by Lisa Berne
She told them what it was, and wide-eyed, Will said, “The book’d sell like cakes at a fair!”
“Well, we’ll see. First we have to create a manuscript. And secure a publisher.”
“Do you know any, Mrs. P.?”
Katherine shook her head. “But we’ll find a way. I’m sure of it.” She sat back in her chair. “What do you say, Will?”
“I say yes. It’s a way of letting me keep what I’ve done, but also sharing it with the world. I’m grateful to you, Mrs. P.”
She smiled, then looked up at Hugo. “What say you, Mr. P.?”
He smiled back at her. “I say bravo.”
“You have no objection to your wife writing a book?”
His brows went up. “Why would I?”
“Oh, I suppose some people would think it unladylike, even scandalous.”
“I don’t.”
“I’m glad.” Katherine got up. “I’m off to see Aunt Claudia. Good day to you, gentlemen,” she said, and stood on her tiptoes to brush her cheek against Hugo’s, his skin warm and slightly, deliciously, rough; and then with brisk, eager steps she went to the parsonage, where, sitting together in Claudia’s light-filled studio, she told her about her idea. Claudia listened intently, her big blue eyes unwaveringly on Katherine’s face.
“—and altogether I envision about seventy-five pen-and-ink illustrations, Aunt Claudia, for a finished book of perhaps a hundred and eighty pages. And, as I told Will Studdart, we’ll all share the profits. What do you think?”
“Oh, my dear, I do like drawing boats and ships, and I did enjoy doing that little illustration of the Arcadia you asked for, but . . . I’ve never exhibited my work before. To the public, you know. Am I really and truly good enough?”
“Yes, you are.”
“You seem so sure of this, my dear.”
“I am sure. I’ve been in London and to all the important galleries. You’re more than good enough.”
Claudia said, rather dreamily now, “I can hear it in your voice. I can see your surety. My dear, you’ve changed since the summer. I can’t explain it exactly, but this is something I’m sure of. How is that poor parrot of Gwendolyn’s doing? Has he gotten any feathers yet?”
“No, poor Señor Rodrigo is still the same. And to own the truth, Aunt Claudia, I think he’s a little lonely since Gwendolyn’s been spending so much time next door with her friend Diana.”
“Such a sweet bird, Señor Rodrigo. I like him, so very much. About the book idea . . . I’ll make you a bargain, Katherine dear.”
Katherine smiled. “What sort of bargain?”
“I’ll do the illustrations if, when I’ve completed them, you and Señor Rodrigo will sit for me. For a portrait.”
“Done,” said Katherine, and they two shook hands, and then Claudia sneezed, and five minutes later Aunt Verena sailed into the room with a tisane which she pressed upon her sister, and then she sneezed too.
“God bless you,” said Claudia, and, setting aside her cup and saucer, stood up.
“Where are you going?” demanded Verena.
“To make you a tisane, dear,” Claudia answered, drifting off, and as she reached the doorway they heard another sneeze, tremendously loud, issuing from Mr. Mantel’s study, and Claudia added, “And one for Papa also. I do hope we aren’t all succumbing to an ague. Goodbye, Katherine dear. Bring Mr. Studdart’s sketches over whenever you like, and I’ll begin.”
Katherine drew open the curtains in Céleste’s bedchamber and mellow autumnal sunlight, soft and cheerful, illuminated the room. “There,” she said. “Now that you’re well enough to sit up again, you can see the ocean from your window.” Then she went to the table next to the bed, where a cup of Cook’s warm beef tea was set on a saucer. She held out the cup to Céleste, who lay propped up on pillows, her dark hair, lank, in a plait trailing over one shoulder, and her left arm cradled in Dr. Wilson’s professional-looking sling. The bruise around her eye was healing, but it was an ugly yellow and green now. Still, she looked considerably better than she had a few days ago.
Céleste took the cup. She said, looking up at Katherine, “Merci, madame. But there is something I must first say to you.”
Katherine sat in the chair next to the bed. “What is it, Céleste?”
“I must apologize for my malade—my ill will—toward you all those years. I came to your parents’ employ an orphan, destitute. I did whatever they told me to do. But this ought not to excuse mon attitude désagréable.”
