by Lisa Berne
They walked in silence, the air around them filled with the soft sounds of rain pattering on leaves. Finally, as they came round the bend that left the woods behind and brought Brooke House looming into view, Hugo said:
“Shall I come in, and speak with your parents?”
“No. I want to think about the settlements. Come again tomorrow, and be prepared to present your demands to my father. As long as they’re not unreasonable, I’m sure he’ll be willing to accept them.” She laughed. “Actually, you could probably ask for anything you like—a chest of ancient Spanish doubloons, a dozen elephants, the Pope’s mitre—and he’ll say yes. To see his daughter wed to a Penhallow! The very pinnacle of his aspirations, and Mother’s too. They may literally grovel. Can you be here around eleven?”
“Of course.” He stopped then, and so did she. “Would you like me to escort you to your door, Miss Brooke?”
“There’s no need. Besides, you’ll want to go off toward the stables.”
“Why?”
“To get your horse.”
“I walked here.”
She stared. “You walked? It’s all of five miles.”
“My horse needed a rest,” he said easily, “and I like the exercise.”
“I’m not,” she said in a challenging way, “a great walker.”
“To each his own.”
“As long as you keep that in mind.”
“I will.”
“Why don’t you take one of our horses? Or one of our carriages?”
“Thank you, but no. I’m looking forward to the walk home.”
“The rain hasn’t let up. If anything, it’s raining harder.”
“I’m used to it,” he said, smiling a little.
“The rough soldier’s life, et cetera?”
“Just so. Well, I’ll take my leave of you then, Miss Brooke. Thank you again.”
Katherine didn’t answer, because with maddening irrationality, she was hoping that he would seize her hand, like a hero in one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s silly novels, and raise it to his lips, or even just clasp it in that big warm hand of his, but he only smiled at her in that mystifyingly friendly way he had, and bowed slightly.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodbye, Miss Brooke.”
“Goodbye,” she echoed, but there came again a twist of fear, the eternal need for concealment, and she said:
“Captain?”
“Yes?”
She tried to make herself sound both authoritative and casual all at once, although she wasn’t quite sure if she succeeded. “You won’t tell anyone that I proposed to you, will you?”
One of Mrs. Radcliffe’s characters would have said, with a sinister gleam in his eye, Your secret is safe with me, miss, but Hugo only replied, in a pleasant tone, “As you like, Miss Brooke,” and instinctively Katherine knew he wouldn’t betray her.
“Goodbye again,” she said, reassured, and turned toward Brooke House, knowing she’d be pounced upon by her parents and exhaustively quizzed about what she and Hugo Penhallow had discussed. It would be easier to simply tell them about the betrothal, but instead she was going to hoard this extremely interesting little nugget of information, mention in an annoyingly vague way that Hugo might possibly be coming again sometime, and enjoy every single minute of her parents’ ignorance. Ha! Who had the power now?
Katherine walked up the broad stone steps to Brooke House, a sudden fancy floating across her mind.
If Brooke House was a castle—and it certainly was big enough to be—and if she were a princess—doomed by an evil curse to sleep her life away—and if Hugo were a prince—and he definitely looked like one—who came to kiss the sleeping princess—and broke the spell—
Why, she’d just been awakened with a kiss.
Katherine smiled, then just as quickly assumed an expression of bored indifference as the front door swung open.
She turned around. A last look. There was Hugo, off in the distance. And there below her, on the steps, she saw it now. She had left behind her a trail of filthy, dirty, messy, muddy footsteps that were as dark as—as black as—sin.
Hugo walked on toward Whitehaven, within him an odd jumble of emotions. The intense relief was still there, yet it also felt a little like he’d just come through a battle. He’d survived, but not without cost. It was rather a silly thought—Katherine Brooke wasn’t his enemy.
Was she?
He sidestepped an enormous mud puddle and recalled her saying in a surprisingly unemotional voice for someone who’d just agreed to be married, This is a business arrangement.
And he remembered how, on the way to Brooke House just a few hours earlier, he’d wondered if perhaps there was still an old bond of affection connecting himself and Katherine. A foundation on which to build genuine happiness together.
