The Bride Takes a Groom

by Lisa Berne

  But then—fifthly—she herself provided the distraction to break the ghastly lull when a hideous bedraggled parrot had somehow, unnoticed, stumped toward her, climbed onto her nankeen half-boot, demanded, “Kiss me, you saucy wench!” and she had squawked in surprise, sounding not unlike a bird herself.

  Gwendolyn hurried over and coaxed the bird onto her outstretched finger. “Oh, Miss Brooke, do forgive Señor Rodrigo! But he likes you, you know! He only wished to make friends.”

  “Who?” said Katherine, trying to conceal her embarrassment by ostentatiously resettling her skirts.

  “This is Señor Rodrigo, el Duque de Almodóvar del Valle de Oro.” Gwendolyn smiled at the ugly thing with an affection that Katherine found unfathomable. Who kept a bird as a pet? I wanted to, once, came the sudden thought, and in its wake, the memory of the injured seagull she’d found, long ago, on the shore. Mother’s revulsion and Father’s indifference, and nobody to help her at home; and then, to her infinite relief, Hugo taking the bird gently in his hands and bearing it off toward his house where, he had assured her, his mama would know just what to do . . .

  Katherine blinked, fought her way back to the present, and said:

  “That’s quite a name for a bird with hardly any feathers.”

  “Oh, but Miss Brooke, I have so much hope that he will! Every day I tell Señor Rodrigo that he’s perfect just as he is, but that someday, when he’s ready, he’ll grow the most beautiful green feathers in the world.”

  “He couldn’t possibly understand what you’re saying.”

  “He might,” remarked Hugo’s youngest brother Bertram. “I once read an article in the Journal of Natural Philosophy which said that animals may understand quite a large number of our words.”

  Katherine’s interest was caught, but then Father put in with a patronizing chuckle, “Out of the mouths of babes,” just as if Bertram was a freakish exhibit in a traveling-show, and Katherine could not have been more glad when Mother rose to her feet and said:

  “Well! How charmant this has all been, and we’ve so enjoyed your delightful menagerie—animals everywhere, how quaint!—but I’m afraid we must hurry on home. Katherine has a fitting scheduled this afternoon for her new court-dress, as she will, naturellement, attend the Queen’s Drawing-room. She was unable to go this past year due to an occasional, trifling indiscretion.”

  Katherine just barely repressed a snort. Yes, if you could call a complete absence of invitations a “trifling indiscretion.”

  Later, as she stood in Mother’s enormous sitting-room encircled by the harried dressmaker and her half-dozen minions, looking—as she had no doubt—ludicrous in a set of hoops seemingly as wide as she was tall, Katherine glanced morosely at the rich lengths of pale-blue velvet and stark white satin, the tassels and lace, the elaborate turban and the white ostrich feathers, all of which would make her look like an eye-popping spectacle in a traveling-show.

  Suddenly, inspiration struck.

  And she said:

  “Mother, I think this gown will need more diamond brilliants on it, don’t you?”

  As this was the first time during the lengthy fitting process that Katherine had offered a single comment that could in any way be construed as helpful, Mother looked a little startled, but then she agreed with alacrity.

  And inside herself, secretly, Katherine smiled.

  10 November 1811

  Dear Hugo,

  Apologies for my delay in replying; Livia and I have only recently returned to the Hall. We were both delighted to hear your news and we wish you very happy—as does Grandmama who is, I believe, writing to you also, tendering an invitation which may be of interest to you and Miss Brooke.

  And speaking of invitations, although we would of course like very much to join you for your wedding, it is with regret that we must decline. Urgent matters keep us here: for one, I am deeply immersed in seeing that the workers’ cottages are completed before the really bad weather sets in and that employment is found for anyone who needs it during the winter. Too, having been gone for so long, it feels especially important that, for the sake of the local folk, the family be here for the Christmas season.

  And finally—it gives me great pleasure to inform you that Livia and I are to be married next week on the 15th. I am, I must confess, an impatient bridegroom, and especially having come far too close to losing Livia forever. (There’s an odd little story about that, by the bye; I’ll tell you about it when next I see you.) Suffice to say, I feel like the luckiest man on earth.

