by Lisa Berne
“Yes! I want to go to Bath. I have an elderly aunt—she’s rather lame—she lives there for her health, she’s got a small income and has rooms by the baths, and she’s written to say I could live with her. Before Denis started reading all my mail, that is. She’s very kind—I could be happy there—living very quietly—” Lydia was leaning forward now, looking at Katherine with a kind of desperate intensity. “But I haven’t any money to get away. Nothing. I’m trapped here, Mrs. Penhallow.”
“Does Denis have any legal hold over you? Are you of age?”
“I’m twenty-two, and no, he’s not my guardian. His hold over me derives from—well, you know the Scottish saying, don’t you? ‘Possession is eleven points in the law, and they say there are but twelve.’”
Katherine nodded. “Then let’s get you to Bath. We can send you there in one of our carriages. Nothing could be easier.” She watched as slowly into Lydia’s tired face came a heartbreaking look of relief. But then it faded and she said:
“Oh, but how, Mrs. Penhallow? Denis will do everything in his power to stop me. And you’ve seen how—forceful he is.”
Katherine glanced around the shabby room. There was so little here. “Pack your trunk now, Lydia. Hugo will carry it down. We’ll take you with us to the Penhallow townhouse, and you can sleep there tonight. Tomorrow we’ll send you off to Bath.”
Lydia’s tawny brown eyes were wide. “You would do that for me? After all the hateful things I did to you?”
Hugo had said, Last night was a long time ago. And so now Katherine said to Lydia St. John, “That was a long time ago.” Briskly she stood up. “Come on, I’ll help you pack.”
The scene that followed was, as Katherine had expected, unpleasant. Upon hearing the news of his sister’s immediate departure, Denis St. John was flabbergasted, then hostile, blustery, vituperative toward his sister, and began to issue some very ugly threats, but Hugo, with a few blunt, well-chosen words, rapidly reduced St. John to a cowering silence. He then shouldered Lydia’s trunk and escorted Katherine and Lydia downstairs and into the street, where they cheerfully crammed themselves and the trunk into the carriage and bowled away.
Later, when Lydia, exhausted, had gone to bed in one of the guest bedchambers, and Katherine and Hugo were alone in his room, she reached out to squeeze his hand and said, “Oh, Hugo, you were marvelous! I know it’s very wrong to feel this way, but there was something so satisfying about seeing the dreadful Denis vanquished like that.”
“Yes, very heroic of me,” said Hugo complacently.
Katherine laughed. “Well, it was.”
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “You were rather heroic yourself, you know. Or should I say ‘heroine-ish’? ‘Heroine-ic’? Is there a word for it?”
“If there’s not, there should be,” Katherine answered. She leaned back in her chair, looking thoughtfully at Hugo. Their seats drawn close together, they were sitting near the fireplace, where a small fire danced and leaped, and they each were holding a crystal glass of deep red burgundy wine. “Hugo, are you sorry we didn’t go to Almack’s tonight as we had planned?”
“Not particularly. Are you?”
“Well, Mr. Brummel had sent me a note hoping I’d be there, and that nice Lady Mainwaring said the same thing at Countess Lieven’s dinner-party, but . . . Am I sorry? Yes—no—I’m not sure. I just know I’m not sorry to be here with you.”
“Likewise,” said Hugo, and smiled, and Katherine thought that although their bedchamber was all lovely and dim, it was, at the same time, very bright.
They walked with Lydia to the mews early the next morning, accompanied by a footman and a maidservant who were to travel with Lydia to Bath. Her battered trunk had already been strapped atop the carriage, and the maidservant got inside; Hugo went to talk to the coachman. Katherine turned to Lydia, reaching into the side-pocket of her pelisse, and pulled out a small purse which she pressed into Lydia’s gloved hand. “Something for your journey,” she said. “For your expenses.”
“Oh, Mrs. Penhallow, I couldn’t accept it.” Lydia’s eyes were shimmering with tears. “You’ve done so much already.”
“You can and you must. And please, please, call me Katherine.”
