The Bride Takes a Groom

by Lisa Berne

  “Maybe there’s one in the common room.”

  “I’ll go.”

  “We’ll both go.”

  “Blast it, where are my shoes?”

  “Oh, I kicked them under the bed.”

  “Rot you. I’ll just put on Hugo’s boots—by Jove, I’ll look awfully grown up—”

  “Thank you,” said Hugo, “but for now I want you to stay put.”

  As soon as they were alone in her room, gently he steered her to the bed and had her sit. “Will you let me see?” he asked.

  His touch on her arms had been light, impersonal, which should have pleased her, but it didn’t. So Katherine said, “If I say no?”

  “I won’t press you. But I’d most certainly send for a doctor.”

  “And have him gawk at me?” She felt a little, horrified shudder ripple through her. “No, thank you. Go on, then, if you must.”

  Hugo drew aside the tangled spirals of Katherine’s dark curling hair. He would have liked to let his fingers play upon the long silken strands, but he set aside this tempting distraction. Whatever had happened to her back had created an ugly lattice of dark red on the white fabric of her nightgown. “My God, Katherine.”

  “I’m all right,” she said grudgingly. “It was only the carriage jostling me about.”

  “How could the carriage do that to you?”

  With even greater reluctance she replied, “It’s because of my—well, because of my corset.”

  “And how could a corset make you bleed?”

  “It has steel bands. To keep my spine straight.”

  “Are you wearing it now?”

  “No.”

  “You seem to be doing just fine without it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re sitting straight.”

  “What?”

  “I said, you’re sitting straight.”

  “I’m—straight?” Now she sounded dazed.

  “Yes. Why do you wear it?”

  “Oh, don’t you remember? When I was small, and how my spine was crooked?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it was, and so my mother had a special corset made for me.”

  “And you’ve been wearing it ever since?”

  “Yes. Twelve years, eight months, and seventeen days. In various incarnations, of course, as I got bigger.”

  “Christ,” he said, then, “It must hurt you like the devil. How did—how do you stand it?”

  “I suppose I got used to it. Besides, my mother said I’d grow up into an awful hunchback if I didn’t.”

  With an unusual burst of anger Hugo said, “I’d like to see her wear the damned thing.”

  “You would?”

  “Well, not actually see her. But you know what I mean.”

  “I do know,” Katherine breathed, as if she liked the image he’d conjured.

  “Will you let me put something on those wounds?”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “I wish you’d let me. You risk infection otherwise.”

  “Oh. Of course. You’re right. But—how will you do it?” That fearful note had crept into her voice again.

  “I’ll cut open your gown. In the back.”

  “Oh.”

  “Are you worried I’ll harm you? You needn’t. Been doing this sort of thing for years.”

  “The rough soldier’s life.”

  “Just so.”

  “Have you dealt with some really bad injuries?”

  “Yes. I’m not a doctor, of course. Sometimes you only do what you can. So may I?”

  “I—yes.”

  From his kit he took a small pair of shears. “If you could bend your head, so I can get at that ruffled collar thing round your neck? Thanks. There—it’s done. I’m going to dab at those wounds with a cloth—sorry, Kate, I know it hurts—”

  “Katherine.”

  “Katherine.” He was silent for a while, methodically working his way down her lacerated back. The deep welts, the raw red marks on her otherwise smooth white skin made him furious. Holy hell, he’d like to do more than put her mother in the corset and cinch it extremely tight. As for that smug overfed father of hers . . . Deliberately Hugo took a breath and let it out, let the rage drain from him. In a voice that was a little rough he said, “You may have some scarring.”

  “A memento.” She sounded steady. Calm. A bit more lightly he went on:

  “Well, we’ll be able to compare scars then.”

  “Do you have a lot?”

  “Quite a few.”

  “From being a soldier.”

  “Some.” He laughed. “Also some mementos from my misspent youth.”

  “Misspent how?”

  “Have you forgotten? Ever one for a lark, that was me. I’m still surprised they didn’t kick me out of Eton. I can only hope Francis and Percy aren’t regaled with too many hair-raising stories of my exploits there.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the time I snuck a cow into my dormitory.”

  “A cow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time, I suppose. I had no idea it would start mooing at two o’clock in the morning. Or leave behind its own mementos. The entire dormitory smelt like a cow pasture.” He laughed again.

  “Did you like school?”

  “Oh, I loved it, though I can’t say I was the best student. Too restless to sit around with my nose in a book. I drove more than one master insane, I daresay. I’m nearly done here. You’re being very brave. I’m just going to dab at this strand of hair—there’s blood on it. If you don’t mind my asking, why—” He broke off, but she said:

  “Why what?”

  Hastily Hugo said, “Never mind. A foolish question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I was just wondering why your fringe is so . . .” He trailed off, feeling very much like the proverbial bull lumbering around a china shop.

  “Stiff?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Because it’s straightened.”

  “How the hell—that is, how is that done?” he said.

  “With hot irons.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “No.”

  “Steel corsets and hot irons. All very medieval. And you think boys are strange. Why do females do such things to themselves? Could you lean forward? Excellent. Here’s some basilicum powder. You do have another nightgown, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s going to be mucked up also. These abrasions are raw. They’re going to take some time to heal.”

