The Bride Takes a Groom

by Lisa Berne

Hugo smiled down at the twins. As alike as two peas in a pod they were, at thirteen both bidding fair to become as tall as himself someday, but at present still more wiry than muscular. “Percy’s right,” he said. “I rode. Old Hoyt’s looking after my horse.”

  Gwendolyn gave a little bounce of delight. “Oh, Hugo, you knew right away which one was Percy and which one was Francis! We all know, naturally, but no one outside the family can ever tell them apart!”

  “How did you, Hugo?” inquired Bertram.

  “Never mind that,” Percy said impatiently, “I want to hear about the horse! How many hands is he, Hugo? Is he a good jumper? You’ll let me ride him, won’t you? Can I do it tomorrow?”

  “She’s a nice, sturdy old roan I picked up in Bude,” said Hugo. “Of course you can ride her—you all can—but not tomorrow. She needs a rest. Took me twelve days to get here. And no, she’s not a jumper.”

  “Damn,” said Percy.

  “Percy, darling,” Mama said.

  “I’m sorry, Mama. But I did want to try jumping. It’s just rotten luck.”

  “Having a horse is better than not having one at all,” Francis pointed out philosophically.

  Percy brightened. “That’s true.”

  “Ah, Mr. Hugo, here you are!” said a gravelly voice, in whose resonant wake came its owner, an immense woman of indeterminate age in a neat gray gown and white ruffled cap, bearing in her meaty hands a tray on which reposed a large bowl of soup, a plate heaped high with bread, a pot of butter, and a tankard filled to the brim with ale.

  “Cook!” said Hugo, “how do you do? You’re looking very well.”

  “As to that,” mournfully responded Cook, moving at a magisterial pace toward the table, “it’s merciful of you to say, Mr. Hugo, but I doubt I’ll last the winter.”

  “Oh, Cook, you say that every autumn,” said Mama, who had had Cook with her for nearly three decades, and whose personality was in every way contrary to her own; yet they had for all these years lived under the same roof in perfect, inexplicable tolerance and harmony.

  “That may be so, madam, but one of these autumns I’ll be right.”

  “Pooh!” Mama retorted. “You’ll outlast us all, I daresay. Let’s sit down, and finish our supper.”

  Everyone went again to their places; Hugo took his at the head of the table. “I say, Cook, it’s awfully kind of you to bring the tray yourself.”

  “Well, Mr. Hugo, that Eliza was so done in by your arrival, all sudden-like as it was, I’d wager a guinea she’d a’ dropped your supper on the way here.” Cook had finished setting out Hugo’s meal, and now she lifted the tray and stood narrowly surveying her handiwork.

  Hugo picked up his spoon, then paused. “What’s in the soup?”

  “Tripe, Mr. Hugo.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  “It’s what we can afford, Mr. Hugo.” Cook heaved a deep, gloomy sigh, very much in the manner of Shakespeare’s Prince Fortinbras arriving at Castle Elsinore only to find the corpses of Hamlet, Hamlet’s mother, Hamlet’s uncle, and so on, together representing the total collapse of the Danish monarchy. Heavily she left the dining-parlor, as one who simply couldn’t bear it a moment longer.

  “It’s not so bad, Hugo,” said Gwendolyn helpfully. “I pretend I’m eating le jambon à la broche, avec la sauce au Madère.”

  “Tripe,” Bertram said, “is made from only the first three chambers of a cow’s stomach, Hugo, did you know that? They use the rumen, the omasum, and the reticulum.”

  “Thank you, Bertie,” answered Hugo politely, putting down his spoon and reaching for a thick slice of wheaten bread which he proceeded to lavishly butter.

  “Walk the plank, you lily-livered dog,” said Señor Rodrigo, el Duque de Almodóvar del Valle de Oro, in a conversational tone from his comfortable roost atop Gwendolyn’s slender, muslin-clad shoulder.

  “Gwennie darling, put Rodrigo back on his perch, please,” Mama said.

  “Oh, but Mama, you often let Rodrigo join us for dinner, and it’s such a treat for him.” Gwendolyn turned huge, melting blue eyes on her mother. “Only see how happy he looks.”

  “Dead men tell no tales,” remarked Rodrigo, and, bobbing up and down on his skinny little legs, giggled in a sinister way.

