by Lisa Berne
And there was another thing.
She was struck by how natural it felt to see him there.
It shouldn’t have felt natural, to be in a bed with a man. But it wasn’t just any man—it was Christopher.
She liked knowing that she could, if she wanted, reach out her hand and touch him.
Last night—or, rather, earlier this morning—she had insisted he share the room with her. Share the bed. What, go off and sleep in the stables? teasingly she had told him. Absolutely not. Old Blue Alvin might get you.
It had all happened without any silly awkwardness or discomfort. They had kept on their shirts and their breeches, she had climbed into bed, Christopher had blown out the candles and gotten in as well. They had said goodnight, just as if that was something they did all the time, and that was the last thing she remembered.
As if sensing her gaze upon him, Christopher stirred. Opened his eyes. Saw her, and smiled.
“Buongiorno, signorina.”
“Good morning, ma sherry moo.”
“Come va?”
“Very well, grazie. And you?”
“Likewise.” Christopher stretched, and lazily ran a hand through his hair. “God, did I sleep.”
“So did I.”
“Good. We both needed it, I think. Well, signorina, what’s our plan?”
She thought. “Let’s go check on the horses, to make sure they’re all right. After that, breakfast. I’m hungry again! And then . . . oh, Christopher, wouldn’t it be great fun to go on jaunting about like this? Outwitting robbers and climbing trees? But I think we should go directly back to London. I don’t like to leave Lady Almira alone for much longer. And I don’t even know how to break the news to her about Helen.”
“We’ll figure that out,” he said, “when the time comes,” and it occurred to Gwendolyn how much she liked his use of the word we.
“Yes,” she said confidently, “we will.” She smiled at him, he smiled back, and so their day began. After breakfast they stopped briefly at the water’s edge, where the harbormaster confirmed that de Montmorency’s yacht had indeed sailed away at daybreak.
“That’s that, then,” said Gwendolyn, and looked at Christopher. “On to London?”
“On to London,” he confirmed, and they got onto their horses and rode away from Bournemouth. Their journey, this time, was uneventful, perhaps a little to Gwendolyn’s regret. But she was glad when, arriving back at the Egremont townhouse where she quickly changed into a gown and slippers, she stopped in to see Lady Almira and found her no worse, and perhaps even a trifle improved in health.
“Tyndale’s managed the whole thing beautifully,” Gwendolyn said to Christopher, who had been waiting for her downstairs in the drawing-room. “Lady Almira has no idea that I was away, or that Helen’s gone, or that Cousin Judith is in Great Yarmouth with Philip.”
“Ignorance being a sort of bliss, I suppose, if only temporarily. Tyndale’s had tea brought in. Would you like some?”
“Yes, please, with one of those little iced cakes. Thank you very much.” She sat down next to him on the sofa and took the plate and cup he held out to her.
“You’re welcome, signorina. Oh, and here’s de Montmorency’s letter to the Duchess.” He pulled from his jacket pocket the letter, then set it on the table next to the tea-tray.
“Oh yes, I’ll send it on to her right away, with a letter of my own. Thank you, Christopher.” Thoughtfully she ate the little cake, and sipped at her tea. “I’ve been thinking that we should wait to say anything to Lady Almira until we’ve heard from Cousin Judith. Or does that seem unfair to Lady Almira?”
“No—if you think she won’t notice their absence.”
“I don’t believe she will. She’s anxious that they not visit her and risk getting ill again. So that buys us a little time.” Gwendolyn put her plate on the table and turned to face him. “Christopher, if it’s not a horrible inconvenience to you, would you mind very much staying in Town for a while longer? At least until we know how Philip is, and that Lady Almira can handle all this news.”
“I don’t mind at all.”
Gwendolyn felt herself smiling with both relief and pleasure. “Thank you, ma sherry moo! I can’t tell you how—how comfortable that will be.”
And it was.
