The Bride Takes a Groom

by Lisa Berne

  He had to wait for half an hour until Mr. and Mrs. Brooke’s flow of urbane small talk began to show signs of ebbing; and another fifteen minutes while the butler and four of his underlings solemnly paraded in and proceeded to lay out a quantity of food and drink sufficient for a small army; and then, at last, when they had gone, he made known to the Brookes his wish to marry their daughter Katherine.

  The aftermath was protracted and deeply embarrassing to him. As Katherine had cynically predicted, her parents, in their extravagant effusions, seemed to him very nearly on the verge of sinking to the floor and prostrating themselves before him. Katherine, he saw, sitting at her ease in a high-backed chair upholstered in emerald-green velvet and in one hand a plate heaped high with macaroons, gave the strong impression of barely restraining a wild outburst of laughter.

  Eventually the discussion proceeded to terms. Having established with Mr. Storridge an appropriate sum—encompassing his brothers’ education, and the means by which to establish them in their careers; Gwendolyn’s education, Season, and dowry; Mama’s maintenance and comfort, including much-needed repairs to their house; and, finally, a modest amount which he could invest for his own sustenance—Hugo now named it, and made mention that Katherine—that is, Miss Brooke—wished to keep money matters separate. He glanced over at her, and saw that she was nodding, as well as jiggling her feet in their yellow kid slippers as if this was the only way to contain an intense impatience.

  Mr. Brooke agreed at once to his terms, and began talking fluently of elite fiduciary instruments, capital enhancement, private partnership versus public ventures, joint-stock firms, and South Sea share flotation. “So you see, Captain,” he concluded, “it would be much to your advantage to allow me to reinvest this sum, rather than merely placing it at your disposal. Naturally, as family, I’d be delighted to forego the customary three percent emolument for such services.”

  “That’s very kind of you, sir,” said Hugo, “but I’d prefer a cheque.”

  “Still, Captain—”

  “Oh, Rowland, do stop, mon cher, it’s all so tedious,” intervened Mrs. Brooke, with a smile on her lips and venom in her eyes. “Enough prosing on about les investissements! Let’s talk about the wedding, and about next year’s Season. Ma foi, but it shall be a very different experience! We must lease a different house—with une salle de bal for four hundred at least—and hire a better sort of staff, and—”

  “But my dear Hester,” said Rowland, in an affectionate voice issuing from between visibly tightened lips, “what could be more important? First things first. And now, Katherine’s financial situation must be dealt with.”

  He turned toward her and launched into another long speech peppered with so many arcane terms, as well as self-congratulatory allusions to his financial acumen, that after a minute or so Katherine stopped listening. A long and painful chapter in her life was closing, and she was about to wrap it up by delivering her coup de grâce, the revolutionary idea she’d had yesterday. Goodness, how Father could talk, talk, talk, and how obviously was he enjoying himself. Finally, about to explode with impatience, she interrupted him:

  “Oh, do as you like, Father, just as long as the income is mine alone. How much will I receive each quarter?”

  He disclosed a figure which, Katherine saw, had Hugo opening his eyes wide in astonishment. She only nodded, and responded:

  “Very well. Is it all settled, then? Are the captain and I officially betrothed?”

  “Yes,” said Father quickly, as if forestalling any potential objections from Hugo Penhallow.

  Mother clasped her hands together under her chin and exclaimed, “Je suis ecstatic, absolument enchantée, aren’t you, Katherine ma douce?”

  “Oh yes,” answered Katherine, “I’m enchanted too.” With a certain ostentatiousness she popped another macaroon into her mouth.

  “Let me see,” Mother went on, oblivious for once, “we could make arrangements for a special license and have the wedding right away—but preparing a suitable trousseau will take a great deal of time, and—”

  “I suppose, Captain,” Father broke in, “you’ll be inviting Mr. Gabriel Penhallow and Mrs. Henrietta Penhallow to the wedding, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” said Hugo, “although—”

  “If you sent an express today,” Father went on, “they’d get it in four or five days—and it would be at least a week before we could expect a reply—and I daresay it would take a minimum of three weeks for them to get here—old ladies travel so deuced slowly—and then there’s Christmas. So shall we set a date for the beginning of January?”