  “Yes, but I always regret it afterward,” Mama replied to Gwendolyn. “Rodrigo inevitably goes onto the table, where he wants to fight with the candle-flames, and then he expects me to share my supper with him.”

  “That’s because he adores you, Mama. Isn’t he the most delightful creature in the whole entire world?”

  “Yes, of course, darling, but—”

  “Oh, please, Mama, do let him stay. I promise I won’t let him attack any candles.”

  “Well, I’d really rather you didn’t, darling.”

  “But Mama—”

  “Gwennie,” Hugo said, “Mama asked you to do something.”

  Those big blue eyes were now fixed pleadingly on his face. “Oh, but Hugo—”

  “Gwennie.” Hugo’s voice had lost none of its affable kindness, but there was a certain, subtle timbre in it that made Gwendolyn stare, then a little sulkily stand up and return Rodrigo to his perch near the fire.

  “I say, Hugo,” said Percy admiringly, “is that how you ordered your men around? It’s capital.”

  Before Hugo could reply there came to their ears the distant sound of the front door’s knocker being banged, and at once the dogs proceeded en masse to rush off, barking at the top of their lungs.

  “I wonder who that could be,” said Mama, but with such obvious nervousness that Hugo looked at her curiously.

  “Odd time for a caller,” he said, and Bertram commented dispassionately through a mouthful of very chewy tripe:

  “It’s probably that awful Mr. Bambers.”

  “Who’s—” Hugo began, but was interrupted by Eliza poking her head into the dining-parlor to say anxiously, “Oh, madam, it’s that Mr. Bambers for you again. Will you see him? He says he won’t go away till you do, and he’s dripping all over the entry.”

  Mama rose to her feet. “Everyone stay and finish their dinner,” she said, draping her thin wool shawl more securely about her shoulders, “I’ll be back in a moment.” Swiftly she went away, followed by Eliza, and Hugo stood up. He had taken only a few steps when Francis stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  “Hugo,” he said eagerly, “did you bring some books with you? I’ve read all of ours, and most of Grandpapa’s, too.”

  “Have you, Frank? That’s splendid,” returned Hugo. “I didn’t bring any, but we’ll see about getting you some more. Excuse me,” and he patted Francis on the shoulder and went with a brisk, slightly limping step out of the dining-parlor, along the lengthy corridor, and into the entryway where he found his mother in discussion with a tall, cadaverous man in an ill-fitting black coat who was tilting toward her in a way Hugo didn’t care for; nor did Mama, apparently, for on her pretty face was a look of outright distress. The dogs, Hugo noticed, though antagonistic were keeping their distance, leading him to think that the fellow was one of those nasty sorts who kicked dogs, or brutally wielded the huge umbrella he carried and which was, in fact, dripping all over the floor.

  “Your account, ma’am, is overdue. Considerable overdue. I’ve been plenty lenient, ma’am, for months now, but it’s getting to be a problem, d’you see?” He tilted a little closer. “A problem that needs to be fixed, if you know what I mean.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Bambers, you’ve been so kind,” said Mama falteringly, “and we do so appreciate it. It’s just that—”

  “What’s going on here?” Hugo said, and the children, who had slipped up behind him, looked at each other with suppressed excitement. It was the same tone he’d used on Gwendolyn. Hugo sounded perfectly easygoing, but there was, unmistakably, steel in that deep, calm voice.

  “Oh, Hugo darling,” Mama said, turning to him a white and worried face, “this is Mr. Bambers. He’s the coalman. I’m afrai
d we owe him quite a bit of money, and even though it’s raining dreadfully, he’s stopped by to remind me.”

  Mr. Bambers straightened. “That’s it,” he said, adding with unpleasant emphasis, “Twenty-eight pounds, thirteen shillings, and four pence, plus interest accrued, that comes to twenty-nine pounds, seven shillings, and six pence.”

  “You’ll have it soon enough,” answered Hugo, “and in the meantime, don’t come bothering my family again.”

  “Bothering?” For a moment Mr. Bambers was inclined to take offense, and then he seemed to look more closely at Hugo’s height, and muscular breadth, and his overall air of unobtrusive self-assurance, after which he swallowed visibly, bowed, and said, “So sorry to have troubled you, sir. Thank you, sir. I’ll wish you all a good night.”

  It was Eliza who sprang into action then, holding wide the front door and saying cheerfully, “Miserable evening to be abroad, ain’t it, Mr. Bambers? Raining by the buckets out there! Hope you don’t catch cold or nothing, sir.”

