by Lisa Berne
The day stretched before her, predictably and endlessly. Katherine pulled the covers up over her head. Maybe, if she was lucky, she would suffocate here in bed, die a peaceful death, and ascend to heaven, in her mind a lovely, quiet place where no one nagged at you, kept you from doing the things you liked, made people you despised sleep in the same room as you, or woke you up before you wanted. In fact, maybe heaven was a place where you could be absolutely alone. Wouldn’t that be a treat?
“Get up, mademoiselle, s’il vous plaît, le friseur will soon be here.”
“What? Why?”
“Votre maman mentioned to me, earlier, that your coiffure requires immediate amendment.”
“But she had it done over last week. And now I have a fringe and look just like a Shetland pony. Isn’t that enough for her?”
“Apparently, mademoiselle, your appearance is not yet satisfactory.”
Even though Céleste’s voice was muffled due to the bedcovers over Katherine’s ears, she could still hear within it a distinct note of malicious satisfaction. She said, more to herself than to Céleste:
“It never will be.”
She was able to state this with some certainty. It seemed that for all her life from Mother, from Father, had issued an endless stream of remarks suggestive of some fundamental lack. Her hair, for example, or her posture. Her complexion, her attitude. And so on. And so forth.
It had been drearily familiar at school, too. Pay attention, Miss Brooke. Head up, eyes forward. Do stop gnawing at your fingernails; it’s most unseemly. What are you scribbling there? No, you may not have more ink. You would be infinitely better off, Miss Brooke, if you could only conform; that is, after all, why your parents have sent you here, so that you might model yourself after the other young ladies. If you behave as though your background is without stain, you may, at least, foster that illusion when among those of impeccable breeding. Will you kindly turn your attention, Miss Brooke, to the front of the classroom. This constant daydreaming really must stop. More candles? What for? The reading interval is over; put down that book at once, it’s a scientific fact that excessive reading damages the delicate tissues of the female brain. So troublesome—again—really, Miss Brooke, it’s most trying.
The memories had come crowding in, and rage ran through her now, ran through her body like a storm—a savage, merciless storm that could turn the sky black, uproot trees, sweep away houses. At the same time, she was rapidly emending her idea of heaven.
It was a place where nobody wanted to change you.
Katherine waited for the rage to subside, bit by bit, and in the slow wake of its receding devastation came deep sorrow, loneliness, and another thought: there was a strong likelihood she’d never gain admittance to heaven, for really, she wasn’t at all sure that she was a good person. For one thing, she was quite unfilial. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d summoned a scrap of affection for either of her parents. For another thing, she furtively spent most of her pin-money on illicit goods. Also, quite frequently she made a pretense of listening to people when really she wasn’t, occupying herself instead by thinking her own thoughts. No, it was the other place where she would probably end up, being prodded with a pitchfork by a devil who would look exactly like Céleste.
“Get up, mademoiselle, or else—”
“I know!” Katherine threw back the bedcovers. “Or else ma chère maman will chide us.” She sat up, and her back began to hurt her even more. “Damn,” she said, but very, very quietly, lest chère Céleste report to Mother that Katherine had been heard to utter a dreadful, low, vulgar word—just like the grandchild of a miner, which, undeniably, she was, a troublesome fact that Mrs. Brooke had for many years labored to conceal.
Having enjoyed breakfast with his usual hearty appetite, and then unearthing a pair of his old brogues entirely suited for a good tramp through the countryside, Hugo had set off for Brooke House, cheerfully disregarding both the light rain overhead and the mud underfoot. He was home, he’d slept well, there was no tripe put in front of him this morning, and here he was, quite literally moving forward with his plan to fix things.
As he walked along the sodden lane, Hugo tried to summon to his mind an image of Katherine Brooke. She had dark hair, he remembered that, and perhaps her eyes were dark also, but he could recall nothing else about her appearance. In her letter, Mama had said that Katherine was sweet and lively; this did align with Hugo’s memory of her. She seemed always to be chattering on about books, dolls, kittens, flowers, and fairies, in such a droll, engaging way that one couldn’t help but be entertained (despite generally preferring to discuss horses, fishing, Army maneuvers, a seal carcass which had washed up on the beach, that sort of thing).
