Finally Gabriel said, in a voice roughened by fatigue, “Leave him. He’ll do her no harm.”
The hours ticked by. Dr. Crombie went back and forth from Grandmama to the wing chair he had commandeered. Grandmama muttered, sighed, cried out, then fell ominously silent. The rest of them took turns at the bedside, dozed in their chairs, listlessly accepted tea and sandwiches, the little dog all the while remaining at his post. It seemed that morning would never come. Yet Gabriel knew they all were afraid what it might bring.
Chapter 12
“What . . . what is this . . . this thing?”
A weak voice, whispering.
Livia snapped awake in her chair. For a bewildered few seconds she had no idea where she was, then awareness came upon her in a shivery rush of fear and dread, and she jumped up, hurrying to the great bed in which Grandmama lay.
The old lady was awake, and lucid. And she had turned her head to stare at Muffin, who during the latter part of the night had snuggled comfortably up against her armpit. He lifted his head slightly, looking Grandmama right in the eye, and thumped his curly tail in the most affable manner possible.
The old lady looked so affronted that Livia couldn’t help it. She laughed. The sound brought Dr. Crombie, Gabriel, and Miss Cott out of their respective slumbers and hurrying to her side.
Muffin yawned, revealing a curling pink tongue.
“I . . . do not care for dogs,” whispered Grandmama, her silvery brows drawn together. “Beastly creatures.”
Muffin licked her arm.
Gabriel smiled. “It seems he cares for you, however.”
She sniffed, faintly, and considered Muffin. “At the Hall . . . I always had dogs, though. A . . . a lifetime ago.” Then she regarded them, each in turn. “I am appalled by . . . your bedraggled . . . state,” she went on in that weak, low voice. “Gabriel, you . . . need a shave, and Livia . . . your gown is . . . shockingly creased . . . And . . . Dr. Crombie . . . I thought never to . . . see your hatchet face again.”
“And I yours, madam,” he said coolly, placing a professional hand on her forehead.
“Granny,” said Livia reproachfully, “Dr. Crombie has been invaluable.”
Grandmama stared at her. “Granny,” she echoed, frowning. Then, after a long pause, she said, “I’ve been ill . . . have I not?”
Dr. Crombie stepped back and Gabriel sat next to the old lady, taking her hand in his. “Yes, Grandmama, very ill indeed.”
“Yes. I’ve been a . . . great deal of trouble to you, I am afraid.”
He smiled. “Oh yes, a great deal.”
“I . . . am . . . I am sorry for that.”
“Don’t be,” he answered.
She sighed, and turned her gaze to Dr. Crombie. “Well? Am I . . . going to live?”
“Aye, madam, as long as you stay away from that dunderheid Wendeburgen.”
The old lady sighed again, but did not argue. “I . . . I should like a cup of tea.”
“Of course.” Miss Cott went quickly to ring for a maidservant.
“And . . . and I suppose,” Grandmama continued, ungraciously, “something for this . . . this ridiculous-looking dog.”
It was reassuring to see that the worst danger to Grandmama was past, but it was also evident that her convalescence was going to be a protracted one. At first she was too weak to be combative, and her unusual quiescence kept them all in a state of alert attendance upon her.
Gradually her appetite began to return, and it was less of a struggle to press upon her the light, nourishing soups and beverages Cook made in quantities sufficient for several invalids. But she remained ensconced in her bed, Muffin always with her (and occasionally did her hand steal over, surreptitiously, to stroke him). She allowed Livia to brush and dress her hair, to turn her pillows and straighten the bedclothes; and when Livia asked if she might be of further service, she said, grudgingly:
“You might . . . read to me.”
So Livia did. Grandmama still corrected her occasional errors, and very often fell asleep, drifting into a recuperative doze, during which Livia turned her attention to the pretty bed-jacket she was making for Grandmama. Cocooned in an agreeable state of relief, it was no hardship to spend her time reading, sewing, and helping care for the old lady, who, in fact, grew querulous if Livia was gone for longer than an hour or two, and would repeatedly ask for her until she returned.
To these demands Livia responded without complaint. In fact, she was—why, she was content. She was focused only on the present moment, she permitted herself the luxury of making no plans (resolutely she pushed aside the thought of her old stout boots, a dreadfully long walk, Portishead), and it struck her that Grandmama, in fact, needed her. And how wonderful it was to feel needed by somebody! Aunt Bella, more or less infirm for all the years Livia had known her, certainly hadn’t found much use for her and, when it came right down to it, had frequently seemed to find her presence at the Abbey completely insignificant.