  Mr. Bambers glared at her and fled into the rain, Eliza shut the door behind him, and the children gathered happily around Hugo.

  “Routed him, by Jove!” exclaimed Percy. “Usually he hangs about till Mama starts crying, and I wish I had a sword so I could run it right through him.”

  “Oh, Hugo, did you come home rich?” Gwendolyn said hopefully. “Did you win a lot of prize-money?”

  “That’s for sailors, not soldiers,” Percy told her pityingly, then glanced up at Hugo. “But did you? It’d be awfully nice.”

  “I’d love a new gown,” said Gwendolyn, eyeing her old muslin with distaste, and Francis breathed, “Books.”

  “A horse of my own,” said Percy.

  “A microscope,” said Bertram, dreamily.

  “Off you all go,” Hugo said. “I want to talk to Mama. Is there a fire lit in any of the other rooms?”

  “Yes, in the library,” said Gwendolyn, “that’s where we all go in the evening, but Hugo, can’t we come with you? We had very nearly finished our supper when you arrived. And we’ll be as quiet as mice, I promise you.”

  “No,” he said, pleasantly.

  “But—”

  “Oh, Gwennie, give it up,” said Percy. “Let’s go wait in the dining-parlor,” he told the others. Francis followed him down the hallway, and so did Gwendolyn, but dragging her feet; Bertram paused to knowledgeably inform Hugo, “Speaking of mice, we have them,” then trotted after his siblings, the dogs frisking behind him.

  Hugo and Mama made their way into the library, which was just as he remembered it, filled with books and paintings and comfortable old sofas and chairs, a big faded rug underfoot, and heavy drapes drawn tight against the chill of the evening. He sat on one of the sofas, and stretched out his long booted legs on an ottoman; Mama perched on the edge of a chair, sitting very straight.

  “Oh, Hugo darling,” she said at once, “I’m so sorry you had to see that.”

  “Nonsense. I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with that fellow. Mama, have you other debts?”

  “Yes, and I’m afraid—well, I’m afraid there are quite a lot of them. There’s the grocer, and the chandler, and dear Dr. Wilson, who’s been absolutely gracious about it, I assure you! The influenza was horrid last year, and not only did Francis and Gwendolyn contract it, so did Eliza and poor old Hoyt. And your Aunt Claudia also! We quite feared for her life the entire month of November. Which reminds me—we needed a great many bones for broth, and pork for jelly, and so unfortunately we do owe the butcher a substantial amount.”

  She fidgeted with the ends of her shawl, then, clearly determined to give a full accounting, added, “There’s the linen-drapers as well, for the children do grow so, and the expense of the animals—somehow they seem to find us, the poor darlings, and I simply couldn’t turn them away. And I know some people might think it’s ridiculously extravagant, given our circumstances, to pension off a servant, but dear Robinson shakes so dreadfully, and he’s been so good to us all these years! How could I not? And last month I had to take Bertram to Hensingham, to get a tooth pulled—he still has it in a jar on his windowsill, and I’m sure he’ll want to show it to you. Oh, Hugo, Bertram didn’t even flinch! It was he who gave me my smelling-salts afterwards, as cool as you please!”

  Hugo nodded. “Pluck to the backbone, isn’t he? You all are. Mama,” he went on, gently, “I didn’t think you were flush, precisely, all these years, but what with your income from the Funds, and what I’ve been sending, and Gabriel, too—I hadn’t any idea things were so difficult for you.”

  Mama’s enormous blue eyes were shimmering with tears, which valiantly she tried to blink away. “Oh, my darling Hugo, how could I bother you with these trivialities? There you were, so far away, desperately fighting for your life in that horrible wilderness!” She drew a deep breath. “I’ve made a ghastly mess of things, haven’t I? I haven’t even mentioned the Sunday collection-plate, and the subscription to the indigents’ charity! You have every right to scold me.”

  Hugo raised his eyebrows. “Scold you, Mama? Don’t be silly. You’ve done magnificently.”

  She was dabbing at her cheeks again, with that same ineffectual bit of a handkerchief. Then she looked at him and smiled a little. “Have I, dearest? Have I really?”

