“Mrs. Penhallow does not wish to. If you could have trays sent up to us, however, I would so appreciate it. The bell-pulls seem to be broken.”
“Of course. But is Granny ill? Did she have a relapse?”
Miss Cott shook her head again. “No. But she doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”
“Oh. Very well. I won’t bother her then.” Livia looked into those tired, kind eyes, aware, suddenly, of feeling a new awkwardness, and she had to keep herself from twisting her fingers together like a child. “I’ll—I’ll go and see about those trays.”
She hurried back downstairs and only peeped into the kitchen, careful not to upset Mrs. Worthing, and spoke with Sally, who promised to begin preparing breakfast trays at once.
Her immediate responsibility thus discharged, Livia then focused on her next tasks: organizing meals and deciding what needed most urgently to be cleaned. She went through the Rose Saloon again, then the breakfast-parlor, the dining-parlor, the drawing-room, making lists and notes. She stared around the library, marveling at its faded elegance and at the hundreds—maybe thousands—of books it contained. She went on to the ballroom, the old conservatory, and finally the sunny stillroom, imbued with the pleasant scents of lemon and basil and lavender, where she spent a happy hour looking through, and tidying, receipts, jars of herbs, bottles filled with mysterious liquids, iron pots large and small, a set of handsome wood mortars and pestles.
She was sniffing curiously at one of the bottles, half full of what seemed to be an orange-infused liqueur, when Sally came to the doorway and said:
“There’s a gentleman come to call, Miss Livia. Will you see him? I’ve taken him to that monstrous big drawing-room, and dusted off some chairs, and had a fire lit. I do hope I did right, miss?”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s fine, Sally.” Livia put down the bottle and corked it again, then stood uncertainly for a moment. There was no one else to receive this caller. “Did he tell you his name?”
“Yes, miss, it’s Mr. Markson.”
“Thank you, Sally. I’ll go directly.” Yesterday, driving past the rectory, Grandmama and Miss Cott had mentioned a Mr. Markson. As Livia made her way to the drawing-room, she wondered if this was the same parson, or a different Mr. Markson. Perhaps his son? Everything was so topsy-turvy. Anything seemed possible.
Standing near the window, gazing out at the vista of carriage sweep, pond, neglected gardens, and beyond, was an elderly gentleman of medium height, a little stooped, clad in simple black knee-breeches, stockings, and coat. He turned quickly at the sound of Livia’s footsteps, and she saw that he was balding, with a high broad scholar’s forehead and the kindest-looking face she had ever seen.
Smilingly he came forward to take her outstretched hand. “How do you do?” he said in a quiet, cultured voice. “I am Arthur Markson, the rector. I heard that the family was in residence and came at once to see if I might be of assistance.”
There was something so warmly reassuring about Mr. Markson that she immediately smiled back. “How do you do, sir? I’m Livia Stuart, Gabriel Penhallow’s fiancée.”
“What wonderful news. May I offer my congratulations, Miss Stuart?”
“Thank you, sir. Won’t you be seated? And may I ring for some refreshments?”
He sat when she did, but declined her offer. “I look forward to renewing my acquaintance with Mr. Penhallow. He was a little boy when last I saw him, and we parted under such sad circumstances.”
“After his parents died?”
“Yes. Mrs. Penhallow took him away, to Bath. And—Miss Cott accompanied them. If I may be so bold as to inquire, Miss Stuart—I heard that a Miss Cott is one of your party. This is Miss Evangeline Cott?”
“Yes, sir. You are acquainted with her, no doubt?” Livia saw that the rector had leaned forward, as if straining to hear her response.
“Yes, we are old—acquaintances. She is well, I hope? And Mrs. Penhallow also, of course?”
“They both are well, although fatigued by travel, and by . . .” Livia hesitated. “They’ve both suffered a shock, I’m afraid. They were expecting things to be—in a better state than they are.”
Mr. Markson sighed. “Yes. I’ve been an unwilling witness to the decay, the troubles, of these past years. Unfortunately, the difficulties began even prior to the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Penhallow. The current Mr. Penhallow’s parents, you know.”
“Did it have something to do with Mrs. Adelaide?” Livia asked, carefully. “Forgive me if I’m jumping to conclusions. Mrs. Worthing mentioned something about her unwillingness to provide soup—broth?—and I wondered—but Mrs. Worthing’s memory is—well, it’s unreliable.”