  Wishing you every felicity, Hugo,

  I remain, etc.,

  Gabriel

  10 November 1811

  Dear Hugo,

  From Livia I have learned that you left Surmont Hall so abruptly because you were in pursuit of a likely heiress, and now Gabriel has informed us that you were successful. He mentioned also that prior to your departure you both reimbursed him for the cost of your commission and insisted that he stop your allowance.

  It must be said that I had no idea you were experiencing such severe financial difficulties, else I would have of course stepped in to help. It grieves me to confess that for quite some time I have been far less perceptive than I would have wished.

  It must also be said that it does you great credit to have sought an independent solution to your difficulties. As I have more than once declared, a Penhallow never fails to perform a necessary act, no matter how distasteful, and I am gratified to see that you are following the Penhallow Way.

  If memory serves me correctly, I met the Brookes in London earlier in the year—although “met” is hardly the word to describe the encounter. The less said about the parents the better. Their daughter, at least, didn’t look stupid, although it was difficult to ascertain this given the extraordinary number of artificial cherries with which her hat was embellished; they were permitted (in someone’s mind no doubt artistically) to drape low across her forehead and I wonder she was able to see where she was going.

  I cannot pretend, Hugo, to rejoice in my knowledge of the young lady’s relations; it pains me to think of them even uttering the word “Penhallow” with any kind of claim to intimacy. Nor can I approve of someone who would venture out of doors wearing a hat so abominable. However, it is worth mentioning that I entertained the gloomiest sentiments about Livia when she and Gabriel were betrothed; and I am happy to say I was proved wrong.

  Therefore, if you and your bride would like to stop over here at the Hall as part of your honeymoon, we should be glad to have you.

  Affectionately yours,

  Aunt Henrietta

  P.S. In the interest of clarity, please note that this invitation does not, under any circumstances, encompass her unfortunate parents. One does have limits.

  “Go to Surmont Hall?” said Katherine to Hugo, who had come to Brooke House to relay Aunt Henrietta’s offer. “She’s invited us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  In Katherine’s voice was suspicion, but once again Hugo thought he detected within in a certain apprehension. He answered, “I believe she’d like to get to know you better.”

  “Oh, surely not,” Katherine said low, almost as if to herself, then quickly added, as if to move the conversation beyond a remark she wished unsaid, “It’s a signal honor, I daresay.”

  “That could be.” He could almost hear the wheels and gears in her brain turning, and finally she said:

  “Very well. Tell her yes.”

  “I’ll write and let her know. There’s one other thing, Miss Brooke. I know it’s a lot to ask, but—”

  “What is it?” she said, and he saw how her shoulders had gone up, tense, defensive. He went on:

  “I’ve enrolled Francis and Percy at Eton for the winter term, and it would mean a great deal to me to bring them with us. My grandfather could take them, but it would be a wearying journey for him, and I’d prefer not to pay someone—a stranger—to escort them. We could drop them off at school, as it’s more or less o
n the way, then go on to the Hall from there.”

  He was unable to decipher the differing expressions that flitted across her face, but she merely said, “If you like. Make the arrangements. We’re to stay in the best inns, of course.”

  “We’ll enjoy it vastly, the boys and I. Thank you.”

  Katherine only shrugged, and he watched as a crimson tide of color washed across her face. She looked down, fiddled with one of her rings, and added, “Oh, and Captain . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I want separate bedchambers, if you please.”

  This, he mused, recalling their conversation in the ruins of Babylon, was not unexpected. And not particularly promising, either. But he thought of his family, and out loud he said, in a pleasant voice, “Certainly, Miss Brooke.”

  There was a tap on the door of the little saloon in which they’d been permitted a few minutes of privacy, and the butler Turpin came in to let Katherine know that the Bow Street Runners had arrived, and hoped she would be willing to oblige them with a few minutes of her time.

  “The Runners?” said Hugo. “What the hell—I beg your pardon. What are the Runners doing here?”