“Katherine, then,” said Lydia, and slipped the little purse into her reticule. “Thank you. For everything.” She looped her reticule over her wrist, held out her hands, and Katherine took them in her own. She said:
“Safe travels, Lydia. And—won’t you write to me sometime, and let me know how you’re doing?”
“I will,” promised Lydia, and then Hugo had said his farewells and helped her into the carriage, and the carriage rolled away. When it had gone from their sight, Hugo said:
“Well, Katherine? What would you like to do now?”
Katherine raised up the hem of her gown, just enough to show Hugo her jean half-boots. “I thought perhaps we could go for a walk.”
“A walk, really?” said Hugo in surprise. Then, recovering, gallantly he held out his arm. Katherine laughed and took it, and so they went for a long stroll, uncaring that the sky was a sullen, lowering gray, all too typical for an early summer day in London.
When they returned to the townhouse, the butler inquired as to whether they cared for refreshments—to which Hugo said, “By Jove, yes”—and also made mention of some newly arrived correspondence which awaited them at their convenience.
Half an hour later, they were sitting in a spacious saloon which overlooked a charming walled garden, sharing a sofa. Katherine was perched at one end, sorting through her invitations, letters, circulars, calling cards, and so on. Hugo sat on the other end of the sofa, a plate of savory quiche tarts set next to him. He ate one of the tarts, thinking how sometimes, there was nothing nicer than a companionable silence. He picked up one of his letters.
29 May 1812
Dear Hugo,
Thanks awfully for your letter. Percy and I are coming along nicely. He’s been elected captain of the cricket team and I won a prize for my essay on Seneca the Younger—all six volumes of The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire which I am enjoying immensely. Owen has invited us back to Northamptonshire for the summer holiday and we’d love to go. Would you mind very much if we did? The only bad thing is that Owen’s sister Helen will probably be hanging about bothering us as she did the last time we were there. Owen says he’d like to kick her in the seat of her gown but as she outweighs him by three stone he doesn’t dare. Percy says she’s a good fellow and a bruising rider but I must say I find her rather obnoxious.
Still, difficulties strengthen the mind, as Seneca the Younger says, so I daresay association with Helen will at least confer some kind of moral benefit.
Yours most faithfully,
Francis
Hugo smiled, and opened the next letter.
26 May 1812
Dearest Hugo,
Thank you so very much for the beautiful fan you sent me! It is just right for pretending that I am a captivating lady of Society. I’ve been practicing fan gestures for days. So far my favorites are when you cover your left ear with the fan opened up, which means ‘Do not betray our secret,’ and when you slide the fan across your forehead, which means ‘You have changed.’ Diana says her favorite is when you twirl the fan in your left hand, which means ‘We are being watched.’ Bertram came upon us while we were practicing, took my fan and opened it, and beat it violently over the top of his head to create a great breeze, which he said means ‘I am thinking hard.’ I tried not to laugh but of course I did. He also says, by the way, that he very much appreciates those long-handled tongs you sent, which have proved very useful in his sintering experiments. He wrote to thank you but it was only this morning that he realized he forgot to mail it.
Are you dreadfully sad the Season is coming to a close? How romantic it must be! When are you coming home? We all miss you so much. You will be pleased to see how nice things are looking. Mama has had several rooms painted, for example, a
nd Cook adores her new stove. Also, the roof has been fixed.
Love always,
Gwendolyn
P.S. I do believe Señor Rodrigo misses you also. He has lost some more feathers, the poor darling.
P.P.S. But I will never give up hope, and so I tell him at least twice a day now.
P.P.P.S. I almost forgot. Please give Katherine my regards.
Hugo smiled again as he reread the postscripts, rendered in Gwendolyn’s looping, still childish hand. He reached for another tart. “Gwennie sends her regards.”
There was no reply from Katherine, so after Hugo had taken a bite of his tart and swallowed it he looked over at her. “Gwennie sends her—” He broke off. Katherine was sitting bolt upright and clutching in one hand an opened letter, at which she was staring as if turned to stone. “Katherine, what’s the matter? What is it?”
