by Lisa Berne
“Ma’am?” came the voice of the maidservant, who was still standing by the door, and Katherine realized she hadn’t answered. How late was it? Was she already making herself conspicuous among the Penhallows by being a bad guest and making them all wait for her at table? Quickly she sat up, clutching the bedclothes to her chest, and said to the maidservant:
“Breakfast. Yes. Can you help me get dressed, please?”
“I’d be glad to, ma’am, but I’m no lady’s maid.”
“That’s all right. We must hurry, though.”
“I’ll do my best, ma’am.”
Half an hour later, Katherine was following the maidservant along a mystifying warren of corridors and galleries, and found herself worrying at a fingernail. She dropped her hand, resisted the urge to firmly smooth a few wayward curls behind her ears, to press them flat.
A memory surfaced.
Her first breakfast at the Basingstoke Academy. How nervous she’d been. How badly she had hoped to make friends. She’d been a little late, having had a difficult time scrambling into her clothes, and so entered the gloomy, crowded dining-room only to see everyone already seated, only to see the look of glee on the other girls’ faces when she earned a black mark on her very first morning at school. Tardiness, Miss Brooke, said Miss Wolfe, staring at Katherine through her pince-nez, is evidence of an inferior character. There had been sniggers, quiet but unmistakable, and Katherine could still remember the red flush of shame which heated up her face.
And so when finally she was ushered into a sunny, spacious room, wallpapered in cheerful yellow, Katherine had to admit to a certain relief when she saw that Livia was its only occupant.
Smiling, Livia looked up at once and put aside her fork and knife. “Good morning, Katherine! Did you sleep well?”
“Good morning,” she replied, nervousness making her sound rather stiff. “I’m afraid I’m very late. I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, don’t be, please! Breakfast is very informal. Gabriel and Hugo have had theirs and gone out riding, and Granny and Miss Cott have too. They’ve gone to the hothouse to look at flowers.”
Katherine took this in, then said, still awkwardly, “But am I keeping you from other things?”
“Not at all. I was hoping to have a nice talk together.” A little shyly Livia added, “I’ve never had a cousin, you see, and now I have you and Hugo, which makes me so glad. I expect you have several? Most people seem to have a lot of them.”
“I suppose I do, but I don’t know them. Both my parents are estranged from their families.”
A shadow crossed Livia’s pretty face. “Families can be so complicated, can’t they? Oh, but please forgive me—I’m being a dreadful hostess again. Please help yourself to anything you like from the sideboard. And won’t you come sit next to me?”
A few minutes later, Katherine was settled in her place near Livia. She said, still a little stiff and uncertain, “What a charming room this is.”
“Isn’t it? It’s one of the few rooms in the Hall that doesn’t need much fixing or renovation.”
“The Hall needs a lot of repairs?”
Livia nodded. “It was neglected, you know, for a long time.”
“I didn’t know. Why?”
“Neither Gabriel nor Granny lived here for many years, and—well, we’re here now, and determined to make things right. Not just in the Hall, of course, but all across the estate and for its people as well.”
“It sounds like a great deal of work.”
“It is.”
Katherine looked more closely at Livia. “You don’t seem as if you mind it.”
Livia laughed. “I don’t. I enjoy it. For one thing, we’re all working together as a family. And I love having a home—a real home—at last.”
“A real home? What do you mean?”
“I grew up in an old, ramshackle house that was also neglected.”
“But—why was it neglected?”
The shadow had returned, a little, to Livia’s face. “Indifference. And money frittered away on other things. I was virtually penniless.”
“How did you receive your education, then? And make your début in Town? Did you have relations to help you?”
“No. And I didn’t have a proper début, either. Or any real education until recently.”
“But . . .” Katherine trailed off, embarrassed, having suddenly recalled her mother asking Hugo about Livia, in an awful prying way, Yes, but who is she? No one’s ever heard of her.
Livia brightened and then laughed. “I daresay you’re wondering how a little nobody like myself ended up married to one of the ton’s most eligible men.”