  “That’s fine with me, sir. I’ll write to them today. However—”

  “Merveilleux!” cried Mother. “Only think of it, a wedding with la chère Mrs. Penhallow in attendance! And Mr. Gabriel Penhallow, too! We’ll be quite the talk of the ton! And then after the wedding, the four of us will travel to London, en famille, in plenty of time for the Little Season.”

  Here it was. Mother had unwittingly provided the perfect opening, and it took everything Katherine had to keep from grinning like a hyena. Struggling to keep her voice calm, she said:

  “No, we won’t.”

  These three simple words produced just as satisfying an impact as she had hoped. Her parents looked as if she’d just announced with irrefutable authority, The world is ending tomorrow, the sky is falling, and pigs can fly.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Father, clearly unable to believe the evidence of his own ears.

  “Captain Penhallow and I will be going to London, but you and Mother are to be elsewhere.”

  “Elsewhere?” Mother said sharply. “What does that mean?”

  Ordinarily that tone in Mother’s voice would have made Katherine’s stomach clench, but today—oh, today was different. She thought of old Mrs. Penhallow, standing in the Royal Academy of Art as if she owned it, and how she had managed with superb aplomb to look down her nose at people who were taller than she was. Katherine did her best to mimic the old lady’s haughtiness, and answered:

  “It means, ma chère maman, that you’re to stay out of London. It pains me to mention it,” she went on mendaciously, “but you and Father will, I’m afraid, only hold me back. Do be logical. How often has Father rebuked you for your lowly birth? And how often have you told him, Mother, that he’s merely the son of an obscure, pauperized baronet? So you see, it’s really all for the best.” She picked up the last macaroon from her plate, and as she bit into it, glanced at Hugo Penhallow whose expression was now quite blank. He probably thought she was the worst sort of harpy. If only he knew what her life had been like . . . Pride made her lift her chin, look away as if she didn’t care.

  “I’ll withhold my consent to the marriage, you devious little baggage,” said Father, his face a rather comical shade of red.

  “You can’t. I’m twenty-one. My birthday was last month, as perhaps has slipped your mind.”

  “You won’t get a penny, then! And when Captain Penhallow asks to break off the engagement, I’ll permit it! And cut off your pin-money!”

  It was a clever gambit, Katherine had to admit, her nerves prickling in alarm. The slightest misstep could destroy everything. And if she was left without funds, how could she pay for her books, her sweets? Money was such a comfort when you had nothing else. Stay the course, stay the course, she warned herself, feeling a little sick with sudden tension as well as from eating all those macaroons, unable to resist the opportunity to brazenly do it right in front of Mother.

  “I don’t care,” she said, making her voice cold. “It’s not as if this is a love-match, and I’ll wither away and die of a broken heart. Cut off my pin-money, lock me in my room. It doesn’t matter to me.”

  There was a silence.

  But not a peaceful, meditative one.

  No, it was a silence filled with so much roiling hostility, so much enmity and malice and spite, that it was practically deafening.

  Father looked as if he could
happily throttle her, and Mother was wringing her hands in—had she but known it—a very effective imitation of Lady Macbeth’s anguished “Out, damned spot” scene. Hugo Penhallow went without hurry to the window, turning his back as if to remove himself from what had become a ghastly little family confrontation. It also gave Katherine an excellent view of his broad shoulders, and the narrowing line of his athlete’s torso showcased by his austere buff-colored tailcoat.

  A very masculine, very appealing line.

  Oh, she liked it.

  And oh—here it came again, damn it, damn it—she wanted him.

  For a few disorienting moments Katherine was just about to back down—tell her parents she’d changed her mind—do anything to keep Hugo Penhallow—but instead she dragged her gaze away, looked down, and began to turn one of the bracelets on her wrist as if it were the most fascinating activity in all the world, something she could do all day, into the night and, possibly, forever.