Over the next several days, Christopher spent a great deal of time at the Egremont townhouse, patiently waiting for Gwendolyn to emerge from Lady Almira’s room and go with him for a walk or a ride, or to have nuncheon or tea together, or to play chess or simply talk. Day by day Lady Almira improved; and just as she began to speak of rising at last from her sickbed, an express came from Great Yarmouth.
Philip’s surgery had been successful, wrote the Duchess, and he was recovering so well that she hoped to bring him to London within the week, where he might continue to convalesce under the watchful eye of the family’s own doctor. Helen’s elopement was shocking, but one must, she said philosophically, hope for the best, adding that she had sent a notice to the Gazette announcing the marriage, which (the announcement would say) had been privately celebrated due to an illness in the family—thereby quashing any ripples of scandal which might otherwise threaten to rise. As for telling Almira, the Duchess went on, she had full confidence in Gwendolyn and Christopher’s judgment; she only asked they emphasize the fact that Philip was doing well and that Almira would soon be reunited with him.
So on the day that Lady Almira, supported on either side by Gwendolyn and Christopher, made her slow, tentative way downstairs and into the drawing-room, they together told her, in careful and measured terms, about Philip and about Helen. Gwendolyn sat next to her and held her hand as she burst into tears, and they both watched her closely, fearful of an abrupt relapse.
But Lady Almira, surprising them, soon dried her tears. She would, she declared, write at once to her dear impetuous Helen, congratulating her on what was, in fact, a decidedly brilliant match. And she would confer with the housekeeper about preparing a room for Philip, preferably one next to her own, so that she might be available day or night should he need her. She stuffed her damp handkerchief—Christopher’s old one, actually—into her reticule, rose to her feet, and with astonishing energy went away to find the housekeeper, leaving behind in her wake two dropped shawls, a glove, and a small box of comfits.
A week later the Duchess arrived with a pale, weak, but irrepressibly breezy Philip Thane. Motivated by a keen desire to help nurse him, Lady Almira quickly returned to full health, as did also, thankfully, Lizzie and everyone else under the Egremont roof who had succumbed to this rather nasty bout of spring influenza. Gwendolyn and Christopher twice went to Almack’s, where—under Lady Jersey’s indulgent gaze (and a disapproving glare from the Honorable Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, which made them laugh to themselves)—together they danced a few more dances than was entirely proper, Christopher remarking at one point that the pentozali might be a delightful way to liven things up in the otherwise rather staid rooms. One evening they went to Bushy House and dined with the Duke of Clarence, several of his friends, and quite a few of his many children, altogether making for a noisy, lively supper-table which was, they both agreed, a great deal of fun and not in the least bit what one would expect from a senior member of the Royal Family.
Meanwhile the Westenburys had hastily betaken themselves back to Gloucestershire, and it may safely be said that few people in London, if any, missed the Honorable Rupert. There was—inevitably—talk about the broken betrothal between the Earl and Gwendolyn Penhallow, but it was soon overshadowed by more exciting events including a duel fought on Wimbledon Common between two high-ranking members of the Foreign Ministry (over a raging policy dispute), the release of a dozen kangaroos in the zoo (a nocturnal prank by an inebriated young nobleman), and the exploits of a dashing opera-dancer who was rumored to have received half a dozen proposals of marriage from a certain duke (and former war hero) who was becoming increasingly desperate to win her capricious hand.
At a
round this same time, Helen’s beloved horse, under the tender care of no less than three grooms, was duly shipped off to France. Too, several of the more daring young ladies among the ton were going about with hair newly shorn to their jawlines, a style that swiftly became known as the coiffeur à la Penhallow, and was even featured in the newest issue of La Belle Assemblée which Gwendolyn passed along to Lizzie, who stared at the illustration with a kind of proud amazement.
“I tell everyone it was your brilliant idea, Lizzie,” said Gwendolyn.
