“We’ll say I fell off my horse, and slightly injured myself. I’m a poor enough rider, and with all that wind and rain, it’s a likely enough story. We must hurry.”
Urging him to hurry was a horrid echo of how, so recently, she had been pressing him on in the most intimate way.
Livia swallowed. She would not, must not, cry. Hadn’t she just been given a hard repeat lesson that it never helped anything?
Gabriel said in a tone of deep perplexity, “What is going on? What is happening?”
“Nothing is happening,” she said, staring straight ahead. “Nothing at all.”
And if to mock her, above them gray clouds parted and the sun peeped out, illuminating the landscape with a warm and cheerful brightness.
As his grandmother had requested—or perhaps “commanded” would have been a better word—Gabriel arrived at her townhouse well before her evening-party was to begin. She met him in the hall, but looked rather distracted. She stopped in the middle of telling Crenshaw to move a large vase of flowers back from one side table to another, and said to Gabriel: “I haven’t even dressed yet! Go upstairs into the library. Miss Stuart is there by herself, but I can’t spare Evangeline for a chaperone. I trust you’ll comport yourself suitably?” she added sharply.
“I’ll do my best,” Gabriel answered, hoping he was concealing his discomfort.
“See that you do. Crenshaw, what about the champagne? No, those flowers need to go over there—and one of the stems has snapped. Pray remove it. Bettina, I’ll be up directly. You’ve pressed my gloves? Very well—”
As he went up the stairs Gabriel was aware that he was both looking forward to seeing Livia, and dreading what might occur between them. He paused on the threshold to the library, and saw her standing before the fire, and caught his breath in wonderment at her beauty. She wore an elegant snow-white gown, with a demi-train and bronze-colored trimmings; in her hair was woven a twist of pearls and on her arms smoothed long white gloves. In profile her lovely face was thoughtful, somber, as if in her mind she was a thousand miles away.
“Hello,” he said.
She snapped out of her reverie at once, and turned to him with a polite smile that didn’t reach her eyes. It was a Society smile, and his heart sank to see it.
“Hello,” she said, as if yesterday had never happened, as if by some mystical freak of the calendar it had been erased, dissolved, eradicated. “How fine you look. Are you looking forward to the party?”
“Livia.”
“Yes?”
“What about us? What about my—suggestion? Have you thought about it at all?”
She wrinkled her brow. “I’m dreadfully sorry, but I’ve been so busy. There’s been so much to do, you see, helping your grandmother prepare for tonight, that I simply haven’t had a moment. In fact, I promised to help Miss Cott look over the drawing-room and I’m afraid I’m already a little late. If you’ll excuse me?” She moved toward him. Past him—
“Livia,” he said, “wait.”
She paused at the doorway, cool, polite. “Yes?”
“It’s just that—shouldn’t we—I thought that perhaps . . .” He paused; stopped, feeling hopelessly tangled up in his words, his thoughts. And she wasn’t helping, either. She was looking at him as if he were interfering with other, more pleasant plans she had. And finally he said:
“Nothing. Never mind.”
“Very well,” she said, and went away.
To no one’s surprise, Mrs. Penhallow’s evening-party was a huge success. Receiving a card of invitation to one of her rare, select gatherings conferred a singular honor on the recipient and to refuse was unthinkable—as was arriving late. The townhouse, therefore, went from the quiet bustle of preparation to a nearly immediate crush of guests.
Livia helped Mrs. Penhallow greet them, smiling and nodding, nodding and smiling, all the while thinking that in just a few short hours, she’d be slipping out of the house and beginning a long, tedious journey, on foot and in the deep darkness of the night.
She had made up her mind to go to Portishead, a little village by the sea where, with luck, she could find employment. It was nice living by the sea, so people said, and perhaps she really could become a seamstress. Or work in the fish trade, which meant that she would reek of fish guts for the rest of her life, but now was no time to be particular.
How odd to think she’d never see Gabriel again.
No, not odd. It was sad, unspeakably sad.
How difficult it had been, being alone with him in the library. She had wanted to stay and she had wanted to go; it had taken everything she had to simply hang on to her composure. Luckily, she was numb now—numb, and polite, and correct, responding to questions and remarks about her forthcoming nuptials as if she would actually be there. It was a joke, but not a funny one.