  “Last week my maid Céleste ran away with Father’s valet,” Katherine replied, “and she took one of my diamond aigrettes, several bracelets, and an emerald brooch. I suppose she realized I’d rather die a thousand deaths than bring her with me after the wedding, and decided to leave before Mother either demoted her or let her go. Or maybe she was really in love with that shifty-eyed, popinjay valet of my father’s, though it’s hard to imagine. My God! You should have seen Father when we realized they’d gone, and that Robert took several of his best rings also. I thought for sure he’d have an apoplexy on the spot.”

  Hugo took this in, then asked, curious, “Why would you rather die a thousand deaths than bring Céleste with you?”

  “We didn’t get along, that’s all,” Katherine said, vivid color mounting again to her cheeks. “At any rate, Father is still furious, which is why the Bow Street Runners are here. I doubt they’ll find Céleste and Robert,” she added, rising from her chair, “as Céleste is a very resourceful person. But if you find such activity amusing, Captain, Father’s been taking bets with a great many of our houseguests as to the Runners’ success. I’m sure you’d be welcome to join in.”

  Hugo stood up also. “Not a gambler myself, but thank you.”

  She gave him a small, cynical smile. “Aren’t you? And yet here we are, betrothed.”

  He laughed, and left her, and went home, where he wrote a note to Aunt Henrietta. Then he spent several happy hours during which he fixed the hinge to the library door, put in new windows on the uppermost story where Bertram liked to conduct his experiments, chopped up a huge pile of wood for Cook’s stove into neat rectangular lengths, and repaired a broken drawer in Gwendolyn’s armoire which, she said, had been troubling her for a very long time.

  As he worked, he thought about Aunt Henrietta’s letter. Although he’d been acquainted with her for many years, he couldn’t have said that he knew her very well, and this was the first time she’d ever written directly to him. It was surprising to see those patches of warmth and affection in her note. Gabriel’s letter had surprised him a little, too. There’d always been something rather aloof about his older cousin, but in his letter there was a new warmth also, and a kind of openness.

  It was a nice change, Hugo thought, and slid the drawer smoothly home.

  21 November 1811

  Dear Aunt Henrietta,

  Miss Brooke and I are delighted to accept your kind invitation. Very many thanks. I expect we’ll be arriving around January 16th; I’ll write when we’re en route to the Hall to confirm that date more precisely. If it’s convenient for you, shall we plan to stay a week or so? We’ll proceed to London thereafter.

  With affection and gratitude,

  Hugo

  4 December 1811

  Dear Hugo,

  Thank you for your letter. We look forward to seeing you next month.

  You mention going on to London in late January, which leads me to believe you intend to partake of the so-called Little Season. To this plan I strenuously object. Penhallows simply don’t go to Town until March at the earliest. If you and Miss Brooke would care to linger at the Hall for a few more weeks, it may be that I would be willing to offer you the use of the family townhouse in Berkeley Square during the Season; it would add a decided luster to what I assume is Miss Brooke’s ambition to assert her newly enhanced position in Society.

  As a side note, Miss Brooke may benefit from the very circumstance of additional time at the Hall. I do not say that osmosis in the metaphysical sense is a real thing. However, it couldn’t hurt.

  Affectionately yours,

  Aunt Henrietta

  “She’s dangling the notion of the family townhouse like a carrot,” observed Katherine to Hugo, who’d again come to call. “As if I’m some kind of horse. Is it really so bad to go to London so early?”

  He laughed. “You’re asking the wrong person.”

  “Don’t you care?”

  “Not a bit, I’m afraid.”

  Katherine thought about it. The old lady could not have made a more tempting offer. There wasn’t a more prestigious dwelling in all of London, excepting the residences of actual royalty. But—weeks at the Hall? Among all those Penhallows? She already knew what old Mrs. Penhallow was like. Hugo’s cousin Gabriel was no doubt just as arrogant, and his new wife Livia was probably the same: one of those haughty, proud, supercilious Society ladies. How could she stand those long, long weeks?