It had been an optimistic thought, but it was clear that no such foundation existed. The lively, laughing, sweet little Kate he’d known so long ago had grown up into an entirely different sort of person.
Well, that was life, wasn’t it? Unpredictable, as Mr. Brooke had truly said. Nonetheless, he’d accomplished his mission, would save his family from ruin—that was the important thing. Soon, very soon, things were going to be different: Katherine’s money was going to provide his mother and the children with a better, infinitely more secure future. He was tempted to immediately share his good news, but until he’d formally codified things with Mr. Brooke, it was better to keep it to himself.
Hugo continued on to Whitehaven and then home, where he found, to his pleased surprise, that Grandpapa—Mama’s delightful father—was there, and Mama’s older sisters Aunt Verena and Aunt Claudia too, the three of them having defied the elements to come from the parsonage on George Street. Also gathered in the big drawing-room was a middle-aged man he didn’t know, introduced to him as their neighbor, Mr. Beck, along with his son Christopher, a sulky-looking young man of seventeen or so, and his daughter Diana who was just about Gwendolyn’s age. Rather guiltily, Grandpapa admitted to having splurged and bought a crate of oranges and a pineapple to properly celebrate Hugo’s safe return, even as Mr. Beck was loudly hailed by all the children for bringing with him from the confectioner’s a veritable riot of marzipan, sugared almonds, sticky taffy, and licorice, and Mama said, apologetically, that despite the expense she simply had to have a nice fire lit so that everyone would be comfortable. Hugo laughed, swept her up into a hug, said blithely, “Of course you did, Mama,” and helped himself to an orange.
Later, after their guests had gone home, and after supper, the six of them were cozily settled in the library, dispersed among the various chairs and sofas. The dogs lay in a sleepy mass on the hearthrug, and Gwendolyn conducted an affectionate, low-voiced conversation with Señor Rodrigo, who perched on her fine-boned wrist and seemed to find much of what she said vastly amusing, because he cackled a great deal. Hugo was leafing through an old volume of nautical illustrations, but looked up when Percy cleared his throat and said:
“I say, Hugo, we’ve got something we want to tell you.”
Hugo closed his book and set it aside, noticing that all his siblings were now sitting up very straight, on their faces expressions of eager alertness. Even Señor Rodrigo had quieted, and was fixing him with a sharp, beady eye. To Percy Hugo said, “What is it, old chap?”
“We know how badly off the family is. Mama’s done her best to keep it from us, but we all know it’s true.”
“Oh, Percy darling,” said Mama in distress.
“It’s all right, Mama,” Percy said, “we’re not little children, you know.” He looked again to Hugo. “We couldn’t be more glad that you’re home, but it’s our turn now. We want to help.”
“We’ve been talking amongst ourselves,” said Francis, “and we’ve decided that we boys can get jobs.”
“I’m going to ask at the Globe Hotel if they need a stableboy,” said Percy, resolution in his voice. “I wouldn’t mind that sort of work a bit. I could try the other inns as well, alth
ough the Globe’s stables are the best in Whitehaven.”
“I can do some tutoring,” said Francis, and Bertram said:
“I’ll try to get something at the salt works. I’ve been reading over Papa’s papers, Hugo, did you know he left masses of them? He had some very interesting things to say about salt production.”
“I want to help, too,” Gwendolyn said. “I’d love to be a pirate, because I could get quite a lot of money very quickly, and also it would be delightful to be a dreaded scourge of the high seas. And Rodrigo would simply adore it, wouldn’t you, darling?”
“Cleave ’em to the brisket,” replied Señor Rodrigo agreeably.