Still she said nothing. Quickly he set aside the tart, moved to sit next to her on the sofa. “Katherine, what’s wrong?”
Her mouth opened and then closed, as if she wouldn’t—couldn’t—speak. She only thrust the letter at him.
28 May 1812
Katherine,
Your father is ruined. I do not fully understand it, but it has something to do with various bubble companies in which he has for the past several years vested as partner. The lawyers came yesterday and he was closeted with them till well after midnight. All is lost. His debts are extreme and he must sell or relinquish every asset we own in order to avoid being sent to debtors’ prison, or worse. That includes Brooke House and all its contents including furnishings, artwork, carriages, and so on, as well as the jewelry you (foolishly) left behind. Your father has agreed to all that the lawyers demanded, but vows he’ll not stay in a country where one cannot pursue enterprising business practices without being harassed. Therefore, tomorrow we travel for Bristol, where in a fortnight we shall set sail for Porto de Galinhas—your father being confident that in Brazil he’ll be able to avoid the embarrassment of further legal prosecution as well as enjoy a more congenial environment in which to rebuild our fortunes.
Speaking of which, it was quite lucky that at the very last moment we were able to have your next (and, obviously, last) quarterly allowance diverted to us, as while we wait to commence our journey—at the Royal Arms Inn, Bristol’s best accommodations, of course—we must hurry to purchase clothing more suitable for a sea voyage as well as for the climate in Porto de Galinhas. They say it is quite agreeable—nearly always warm and mild. However, I shall have to guard my complexion most carefully.
No more now, as I must oversee the packing of my trunks. Really, all things considered, it may well prove to be a delightful new adventure for us. Your father and I are bound to be greeted among the expatriate community there with acclaim, he being the son of a baronet and I of course an accomplished Society hostess. It is, after all, an ill wind that blows no good.
I remain, etc.,
Mother
“Good God,” said Hugo, and Katherine, her face gone very white, said in an even voice:
“Did you notice anything peculiar about the letter?”
“I should say I do. Not a word of concern for you.”
“Oh, not that, I wouldn’t have expected anything different.” Katherine’s eyes were glittering, bright and fierce. “You didn’t notice a distinct lack of French terminology? I did. It’s quite amusing, don’t you think? Mother, stripped of her Continental pretensions for once.”
She laughed, but there was no humor in it.
“And there’s something else, Hugo, which is very funny. Do you remember the Greek myth of King Midas?”
“Of course. The chap whose daughter was turned to gold.”
“Yes, that’s right. The god Dionysus granted him a wish, and he asked for the ability to turn anything he touched into gold. He was warned to be careful in his wish, but he ignored it.”
“And so?”
“And so, when you had the good sense to refuse my father’s offer to handle your financial affairs, I was too busy enjoying the idea that I finally had a wedge to keep my parents at bay—to insist they not come to London with us—when I should have paid more attention to my father’s nonsense. And after I agreed to allow him to manage my money, when they made mention of joining us for next year’s Season, all I could think was how it would never, ever happen.” She gave that same humorless laugh. “My income is gone. We’ll never be able to come back. So now, like King Midas, I’ve gotten what I wished for.”
“Katherine, none of this is your fault.”
“And yet here I am.” She jumped to her feet and began pacing around the room, her fingers clenched into fists, eyebrows drawn tight together, and rather irrelevantly Hugo found himself recalling Gwendolyn’s remark about Bertram waving her fan above his head to indicate I am thinking hard. But of course he didn’t say anything about that. He simply sat and watched as Katherine stalked back and forth; he waited. Waited until he had a better understanding of how he might help her.
Katherine went on pacing, silent, fierce, abstracted, until abruptly she came to a halt. She remained like that, motionless, for what seemed like hours to Hugo but could only in reality have been a few minutes. Then she came back to the sofa, snatched up the letter, and crumpled it into a tiny ball.
“Hugo,” she said in a hard flat voice, “I want to do something.”
“What is it, Katherine?” he answered calmly.
