“Mrs. Penhallow is badly depleted, plain and simple. ’Tis my opinion she’s in desperate need o’ nourishment, and relief from the so-called treatments o’ that numptie Wendeburgen. But first her fever must be brought down.”
“Agreed,” Gabriel said. “Tell us what to do.”
In short order one of the maidservants was dispatched to retrieve additional wood for the fire, the other to alert Cook to prepare barley water at once and to start a batch of bone broth. Clean, soft cloths were sent for, and Dr. Crombie told Miss Cott to put away the bleeding bowl before he kicked it out of the room.
There was no disguising the fact that Grandmama was seriously ill. As the long night passed with agonizing slowness, she roused only to choke and cough on the sips of saline draught and barley water Dr. Crombie held, alternately, to her lips. She showed no other signs of consciousness.
All her personal concerns forgotten, Livia—although urged by both Gabriel and Miss Cott to go to bed—remained in Grandmama’s chamber, begging to be allowed to be of some use. Aside from helping to place cool, damp, lavender-infused cloths on the old lady’s burning forehead, there was little for her to do. Gabriel paced, sat, paced some more; maidservants slipped in and out with tea and refreshments and various other items.
Dawn found them still at their posts, pale and, inevitably, rumpled. But worse was to come. In the morning hours Grandmama began to toss and turn, flushed, muttering disjointedly. It became more difficult to press upon her a few sips of liquid. Dr. Crombie assured them that this new restiveness was a good sign, but now their roles became less passive as they took turns sitting by the bedside, attempting to soothe Grandmama with quiet words or yet another dampened cloth.
By midday, Miss Cott, less robust than either Livia or Gabriel, looked as if she were about to drop from exhaustion, but it was only with reluctance that she was persuaded to leave the room and lie down in her own bedchamber, where she could sleep for a few hours.
“We must take turns,” Livia said, “or we’ll none of us be helpful at all.”
Gabriel agreed, adding, “When Miss Cott returns, Livia, it’s your turn next. No arguing, please.”
“I won’t argue.” Livia gazed at the old lady’s flushed face and the too-thin outline of her wasted form beneath the bedcovers. She looked so frail, so vulnerable. Livia’s heart twisted; there was no room within it for their old rancor, only pity.
Over the next few days it became impossible to differentiate between night and day: it was all the same to Livia, the long, anxious hours by Grandmama’s side, the softly spoken conferences with Dr. Crombie, the snatched sleep and hastily eaten meals. Dr. Crombie came and went, servants slipped in and out, even Cook emerged from her kitchen, tiptoeing into the room to personally deliver a new bowl of broth or jug of cool barley water.
Gabriel found himself sometimes eyeing Livia in wonderment. Gone was the exquisitely clad and coiffed girl in her light muslins and gossamer shawls, her dashing bonnets and delicate fans. In her place was a drawn-looking young woman who wore the same simple white gown for many hours on end, her hair in a thick, untidy braid down her back. She never flagged, never faltered, immediately performed whatever tasks were assigned to her; Gabriel realized he had completely accepted her presence in the sick-room. Somehow, subtly and gradually, she had become one of them.
At other times, as he sat next to Grandmama, lightly holding her hand, coaxing her to accept a spoonful of this or that, he realized that despite the old lady’s many annoying characteristics—her imperiousness, her impulse to tyrannize everyone around her, her ridiculous certainty that she was always right—that she had, over these weeks in Bath, become a part of his life, that he truly did care for her.
These were startling revelations indeed, but as Grandmama grew more agitated, he had little opportunity to further dwell on them. In a quavering voice she many times called out, pleadingly, for Richard, her long-dead husband; she mistook Gabriel for Henry, her oldest son who had become Gabriel’s father.
“Henry!” she cried, “I should not have stayed away! Forgive me!” Sadly, so sadly, did she ask for her other children, Titus and Sophia, gone, both of them, for many years now. Sometimes Gabriel’s deep, quiet voice would calm her; at other times only Livia could do that, saying soothingly over and over, “Granny, dear Granny, we are here.”
Once, Gabriel thought, he might have objected to Livia calling her that. So long ago did that time seem. Now he could only be grateful that the word, or the fact that it was Livia employing it, had an almost magically consoling effect.