He remembered, now, Mama once saying, Poor little girl, she’s here so often it almost seems as if she wants to live here. But of course I haven’t the heart to turn her away.
There was more to be known about the Brookes, had Hugo wished to consult his mother, or Cook, or Whitehaven’s most fruitful source of information, the wonderfully knowledgeable butcher’s wife.
At the time of which Hugo was thinking, the Brookes had lived next door in a large, handsome brick house very much like that of the Penhallows; it belonged to Katherine’s grandfather, old Joseph Bugle, who had begun his working life as a child joining his father in the coal mines, and eventually—through relentless effort and ruthless ambition—amassing ownership of a dozen mines and an incredible fortune to boot. Having married the equally humble daughter of a collier’s agent, he’d shrewdly snapped up the brick house on the beach when its unlucky owner had fallen on hard times, and there established his bride.
They were blessed in due course with one child only, a daughter, Hester, who had inherited her father’s soaring ambition, except that hers was focused on the social sphere rather than on the financial; at twenty she’d managed to leap up the ladder by eloping with Rowland Brooke, the son of an impoverished Yorkshire baronet—who had promptly disowned him for sinking so low as to marry the offspring of a low-bred laborer. But Rowland hardly noticed; he’d made his choice, had staked everything on his chances with the Bugles.
Never one to willingly part with his hard-earned money, old Joseph had insisted that for the sake of economy Hester and her new husband live under his roof, and for several years explosive acrimony had reigned within.
Joseph loathed his son-in-law Rowland, whom he castigated as a pretentious, dandified ne’er-do-well. Hester resented this as an aspersion on her own cleverness, and told her father so, deliberately throwing in French phrases which he didn’t understand and which rendered him nearly apoplectic with rage. Rowland, for his part, tolerated his father-in-law as one would a large primate with whom one was trapped in a cage—a primate with a finite life-span that happened to be sitting on a bulging chest of gold coins.
Within weeks of their wedding Rowland and Hester discovered that aside from a mutual interest in social advancement they had nothing in common, and it wasn’t long before they were fighting about everything, including whether the sky was really blue and if pigs could fly, albeit in low tones so infused with vitriol that in a way their arguments were worse than if they were shouting.
Old Joseph’s wife, wilting in this turgid atmosphere, quietly and gratefully passed away when Katherine was nine, and the next year Joseph was dead too, having tumbled into one of his own pits, an accident felt by many in the community to be cosmic justice.
The lawyers had barely finished articulating the terms of Joseph Bugle’s will before Rowland, with Hester’s eager assent, had sold the mines and the old brick house, and bought a large piece of land five miles past town, on which they proceeded to have built what they called “Brooke House” and quite a few of the Whitehaven wags termed “Broke House” due to its staggering expense.
Had such calumny come to their ears, Rowland and Hester would have ignored it, secure not only in the 300,000 pounds’ worth of profit from the mines but also in the additional mo
nies that were coming in from Rowland’s new investments. Not all of them were successful, of course, but that was how business went, anyone with half a brain knew that. Why, only last week Rowland had suffered an aggravating loss in the wool market, but yesterday he had received a very satisfying cheque from the proprietors of the Swansea and Mumbles Railway, in whose daring venture he’d had the impressive foresight to invest.
Of this, naturally, Hugo was not aware, but all that really mattered to him was that the Brookes had a daughter, who was yet unmarried, with whom he had, in childhood, shared an affectionate friendship.
He smiled at the memory. Maybe, just maybe, there was still a reservoir of that attachment between himself and Katherine. Perhaps they could find real happiness together.
He walked on.