  “I’ve got more than one.”

  He heard, for the first time this evening, the faintest note of amusement in Katherine’s voice. “Of course you do. Would you like to put off our journey?”

  “Why?”

  “To give your back a chance to heal.”

  Her little smile fading, Katherine sat very still, with her hands at her chest to hold up the fabric of her nightgown. What a thoughtful question. She breathed in, deeply, and felt her rib cage expanding. For a moment—just a moment—it felt as if her soul was expanding, too. As if Hugo’s gentle hands at her back, his kindness, had, in some strange and mysterious way, made it happen.

  When, she wondered, had she last had a kind word, a soft touch, from anybody?

  How sad that she couldn’t even remember.

  “Katherine.”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you like to put off tomorrow’s journey?”

  She pulled herself back into the present and shook her head. “No. I don’t.”

  “If you’re sure?”

  “Yes.” She half-turned, and saw that Hugo had gathered up his things, including the bloodied cloths which he held without the slightest appearance of revulsion.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “I—no.”

  “That’s all,
then,” he said. “I’ll be next door if you need anything. Good night,” and he turned, and he left her room, and she was, once more, alone.

  Good, she told herself. Just the way she liked it. In her very own version of heaven. Solitary. Peaceful.

  So why did she feel so lonely and sad?

  Was it because he had left her? (Again.) With such calm courtesy, too. (Again.) What was the matter with him? This had to be the strangest wedding night ever, and yet he seemed to be taking it all in stride. Ha. He was probably glad he didn’t have to do the deed with her, didn’t have to fulfill—what was that revolting term Mother had used before she had begun to pretend that Mother was a bug, a tiny little nasty talking bug with a voice so small it was impossible to hear? Oh yes, their conjugal obligation. The very phrase made her feel rather ill.

  So off Hugo had gone, all too cheerfully, leaving her behind. With her stupid bloody back and her stupid bloody hair—and her stupid bloody personality—

  Maybe her wounds would get infected, and the sepsis would spread with inexorable speed, and soon, very soon, there’d she be on her deathbed—with her hair somehow transformed into a pleasing golden shade, all straight and smooth, perhaps woven into neat plaits—with a celestial blue ribbon on each end—no, a white ribbon would be better, it would be more symbolic of saintly goodness—and she’d look so lovely and peaceful that everyone who’d ever hurt her would be sorry, so sorry—

  Dwelling on this improbable image, she hardly knew whether she wanted to laugh or to cry. So instead she stood up, and went to the armoire. She stripped off the damaged nightgown, tossed it aside, and put on a clean one. Her glance then fell upon the discarded corset. She was tempted to put it into the fire, but the smell would be terrible. Instead she snatched it up—grimacing at the pain in her back—and rushed to one of her windows. Why not throw it out into the courtyard and let the horses trample on it?

  She was just about to open the window and do just that, but then came a cold and unpleasant twist of fear.

  What if she were to need the nasty thing again?

  Out loud Katherine muttered to it a line from Richard III: “Bloody thou art, bloody will be thy end.”

  She contented herself with dropping the corset on the floor and giving it a vigorous kick.

  Then she blew out the candles, gingerly got into bed, and lay on her side, listening to the deep silence all around her.

  “Good night, Mrs. Penhallow,” she said into the silence, into the darkness.

  But, of course, there was no one there to answer her.

  Chapter 7

  They departed in good time the next morning, Hugo having somehow acquired several large, soft cushions to help Katherine ride more comfortably in her carriage. Their journey was uneventful for the next two days—aside from Percy once trying to ride standing up on his horse and falling (inevitably) into the mud—and on Saturday they arrived in the bustling market town of Kendal, where Katherine, having made inquiries of their innkeeper as to the poorest church in the vicinity, told Hugo that she wished to attend services there on Sunday.

  “Fine,” he said, looking at her curiously, but made no further response, and so there they were the next morning, sitting in a small, drafty chapel permeated with such a dank, musty odor that one of the twins (Francis?) was moved to whisper, approvingly and all too audibly:

  “It smells like a dungeon in here.”

  The clergyman continued—as if unaware of this irreligious remark—with his sermon, a short, uncomplicated oration on the new year, new life, new hope, a topic that might, to some, be at odds with his dismal surroundings as well as the general tone of his rather shabby-looking parishioners. Mr. Stafford was a careworn, elderly man, who nonetheless received Katherine warmly when she approached him after the service and asked if she might speak with him.

  “How can I help you, my dear?” he asked, with such a look of piercing compassion on his face that she was momentarily startled. But then she thought back to that moment in Mother’s sitting-room, when she’d been encased in those hideous court-dress hoops, and answered:

  “I have some things to give you, Mr. Stafford. You can sell them, or do whatever you like with them.”

  “What things, my dear?”

