In due course Grandmama was reestablished in her bed and propped up on pillows, the now unpolluted Muffin was restored to the room, and they dined en famille with trays brought up to them. The old lady’s color was still good after her exertions; seeing her tuck into a beautifully broiled pork chop with such enjoyment, one would never have suspected her of being a person who, only a few weeks ago, subsisted primarily on such fare as turnip cakes and oatmeal soup in which sodden shreds of corn husks floated like hopeless castaways on an unappetizing sea.
The mood was cozy and mellow. Gabriel refrained from making sardonic comments, Grandmama from provoking quarrels; their hostility from earlier in the day had evaporated, Gabriel going so far as to kiss his grandmother’s hand with old-fashioned courtliness before he departed, earning a warm smile in return.
Was this, Livia wondered, how families were? One could fight and snipe and be irritated and angry, yet still, when all was said and done, be connected by the powerful bonds of shared experience and affection?
Well, she herself wouldn’t have a real way of knowing, she thought with a painful sort of wryness, thinking back to her lonely years at Ealdor Abbey. Her mother, her grandfather, were so far back in the past as to be shadows in her mind and heart—ghosts, really, wispy and insubstantial.
It occurred to her that she wished Gabriel had kissed her hand, too.
And on these rather melancholy reflections she went to bed.
The servants in rented carriages at length departed, the big wagons of household goods in tow, leaving only a skeleton crew who would accompany the family a few days hence. But a confluence of unfortunate mishaps halted the train on its second leg. Two of the horses threw shoes, an axle on one of the wagons snapped, a footman sprained his wrist while securing a pile of luggage more firmly, and Cook came down with a touch of the flux which while luckily not bloody was certainly uncomfortable.
Crenshaw explained all this in a detailed missive. Grandmama, reading it, sighed gustily, but accepted the inevitability of the situation.
“I had hoped they would arrive in plenty of time before we did,” she said, folding the letter, “but I won’t delay our own departure because of it.” She cast Gabriel a challenging look, but he only said:
“As you wish. However, the Hall may not be prepared to your liking.”
“Why not? I’ve written to Mrs. Worthing to advise her of our arrival.”
“Who?”
“She is the housekeeper at the Hall. A mere village girl when I took her on as a young bride, but even then I could perceive her potential. I’m happy to say that she proved herself to be exceedingly competent. Among her many gifts is a receipt for furniture polish that is, I feel confident, without equal. I believe she uses the peel of lemon, very finely ground, along with beeswax. At any rate, I’m sure she’ll have it all in hand. Will you come tomorrow, to go over the house with me one last time before we depart? I should appreciate your arm on which to lean.”
“Certainly.” Gabriel was conscious of a flicker of gratification. Really, it wasn’t such a bad thing to be needed, especially when he recalled that the many times as a boy spending his school holidays here, he seemed to be little more than a pest to her.
He came the next afternoon, just as what had become to feel like the inevitable rain began to fall. The wind was rising, whipping cool and damp about him; the nip of autumn was in the air. Dreary here, but not so at the Hall, perhaps, he thought as he went lightly up the steps to the stoop. There would soon be hunting, and he could invite friends to come and stay.
A list swiftly formed in his mind: Quigley, Farr, Deakin, Donahoe, close friends from school with whom he had remained in touch. And old Hetherenton, too, and Oxley . . . He’d only had time to briefly see them in London upon his return from Europe, but good Lord, what a jolly lot. How odd to think of welcoming them all to Surmont Hall. Odd, even startling—but he was looking forward to it. And to introducing them to Livia. Intelligent, fiery, lovely: a woman any man would be proud to say was his own.
Grandmama’s house had assumed that quiet, shuttered look as such places did during a move, but he was immune to any sense of the gloom so often attendant upon such occasions. Grandmama, too, was in good spirits as he carefully escorted her about. So thorough had her efforts been that she found only two items—thankfully, not cumbersome ones—she wished to bring with them, a small bust of Dante Alighieri and a rather ugly vase which, she said, held sentimental value.
Together they dined a final time in the townhouse, upstairs in Grandmama’s bedchamber, on cold meat and sandwiches and cider. The rain had intensified and could be heard drumming against the windows, but here, inside, they were warm and dry. Grandmama, satisfied with the results of her inspection, was positively merry, reminiscing about growing up at the Hall, and describing in glowing detail some of the glittering balls held there in her youth.