The Bride Takes a Groom

by Lisa Berne

  Two—the female sex evidently found him attractive, which would make his task easier. For years he had heard himself compared left and right to a Greek god which, as a modest fellow, he found extremely silly. He was one of those tall, fit sort of men, an attribute for which of course he was appreciative, but still, one couldn’t help being born the way one was, and it was decidedly uncomfortable to be stared at as if one were an exotic beast on display.

  Yet if his appearance assisted him in his quest, so much the better. And that quest was to marry into money. He had evaluated his limited options carefully, and all in all this seemed to be the best and the most expeditious way to solve the problem.

  He could have continued to accept assistance from his older cousin, Gabriel Penhallow, who several years ago had not only generously purchased his commission but had also provided him income in the form of an allowance (which he’d had diverted to his stalwart mother, holding the fort back in Whitehaven). No, that sort of thing—charity—was all well and good for a single-minded, Army-mad youth, but he was done with that now. That bullet in his midsection back in April had resulted in a serious, lingering infection which had his kindly commander forcibly putting him onto a ship bound for home, and there was nothing like a long sea voyage when one was weak as a damned cat to inspire an extended period of introspection.

  While Gabriel’s assistance—which also included sending additional cheques to Mama—was gratefully received by both himself and the mater, the plain truth was that it wasn’t sufficient to see the children adequately established in life. With Gwendolyn now fourteen, the twins Percy and Francis thirteen, and Bertram twelve, the issue had become rather more urgent. But he had no intention of asking Gabriel for anything more. Never in a million years could he imagine himself saying, Thanks for all that you’ve done, Coz, and now could you give me many times that sum over again.

  It was, Hugo had concluded, a perfect time in which to take destiny by the shoulders and give it a good hard rattle.

  And as luck would have it, a tremendous storm had blown up as the ship neared the western coast, forcing them to divert from Liverpool to Bude, where, his wound having reopened in spectacular style, he’d decided to hotfoot it to Gabriel’s estate in Somerset, it being much closer than Whitehaven and the last thing he’d wanted to do was horrify his family by staggering home as a moribund invalid.

  Once he got to Surmont Hall he had—in an embarrassingly dramatic fashion—toppled off his horse like a sack of turnips and nearly bled to death on Gabriel’s enormous graveled carriage-sweep.

  Some might have thought this a bad thing, but really, when you looked at it another way, it had all worked out beautifully. He’d been able to recuperate at his leisure, attended by a very capable doctor as well as by servants offering a tempting array of food and drink multiple times a day. Too, it gave him the opportunity to thank Gabriel in person for his generosity and insist that he both accept repayment for the commission and terminate the allowance; to write home alerting them to his arrival upon terra firma; and to receive in return a buoyant letter from his mother which contained along with her usual fond, rambling report of his siblings’ health and activities a tidbit of neighborhood news that had caught his eye.

  According to Cook, who had it from the butcher’s wife who somehow seems to know everything that happens within a twenty-mile radius of Whitehaven, Brooke House is packed to capacity with guests along with, of course, Mr. and Mrs. Brooke as well as Katherine—your former playmate, such a sweet, lively little girl she was!—who had her first Season and received many offers (highly understandable given the extent of her fortune) but came home without, evidently, any of them being accepted. Cook also says that the butcher’s wife told her that one of the custom officer’s children very nearly drowned yesterday. Bertram says he knows the boy and that he’d been told many times to stay away when the waves are rough. How very frightening for his people. Also Cook mentioned—

  Now here, to be sure, was another great piece of luck. An unwed heiress practically on his doorstep! And it was someone he knew, even better, and had, once upon a time, liked.

  To own the truth, he hadn’t thought of Katherine in years. It was well over a decade since he’d last seen her. He had been thirteen at the time, and had come home from Eton for Father’s funeral. The Brookes, then, had lived next door, and more than once had little Kate—five years younger than himself, yet even so they’d been good friends—slipped between the line of bay trees separating their houses and come to console him.