“But,” Gwendolyn went on with a sigh, “it’s not a very practical plan, is it? I don’t have a ship, or a crew, or even a single cutlass. So I’ve decided I can be most helpful by marrying someone who’s already rich. I know I’m only fourteen, but I’ve asked Christopher Beck to marry me, and he says he will. The difficulty is that he won’t come into his money for four more years, and by then it would be too late. So I thought perhaps I could somehow persuade Mr. Beck to marry me, even though he’s terribly old and a widower, which really, when you think about it, is a very troubling word, isn’t it? I always think of spiders. But, of course, if Mr. Beck weren’t a widower I couldn’t marry him. Yes,” Gwendolyn concluded, her tone surprisingly cheerful for one prepared to throw herself away on a man four decades her senior, “it would certainly be a sacrifice, and I daresay I wouldn’t like it at all, but one shouldn’t cavil at doing distasteful things when one’s family needs one. Besides, I’d be just like a tragic heroine in a novel, and that would be consolation enough for me. I’d wear black every day and droop, just a little, so that everyone would know how greatly I suffered.” She demonstrated this by leaning her slender frame forward and lowering her head, thus creating a poignant suggestion of a tender spirit irreparably broken.
Hugo didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or join Mama in a quiet bout of weeping, so touched was he, but he subdued both extremes of emotion and only said to the children:
“It’s awfully nice of you. Thank you. We can talk about it more at another time, but for now, I’d love to know what you’d do if money weren’t a question.”
“You mean if we had a secret benefactor who died and left us his entire fortune?” Gwendolyn asked, straightening up. “I’d like that more than marrying Mr. Beck.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean,” Hugo said, smiling at her.
“I’d go to Eton, like you, Hugo,” said Percy without hesitation, “and get my commission in the Army when I’m eighteen.”
“I’d go to Eton too,” Francis said, “and then on to Oxford, so I could be a scholar and a clergyman like Grandpapa.”
“School for me also,” Bertram said, “and later I’d like to study in Frankfurt, as Papa did, as long as they’re able to keep those odious French away. Then, of course, I’d become a scientist like he was.”
“Duly noted,” answered Hugo. “What about you, Gwennie?”
“Oh, Hugo, I don’t know, really.” Gwendolyn’s exquisitely pretty face was thoughtful now. “On the one hand, I want to do something useful and important. But on the other hand, I’d like to have some adventures. And I’d want so much to have a London Season, and go to a different ball every night, and have a beautiful wardrobe with all the latest fashions, and meet my one true love.”
“You could do all of this,” Francis pointed out. “It doesn’t have to be just the one thing.”
Gwendolyn brightened. “That’s true.” And then all the light went out of her expression. “But it’s only make-believe, Hugo, isn’t it? We’re just building our castles in the air.”
Then Mama said in her soft voice:
“There may be a way, after all. Mr. Beck has asked me to marry him, and I believe he’s quite well-off.”
At this stunning pronouncement, everyone stared dumbly at her with open mouths.
“Shiver me timbers,” said Señor Rodrigo, and began to preen the few bedraggled feathers with which his scrawny breast was adorned.
“Do you—do you want to marry him, Mama?” Hugo asked.
“Oh, dearest Hugo, not in the least! Mr. Beck is a very amiable gentleman, and he’s been a wonderful neighbor to us for these past few years, but I often think that I buried my heart along with darling Anthony when he died. The wifely part of my heart, I mean. However,” she added stoutly, “I’d do anything for my family.”
“Oh, Mama, it would be dreadful to marry someone you didn’t love,” put in Gwendolyn earnestly. “I’d do it, but that’s only because I haven’t had my one true love as you have, so it wouldn’t matter as much.”
“I’d do it,” said Bertram, “but only if the girl I married promised not to bother me, especially when I’m doing my work.”
“I’ll be busy in other countries, fighting and all that, so I suppose it wouldn’t be a problem,” Percy said. “I’d never have to see her, which would be good because she’d naturally be beastly. What about you, Frank?”
“Of course I’d do it,” said his philosophical twin, “but that doesn’t mean Mama should. We’ll get by, Mama. Mr. Beck is awfully nice, but don’t marry him unless you really and truly want to. It’s better to eat tripe than to be unhappy.”
The other children agreed in a chorus, and Mama’s troubled expression finally lightened. “Well, if you don’t mind, darlings, I’d rather not, and just remain friends with Mr. Beck.”
