“Will you come down for dinner?”
“No, thank you.”
“May I have a tray sent up?”
“No, I thank you,” said the older woman, with the faintest of tired smiles, and hurried after the others.
Alone in the Rose Saloon, Livia helped herself to another slice of bread and butter and poured another cup of tea. As she ate she looked thoughtfully around the room. There was a real, if dated, charm to the wallpaper, a soft muted pink with a repeated motif of roses and pretty little birds, as well as to the chairs and sofas, with upholstery in the same shade of pink—faded, to be sure, but still pleasing to the eye.
It was easy to imagine Grandmama as she then would have been, a youthful, vigorous matron, head over heels in love with her dashing husband, enjoying a cozy tea here with him, perhaps with their young children romping about.
A little tired now, but comfortably warm, Livia leaned back against the plush cushions of the sofa on which she sat, her eyes drifting to the dancing fire, as Gabriel’s had done. She slipped without effort into a daydream, her fancy luxuriously fashioning an image of the Rose Saloon, a clean and orderly room again, and she a young matron herself, indubitably a proper lady, presiding gracefully over the tea table.
Gabriel was there, exchanging with her a loving smile. How handsome he was, her—
Yes, her husband.
Husband.
What a beautiful word.
In her fancy she added to his left hand a gold ring.
Then she added one to her own left hand, and admired its elegant gleam as if from afar.
How happy they were together! And . . . there were children with them. Hers and Gabriel’s. They had three children—no, four.
Four would be the perfect number. Two boys and two girls, healthy, happy, clever . . . filling the room with laughter and joy.
With the infinite scope of imagination she brought Granny and Miss Cott into the scene; Muffin, too, and a cat (she made sure they got along), a big, fat striped tabby which purred in a loud contented way.
She dwelled on this vision for some time, dreamily aware that she was waiting for Gabriel to return. They would be alone here in the Rose Saloon. They could shut the door, and snatch a few private moments together. She missed him with an ache that was physical, and only being near him, held in his arms, enveloped, kissed, would answer.
But Gabriel did not come.
Instead, one of the servants from Bath, Sally, came to the door, to let her know that dinner would soon be ready, and how many places would need to be set, and where? And could she take away the tea things?
Livia’s mood of relaxed drowsiness had dissipated. “Yes, please do, Sally, thank you,” she said, standing up. “As for where dinner is to be served, there’s no need to make ready that enormous dining-room. Perhaps the breakfast-parlor? But I’d like to send someone to inquire after Mr. Gabriel. Is James about?”
“Yes, Miss Livia, he’s in the kitchen, helping Mrs. Worthing bring down some of her big cooking pots.”
“I’ll come with you. I’d like to see how Mrs. Worthing does.”
In the massive old-fashioned kitchen was well-organized bustle, a small crowd of servants busy at their work and the appetizing smells of broiling chicken and roasted potatoes filling the air. Livia sent James to inquire after Gabriel; he returned in due course to say that Mr. Gabriel wished for a tray to be sent up, and a bottle of brandy too, if one could be found.
Trying not to feel hurt, Livia gave instructions for a tray to be prepared, and also gave James permission to search for the brandy. She inquired after the servants’ accommodations, and was satisfied that they, too, would be reasonably comfortable tonight.
Suddenly and sharply assailed by a painful loneliness, Livia would have liked to have lingered in the warm conviviality of the kitchen, even joined the servants at the long wooden table for their meal, but realized that they would be made uneasy by such familiarity.
You’ll never be a real lady, you know. Not like me. Poor little Livia. I feel so sorry for you.
The sweet, insidious voice of Cecily Orr snaked through her mind, like a horrid weed that one could pull up, but which would always grow back, and with sinister rapidity.
Poor little Livia.
I feel so sorry for you.
Livia tried to shake off an abrupt feeling of melancholy, and told Sally not to bother setting a place for her in the breakfast-parlor, which would need to be at least cursorily cleaned. She too would take a tray in her room.
Chapter 15
That night, in his room, in a bedchamber fit for a king, Gabriel got a little drunk.
Actually, more than a little.
The footman James had brought him his dinner and a bottle of brandy.
His meal was surprisingly good, given the circumstances, but the brandy was even better.