  He’d been grateful for her visits, for a hard time it was, very hard indeed: first the shock of Father’s sudden death, and then its painful aftermath, with his three siblings so little, still in leading strings, and Mama pregnant with Bertram.

  Their man of business, Mr. Storridge, had laid it out plain: the late Anthony Penhallow, always more interested in science than in money, had left behind very little for his family aside from the modest sum of eight thousand pounds invested in the five percents and their big old house overlooking the wide sandy shore that gave way to the blue-green depths of the ocean.

  If the remaining Penhallows practiced the strictest economy, Mr. Storridge had said in his dry, precise voice, they would manage to get by. Hugo had immediately declared his intention to withdraw from Eton and spare Mama the expense of his keeping there, but this she had, in her gentle way, forbidden.

  “Oh, my dear Hugo,” she had said, smiling through the tears which seemed to flow continually during those dark days, “it was your papa’s dearest wish that you receive the same education he did. He was so very proud of you! And wasn’t it clever of him to pay your fees in advance? Almost—” And here she had paused to hold back a pitiful sob. “—almost as if he knew something would happen to him.”

  “Yes, Mama,” he’d replied, “school’s not a bad thing, but what about Gwennie, and the twins, and the baby? I’ll make the headmaster give you back the money. And I’ll find a job. I could become a sailor.”

  “And a marvelous one you’d be, too, darling Hugo. I can just picture you climbing a rigging like a monkey! But do, please, go back to school, and don’t worry about the children. Everything will be fine.”

  Somehow he had managed to swallow a great lump in his throat, and say, “How will it, Mama?”

  “It simply will,” she had answered, confidently. “And look, I’ve just today received a letter from dear Anthony’s cousin Henrietta Penhallow, with an invitation to spend the summer holiday with her and her grandson Gabriel in Bath. You and Gabriel will travel from school together. Isn’t that kind?”

  He would infinitely rather have come home, but had only said, “If it will save money, Mama, I’ll do it.”

  “That’s my brave boy,” she’d said, and at that moment he had felt that any sacrifice, large or small, was worth it, if it could but lighten her load. It was a feeling that had never left him, and now Hugo smiled a little, noticing with pleasure the familiar tang of salt air, and the faintest hint of the ocean’s restless breeze.

  Not much further now.

  With luck, he’d be home by dinnertime.

  Whistling again, gently he pressed his heels into his horse’s side, urging it to go just a little faster, and obligingly it picked up its pace.

  Actually, by the time Katherine reluctantly made her way downstairs, there were only fifteen diablotins hidden in her armoire, as she had managed to eat three more before Céleste had returned.

  A light rain had begun to fall, and dusk was settling its mellow hand upon the streets, buildings, and gardens of Whitehaven, lingering softly upon the broad expanse of sand and sea, as Hugo came to the old stable that stood upon a corner of their property furthest from the beach. He dismounted and thrust the horse’s reins into the hand of the aged groom who had cautiously emerged from the stable and was now staring in evident amazement at the master upon whom he’d not set eyes in quite some time.

  “Hullo, Hoyt!” said Hugo amiably, “you’re looking ex
actly the same, I’m happy to see. Trust all is well?”

  At the other’s dumbstruck nod, Hugo went on, “Splendid! Do take care of this nag, will you? She’s held up wonderfully well all the way here, bless her, and I’m no featherweight, am I? Well, I’m off to the house—hope I’m not too late for dinner. Good night, then.”

  He had already unstrapped from the saddle his neat leather rucksack, and so, after a friendly nod to the still-speechless Hoyt, walked with eager steps toward the large, rambling old house which looked, even to his own affectionate eyes, considerably more dilapidated than he remembered. The reddish clay bricks with which it was constructed were crumbling in places, the sloping slate roof looked extremely weather-beaten, and several windows on the uppermost story had been clumsily boarded up.

  He took this in, and went lightly up the front steps onto the wide, welcoming portico.

  He was home at last.

