You May Kiss the Bride(99)
She knew she was looking her best, although once seated in the dining-room it didn’t take long for her to realize that she might have well have worn sackcloth, for all the recognition she received from Gabriel. He didn’t even look at her.
The discussion at dinner was all between him and Mrs. Penhallow—serious, intense, rapid-fire.
“Yes, the harvesting has begun,” Gabriel said in response to a question from his grandmother. “There aren’t enough laborers this year, but we’re doing the best we can.”
“And the timber?”
“Yes, of course, some of it will be felled, as soon as we can spare the workmen. It’ll be cut, stacked, and stored for the winter in as many intact barns as we can find.”
“Do you have someone to oversee it? It’s dangerous work. I recall quite a few injuries happening if the men weren’t properly supervised.”
“Young Eccles will do nicely, I believe. He’s to gradually assume full responsibilities as bailiff, by the way.”
“I see. How is his father taking this news?”
“It was hard for him at first, but I believe that it’s also rather a relief for him. He’s not as young as he was, you know.”
“Nor are any of us,” wryly answered Mrs. Penhallow. “You said ‘gradually.’ Is he to work in other capacities?”
“Yes, he’s asked to. He’s agreed to oversee the rebuilding of the cottages. It’s a huge undertaking.”
She nodded. “Good. By the way, I’ve ordered a new stove for the kitchen.”
“To Cook’s joy, no doubt. What does Crenshaw say about the servants’ rooms?”
“They’re in universally poor condition, he reports. I’ve given him permission to find workmen as soon as possible to make necessary repairs. Oh, and apparently every single one of the copper tubs in the laundry leaks.”
“Hardly a surprise,” said Gabriel. “I shouldn’t think anybody’s been down there in years.”
“You’re right, I’m afraid. Also, there’s an odd smell in one of the saloons off the Great Hall.”
“Crenshaw mentioned that to me. He thinks it very likely that a nest of rats died behind the fireplace.”
The old lady shuddered. “I brought Muffin into the saloon but the moment I put him down he ran out with his tail between his legs.”
“Well, I can’t worry about the saloon right now. I’ve got to get the harvest in.”
“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Penhallow said. “Quite right. And I’ve got to find someone who knows about plumbing. Also—”
Livia ate her excellent dinner and said not a word.
And so it went.
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday slowly passed.
She finished Robinson Crusoe and started on James Thomson’s book of poetry The Seasons. She began walking through the gardens, and beyond, for hours each day. If the weather was bad, she walked through the house, unseen, like a quiet ghost, up and down the stairs and along the many hallways and passages. It tired her out and helped her to sleep.
By Friday the only words she had exchanged with Gabriel were “Good morning,” “Good evening,” “The weather is fine today,” and “I fear it may rain tomorrow.”
There was no talk of a wedding.
On Saturday her woman’s time came upon her, answering a question she had pushed to the far corners of her mind; wondering if she and Gabriel had, while in Bath, created a child together. But no. She walked up and down the Picture Gallery, back and forth beyond counting. It turned out there were paintings of Gabriel as a little boy, and he was just as adorable as she had, in Bath, imagined he would be. She didn’t pause long before them, however, she simply walked, her mind turning, sifting, floating as she moved.
This wasn’t how she had envisioned things would go here at the Hall.
Of course, none of them had. And it had to be the hardest upon Gabriel and his grandmother. It was admirable, it was wonderful, how single-mindedly they had both turned to what needed to be done.
Not that she liked being excluded. Or enjoyed how Gabriel had put her aside.
But now was the time for her to be strong. To be patient.
To wait, and be steadfast.
It wasn’t going to be easy.
Sustaining her, though, was the memory of that wildly exciting, tender interlude she and Gabriel had shared in Bath. It wasn’t her imagination; it had been real.
She knew what she had to do now.
Trust. Look to the future. Wait. Love.
When finally it seemed she had walked for miles, Livia went back to her room. She looked around. She didn’t feel like reading or sleeping. She wished, for a moment, that she had someone she could write to. Then, with a gladness that also seemed just a little bit pathetic, she remembered that the string of the reticule she’d brought down to dinner last night had been fraying slightly.