Hedges trimmed, grass cut, the ornamental pond filled again . . .
Why, it would be magnificent.
Not a museum—no, never that.
Not a building intended merely as a display of wealth and culture and generations of inhabitation.
But as a place to live, laugh, love . . .
Livia could not have said how this idea blossomed in her mind.
It was audacious, it was far-fetched; she was a stranger here.
Yet it was almost as if the Hall whispered to her, as if there was some kind of subtle magic to it.
Something that could be felt, if not seen, about its potential.
She just knew.
Knew that here was a place that could be home.
Home.
She rolled the word around in her mind but it found its truest expression in her heart. Perhaps, at last, those long, lonely years could be swept away from her memory, from her spirit, like a cobweb brushed away, making space for—
For something new, something better.
Something to last a lifetime and beyond.
Love, laughter, family, home.
With Gabriel, ever and always, at the center of it all.
Livia hurried her steps, eager to be with him again.
When finally she arrived in the Rose Saloon, she found him there, along with Grandmama and Miss Cott. Gabriel was standing near the fireplace, one arm on the mantel, his eyes, somber and remote, fixed upon the leaping flames. Grandmama still looked stunned; her face was drawn and she seemed desperately tired, and her greeting to Livia was but a brief nod of her head. By her side on the sofa, even Muffin appeared to have caught the mood of the room and lay curled up in a tight ball. Miss Cott, fatigue writ plain upon her, nonetheless was quick to offer Livia some tea.
Gratefully Livia accepted. The tea was weak and stale, and the bread far from fresh, but she was, she now realized, ravenously hungry. The butter, at least, was delicious, and she spread it lavishly upon her bread.
As she ate, she became aware of the silence hanging heavy in the air. It wasn’t the normal quiet of fatigued travelers; how could it be, she wondered, gazing at the others. There was no eye contact among them, as if they were isolated, alone, wrapped in individual misery. Gabriel had looked at her once or twice, but without a smile, and his gaze did not linger upon her, only returning to the flames crackling—with incongruous cheerfulness—in the fireplace, radiating warmth into the room.
Finally Grandmama spoke.
“I have, I see, been living in a dream.”
No one answered. But it was as if she didn’t expect a reply, for she went on, stonily:
“Twenty years have gone by. Mrs. Worthing has passed into her dotage. For all I know, good Mrs. Allard, a most faithful lodgekeeper, lies in her grave. And I am the greatest fool in Christendom. I have stupidly, arrogantly, cherished an idea of the Hall which is false, laughably false—as if time would stop for me while I dallied all those years in Bath. My God! My own stupidity amazes me.”
“Granny,” said Livia gently, “how could you have known?”
The old lady glared at her. “How could I have known? I should have been here! Instead I traipsed off to Bath, with concern only for myself. Selfish, selfish!”
“Traipsing? Hardly that, Granny! Did not you tell us—you told us about—about Richard—Adelaide—”
“It was selfishness, I see that now. The most arrant, appalling self-indulgence! I am disgusted with myself.” Her face was set in rigid lines, and she stared straight ahead, as if looking into her own private version of hell. “I had known Mrs. Allard all my life. The Allards have always lived in the lodge. She had a kind word for everybody, whether great or small. And even though she lost three of her five children as stillbirths—three!—she still made baby clothes for the poorest cottagers.”
Another silence fell, broken only when Grandmama said, in that same stony voice:
“If you will be so good, Gabriel, as to help me to my room. I am going to bed.”
It was then that Livia saw Grandmama’s uneaten slice of bread-and-butter, a teacup still full.
“Granny, are you not hungry? Won’t you eat a little something?”
“No.”
“Would you like something for dinner, on a tray?”
“No. If that rotted bell-pull still works, you may ring for Bettina, and send her up to me. Thank you,” she said coldly, formally, to Gabriel, who assisted her to stand, and Livia watched with concern as the old lady staggered slightly, and then almost seemed to limp out of the room as she clung to Gabriel’s arm, apparently having completely forgotten Muffin, who trotted after her, but without his earlier gaiety, his funny little tail wagging with a new tentativeness.
Miss Cott rose to her feet. “If you will excuse me, I shall go with Mrs. Penhallow,” she said to Livia.