  From inside he could hear dogs barking—they’d doubtless heard him come onto the portico—along with some odd screeching noises. Not bothering to bang the old iron knocker, Hugo opened the door and let himself in, into a large, high-ceilinged entry hall, shabby and familiar, and quite possibly the nicest place on earth. As he dropped his rucksack onto a bench, a pack of mongrels, all unknown to him and barking fiercely, surged down one of the halls, even as a maidservant scuttled in from the kitchen passageway, looking alarmed and gasping out:

  “Oh! Sir! Was you expected? I’ll just get the mistress, if you’ll wait here, please—”

  “Not to worry, I’ll go to her,” answered Hugo over the tumult of barks, yips, nails madly clicking on wood flooring, and loud hostile panting. “Are they all at dinner?”

  “Yes, sir, but—”

  “What’s your name, then?”

  “It’s Eliza, sir, but—”

  “Quiet!” said Hugo to the dogs who, recognizing the genial tone of authority, instantly subsided and sat on their haunches, wagging their tails and casting up at him looks of servile adoration. He counted them. There were only five, after all, although from their collective volume one would have thought there were at least a dozen, and altogether a motley lot—one was missing an ear, another seemed to have the head of a poodle set upon the body of a dachshund, and still another had eyes of a milky opacity which suggested severe vision problems if not actual blindness.

  Hugo patted the biggest of them, an enormous white and brown Great Dane whose front legs were crooked, and said to Eliza:

  “Tell Robinson to set another place for me, would you? I’ll go in directly.”

  “Oh, sir, but Mr. Robinson’s not here.”

  “Egad, not dead, is he?” Hugo hoped not, as he had been very fond of their old butler; he’d loyally stayed on after Father had died, despite having his wages drastically reduced.

  “Oh no, sir, he’s alive, but his palsy got so bad that the mistress pensioned him off, you see, and he’s living with his daughter Nancy and her family, up on Roper Street. Very happy he is, sir. Takes a pint every day at the pub, and sings in the choir on Sundays.”

  Hugo was pulling off his greatcoat and hanging it on a peg. “Well, that’s excellent news. I’ll go see him later this week. See here, Eliza, I’m hungry as a bear. Can you set a place for me?”

  “To be sure I can, sir! But—but—if you’ll forgive me asking—who are you, sir?”

  “Good God, didn’t my mother tell any of you I was coming? No wonder poor old Hoyt looked as if he’d seen a ghost.” He laughed. “Never mind. I’m the prodigal son, Eliza! The eldest, you know—Hugo.”

  Eliza looked astonished. “Oh! Sir! You’re Mr. Hugo? We was all afeared you was dead!”

  “Dead! Why?”

  “Because the mistress said you’d been shot by a Frenchy, Mr. Hugo, and that you was laid up in your cousin’s house—and then there wasn’t any more letters from you! Cook says them French bullets have a special poison in them, sir, that drains the life right out of a person!”

  Blast it all, he’d deliberately trivialized the nature of his illness when writing home, not wishing to worry them—and why hadn’t Mama gotten the letter he’d written from Gabriel’s house a fortnight ago, informing her that he was fine, and would soon be on his way? Well, he could allay their anxieties right now.

  “I was shot,” he said to Eliza, “but it would take more than some beastly Frenchman to kill me, that’s for certain! Go on, now, and bring me some supper, that’s a good girl.”

  She bobbed a curtsy and Hugo, favoring his left leg ever so slightly, went down the long, familiar hallway, the dogs trotting behind with the same pliant obedience the children of Hamelin might well have displayed while following the Pied Piper. He came to a pair of oak-framed double doors, brought them open, and strolled into the dining-parlor. “I say, I’m home.”

  Five golden-blond heads swiveled in his direction, five pairs of wide blue eyes displayed shocked surprise, and then pandemonium erupted.

  Chapter 2

  “Hugo!” cried Mama, “dearest Hugo!” Swiftly she rose to her feet, as did the others, and they all hurried toward him, their progress impeded by what seemed like a single swirling mass of dogs who gaily circled round their feet, loudly barking, which seemed to trigger that odd, raucous screeching intermixed with somebody begging, “Kiss me, you saucy wench!”