  Turn, turn, turn, round and round . . . It occurred to her, abruptly, to wonder if what she had said was hurtful to Hugo. Surely not. Surely he knew she was playing a desperate game? Playing hard, and for keeps?

  “Rowland, mon petit chou, I beg you to reconsider,” said Mother, in an unusually soft, persuasive tone. “Katherine’s success will be our success, n’est-ce pas? We can go to Bath—or Weymouth—or Tunbridge Wells.”

  “Those little watering-holes!” retorted Father with contempt.

  “C’est vrai, they’re not London, but they are very lively, very sophisticated, and keep in mind that no one, absolument no one, will be able to eclipse us! We’ll be able to say ‘our daughter, Mrs. Penhallow’—we’ll be the cynosure of all eyes. That will be very agreeable, oui?”

  “Yes,” Father replied slowly. “Yes, it would. There is much in what you say.”

  Steeling herself to remain calm, Katherine glanced at him where he sat very still in his seat, one hand rubbing at his chin. Then at last he turned hard eyes on her. “Very well,” he said in a curt voice. “The marriage can proceed under the terms to which we’ve agreed. Later we’ll revisit the question of London for the year after next.”

  “To be sure, Father,” Katherine said demurely, while thinking at the exact same time, It will never happen, never! I’ll find a way to ensure that, rest assured.

  And then it hit her.

  I’ve won.

  I’ve won.

  I’m free.

  An extraordinary feeling came to her then. It was a kind of buoyancy. Lightness. As one might feel, perhaps, having eaten not a handful of diablotins, but a thousand—

  No, wait, interrupted her busy mind, that’s not a good analogy, if you ate a thousand diablotins you’d be sick. And maybe die. I think what you mean is that you’re—

  “Well, isn’t this splendide!” exclaimed Mother, but it was Hugo Penhallow at whom Katherine was looking, as slowly he turned around, on his handsome face that same expression of courteous, inscrutable blankness. Did he loathe all of them? Who wouldn’t, really? But she—she was different from her parents, wasn’t she? Katherine couldn’t help it, a curious, almost desperate impulse compelled her to stand up, to walk over to Hugo, to draw near him, and quietly say, over the awful jangling of her bracelets:

  “You were wondering about that book you were holding, Captain, when we came in? It’s a fake. They all are in this library.”

  “I see,” said Hugo politely, pleasantly, but it seemed to Katherine that the light inside her drained away in a single beat of her heart, and that the sweet taste of triumph had all at once turned to ashes in her mouth.

  Hugo’s news about his sudden engagement was received by his family with reactions varying from blasé acceptance to astonishment.

  “Katherine Brooke?” said Gwendolyn, eyes wide. “She used to live next door, didn’t she, when I was little? And now she lives out in the country, in a house so big it’s like a palace?”

  “Yes, that’s her,” answered Hugo smilingly.

  “Oh, Hugo, is Katherine your one true love? You’ve never stopped loving each other all these years, and Katherine’s been waiting for you to come home so that you can claim her for your bride?”

  Hugo was spared the necessity of thinking up a suitable reply when Cook, who had billowed into the library with a plate of her lemony Shrewsbury biscuits, remarked as if offhandedly on her way out, “Butcher’s wife says those Brookes have more money than they know what to do with.”

  “Are we going to be rich then, Hugo?” asked Bertram. “Because if we are, Grandpapa and I could do a very interesting experiment on glass sintering.”

  “Not rich, Bertie, but comfortable. And yes, you and Grandpapa can sinter away. Whatever that is.”

  “Oh, good,” said Bertram, as if this entirely wrapped up the conversation, and went back to his book.

  “Hugo,” Gwendolyn said, her voice trembling with excitement, “does this mean I’m going to have a Season?”

  “To be sure. But not, you know, for a few more years.”

  “I can wait. I’ll wait so very, very patiently now that I know it’s going to be happening. Thank you, Hugo!”

  He smiled at her, and took one of Cook’s delicious-looking biscuits. “It’s Miss Brooke you ought to be thanking.”

  “I will,” Gwendolyn promised breathlessly. “Of course I will! Oh, Hugo, she must be the nicest, kindest person in all the world!”