Hugo felt as if his heart would burst with love and gratitude for all of them. He was more tempted than ever to reveal his news; through a herculean act of will he refrained, although he was caught up short when Mama said:
“Dearest Hugo, you look exactly as you did when you’d pulled a great prank and were longing to tell everyone.”
He tried to make his face bland. “What do you mean, Mama?”
“You look very mischievous, my darling.”
“Oh, Hugo,” said Percy eagerly, “have you done something ripping? Like the time you jumped off the roof into a water barrel?”
Hugo laughed. “How do you know about that dark incident from my past?”
“Hoyt told me about it ages ago, and I’d give anything to try it.”
“Did he also tell you I twisted both my ankles so badly I had to stay in bed for a month?”
Percy’s face fell. “No.”
“Did you miscalculate the angle of your descent, Hugo?” said Bertram. “You’d have to factor in the pitch of the roof, of course, along with estimated velocity and the force of impact. People think water would make for a soft landing, but they’re wrong.”
“As I found to my dismay,” said Hugo, laughing again. He leaned back on the worn, comfortable sofa and laced his fingers together behind his head. “I say, do you suppose we could have some tea? And is there any marzipan left?”
Too excited to sleep, Katherine lay awake all night, trying to read, ignoring the tossing about and irritable muttering from Céleste in her truckle bed, and wishing she had another stash of diablotins. When morning came at last, she was tired and rumpled, but so placid that Céleste looked at her suspiciously, and under her breath said something about informing la chère maman that Katherine had refused to get much-needed rest.
“Go ahead and tell her,” said Katherine, “I don’t care,” and when Céleste as usual very roughly dragged the hairbrush through her tangled curls told her—for the very first time—to stop it.
As if hearing something new, something different, in Katherine’s voice, Céleste did, looking at her—for the very first time—just a little bit uneasily.
Chapter 5
Having stopped in Whitehaven for a very helpful visit with Mr. Storridge, their man of business, Hugo arrived at Brooke House—promptly at eleven—with a very precise sense of his needs. As he went up the steps he smiled, thinking how Mr. Storridge had, in a very short time, gone from a mood that could only be described as gloomy pessimism into a state very nearly ap
proaching cheerfulness.
The massive front door was swung open and he was with reverence ushered by the butler Turpin into a colossal library where, having refused an offer of refreshments, he was left to await the family’s arrival.
Hugo took a turn about the room, marveling at the sheer quantity of books lining the mahogany shelves. There were several hundred, if not thousands. How Francis would love it, he thought, and paused before a shelf housing a magnificent array of tall, elegant tomes bound in soft burgundy calfskin. The complete works of William Shakespeare. He took A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream—wasn’t that the one with all those weddings in it?—and opened it up, only to find that the pages were blank.
Odd.
He took out Much Ado About Nothing.
Its pages too were blank.
He went to another shelf, and opened up Chaucer’s Treatise on the Astrolabe.
Also blank.
Another shelf: Homer’s Odyssey. Blank. Machiavelli’s The Prince. Blank. Yet another shelf: Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift. Blank. Beowulf. Blank. Voltaire’s Candide. Blank. Goethe’s Sorrows of Young Werther. Blank.
What the devil?
He was still holding open Sorrows of Young Werther when the library’s door was flung wide and in hurried Mr. and Mrs. Brooke, followed at a more leisurely pace by Katherine. At the sight of her, Hugo blinked. She was wearing a blindingly white, high-necked gown ornamented from throat to feet with a double column of large topaz buttons that glinted and twinkled; over this she wore a loose gold-colored robe fringed with silky tassels, and on each of her wrists jangled several gold filigree bracelets studded with topaz gemstones.
It did not seem to Hugo that yellow was a color particularly suited to Katherine’s complexion, but then again, what did he know about fashion? He closed the book and restored it to its brethren on the shelf, and came forward to greet the Brookes, as he did so flashing an inquiring look to Katherine, on whose face was an expression that struck him as rather impish. Very slightly did she shake her head, which at once communicated to him that she hadn’t told her parents why he was here.