And while Grandmama, even in her debilitated state, remained her lofty, arrogant self, there was no question that something had changed within her. There was a new hint of softness which she labored mightily to conceal, but there it was. One only had to see her with Muffin to know that.
Late on a sunny afternoon, as Livia sat in a comfortable chair next to Grandmama’s bed, reading to her from Pope’s philosophical poem, Essay on Man, a knock on the door interrupted her, and Gabriel strolled in, immaculate in a mulberry coat, buckskins, and shining topboots. Now that the crisis had passed, he had returned to the York House but spent much of his time here in his grandmother’s townhouse.
He smiled. “A little light reading, I perceive?”
“I haven’t read the Essay on Man in a long time,” answered Grandmama thoughtfully. “It’s a favorite of Evangeline’s, you know. Pope’s point is that the universe is fundamentally perfect, and that we should all accept our place within it.”
“Not always an easy precept to embrace.” Gabriel went and sat at the foot of the bed, accepting Muffin’s fawning greeting with equanimity. “Down, you cur,” he said pleasantly, and Muffin immediately flattened himself, tail wagging. Gabriel stroked his head. “Don’t let me interrupt you. Pray continue.”
Livia couldn’t help but smile a little as she picked up the book again and complied. Oh, but she was content! Here was Gabriel, here was Grandmama . . . and then in came Miss Cott. In her hands she carried a silver tray, and she said, in her gentle manner:
“Cook wonders if you’d care for a little of this chicken ragoût.”
“Indeed I do not,” came the tart reply. “I do wish you would all refrain from ceaselessly trying to fatten me up. I feel like a Christmas goose.”
“Shall I take it away?”
“No, set it down. Livia is reading Pope to us. I daresay you would like to hear it too.”
Miss Cott obeyed and sat down, listening attentively as Livia continued.
Ten minutes later the old lady said crossly, “Oh, stop sulking, Evangeline! I’ll try a little of that ragoût.”
She tasted it, pronounced it tolerable, and ate two-thirds, giving the rest to Muffin. When Miss Cott had removed the tray, and Livia plumped up her pillows, Gabriel rose to his feet.
“I’ll take my leave of you. You’ll be wanting to rest, Grandmama.”
“Not yet. I have something I want to say to you all.”
Gabriel raised his eyebrows, sat down again; Grandmama plucked at the bedcovers, frowning a little. There was a silence in the room, and an anxious little chill snaked down Livia’s spine. Something seemed to be weighing heavily on the old lady’s mind.
At last she spoke, with uncharacteristic tentativeness.
“I have not forgotten that the date for the wedding is four days hence. I have . . . hesitated to discuss it, but—it is terribly selfish, I know, but I would wish to be there on my own two feet. And—and I do not think I will be capable of it.”
Livia hadn’t quite forgotten about the wedding, but neither had she been making inquiries about it. It was amazing, really, the human capacity for diverting one’s thoughts, as if storing them away in different baskets and shoving them into an armoire. She flashed a glance at Gabriel who was, she now discovered, looking at her. On his face was an arrested expression that she couldn’t decipher. In a moment he blinked, then turned his gaze again to his grandmother.
“Lady Enchwood thinks you should attend in a wheeled chair,” he remarked. “She considers it a—what was the term she used?—a darling vehicle for an invalid.”
“An idiotish opinion,” responded Grandmama coldly. “To own the truth, I don’t know why I’ve put up with Lady Enchwood for all these years. She is a person entirely without intellect.”
Livia felt herself goggling at Grandmama, and saw also the smile quirking at the corners of Gabriel’s mouth.
“You needn’t grin in that unseemly way,” the old lady said sourly, “it is beneath you.” She paused again. “If you do not object too strongly, it’s my desire to vacate Bath as soon as may be arranged. I’m afraid it means removing you from the parties, Livia, the balls, the concerts, and so on.”
“Oh, Granny, I couldn’t care less,” answered Livia impulsively. “I mean—please don’t think I’m not grateful for all that you’ve done for me, but I am sick of Bath!”
“As am I,” was the old lady’s unexpected reply. “It must also be said that I am aware of the unpleasant rumors about you which are making the rounds, thanks to the insidious efforts of Miss Orr. I cannot think they have made your life very comfortable.”