  Hugo hesitated, not quite sure how to reply as he was not at all certain if, in fact, his betrothed possessed either of those qualities in abundance. Thoughtfully, he wondered what he could say, and bit into the biscuit. By God, Cook had done it again. Somehow, on the tightest of budgets, she’d managed to produce the world’s best Shrewsbury biscuits. He reached for another one.

  “Heave ho, you bilge-sucking scallywag,” said Señor Rodrigo, in such a darkly menacing manner that Hugo burst out laughing and offered him a piece of biscuit which Rodrigo, in a sudden turnabout, accepted in his outstretched claw with an air of gracious condescension.

  And so the subject of Katherine’s personal qualities was closed, although later that day, when Hugo went to the parsonage to further share the news with his grandfather and aunts, Grandpapa took Hugo into his study, shut the door, and said in his quiet way:

  “My dear Hugo, are you quite certain about this plan of yours?”

  “I am, Grandpapa.”

  “Indeed, I see your resolution. And how can I not appreciate the sacrifice you’re making for the family? But—” His grandfather hesitated. “But yours is an affectionate heart, Hugo. I should have liked to see you marry for love, as I was fortunate to do, and as my own dear Elizabeth did with your father.”

  “It’s a kind thought, Grandpapa, and I appreciate it. But I’m not repining. I’ve never fallen in love, nor had any particular expectations about it.”

  “Perhaps you haven’t had the opportunity. Or you haven’t yet met the right woman.”

  “That may be. Or perhaps I’m not cut out for it. At any rate, you needn’t worry, though. I’m content.”

  “I can see that also,” Grandpapa answered, and turned the talk to something else, though Hugo, in his turn, could see that his grandfather was not, himself, at all content.

  23 October 1811

  Dear Coz,

  Trust this finds you all well. Things were rather topsy-turvy when I left Surmont Hall a few weeks ago but I hope everything’s been satisfactorily resolved. Am getting married on January 2nd here in Whitehaven, to Miss Katherine Brooke, and wonder if you, Livia, and Aunt Henrietta would like to attend? Unless I miss my guess it’s to be a great elaborate affair—not how I’d have preferred it, but so it goes. I know it’s a goodly distance to travel but of course it would be splendid to have you all here.

  Yours ever,

  Hugo

  In between sending announcements to all the really important periodicals, writing gloatingly to everyone they knew, feverishly planning the wedding, and assembling a trousseau of a magn
itude not unlike that which traveled with young Marie Antoinette to her marriage to the Dauphin of France, Katherine’s parents did manage to find the time to call upon Hugo’s family, dragging along a reluctant Katherine in their train.

  The visit was just as bad as she’d thought it would be.

  First, there was something deeply intimidating about the sheer physical presence of those six Penhallows, each and every one of them tall and straight, with lustrous golden hair and vivid blue eyes, altogether surrounding her with so much dazzling human pulchritude that she found herself beating a mental retreat to a fascinating extract she had once read—it was about the genetic laws of nature—and pondering the mechanisms by which such consistently fine specimens had been produced.

  Second, no sooner had she sat down than a pack of dogs had swarmed into the drawing-room, one of which was so big that it could look her in the eye. Which it did, and then tried to lick her face. And she had squeaked in a very loud and mortifying way. Those twin brothers of Hugo’s—who looked exactly and unnervingly alike—had, at Hugo’s command, ushered the dogs out of the room, but it was a little too late for her damaged dignity.

  Third, Hugo’s sister Gwendolyn had mortified her by drawing near and thanking her, with such sweet and obvious sincerity that all she could think to do was to nod, in a very lame, tongue-tied way.

  Fourth, Mother had said to Hugo’s mama in a kindly tone: “What a pity, chère Mrs. Penhallow, that your husband left you all so poorly provided. One wonders why he frittered away his time with his petits efforts de la science that brought in no reward.”

  In the hush that followed, Katherine noticed with a kind of detached amazement that one’s blood could actually feel as if it was boiling within one. Maybe she really would die from shame which, although not her first choice, would still result in a tidy escape from Brooke House.