In due course Percy returned from Brighton, and reacted to the news of Helen’s marriage with a surprise mingled so strongly with disapproval and anger that Gwendolyn looked at him with surprise of her own. Not long afterwards, the lurid London scandal-sheets were reporting that the delectable Viscountess of Tarrington, thought to be carrying on with a military gentleman (perhaps even a member of the Prince Regent’s own Horse Guards), had been abruptly cast off; but, within a matter of days, had taken up with a certain Mr. R., newly arrived in Town, young, impecunious, and extremely good-looking. And Percy, offered the chance for a captaincy in Sumatra, where Sir Stamford Raffles governed, immediately accepted this new post and promotion, and within just a few days was on his way. Gwendolyn and Christopher went to the pier to say goodbye, both noticing in Percy a curious mixture of anticipation, excitement, and a certain bitter melancholy only partially suppressed.
Pleased with Philip’s improvement, the Duchess began making plans for the family to return home to Hathaway Park. And Katherine and Hugo were coming to London to accompany Gwendolyn back to Whitehaven—as well as to allow Katherine to deliver in person her latest manuscript to her publisher, and also to give a talk about her provocative, best-selling book A Vindication of the Novel. This talk she gave in a large hall filled to overflowing, and was so well-received that she got a thundering ovation which went on for nearly five minutes. Gwendolyn, standing between Hugo and Christopher, clapped until her hands hurt, glowing with pride in her wonderful and talented sister-in-law.
Afterwards, the Duchess gave a reception at the townhouse in Katherine’s honor which was so robustly attended that it was deemed a horrendous squeeze—the highest encomium any hostess could wish for, although it was doubtful whether the Duchess (whose preference for country living was well-known) really cared about such things. In the quietest corner of the drawing-room, Gwendolyn stood talking with Christopher.
“So you’re leaving tomorrow, signorina?”
“Yes. Oh, Christopher, I’m looking forward to seeing everyone at home, but I’m going to miss you dreadfully! Are you still planning to go to Nottingham?”
“Yes. For a while.”
“For a while? And after that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Good God, what a crush!” said Hugo. “It’s splendid that Kate is so popular, but the crowds! Nearly got trampled by a pack of adoring book critics on my way over to you.” As Hugo stood well over six feet tall in his stocking feet and was as strong as the proverbial ox, this was clearly an unlikely assertion, but they let it pass. He was looking with keen interest at Christopher. “Did I hear you say you’re going to Nottingham? But only for a while?”
Christopher nodded, and Hugo went on:
“Well, if you’ve nothing better to do, come back to Whitehaven and work with me—for however long you like. Commissions for new ships are coming in faster than Will Studdart and I can build them, and I could use your help in managing the crews.”
Come back to Whitehaven.
This was clearly the best, cleverest, most wonderful idea in all the world and Gwendolyn found herself holding her breath waiting for Christopher to reply. Then she saw that he was looking at her with his dark brows raised a little. It seemed a sufficiently inquiring look for her to burst out at once: “Oh, Christopher, please do! I’d like that so much.”
“Would you, Gwennie? Then I will.” Christopher turned to Hugo and said, “Thanks, Captain Penhallow. I’ll do my best for you.”
Hugo clapped him on the shoulder. “Excellent! And call me ‘Hugo,’ won’t you?”
This new and delightful development made it infinitely easier to say goodbye to Christopher the next morning, and Gwendolyn traveled home with Katherine and Hugo in the highest of spirits. Once back in Whitehaven, she plunged into her life there with enthusiasm. She spent a lot of time reading to and playing with her young nieces Cordelia and Rosalind, whose charming vocabularies seemed to enlarge by the hour. She went frequently to the parsonage on George Street where, in Aunt Claudia’s cozy, light-filled studio, she worked hard at her painting. With Mama she helped at the indigents’ charity, preparing and serving meals, and sometimes she went to the offices of Studdart & Penhallow, Shipbuilders, where she assisted their man of business in wading through the mountain of paperwork that was an inevitable aspect of running a thriving company.
