“Gabriel,” she said softly, “good morning.”
“Good morning.” His voice, he knew, was cool, and he watched as some of the light left her eyes. She said:
“Are—are you well? You look tired.”
“I’m fine. I’m busy.”
“Yes. I understand.”
He wanted to thank her for all that she had been doing. He knew that it was because of her efforts that bit by bit, day by day, the Hall was looking better, more loved. But he couldn’t force the words from his mouth. It was amazing how shame could turn a person into a caricature of oneself. If she had thought him arrogant and aloof before, it was as nothing compared to how he presented himself now.
“Well,” he said out loud, “I must be off. If you’ll excuse me.”
And now she looked as if he’d reached out his hand and shoved her away. His heart twisted painfully within him and he thought of that line from Corinthians, about seeing things through a glass, darkly: it was as if he watched Livia blur and fade within his vision. He was a fool and a failure; how he hated her seeing thus. Seeing him like this. Christ, but he had so much to do, to make things right.
Make things right for the Hall, for the estate and its people. Make things right for her. And for them both.
He dipped his head in a curt farewell and brushed passed her.
Leaving her standing there, with her lovely green eyes shimmering with tears.
Chapter 16
He was wearing the Penhallow Mask once again. And he had been avoiding her. That was now quite obvious. Fiercely Livia rubbed her eyes. No crying. No. Instead she went to the Rose Saloon and with tiny neat stitches sewed up an enormous rent in one of the velvet draperies.
Then she went to the kitchen garden, to see if the parsley had revived, and if there were any potatoes that could be dug up.
Then she talked with Little Walter about reinforcing the rotted enclosure circling the poultry yard.
Then she went into the Great Hall, where she found Crenshaw supervising two footmen who were cleaning the armament display. She was asking him whether a fresh supply of candles had arrived from the village when all at once came a patrician voice:
“If the candles in my room are an indication of the quality to be had in the village, I shall have Miss Cott write to our chandler in Bath, until such time as a more conveniently located purveyor can be found.”
“Granny!” exclaimed Livia, quickly turning.
There was Grandmama, impeccably dressed in a beautiful blue-gray morning gown and not a silvery curl out of place. Behind her stood Miss Cott, also neat as wax, but still pale and wan.
“I’m so glad to see you!” Livia went on joyfully. “Is there anything you need? I was only inquiring about candles but I can ring for—”
Grandmama came forward, her air of authority so palpable that instinctively Livia took a step back. “Thank you, that will be all,” she said to Livia, pleasantly, but in a cool, formal tone. “Now, Crenshaw, I wish to speak with you about engaging additional servants. Also, the rugs in the chief bedchambers are woefully dirty and require a thorough cleaning as soon as can be arranged. Can the chandeliers in the dining-room be polished this week? I would also like to arrange—”
“I beg your pardon, but I did talk to Crenshaw about the chandeliers, Gran—” Livia started to say Granny, but suddenly didn’t feel as if she had the right.
“There is a particular way that it is done here at the Hall,” answered the old lady, still in a pleasant, formal voice. “Naturally you are ignorant of it, through no fault of your own, of course.” She looked back to Crenshaw and continued speaking with him, and Livia knew that she had been—why, she had been dismissed. Yes, apparently this was going to be the story of her life. She saw Miss Cott give her a sympathetic glance but couldn’t bear to acknowledge it.
She went to the library, selected a book almost at random, went back to her bedchamber, curled up in a wing chair. She read her book. It was Robinson Crusoe, about a castaway on an obscure island. She paced around the room. She tidied the items on top of her dressing-table although they didn’t need it; she was only rearranging, really. She took a nap. She looked out the window.
It must have been late afternoon when Flye tapped on her door and told her she would be wanted at dinner. The whole family would be there.
“Oh?” said Livia, hope surging, irrepressibly, within her. She chose a gown she hadn’t yet worn, white gauze over white silk, with tiny, dainty pink rosebuds adorning the neckline and the hem. And she asked Flye to plait her hair into braids which were twisted into a cunning arrangement high on the back of her head, with a sparkling oval clasp of paste diamonds as an ornament.