  Hugo crossed one ankle over the other, and repressed a wince; his leg was really hurting now. It had been a long day. If, he reflected, he were the type of person to indulge in pointless guilt, he’d be obliged to feel bad for having loved being a soldier and enjoying it vastly, when all the while he’d been ignorant of their severe money problems. But—luckily—he wasn’t that type. Both he and the mater, in their separate spheres, had done their best, and wasn’t it humorous that they’d concealed from each other some of the less pleasant aspects of their existence? His wounds, her debts. So he said, with sincerity, “Yes, Mama, you’ve been a brick.”

  “I’m so glad you think so! Oh, Hugo, now that you’re home, safe and well, everything is going to be fine.” Her smile was confident now.

  “To be sure it is,” he said easily. “By the bye, is there any news from Brooke House since last you wrote me?”

  “From Brooke House? Why, no, darling, not that I’ve heard of.”

  “Ah.” Hugo yawned hugely, and turned his gaze to the cozily flickering fire, listening with contentment as a gust of wind sent rain spattering against the windows. How splendid to be inside and warm and dry. Of course, other people might be worrying right now about how many leaks there were in the roof, but he wasn’t, as he had no intention of tramping upstairs tonight to find out. Nor was he brooding, possibly with a certain sense of pressure, about the fact that their situation was quite a bit worse than he’d thought.

  There was nothing he could do about it right now.

  And tomorrow was a new day, filled with possibility.

  Hugo yawned again and got up, saying, “Well, Mama, I’m to bed.” Half an hour later, having said good night to everyone including Señor Rodrigo, who (according to Gwendolyn) gave every sign of wanting to kiss him also (he civilly declined the honor), Hugo was in his bed, utterly relaxed, and deeply, peacefully asleep.

  “Wake up, mademoiselle.”

  Katherine didn’t open her eyes, but only groaned, twisted onto her side, and tugged the soft, rich bedcovers up around her chin. “Don’t want to,” she muttered to Céleste.

  “The morning is well advanced, mademoiselle, and breakfast will soon commence.”

  Katherine groaned again. “I’m tired.”

  “When you stay up very late, it is to be expected.”

  Céleste’s tone was unsympathetic, which was hardly surprising given that she slept on a truckle bed right next to Katherine’s own vast luxurious one, and so had endured—as she often did—the full blaze of a candelabra set on a side table while Katherine, propped up on pillows, read until her eyes grew too weary to continue. And not just reading; also ignoring Céleste’s grumblings and rustlings. Countless times h
ad she suggested that Céleste move the truckle bed to a nice shadowy corner of the gargantuan bedchamber. But Céleste always refused, saying, with the unnecessarily dramatic air of a martyred saint about to be lashed to the pyre, I know my duty, mademoiselle.

  So if Céleste didn’t feel sympathetic toward her, she didn’t feel sympathetic toward Céleste, either.

  Last night she had read nearly into the morning hours, which of course was why she was so tired: she’d been devouring Mrs. Radcliffe’s The Italian, or the Confessional of the Black Penitents. A preposterous novel, filled with lurid and improbable plot twists, but nonetheless wonderfully entertaining. In the end, the beautiful heroine Ellena di Rosalba was released from the convent where she’d been held against her will, and also she learned that not only was she not of humble birth, as she’d believed all her life, she actually had royal blood running through her veins, thereby making her completely eligible to marry her noble and heroic love, the dashing Vincentio di Vivaldi, who more than once almost died for her sake. Plus, all the nasty villains were exterminated, in horrible and very satisfying ways.

  Speaking of devouring, while she was reading she’d also eaten all the remaining fifteen diablotins. Really, now that she thought of it, The Italian was a kind of bonbon in itself—a delicious confection for the brain. And now she was hungry for more. Unfortunately, having finished The Italian, she’d have to reopen negotiations with Céleste for a fresh supply of chocolate and forbidden novels. Bother. Katherine frowned and twisted onto her back, wincing. Blearily she opened her eyes.

  “What’s the weather today? Is it still raining?” she asked Céleste.

  “Oui, mademoiselle.”

  Katherine’s frown deepened. It was pleasant last night listening to the rain pattering against her windows while she was tucked up snugly in bed, but rain this morning meant that Father and the other men wouldn’t go out hunting and shooting; instead they would crowd into the drawing-room after breakfast, where they’d hang about complaining, drinking, making an elaborate pretense of reading the newspapers, and sleeping, thereby taking up a great deal of space on the best sofas as well as rendering Katherine’s enforced interval among Mother and the other women doubly tedious.