through Livia’s mind:
That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain.
These rumors were without doubt also reaching the ears of Grandmama, whose countenance got paler and her temper shorter.
One morning, Livia woke very early, and thought, It’s time.
Time to end this.
She dressed and slipped out of the house, and resolutely made her way to Milsom Street. There, between a milliner’s shop and Fankhauser & Sons Tobacconists, a small brass signplate was set in the brick wall adjoining a stairwell. On it was discreetly engraved:
POOLE’S EMPLOYMENT AGENCY—
RESPECTABLE DOMESTICS
OF ALL TYPES FOR HIRE.
INQUIRE WITHIN.
Livia took a deep breath, then went upstairs. Twenty minutes later, after an extremely discouraging interview during which Mrs. Poole made it painfully clear that Miss Stuart’s unsavory reputation had preceded her, Livia found herself back on the pavement and staring bleakly at the little brass sign.
The practical difficulties of her situation bore down upon her. Opportunities for decent employment in Bath were plainly unlikely. Besides, why would she even want to stay in Bath? With the wedding now only two weeks away, the Penhallow trap was closing ever tighter about her. She’d have to get away from Bath—far away—in order to find work. And just how would she go about it?
Of course, it would certainly be easier if she could bring herself to sell some—or many—of the things the Penhallows had given her. But of course she wouldn’t. She’d despise herself for all eternity if she did that. Nor would she leave with her old portmanteau filled with her new and exquisite clothing. How fortunate that she’d squirreled away some of the things she’d brought with her from the Abbey.
Yes, how very fortunate she was.
A cool breeze had sprung up, and despite her warm pelisse Livia shivered. A strand of her hair came loose and thoughtfully she took it between her thumb and forefinger. Could she sell her hair? It came nearly to her waist, thick as a horse’s mane. How awful to think of it being made into false plaits or a wig, and adorning someone else’s head, but this was, she reminded herself sternly, no time to be petty.
For an instant she considered trying to somehow get back to Ealdor Abbey. Then she recalled the exceedingly curt note Uncle Charles had sent, declining the invitation sent to him and Aunt Bella to attend her wedding. Livia was not to expect any gifts, nor would a bride-visit to the Abbey be welcome; and in fact, further communication between them was now to cease forthwith. And if she did show up on his doorstep, Uncle Charles was more than capable of slamming the door in her face.