Absently Katherine eyed Sir John Bronrigg, who was seated in the chair next to hers and had been talking volubly, and at great length, about sealing wax, but as she had been pretending to be deaf, she now had no idea as to his current topic. Cabbages, perhaps, or the King’s latest maniacal outburst. It occurred to her now, all at once, that Sir John reminded her of Monsieur de la Motte, late of the Basingstoke Academy; he was romantically slim, dark-haired, dark-eyed, plus he had a habit of quoting (inaccurately) from Robert Southey’s epic poem The Curse of Kehama with a throwaway air that everyone said was positively mesmerizing.
Katherine waited uneasily for that deadly flicker of response, but there was nothing. No giddy flutter, no longing. No desire to bring him any closer than he already was.
Excellent.
She was completely in control. As cold as a block of ice, and as safe as any locked box.
Into her mind flickered a memory of herself at fifteen, rendered helpless with desire for Germaine de la Motte, and its ugly aftermath when they’d been discovered. What a silly little fool she had been.
But never again.
Katherine kept her gaze fixed on Sir John, idly wondering if, three or four years into the future, her parents would consider him an acceptable matrimonial candidate. Earlier this year, during her Season as unquestionably the richest young lady on the Marriage Mart, she’d received quite a few offers, but Father and Mother refused them all, as they’d been holding out for a duke, or a marquis at the very least.
None had been forthcoming. Naturally it didn’t help that they hadn’t received vouchers for Almack’s, or invitations to the ton’s most select gatherings. Discreet douceurs (as Mother called them; bribes were what they were) to certain financially challenged hostesses had gotten them admitted to some of the better parties, but—alas, no duke or marquis had fallen on his knees before Katherine and offered her his hand and heart.
For Katherine’s next Season, her parents had indicated, they would settle for an earl or a viscount.
Failing that, Katherine supposed, the year after that a baron such as Sir John would have to suffice or even, if all hope by then was lost, a hereditary knight.
And what came below that? She knitted her brows, thinking hard. There was a regular sort of knight, which, progressing from dukes downward, pretty much covered the nobility and the gentry, unless you factored in aristocrats from Ireland, Scotland, and so forth. What about the well-born from further afield? There was the rest of Europe, and Asia, and America (North and South, along with that interesting bit in the middle), and—
Katherine was mentally circumnavigating the globe and so missed the stately entrance of their butler Turpin, who announced in solemn tones, “Captain Hugo Penhallow,” and also she failed to notice the awed ripple that swept throughout the room as well as the rather piquant sight of her parents surging forward to meet their unexpected guest, hailing him as a former neighbor and therefore a cherished member of their acquaintance, and jockeying for the privilege of being the very first to greet him.
It was only Sir John saying “Miss Brooke” in a loud voice that brought Katherine out of her reverie. He went on, more quietly but with a distinct note of awe:
“You know him?”
“Who?”
“Him,” said Sir John, and she followed his gaze, to see an enormously tall, broad-shouldered man walking toward her, with thick golden hair cropped short and eyes the vivid blue color of sapphires. Goodness, she thought, surprised, how had a Greek god descended from Olympus and arrived in their hideously overdecorated drawing-room?
Even as that fanciful thought ricocheted through her mind, even as she stared at him—registering, in a second wave of heightened awareness, the stunning handsomeness of his face, the muscular strength of him and the easy grace with which he moved—an unwelcome, galvanic energy snaked its way through her body, supple and sinuous and merciless. Oh God, no, she’d done with this, she’d quashed this dangerous and humiliating tendency. Her feeling of safety evaporated, and a hot red flush rose up from her throat to her face, rendering her, she thought with awful self-consciousness, the exact shade of a ripe cherry. And why on earth was he smiling at her?
“Hullo, Kate.”
Katherine blinked. The man had stopped before her, flanked by Mother and Father who had suddenly the aspect of guards keeping a prisoner in check. Although he was clearly so powerful he could—like mighty Zeus, say, or Apollo—flick them away like flies. It made for such an appealing image that she didn’t respond, only gazed up at him as if entranced.
“Hullo,” he repeated in a deep, pleasant voice, and then it came to her in a flash.
It was Hugo.
Hugo from her childhood.