“It does, though, I think. When one’s circumstances are hard, one can, perhaps, behave in ways one might not like.” Even as she said this Katherine knew she was referring to herself as well as to Céleste. She wondered, then, if people were shaped as much by how they grew up as by their intrinsic natures. A question to write down in her little notebook, and perhaps to mention for discussion at a family dinner.
Céleste was nodding. “C’est vrai, madame, it is all too true. Looking back, it seems to me there was—forgive me—le poison in the house. Une essence noire, overcoming me.”
“I know what you mean,” Katherine answered thoughtfully. “A dark essence. Well, that’s all over now. Won’t you drink your tea?”
Céleste obediently took a sip from her cup. “Madame, what is going to happen to me? I cannot work at present, I have no money, I am dependent on votre charité, and—” She inhaled a deep, shuddering breath. “I am afraid that la police—your Bow Street Runners—me conduira à la prison. For the theft of your jewelry, which I so deeply regret.”
“Oh, they won’t,” Katherine said. “Father changed his mind, Céleste. Mother persuaded him that it would be socially embarrassing to pursue criminal charges against you and his valet. Although,” she added, “I must say I do wish something bad would happen to Robert.”
“We shall never know, madame. He has sailed off to Brazil.”
“Brazil? Well, maybe he’ll meet up with my parents then.”
“Votre parents are there also?”
“Yes. Oh, wouldn’t it be funny to see it? I’d give anything to be a fly on that wall. I can just imagine them going into business together and cheating each other blind.” Katherine laughed, then said, “As for yourself, Céleste, please don’t worry. Your only task is to get better again.”
“I will try, madame. But I do not think I shall ever earn enough money to repay you for the jewelry.”
“Oh, please forget about that. It wasn’t even mine, really. Please do drink your tea, or Cook will scold me.”
Céleste sipped again, then looked up, in her eyes wonderment and gratitude. “Madame, you are very good to me. I hope to repay you, someday, in another way.”
Katherine smiled at her. “You needn’t worry about that, either. Is there anything else you need before I go? I’ve promised to carry more of Cook’s tea to the parsonage. Both of my aunts and my grandfather-in-law are feeling poorly.”
“There is one small thing, madame. I—I have sometimes fancied that there is le marin—a sailor—in the house. Est-ce vrai? My late father was one, you see.”
“A sailor? Oh—it must be Gwendolyn’s bird you’re hearing, Céleste! I’m sorry if he’s been troubling you. He can be rather loud at times.”
“It doesn’t trouble me, madame. But . . .”
Céleste was looking so wistful that impulsively Katherine said, “Would you like to meet Señor Rodrigo? I can bring him up here if you like.”
For the first time since she had arrived, Céleste smiled. “His name is Señor Rodrigo? Oui, madame, I should like that very much, if it does not incommode you.”
“I’ll do it as soon as I’m back from the parsonage,” Katherine promised, and she was as good as her word, a few hours later returning to Céleste’s bedchamber bearing Señor Rodrigo on her index finger.
“Ah, le pauvre oiseau, but he has no feathers! Quelle dommage!” exclaimed Céleste.
“Bonjour, ma chérie,” said Señor Rodrigo. “Comment vas-tu aujourd’hui?”
“You speak French,” Katherine said to him in surprise.
Señor Rodrigo giggled in a distinctly coy manner.
“We had no idea,” Katherine said to Céleste, and laughed. “Señor Rodrigo, you clearly have had a very interesting past. May I introduce you to Céleste?” She sat on the edge of the bed and extended her finger, with Rodrigo upon it, toward Céleste, who in turn stretched out her own hand. Katherine held her breath, a little anxious as to how Señor Rodrigo would respond, but with total insouciance he stepped from her finger onto Céleste’s.
“Tu es très beau, monsieur,” Céleste murmured, “so very handsome.”
“Voulez-vous danser, ma jolie?” replied Señor Rodrigo, and began to climb up Céleste’s arm where, reaching out to the end of her plait, he began to nibble on a strand of her hair.