Guiltily, flushing, Katherine said, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have plagued you with so many questions. It was very wrong of me.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. It is an improbable story. With a very strange beginning. But what about you and Hugo? How did the two of you meet?”
“We’ve known each other since childhood.”
“How romantic! And now you’ve found each other again.”
Romantic? The truth flew at Katherine with merciless force. It wasn’t romantic at all. Hugo had married her for her money, and she had married him for his surname. It was a transaction, and just about as unromantic as you could get. How had she let herself forget it, how could she have drifted so far from the cold hard facts? She and Hugo were using each other, that’s all.
The warmth of the morning dissipated and a painful flood of emotions swamped her. Drowning her with sadness. The horror of seeing Hugo’s regret. And anger—at herself, at Hugo. What a mess of things, what a mockery, they had made. Had willingly created. And last night had only muddied the already murky waters.
Well, he could have the money, but that was all. Nothing else was included in the deal. The deal. O God. Here in the bright sharp light of day, she needed to be an island again, a locked box, a closed book. The images flashed through her mind in quick succession, and despite herself she felt a cold, unsettling shiver run down her spine.
Think, think, say something, before the silence becomes horribly obvious. “Yes,” Katherine managed to say to Livia, “we’ve found each other again,” and quickly she reached for the coffee-pot, and ate a roll, and remarked on the freshness of the butter, and admired the pretty floral wallpaper, and talked about the weather, and altogether created such a flow of inane small-talk that she could see Livia looking a little puzzled. Oh no, thank you, she wasn’t really up for a walk outside, or a tour through the Hall, she really was rather tired, actually, and would Livia mind if she went back upstairs to her room and rested a little? After all, even a big pile of money gets tired and wants to go lie down, she thought, but of course didn’t say out loud, because it was important to pretend that she was all right. That everything was all right.
“Of course I don’t mind,” said Livia. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No. Thank you.” And Katherine stood up, and went away. It took all she had not to run.
It was late afternoon when Hugo opened the door to their bedchamber and went inside. To his surprise Katherine was there, in bed and propped up on pillows. In the cool sliver of wintry light coming in through only partially opened curtains, he saw her start and press something against her chest. A book. He smiled, thinking of last night, and said:
“Hullo.”
“Hullo,” she said, but without returning his smile, and his own began to fade.
“Are you unwell, Katherine?”
“No.”
“Been reading?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the name of your book?”
“Oh—well—it’s Pamela—”
“I don’t know that one. Enjoying it?”
“I suppose so,” she muttered, and he noticed her quick, darting look to the tray set next to her on the bed. A teapot and cup; a large plate half-filled with confectionaries; a crumpled napkin. That faint scent of chocolate, sweet, pleasing, came to him.
&
nbsp; “Had tea sent up, then?”
“Yes,” she said coldly, lifting her chin, reminding him, oddly, of a cornered animal. Reminding him, too, of their stilted conversation in the drawing-room at Brooke House that rainy day last fall, when she gave the distinct impression of heartily wishing him elsewhere. Had they come full circle? Gone back to the beginning, where all was obscure and unpromising?
“Katherine,” he said, “what’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
Boxes revealed, boxes concealed. “You’re sure?”
“Very sure.” She opened her book, bent her head, and simply went away.
That night, alone again in their bedchamber, together in the bed and in the darkness, Hugo tried again. He said, “Katherine.”
“Yes?”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“Would you—can we—” He felt the pull of his desire for her, raw and powerful. He wanted to find her mouth with his own, to hungrily splay his fingers against the small of her back, urging her against him, so she could feel how much he wanted her. So she could know how much he wished to please her. Knock, dock, tup, hump . . .
But those playful words from last night seemed wrong, painfully wrong right now. Last night seemed like years ago. “May I—could we—” Damn it, he sounded like an idiot. Maybe he was an idiot.
“No.”
“What’s wrong?” he said to her, “what have I done?”