  An image of the magnificent Penhallow townhouse floated through Katherine’s mind. While in London, several times had her parents directed the coachman to drive past it, and on their faces had been such naked, greedy longing that Katherine had averted her eyes, praying with all her heart that on her face was nothing but bland indifference.

  And so, here was a chance—exclusively for her—to not only go inside the townhouse, but to live in it for a while.

  Was she as bad as her parents? For a brief moment Katherine pictured herself as a Shetland pony, eagerly craning its neck toward a carrot.

  She said to Hugo, once again, “Tell her yes.”

  Chapter 6

  Time passed, the marriage contracts were signed, and the wedding took place on a cold, frosty morning in January. The bride, her face as white as snow, wore a gown of amber silk bobbinet so heavily embroidered with metallic gold thread that she literally sparkled, as well as a long double-stranded necklace of pearls (rumored to have once belonged to Mary Queen of Scots) and a trailing manteau of rich, shimmering cloth-of-gold that extended behind her for some six or seven feet. The groom was dressed simply in dark gray trousers, a black jacket, and a slate-gray waistcoat, looking so handsome and serene that quite a few of the guests gathered in Whitehaven’s largest church wept to see it.

  After the ceremony, as the lavish wedding-breakfast at Brooke House was drawing to a close, Rowland Brooke took Hugo aside, and with an elaborate flourish presented him with a cheque. “Here you are, my dear fellow.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re certain you wouldn’t like me to manage it for you?”

  “I am. But thank you.”

  Mr. Brooke sighed, a gusty exhalation suggestive of regret and, perhaps, disapproval. Then he looked up at the gold-paneled ceiling, over at a potted palm, next at a large, glossy portrait of the King, and finally at Hugo. “One other item before you go, Captain.”

  “Sir?” said Hugo politely.

  “My daughter . . .”

  “Yes?”

  Mr. Brooke cleared his throat. “My wife has, naturally, enlightened Katherine as to her—ah—conjugal obligations.”

  If there was a less appealing phrase for sex, Hugo thought, he’d yet to hear it. Poor Katherine. Also, he wondered what Mr. Brooke expected him to say. Somehow “Thank you, sir” seemed decidedly wrong. Luckily (or not), Mr. Brooke c
ontinued, in the same confidential tone:

  “Thought you ought to know, Captain, that apparently Katherine was—er—less than grateful to receive my wife’s advice. A difficult conversation, according to Hester. That’s Katherine, I’m afraid. May as well tell you, now that the knot’s all tied safe and secure, she’s a thoroughly troublesome sort of girl. Well, that’s the way it goes in business, eh? Full disclosure once the deal’s struck.” He chuckled. “The money we’ve spent on her over the years—daresay it’d shock you to hear the sum. I was beginning to think it an investment that wasn’t going to pay off. And then you came along! Well, well, well. In any event, you’re a great strong fellow, I’m sure you’ll know what to do if she doesn’t obey.”

  Hugo felt his face hardening. “That’s not my way, sir. Trust it’s never been your way with Katherine, or Mrs. Brooke’s either.” Something in his voice seemed to register with Mr. Brooke, who took a step back as if involuntarily.

  “Of course not, Captain, I assure you. Words have always sufficed.” He ran a manicured hand over his smoothly shaven jaw. “Powerful things, words.”

  The carriages—one for Katherine, the other three for her trousseau—stood ready in front of Brooke House, the horses for Hugo and his brothers were waiting, all the guests were dutifully assembled despite the chill, and everyone wondered where the bride and her parents were.

  Now wearing her going-away gown and a pale blue pelisse embellished everywhere with black braid as well as with shiny jet buttons the size of small pancakes, Katherine was, in fact, placing in her father’s hands her enormous jewelry-case.

  “Here,” she said.

  “What’s this for?” he asked, startled.

  “I’m not bringing it with me.”

  “Don’t be stupide,” Mother said sharply. “You’ll need your jewels.”

  Katherine said nothing, and began to pull on her gloves.

  “You have only that dreadfully plain band Captain Penhallow gave you,” Mother went on with a sniff. “Belonging to his grandmother. Ma foi.”