  Another memory rose up. Or, rather, a whole array of them: Sunday after Sunday, year after year, watching her father place in the church collection-plate a few copper pennies, counting them out, one by one, plainly loath to part with them. She herself, little Kate, trying to add more to it, from her own pin-money, and being told, again and again, to stop wasting it. After a while, she had simply given up. It was strange, though, how she’d forgotten all about it until recently. She said to Mr. Stafford:

  “Clothing, sir. And hats, shoes, fans, shawls, and so on. Twenty or thirty trunks’ worth.”

  “Your trousseau, Katherine?” Hugo said. “What the devil? Oh—begging your pardon,” he added to Mr. Stafford who, most luckily, seemed disinclined to take offense.

  She lifted her chin. “Yes, my trousseau. I’m giving it away. Every gaudy dress, every garish bonnet, every tawdry shawl, every flamboyant, florid, ostentatious pair of shoes. Everything.”

  “I say, Katherine,” said one of the twins admiringly, “you do use the best adjectives,” and the other one added:

  “Surely not everything, Katherine? Because then you wouldn’t have anything left to wear.”

  The first twin said, enraptured, “You could be like Lady Godiva.”

  “Not riding in a carriage, you ass,” pointed out the other.

  “She could borrow my horse if she liked.”

  “Boys,” said Hugo, and they subsided, and Katherine said, “They’re right. I didn’t mean literally everything. But almost everything.” She looked to Mr. Stafford again. “Will you accept it, sir? So that it might be used to do a little good in the world?”

  “You’re sure, my dear?”

  “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

  “Very well then,” he said finally, “and thank you. Whatever you have to give will be a great benefit to our little parish. There’s such need here. But—is there anything I can do for you?”

  She knew a sudden, crazy impulse to say, very sincerely, Bless me, please bless me, for I’m a wandering lamb, but instead only said, softly, “Nothing,” and so it was done. Mr. Stafford’s struggling parish was soon to be enriched beyond the wildest dreams of many, with food, clothing, bedding, fuel, even a few precious books. For quite some time afterwards would his parishioners tell wondering tales of a mysterious dark-haired Lady Bountiful who had come and gone in a day, leaving behind all her earthly belongings. Many would speculate, in fact, if she were actually an angel who had briefly descended to earth before returning to her celestial abode.

  The days wound themselves along as their travels continued taking them southeast. And Hugo found himself looking thoughtfully at Katherine. Curiously. She was still aloof. Brusque. Yet he had also noticed that she was unfailingly courteous to servants; generous in unobtrusively offering gratuities. She never passed a beggar in the street but that she reached into her reticule to press something into an outstretched hand. In Kendal’s meanest parish she had given away a trousseau worth hundreds, perhaps thousands of pounds.

  Gwendolyn had exclaimed, upon hearing the news of his engagement to Katherine, Oh, Hugo, she must be the nicest, kindest person in all the world!

  He hadn’t been sure of that. But he caught glimpses . . .

  Still, in her intense self-containment she reminded him, a little, of—in his mind he searched for the image rising up to him. Yes: rather like a warrior, clad in protective armor.

  But even the hardest soldier, inside, was just as vulnerable as any other person.

  He wondered what she was like. Inside.

  In due course the Penhallow party arrived in Eton, Francis and Percy were settled in at school, and now it was just herself and Hugo traveling on to Somerset. Unfailingly was Hugo polite, affable, p
leasant, as each and every evening they went to their own separate rooms, and increasingly did Katherine feel that she was reenacting that old story of Beauty and the Beast. Only it had gotten all twisted up somehow. It was the Beast who would ask Beauty, night after night, if she would marry him, and Beauty who would say no. Only Hugo—who was certainly no Beast—asked nothing of her. But wasn’t she supposed to be the heroine, Beauty? Or was it she who was behaving beastfully? Yet what was wrong with wanting to be alone? Hadn’t she earned the right to peaceful solitude after all those years of relentless surveillance?

  These thoughts would whirl round and round her head until, inexorably, would come the dreadful sneaking suspicion: was Hugo glad to not be invited to her room? And on this dark dread she would ruminate, and brood, and gnaw upon her nails to the very quick.

  Really, what was the matter with him? What kind of man was he? How could anybody remain so genial when he’d been barred from his wife’s bedchamber? Maybe, just like in some of those novels she’d read, Hugo—the hero—had a dark secret. Maybe, she thought, that chaste peck in the ruins of Babylon was all that he was capable of. Perhaps—an awful possibility—an injury had somehow, well, incapacitated him. He’d mentioned scars, a broken leg, falling off his horse, having dealt with very bad injuries. Gory images formed, vivid and realistic, and the question stayed in her mind, built and grew, tormenting her, until finally, on the evening before they were to arrive at Surmont Hall, Katherine felt she had to say something or burst. They were alone in their private parlor, having dinner, and abruptly she said to Hugo:

  “Is there something wrong with you?”

  He paused in the act of lifting his fork, on which was embedded a juicy piece of rare roast beef. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I have some questions. I want to know if there’s something wrong with you.”

  “In what way?”

  Almost was Katherine a little sorry she’d even raised the topic. Hugo’s tone was so mild. But she blundered on. “Why are you so good-natured all the time?”

  He put his fork down. “This troubles you?”

  “It’s not normal.”

  “I don’t know about that. It’s just how I am.”

  “I don’t believe it.”