And when, in July, Christopher arrived, they simply picked up where they left off. They went for long rides in the countryside, or on the wide beach. They played chess, cards, backgammon. They talked about books, they debated each other about art; occasionally they argued but would swiftly resolve their quarrels—neither of them, they learned, being one to hold onto a grudge. They went to the indigents’ charity to help there. They walked to the harbor, looking at all the Studdart & Penhallow ships in various stages of construction. Sometimes they took the little sailboat Hugo had acquired a few years back and went skimming along the shore under the high, bright summer sky. And together they laughed a great deal.
Hugo and his partner Will were full of praise for Christopher’s work, to which he applied himself with energy and growing skill. He discovered that he enjoyed managing and overseeing the crews, but he still liked to vigorously pitch in at the sawpits where, he said, the exercise did him considerable good.
Mama and Hugo had offered him a place to stay in the Penhallow home, as had Will and his wife Céleste in their house nearby on Duke Street, but Christopher had thanked them and instead taken up residence in his old house next door to the Penhallows. It had been left only meagerly furnished, but there was a bed and the necessary linens, a few tables and chairs, some dishes and cooking implements, and Christopher declared himself to be entirely comfortable.
Cook, however, being of an old-fashioned bent, was skeptical of any man’s ability to prepare his own food and was quite vocal in urging the family to invite Christopher over to dine as frequently as possible, lest he starve, waste away, and crumble into dust. Invitations were tendered—by Mama, Katherine, Hugo, and of course Gwendolyn herself—and very often accepted, much to Cook’s relief. The little twins took a great fancy to Christopher, demanding on all occasions that he pick them up and twirl them about, laughing with such exuberant glee that it was impossible not to laugh along with them.
And so the months passed from spring, to summer, and into autumn.
It was on a crisp, brilliantly clear afternoon in late November that Gwendolyn, in her bedroom at home, was sitting on her bed and leafing through her London sketchbook.
Here were all her drawings of the Earl, as well as those she’d made of the other, various things interesting her at the time. Some paintings and sculptures she had admired. Pretty gowns that caught her eye. Lady Jersey’s funny little dog Purkoy. A whimsical caricature of Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, with wheels instead of feet. A bird’s-eye view of how she had imagined the maze at Richmond Park would look. The stage at the Theatre Royal, lamp-lights blazing, with Edmund Kean playing the black-clad Hamlet. A cow in St. James’s Park; a bucket of daffodils.
Gwendolyn turned another page and came across the odd wedding-scene on the moon. She looked at it, amused. Rupert’s smelly hat was, she thought, quite well done. And she was pleased to see how nicely she had rendered the proportions of the flying unicorn—it actually looked realistic.
Without a single pang of regret or twinge of pain, she turned the page.
Now she came to some drawings of Christopher.
Dozens of them; pages of them.
Christopher in a thoughtful mood.
Christopher rather stormy-looking.
Christopher smiling, with his eyes crinkled up at the corners in the way she liked so much.
Christopher, soothing the Duke of Clarence’s unhappy horse.
Christopher, very handsome in dark evening-clothes.
Christopher, in bed at the Lion’s Head inn, his head on the pillow and his long hair tousled.
Gwendolyn stared at this particular drawing for a long time.
Then she got a pencil and, next to the drawing of Christopher in the Lion’s Head bed, she sketched a tiny little seed.
After that, she drew the seed again, and added some delicate little roots.
Next, she drew a small plant growing up out of the ground: a stem, a few tentative leaves.
She drew the plant again, but bigger. A small, hardy tree now, with a thicker trunk, more developed roots, more leaves.
And again. Bigger.
And yet again. Bigger still.
Growing, growing. Flourishing.
Finally she drew a tree in full maturity, with deep roots extending into the welcoming earth, a wide sturdy trunk, and a large healthy canopy of leaves.
She looked at it for a while, as if it were a wonderful surprise.
A revelation.
The past, the present, and the future.
It was curious, Gwendolyn thought, how entirely certain she had been that she would go to London and find her one true love. And she had, though not at all in the way she’d believed she would. Instead she had found her one true real love in a very unexpected way.
She looked again—with pleasure, with hope, with a powerful surge of happiness—at this singular page of her sketchbook.