“I want to sell all the jewelry I bought, back to Rundell and Bridge. I want to sell the extra carriages. I want you to sell the horses we won’t need anymore. Can you find good owners for them?”
“Between Cousin Judith and myself, I’m sure we can.”
“Good. Lady Mainwaring—how funny that I was mentioning her only last night—has started a charity for war widows, and I want to donate most of my clothing and shoes, and all those other things—the hats and shawls and so forth—to it.”
“As you like, Katherine.” This was leading to an obvious conclusion about their time here in London, but it would be cruel for him to thrust it upon her. So he would wait for her to voice it; for her to own it when she was able.
“I want to release all the servants back to the Dauntrey Agency as soon as possible.”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m going to sell back all the books I’ve bought in London.”
He knew how much that sacrifice in particular had to hurt her, but he only nodded.
“And then, when all of it is done, I want to take whatever money I have, Hugo, and I want to send it all to my parents. I hate their money. I want to get rid of it forever. It’s like a sickness, and it’s been killing me for years. And now I want them to have it all back.”
“Fine.”
“Oh, Hugo, it’s not fine. It’s not fine at all.”
An image came to her. A blank page. And then a hand, a pot of ink, a quill moving across the white expanse:
What is a story without unexpected occurrences? Our heroine really ought to have anticipated them. Things had been going so well for her; it was, perhaps, inevitable. So now, in a sudden twist, she’s been stripped of—is letting go of—her wealth. The money which, for many years, has defined her. “The Brooke heiress” no more. Who is she, then? Who is she now? She recalls yet another grim tale from Greek mythology. Icarus, who in wings of wax and feathers had recklessly flown too close to the sun. Then—inevitably—plunged to his death. Our heroine is not dead. Far from it. But her circumstances have most certainly been altered. What will she do in this new chapter of hers?
Calmly Hugo said, breaking into her thoughts, “Why isn’t it fine, Katherine?”
“Oh my God, don’t you see?” she answered, hearing in her own ears how harsh her voice was. “I’ll be poor.” Even as she said the words a deep and blinding grief barreled at her like a storm. Katherine looked down into his handsome face, and made herself say, in a torrent of brutally honest words:
“Oh, Hugo, I’m sorry. I know you only mar
ried me for my money, and soon it will all be gone. I should never have asked you to marry me. You should have come to London and found someone else, someone better. I’m sure your Aunt Henrietta would have helped you, or Cousin Judith. I’m so sorry. I know you wish you hadn’t married me.”
“I don’t wish that at all.”
“What?”
“I’m glad I married you.” Hugo reached up, took her hands in a warm clasp, and drew her down to sit next to him on the sofa.
“But—” She was staring at him. The grief seemed to whistle through her, like a cold wind filling up an empty ravine. “But the money. Once it’s gone, there will be no more.”
“I understand that.”
Katherine gave her head a little, baffled shake. “What will I do with myself then? The Brookes are all about money, Hugo, that’s what we do. Make it, spend it, think about it, want more of it.”
“But you’re not a Brooke anymore, are you.”
Not a Brooke? A Brooke no more? What will our heroine do in this new chapter of hers? Katherine looked down at Hugo’s hands holding hers, then back up into his eyes. It seemed impossible to believe that he wasn’t sorry; that he was glad. It was like saying, “Up is down, white is black, fish can walk, and pigs can fly.” But there was no time to think about it, she had to set her plan in motion, and right away, she couldn’t rest until the damned money was gone. Fiercely she gripped his wrists. “No matter what happens, you’re not to touch your mother’s funds. Or the children’s. Promise me that.”
“I promise,” he said, and that, at least, she could believe. She nodded, and at last said the other words that had to be spoken:
“We must leave London.”
“Yes.”
“Where will we go?” But even as she said it, the answer came to her. It was pragmatic. It was inevitable. Once she had said to Hugo, I loathe Whitehaven. Here again was a case in which her words had come back to haunt her. But there was no time to think about that, either. “Is there room for us in your house?”