“There’s nothing wrong.” Her voice was cool. Firm. “You’ve gotten what you wanted, and so have I. Let’s just leave it at that.”
Hugo lifted himself, leaned on an elbow, peering at her. She was only a foot or two away from him, but he didn’t know what to do next. Or what to say. She was as opaque to him as a sheet of iron; no light could get through. Nothing, nothing, nothing, she had said. He ground his teeth and wished, not for the first time, that he was one of those men who could easily serve up an elegant phrase, a man from whose lips tumbled paragraphs, pages, speeches, fine orations, that could cleave through the knots of this impasse.
But he wasn’t.
He was—himself.
Silence lay upon them, heavy, dark. In the end, finally, he did nothing. Sleep, finally, claimed him. And when he woke the next day, once again very early, he saw that at some point in the night, Katherine had crept from the high bed and gone over to the blue bench by the window, where she lay, eyes closed, very still, beneath one of her shawls.
Nothing.
He left the room, favoring, ever so slightly, his left leg.
Katherine heard him go. Once the door was safely closed behind him, the tears began to fall. Oh God, what had she done? What kind of person would marry for a surname? She wrapped herself more tightly in her shawl, her mind restless—maybe even desperate—searching, hunting for relief, like a bird hoping for a friendly branch on which to alight. Then: London. Yes, that was it. She could look forward to London. Everything would be better there. She’d make a new start. She’d be a different person. And everything would be wonderful.
24 January 1812
Dearest Hugo,
Thank you so much for your note letting us know of your safe arrival at Surmont Hall. Forgive my brevity, but your Aunt Claudia is just now getting over an ague and I’ve promised to spend the day with her. Bertram comes with me for his lessons with Papa, and Gwendolyn has begged for a morning’s reprieve as she wants to go next door to Diana’s where, she says, they are going to pretend they are sailors, and has vowed to keep on all day long that splendid hat you gave her. Please send my warmest regards to everyone at the Hall. I’m sure you and Katherine are having the most marvelous time there.
With much love,
Mama
P.S. Cook says the butcher’s wife told her that Brooke House has emptied out very nearly overnight, and that her husband regrets the loss of orders but not the erratic manner of payment. Also Cook wants me to thank you again for fixing the handle on her favorite pot.
It was strange how even though you were completely estranged from your husband, you still got up, still walked and talked and acted as if everything were normal.
Katherine sat at her dressing-table while Mary, the maidservant who had been helping her, carefully brushed her hair. In the mirror Katherine could see that from time to time Mary looked rather wistfully at a bottle of scent which was set out on the dressing-table, a gift from someone at the wedding—one of Father’s cronies—which she had never used. The little porcelain bottle was rounded at its base, with a long, narrowing neck, and painted all over with flowers in a fashionable chinoiserie style.
“Mary,” she said, “may I give you that scent-bottle? Would you like to have it?”
Mary’s face lit up. “Oh, ma’am, really?”
“Yes. Let me find the box it came in, too. It’s very pretty.” Katherine pulled open a drawer of the dressing-table, then another, and found it in the next drawer she opened. “Here it is.” She held it in her hand, paused for a moment. It was a tin box, decorated on its lid with more chinoiserie flowers. You could put more in it than just a scent-bottle, couldn’t you? She remembered, suddenly, her dream from two nights ago.
I’ve forgotten something, but I don’t remember what it is. It’s something very important.
You’ve got to find it yourself, old Mrs. Penhallow had said in her dream, you won’t find it here, then shut the door to the London townhouse.
Puzzled, Katherine stared at the tin box.
Then she gave herself a shake. Took one of her largest handkerchiefs, wrapped the scent-bottle in it, and carefully put it into the tin which she placed on her dressing-table. She turned to look up at Mary. “For you,” she said, and Mary’s obvious pleasure in the little gift made tears once again threaten to fall.