  Hugo was enfolded in rapturous hugs which, laughing, he returned, interrupting the excited barrage of exclamations and questions to tell the dogs to behave (which they did) and to ask of no one in particular: “Who the devil wants to be kissed?”

  “Oh, Hugo, it’s my parrot!” said his sister Gwendolyn, flitting off to a primitively constructed wood perch set near the fireplace on which sat the ugliest bird Hugo had ever seen, a pitiful creature almost denuded of feathers and also sporting a large curved beak which looked fully capable of shredding to bloody bits the fragile-looking hand Gwendolyn held out to it. But it only stepped onto her finger and cackled. “Isn’t he beautiful, Hugo?” she said lovingly, coming near so that Hugo might admire him better at close range. “I’ve named him Señor Rodrigo, el Duque de Almodóvar del Valle de Oro. Isn’t that perfect? The sailor who gave him to me said he was called ‘Stubby,’ but I like this so much better! We call him ‘Rodrigo’ for short, and he doesn’t seem to mind it. Do you, Rodrigo darling?”

  The bird cackled again and Gwendolyn smiled approvingly. “Did you notice Rodrigo’s perch, Hugo? Francis made the stand, and Percy nailed it all together. Isn’t it splendid?”

  “That it is,” said Hugo, “and I can’t think of a better name than Señor Rodrigo! Egad, Mama, why are you crying?”

  “Oh, Hugo, my dear boy,” his mother replied, dabbing at her cheeks with an absurd wisp of a handkerchief extracted from her reticule, “I’m not crying exactly—I’m weeping, you know, with joy! I’m so glad you’re home! We were all so dreadfully anxious about you!”

  Which reminded him. “I sent you a letter two weeks ago. Can’t imagine why you didn’t get it.”

  “Oh, I have it,” said the youngest one, Bertram, pulling from his breeches pocket a wadded-up piece of paper, its wafer crumpled, and holding it out to Hugo. “Mr. Hodgson gave it to me and I forgot all about it.”

  “Bertram, how could you?” said Gwendolyn reproachfully.

  He shrugged. “I meant to give it to Mama straightaway, but I was on my way to Grandpapa’s—we had a lesson in metallurgy and then we did the most ripping experiment with charcoal. We nearly coughed to death, and Aunt Verena was very unhappy about what happened to the curtains. But we didn’t care about that, of course. Or at least I didn’t. Hugo, did you know that puddling was invented by Henry Cort in 1783, and lets you make bar iron from pig iron without any charcoal at all?”

  “Now I do,” answered Hugo. “Give the letter to Mama, will you? I say, Bertie, what happened to your hand?”

  “Well, I was studying all about saltpeter last year,” Bertram explained, “and so there was a jolly good explosion in one of the attics.�
��

  Hugo nodded, just as casually, as if this single sentence was entirely comprehensive. “Yes, Mama wrote me about the explosion, but she didn’t mention that you’d lost parts of your fingers.”

  “Oh, that happened afterwards. It took a while to see what was going to happen. It was exceedingly interesting, Hugo, I do wish you could have seen it.”

  “Wish I’d been here, too. I’m sorry, Bertie.”

  “Sorry? Why should you be? I didn’t have all my fingers amputated. And it was only the upper bits—see?” Bertram held up the afflicted limb and viewed it with clinical interest.

  “Dr. Wilson said he’s never seen someone so brave as Bertram,” put in Mama proudly. “He didn’t cry at all.”

  “What’s to cry about?” Bertram’s tone was scornful. “Besides, it was only the fourth and fifth fingers of the hand I don’t use for writing and so on.”

  “And also, Hugo, when Bertram is all grown up, he’ll be a perfectly tragic figure,” said Gwendolyn with a satisfied air. “All the young ladies will recognize his noble sacrifice for the advancement of science, and fall in love with him.”

  “Oh, don’t talk rubbish, Gwennie! Love!” Scowling, Bertram made a loud and extremely graphic gagging sound, as if the very word left a bad taste in his mouth.

  “Hugo, how did you get here? Did you walk?” said one of the twins, and the other one interpolated:

  “Walk? All the way from Somerset in those boots? He rode—didn’t you, Hugo?”