Céleste watched him, smiling. “I cannot dance, señor, but perhaps we can talk?”
Rodrigo cackled agreeably, and Céleste looked up. “Madame, might you leave him here for a little while? If he is not missed downstairs? It would be un grand plaisir for me.”
“I think that’s a lovely idea,” answered Katherine. “For both of you.”
Later, at supper, when she explained where Señor Rodrigo was, she thought for a moment that Gwendolyn would object, for her expression darkened, but she only shrugged and looked to Hugo, saying:
“Are you still going on your first voyage on Friday? What is it that you call it? The shake cruise?”
“The shakedown cruise,” he answered, and accepted from Bertram the platter of pork chops he was passing. “Thanks, Bertie. Yes, early on Friday morning. I know you wanted to go, Gwennie, but it’s not the sort of voyage for bringing along a guest. It’s to make sure she’s truly seaworthy.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” she answered airily. “I don’t mind anymore. Mama,” she went on, “will you play cribbage with me after supper?”
“I’d love to, darling, but I’m going to stop by the parsonage to see how Papa and your aunts are doing. They were all a trifle worse today. It’s only an ague, but . . .”
“I’ll go with you,” said Hugo, and Mrs. Penhallow replied gratefully:
“Oh, thank you, dearest Hugo. If you don’t mind?”
“Not at all. Katherine, how’s your writing coming along?”
She smiled at him. “Today I finished a section about a little ship called the Kingfisher. It had a fascinating history over a decade ago, when it was secretly fitted out as a military vessel and sent to the Strait of Gibraltar.”
“In one of Papa’s notes,” said Bertram, “he theorizes that if the two land masses divided by the Strait were to be connected, the water in the Mediterranean basin would evaporate and a tremendous layer of salt would be laid down.”
“Your papa was so brilliant,” Mrs. Penhallow said, her eyes bright and soft. Then she rose to her feet. “Hugo darling, might we go sooner rather than later?”
“Of course, Mama,” answered Hugo at once, standing up also.
“If you like, Gwendolyn,” Katherine said, “I’ll play cribbage with you. Bertram, will you join us?”
“I’ve changed my mind.” Gwendolyn got up. “Mama, may I go over to Diana’s house?”
“Just for a little while, darling.”
“Katherine,” Bertram said, “I’ll play with you. Would you like to see my faro shuffle? I’ve been practicing it. Mathematicians, you know, use it in an attempt to achieve the perfect shuffle, so that it can be classified as an element of the symmetric group.”
“Bertram,” said Katherine with absolute truth, “I would love to see your faro shuffle.”
Chapter 19
Hugo and Will stood on the old stone quay where the Arcadia lay at rest in her moorings, completed, scrubbed, shiningly new, her clean white sails rippling in the breeze.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” said Will, pride in his voice, and Hugo nodded, just as proud. He’d loved being a soldier, but this—by God, this was even better. How lucky he was, to have moved so swiftly into another profession which suited him so well and also, as a side benefit, reduced to a great degree his chances of being shot, stabbed, captured, or hung.
“And thanks to Mrs. P.’s clever notice of sale,” Will went on, “we’ve got those three offers already, waiting only on the results of tomorrow’s cruise to proceed, and the fellow from Bristol’s preemptively upped his offer by a third.”
Hugo felt a glow of pride in Katherine, too. “Well, all’s ready,” he said to Will.
“Excited?”
He laughed. “Very.”
Will laughed too, and clapped him on the shoulder. “So am I. There’s nothing like a ship’s first voyage. See you tomorrow morning, bright and early.”
When Hugo got home he found a discombobulated household.
“Oh, Hugo,” said his mother anxiously, “both Cook and Eliza have come down with the ague, and Claudia’s a little worse today. One of the dogs ate something it shouldn’t, and nobody can find the puppy. Bertram’s out looking for it, and Katherine kindly offered to clean the mess in the drawing-room. Papa’s cook is making some more broth and so I’m going now to the butcher’s to bring her fresh bones. Dr. Wilson promised to come by and see Cook and Eliza, and also to look in on Céleste, who insisted on getting up to help and then almost passed out on the stairs.” Mama pressed her palms against her face for a moment. “Oh, Hugo, and I did want to have a special supper before your voyage!”