Chapter 11
Sooner than Katherine could have possibly expected—was old Mrs. Penhallow a sorceress, with supernatural powers?—to Surmont Hall came Madame Hébert and her cadre of helpers, as well as a milliner, a shoemaker, a friseur, and her new dresser, a soft-spoken, agreeable woman named Ellery, as different from Céleste as night from day.
The new gowns began, in rapid succession, to appear. Without hesitation Katherine said yes to them all, they were as elegant, as ravishing as those worn by the other Penhallow ladies, and in the deep strong colors that seemed to make her complexion glow. She said yes, yes, to the shoes, the hats, the pelisses, the reticules. Yes. Everything. She would be a new, different, better person in them.
The days passed.
Her trunks filled up again.
She spent a great deal of time reading as if her life depended upon it. How lucky that the magnificent library here was filled with books—actual books, as opposed to the ones at Brooke House. Candide. Les Liaisons Dangereuses. The History of Sir Charles Grandison. The Seasons. Sense and Sensibility (written “By a lady,” and Katherine wondered exactly who that was). Philosophie Zoologique. The Vision of Don Roderick.
And all around her, the busy life of Surmont Hall went on.
Henrietta Penhallow was absorbed in the preparations for Miss Cott’s wedding, and with the recently formed village school for which she was serving as benefactress. If she was considering the idea of a new companion, she made no mention of it.
Livia oversaw the renovations within the Hall, went daily to visit the tenant-farmers’ families, flitted back and forth from the library and the kitchen to the garden and her poultry-yard, and continued her lessons with the head groom who was teaching her how to drive a pony-trap—though, as she was the first one to admit, her progress was slow for she was still rather nervous around horses.
Hugo spent his days riding out with Gabriel, making himself useful and getting spectacularly dirty in waterlogged fields, ditches, and drainage trenches, inspiring Gabriel to admiringly remark upon Hugo’s uncanny ability to perceive and solve mechanical problems. Hugo merely shrugged and said, It’s just a way of seeing things, coz, that’s all.
Miss Cot
t, as always, made herself useful, helped anyone who needed it, watched and listened, and, as ever, kept her observations to herself.
It was well into the fourth week of the bridal visit, when, on a cold February evening, with the entire party gathered in the rococo drawing-room, Mrs. Penhallow announced without preamble, looking between Katherine and Hugo:
“Regarding the family townhouse, I am willing to offer it to you as of April first. That would be an appropriate time for Penhallows to arrive for the Season. You’ll wish to engage servants, of course, so I recommend you contact the Dauntrey Agency as soon as possible. Also, you will benefit immeasurably from the sponsorship of a—shall we say—a seasoned campaigner?”
“Oh, ma’am, are you coming with us?” exclaimed Katherine. She was surprised to find that she welcomed the idea, wished for it very badly, in fact.
But the old lady was shaking her silvery head. “I’ve far too much to do here, and I must, of course, attend Miss Cott’s wedding. However, I’ve written to a relation of mine, the Duchess of Egremont, on your behalf. It’s quite convenient as she and the Duke will soon be arriving in Grosvenor Square.”
“Great-aunt Judith is going to London?” said Gabriel. “Didn’t I hear you once say that both she and the Duke heartily dislike Town life?”
“That is so. But Thane is causing such difficulties that, according to Judith, they feel obliged to personally attempt to rein him in.”
“Thane’s there?” said Hugo. “Damn—I mean, blast it.”
“Who is Thane?” Livia asked, glancing up from her needlework.
“Oh, he’s a cousin, Liv, and a nuisance. We were at school together.”
“Not,” put in Mrs. Penhallow, “a true cousin, strictly speaking. Judith is my sister-in-law,” she explained to Livia and Katherine, “the sister of my late husband Richard. She married the Duke of Egremont not long after Richard and I were wed. They had only one son who, in due course, married—despite their objections—a widowed lady, Almira Thane, who had a young son of her own. This is the Thane to whom I refer—Philip Thane, who for half a dozen years now has made for himself an unfortunate name with his rackety, dissolute habits, scandalizing anyone with even a modicum of decency.”