Hugo Penhallow, whose memory, curiously enough, had surfaced in her mind once or twice during the Season, thanks to that dreadful old relative of his, and then sunk away into oblivion.
Still she said nothing as he bowed and added, “That is to say—Miss Brooke. How do you do?”
Reflexively, through long habit, suspicion rose within her, and Katherine steeled herself to resist that smile of his. That friendly charm, that impossibly glorious—horribly perilous—masculinity. What platitudes could she force herself to utter? Oh yes, the old fallback: “How do you do.”
“I’m very well, thanks.”
Think, think, you fool. Regurgitate another platitude. “You’re in Whitehaven visiting your family?”
“Not a visit, no. I was in the Army for several years, but I’ve sold out and come home.”
“Oh.” Katherine wished he would go away, wished her fiery blushes would subside, wished she were safely tucked back in bed with a book—
Not with a book, but with him, came the wicked thought, with Hugo, and she scowled in an attempt to disguise her deepening fear as she reeled out of control.
“Katherine, do smile,” said Mother. “Isn’t it merveilleux that Captain Penhallow has come to call on us?”
Her lips were curved upward, noticed Katherine, in a simulacrum of a smile, but in her eyes was the icy alertness of a raptor. Mother was on the hunt again. Without waiting for Katherine to respond she went on with arch animation:
“We recently had the pleasure of meeting your esteemed relation in London. I refer, bien sûr, to Mrs. Henrietta Penhallow. Such graciousness, such cordialité! London was positively abuzz with rumors about her reasons for participating in the Season after such a long absence. So very titillating, don’t you think so, Captain?”
Hugo Penhallow looked at her rather blankly. “I beg your pardon, ma’am?”
Mother’s artificial smile widened. “Why, her search for a suitable bride for her grandson Gabriel. So many young ladies entertaining hopes! But one hears that a rather unexpected jeune fille somehow managed to dominate the field.”
“As to that, ma’am, I can’t say. I can tell you that my cousin’s engaged to a fine young lady, Miss Livia Stuart.”
“Yes, but who is she? No one’s ever heard of her,” said Mother, plainly hoping for confidential information (which could provide her with some status-elevating gossip), and Father put in, “You’re the heir, though, aren’t you, Captain? If Gabriel Penhallow doesn’t have a son?
Or happens to die soon?”
By now Katherine was plunged so deep in embarrassment that willingly could she have murdered both her parents. In front of all the gaping guests. With, say, the exquisite and expensive fan she held, on which the rosy figures of winged cherubs cavorted like idiots. If you used enough force, even delicate horn sticks would work, wouldn’t they? “Father,” she muttered.
He glanced down at her. “What? Happens all the time, doesn’t it? Life’s like that. Unpredictable.”
Brushing aside what she no doubt considered a pointless divagation, Mother jumped in again. “And what about yourself, Captain? Have you selected a fortunate demoiselle to call your own?”
Repressing a groan, Katherine slid down three or four inches in her seat. If she pretended she was boneless, maybe she could ooze off the chair, congeal in a puddle of shame, and be absorbed by the soft fibers of the luxurious Oriental carpet on which her kid slippers rested, thereby disappearing forever. Still, she couldn’t keep from looking up at Hugo Penhallow, on whose handsome face was still that expression of courteous blankness.
“Ah—no, ma’am, I haven’t,” he said to Mother.
“What a loss to womanhood,” she replied, brightening, “I do hope you’ll remedy that très bientôt,” and then she swung around to Sir John Bronrigg. “Oh, Sir John, I’m sure you won’t mind giving way to le cher Captain Penhallow, will you? He and Katherine have so much to catch up on. Do get up, s’il vous plaît.”
“What?—oh!—of course—” Sir John shambled to his feet and was instantly borne away by Father, while Mother stood at a remove of some five or six feet, her vigilant posture making it very clear to anyone of even the dimmest intelligence that her daughter and her distinguished guest were to enjoy an uninterrupted tête-à-tête de la plus délicieuse. Anyone might look, of course, but they had better not approach.
Or they might be very, very sorry.