“We’ll have it when I get back,” he told her. “Is Hoyt feeling all right?” At her nod, he went on, “Send him to get the bones, and you go straight on to the parsonage. Where’s Gwennie?”
“She’s gone over to Diana’s, where she’s to spend the night.”
“She ought to be helping here.”
“Oh, darling Hugo, she’s been so dreadfully out of sorts lately, there’s no need to trouble her.” Mama had already put on her pelisse and was tying the ribbons of her bonnet. “Do you think you can scramble something together for your supper?”
“After eight years in the Army? Gad, I should hope so. Don’t worry about us, Mama. Go tell Hoyt what you want him to get, and I’ll see what else needs to be done around here.”
His mother’s expression brightened. “Hugo darling, you’re such a comfort. Thank you! Oh, I do hope Bertram finds the puppy.”
With that, she was gone. Hugo checked on Cook and Eliza, and then on Céleste, and went to help Katherine in the drawing-room, and Dr. Wilson arrived, and when, a little later, Bertram triumphantly returned with the puppy, he put him in charge of feeding all the dogs and went into the kitchen to make cold beef sandwiches and a potato salad which he offered to anyone who felt like eating. His supper was pronounced entirely delicious, even Cook, who was persuaded to sit up and have half of a sandwich, allowing as how it was passable.
“Which,” Hugo later told Katherine, when they had gone up to their room, “was such a compliment that I very nearly blushed.”
She laughed. “Unlike myself, I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you turn red.”
“That’s because I’m shameless.”
Katherine laughed again, and Hugo went on to finish packing his small canvas bag. He set it near the door, then turned to see that Katherine, in her white nightgown, was sitting on the bed, her knees drawn up and her arms clasped round them. Her mood had shifted; she was now looking at him gravely.
“Hugo,” she said, “you’ll be careful, won’t you?”
“Of course I will.”
“You’ve thoroughly inspected the Arcadia?”
“From stem to stern.”
“There are no leaks?”
“Not a one.”
“You trust your crew?”
“Absolutely.”
“The weather looks auspicious?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll only be gone for three days?”
“Yes.”
Katherine’s dark eyes were fixed on his own, intently, and to Hugo
it seemed as if there were something else she wanted to say. Another box she wished to reveal. He stood there patiently, waiting for whatever it was. Then she said:
“Hugo, is it bad luck to make love before a maiden voyage?”
For a fleeting moment, it seemed to him that this wasn’t what she had been struggling to say, but the thought vanished as he felt the warmth of desire begin and build within him.
“No, by Jove, it’s not,” he said, and went over to the bed. He got onto it, sat with his back against the headboard, and reached out for her; she came willingly, straddled him, and he slid up the hem of her nightgown so that he could stroke her legs, slowly and without hurry. She shivered a little, with pleasure, he knew, but still looked grave.
“You’re sure?” she asked.
“Very. If anything, it’s good luck. In fact, we’ll have to be sure to make love before all my ships launch.”
He saw the smile begin to form on her sweet cherry lips.
She said, “Do you mean to have a great many ships?”
“Yes. Which means we’ll have to make love quite a lot.”
“Do you promise, Hugo?”
“Yes.”
“Well then,” she said, and began to tug up the hem of his shirt.
It was still dark when Hugo left the house. She wanted to go with him to the harbor, but to this he would not agree. So Katherine walked him just to the street, inside her words she longed to share, words from her heart, but all jumbled and raw, unpolished, disorganized, and by the time she thought how she might put them into proper order, Hugo had kissed her goodbye, and all she could think to do then was to cling to him rather tightly, smile, and say:
“Three days?”
“Yes. Au revoir, as those beastly French say.”
Katherine stood watching him walk away. It was cold this morning, with a sharp wind that seemed to take perverse delight in finding its way down the collar of her pelisse and go slithering up her sleeves, sending her skirts aflutter and her curls blowing every which way. But she waited, unmoving, until she could see Hugo no longer. It was only then that she went back into the house.