Grandmama curtly dismissed her from her post, and dutifully Livia circulated among the guests. Despite the old lady’s continuing coldness, Livia was determined to make the evening as pleasant as possible for her. Grandmama remained standing at the top of the stairs, erect and handsome in her dove-gray gown, its soft hue setting off to advantage her magnificent ruby necklace and matching aigrette. On her patrician cheekbones burned two bright spots of color. While other women might abet nature by the use of rouge, Livia doubted that Grandmama would stoop to such practices. Or had she tonight made an exception? It would never do to ask, of course.
Livia chatted for a few minutes with Mrs. Thorland, assuring her that she hadn’t injured herself in yesterday’s supposed fall from her horse, and inquired as to her reaction to the Druidical Stones. She asked Lord Gibbs-Smythe about his gout. From Crenshaw she accepted, with a word of thanks, a goblet of lemonade. Deftly she evaded Sir Edward Brinkley, at his most suave, and instead led his timid sister Miss Brinkley to a comfortable seat next to the fire. At Mrs. Arbuthnot’s request, she described in detail the wedding gown—all white and silver and Brussels lace—that Madame Lévêque had created, to which the final, finishing touches of embroidery were being set by her assistants. She even managed to civilly converse (if one could call it that) with Mr. Olivet.
And Gabriel was avoiding her.
Not that she could blame him.
All in all, this was the least enjoyable party she’d ever been to. Then it somehow managed to get even worse. She’d gone over to one of the windows, to see what kind of weather she might expect for her journey, when Cecily Orr came up behind her and said, in a friendly, confidential tone:
“I was just wondering, Livia dear, if you’d visited Miss Poole’s Employment Agency again, and if your business there had prospered.”
Livia whipped around. “And I was wondering,” she said with hostile untruthfulness, “how Sir Edward’s suit was progressing.”
“Oh! Well! Of course he wishes for an answer, as do Mama and Papa, but I am putting them off as best I can.” Cecily spoke airily, but then she gripped Livia’s arm with clawlike fingers and leaned closer. “You have not considered my situation, I fear. Every day since that horrible ball at my house, Mama talks about how I let Mr. Penhallow slip away from us. Every day, Livia dear. It’s become—shall we say—a little trying.”
Livia stared at Cecily. That perfect porcelain face seemed suddenly like a statue which was cracking before her very eyes. “Well,” she said, “in all fairness, it wasn’t your fault, was it?”
“I don’t think Mama is seeing it from your perspective.”
“Somehow I’m not surprised. Would you kindly release my arm, Miss Orr? You’re hurting me.”
“Good,” said Cecily, and pulled her hand away, suddenly and unnervingly all smiles again. “If it wasn’t my fault, then whose fault is it? I saw you in the garden, Livia dear, with your protests; I saw you at the employment agency. I know what you’re up to.” In those lovely blue eyes shone the intense gleam of obsession. “I’ve been thinking about your situation quite a bit. And so I have a gift for you. Something to help you achieve your ambitions.” She fumbled in the dainty beaded reticule she carried, pulled from it a small package wrapped in silver paper, and pressed it into Livia’s unwilling hand. “Here. I’m helping you. Or am I helping myself? It’s hard to know anymore.” She added, in a conversational tone:
“You’ll never be a real lady, you know. Not like me. Poor little Livia. I feel so sorry for you.”
“I don’t need your pity.” Livia tried to shove the little package back, but Cecily turned and took a quick step away and just then there was a sudden excited commotion halfway across the long, crowded room.
“Give her air, give her air!” said a male voice, and a high female voice exclaimed in distress:
“Mrs. Penhallow! Oh, dear!”
Reflexively Livia crammed the packet into her own reticule and hurried past Cecily to the knot of people which, she saw in horror, had gathered around the prostrate form of old Mrs. Penhallow. “Pray step aside!” she said, then kneeled down next to the old lady, whose eyes were closed and her thin chest rapidly moving up and down. “What happened?”
“Oh, Miss Stuart, she seemed absolutely fine, but then she seemed to totter, and simply collapsed!” It was Lady Enchwood speaking, but Livia didn’t look up, only tucked the rumpled hem of Grandmama’s gown over her ankles and then held that fragile, overwarm hand in her own, saying urgently, “Has anyone a vinaigrette? And please find Mr. Penhallow at once!”