“I didn’t know. She never talks about herself.”
“No, she doesn’t. I know very little about her either. It occurs to me that we all take her very much for granted.”
He was quiet for a few minutes, although it was, Livia thought wonderingly, a rather companionable silence. Then he said: “While we’re on the subject of talking about oneself, I’ve been prosing on very boringly, I’m afraid.”
“Not at all. I want to hear more.”
Her interest seemed sincere, and Gabriel couldn’t help but think how easy it was to talk to her. It was like conversing with—well, with a friend.
Something had changed between them, something positive and unexpected.
And yet . . .
Yet beneath Livia’s attentiveness, he sensed—he wasn’t sure what he sensed, precisely, but it was like looking at the ocean during a placid interval when, underneath, roiled strong, troubled currents.
They talked all the way to Stanton Drew. She told him about India, about coming to Wiltshire. He told her more about his time at school and in Europe. But when they arrived at the Great Circle, they were separated; little Mrs. Thorland called Livia over, and he was buttonholed by Tom Orr again, accompanied by his fiancée Miss Gillingham who proceeded without pausing to lecture them about the history of the Stones, their geological composition, excavations that had been conducted on the site, and finally concluded by summing up some of the most colorful of the local folktales.
“By Jupiter,” said Tom Orr, with patently false enthusiasm, “you’re as good as a book! Wonderful things, books, so they say!” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cloisonné snuff box, refreshing himself with a hearty pinch. He held the box out to Gabriel. “Sir?”
Gabriel refused, and looked about for Livia, but as the party proceeded in due course to the inn where luncheon had been bespoken, he had no opportunity for further private conversation with her; and as they all set out on the return journey to Bath, Cecily Orr brought her mare up to him and said playfully, “We’ve barely said two words to each other all day! I must have you to myself for a while!”
“Certainly,” he said absently, casting a quick look up at the sky. The masses of clouds that had been gathering all day now began to have about them a heavy gray look, and the breeze that had been merely sportive had rapidly picked up in strength.
Once again he looked for Livia. There she was, at the end of the cavalcade, just behind the landau of Mrs. Tenneson.
Cecily had demanded his presence; courtesy, in turn, demanded that he obey.
As they rode, he found himself thinking about rules and etiquette and social dictates. He had lived by these codes all his life.
But was it really so dreadful for Livia to walk briskly, or to refuse to dance with a gentleman who was not just dull, but—if one were to be honest—rude? (Yes, he knew Adolphus Olivet.) Or to speak straightforwardly to that cad Sir Edward Brinkley?
Of course not.
Of course it wasn’t.
What a revelation.
Vaguely Gabriel was aware that at his side Miss Orr was buzzing in his ear like a pesky gnat, her sweet voice swirling round and round him until he wanted to actually bat her away. He caught phrases about India, Tom Orr, stable-boys, a bedridden aunt, but really—if one were again to be honest—he couldn’t have cared less about anything Miss Orr had to say, and mechanically he nodded, said “Indeed” and “I see,” and allowed her to think he was actually listening to her.
A strong gust of wind nearly tugged her smart shako hat from her head and, with a sudden petulant frown, she set it straight with one hand. In the next moment she turned a smiling face to Gabriel again. “Heavens, I think we’ll get blown home! As I was saying, poor little Livia could hardly be expected to know any better, behaving so scandalously, and so I’ve told simply everyone.”
His attention was now caught, and bluntly he said to her, “Have you been gossiping about Miss Stuart?”
She gave an airy little laugh. “Oh—well—discussing, you know. The two of you are such a fascinating couple! Simply everybody thinks so!”
A powerful feeling surged through him. No: more than one. Anger at, disdain for, Miss Orr. Intense distaste at the thought of once again being fodder for the busy Bath rumor mill. And, perhaps most strongly, a surge of protectiveness for Livia. What, he wondered, could he do for her, how could he help her? He couldn’t stop people from talking, he couldn’t keep Miss Orr’s malicious tongue from wagging, but he could at least do this one thing.
He gave a very small, very slight bow and said coldly, “Excuse me.” And left her.