The Bride Takes a Groom

by Lisa Berne

  They ran to the gangplank. After that, it was a living nightmare. Hugo, eyes closed and unmoving; Gwendolyn, weak, so weak she could only just turn her head. Will, explaining what had happened; Christopher, bolting for Dr. Wilson’s house, to send him on to the Penhallow home, and then to go tell Elizabeth Penhallow that her children had returned. That her children would be borne home as quickly as possible. They were alive, but not well. Oh, not well at all.

  Chapter 20

  He was floating somewhere, in the ether perhaps, far from the realm in which his body could hurt him anymore. There was no pain, no fear. He had brought Gwendolyn out of the ocean. He had brought his family out of ruin. He had brought Katherine out of Brooke House. Even though he was sorry to go, he knew they would be all right.

  He floated.

  Peaceful and free.

  No pain, no fear.

  He let himself drift further and further into the noiseless, comfortable embrace of the ether.

  Katherine stared down at Hugo’s face, ghostly pale in the wan moonlight spilling between curtains she had forgotten to close. He lay in their bed as still as death itself. Dr. Wilson, brisk, efficient, kind, had come and gone. Gwendolyn had said a few words, to everyone’s relief; Mrs. Penhallow was with her now, in her bedchamber. Bertram had wanted to stay here, with Hugo, standing as stiffly as a soldier on sentry duty, but after a while had literally fallen asleep on his feet and she had told him, gently, to go to bed. Groggily he’d complied, and she was now alone with Hugo. The quiet seemed to press heavily upon her, with almost a physical force, and Katherine could feel herself breathing rapidly, shallowly.

  Could feel her heart beating too fast.

  A great black abyss seemed to open up before her, and she knew it was the place of despair. The point of no return; the dark night of the soul.

  How was she going to get through this? How could she help Hugo—help his family?

  Katherine looked at Hugo, the heavy weight of anguish hard upon her, and slowly sank down onto her knees. She was weak, weak. What use could she possibly be? She brought her hands up onto the side of the bed, and it was some time later that she realized she had clasped them, as if in prayer.

  Into her mind came something Mr. Mantel had said during his sermon the very first Sunday after she and Hugo had arrived in Whitehaven. The church’s simple, pleasing interior had been flooded with colorful light streaming through its stained-glass windows. Mr. Mantel had talked about the turbulence of the world, the earthquake in Caracas, the Luddite riots here in England, the siege in Badajoz, and how one might strive to find peace amidst it all. He had quoted from the book of Hebrews:

  Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.

  She had been too angry, then, to really listen. To truly hear. But now his words came back to her, and it was as if she reached out to grab at them. To take them in and hold on tight.

  Faith is the substance of things hoped for.

  Hugo’s voice came into her head:

  Then Grandpapa wrote me a letter that helped. He said it’s his firm belief that we’re never given more than we can handle.

  She had said, Do you have faith in me, Hugo?

  And he had answered in his calm, steady way:

  Yes. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever known.

  Faith. Hope. Strength.

  Powerful words.

  Beacons of light.

  Guiding her away from the abyss. Illuminating her path.

  She knew, now, what to do.

  Faith, hope, strength.

  Katherine realized that she’d bowed her head over her clasped hands, as if in prayer. She lifted her head. Stood. Looked down at Hugo, and believed.

  With astonishing rapidity Gwendolyn rebounded from her ordeal, but as the days passed Hugo remained silent, still, deeply and utterly unconscious. He had broken his left leg again, Dr. Wilson informed them, and hit his head with such force that it was unclear—well, it was unclear if he would ever wake up, or even survive his injuries.

  Pale and drawn, Mrs. Penhallow moved between the house and the parsonage, where, at last, Grandpapa and the aunts were recovering from the ague that had stricken them. It was only once, when she and Katherine were alone, that she broke down and cried. They sat on the little sofa in her parlor and Katherine held her hand, and finally Mrs. Penhallow said in a low voice:

  “Oh, my dear Katherine, what if—what if my darling boy doesn’t—doesn’t get better?”

  “He will, Mama.”

  Mrs. Penhallow wiped her eyes with her little wisp of a handkerchief. “I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but I feel so—so hopeless.”

  “I have enough hope for both of us, then.”

  “How do you, Katherine dear? Of course I’m so thankful that Gwendolyn is better, and my sisters and Papa also, and I’m very grateful for all of Mr. Studdart’s offers to help, but with Dr. Wilson so guarded, and Cook so despondent I can hardly bear to look at her, I feel my own spirits sinking very low. I try to keep my face brave, but . . . How do you do it?”

  “It may sound strange, Mama, but have you looked at Señor Rodrigo lately?”

  Mrs. Penhallow shook her head. “I’ve been so distracted. Why do you ask?”

  “Come with me.”

  Together they went to the open door of the library where Gwendolyn lay on a sofa, napping, her cheeks flushed a healthy pink and a book tucked in next to her, slid upright against the sofa-back. And Mrs. Penhallow looked at Rodrigo, who perched on the book’s spine, his dark eyes bright and unfathomable. She looked at Señor Rodrigo, el Duque de Almodóvar del Valle de Oro, whose brilliant green feathers had, for some unknown and mysterious reason, started to grow again.

  “My goodness,” Mrs. Penhallow whispered in amazement, and Katherine whispered back:

  “Hope, Mama. Hope, and feathers.”

  They walked together back down the hallway and stopped at the foot of the stairs. Katherine said, “When Hugo first came home that night, I felt like you did. So frightened and hopeless. But . . . I thought of some things your father said, and Hugo, too. And then, the next day, I saw the very beginning of Rodrigo’s new feathers. Do you remember my once making a rather unhelpful comment to Gwendolyn about how he didn’t have any feathers at all? She said to me, ‘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.’ I’m not sure why, but I remember so clearly what she said that day. And—” Katherine smiled, just a little. “I’m a little mad, perhaps, but somehow Señor Rodrigo is giving me hope. I’m going back upstairs now, to Hugo.” She hugged Mrs. Penhallow, and so they parted, Mrs. Penhallow looking, perhaps, just a tiny bit brighter.

  Gradually, gradually, he realized that a voice was talking to him. Had been talking to him for quite a while, softly, steadily. And even though the voice felt a little like a tether, keeping him from floating away, keeping him too close to the racking pain, despite himself he found he wanted to hear what the voice was saying. Curiosity had always been one of his abiding sins.

  He listened.

  Hugo, I have something to tell you. It’s that I love you. I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time, but I’ve been afraid. And I didn’t know how to say it properly. Elegantly. As if that mattered! But now I know—with a certainty that takes my breath away—that what truly matters is those three simple words.

  I love you.

  I love you just as you are, now and forever. For better or for worse. For richer or for poorer. Come what may, now and always.

  I know you’ll come back and be with me. With us. We can’t do without you, Hugo, we love you so dearly.

  Oh, Hugo, I believe I’ve loved you all my life.

  We have so much to look forward to, you and I.

  I know you’ll come back someday.

  The voice went on and on, steadily, quietly.

 
It was a voice that sounded rather familiar.

  He listened.

  “Katherine,” said Gwendolyn. Supper was over, but she stayed sitting at her place at the table.

  “Yes, Gwendolyn?” Katherine had already gotten up. She paused by her chair. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “I know you want to go back upstairs, but if you could stay for just a minute?”

  “Of course.” Katherine sat down again, and Mrs. Penhallow said:

  “Would you like for Bertram and me to leave, dearest?”

  “No. I want you to hear, too.” Gwendolyn fiddled with her fork and spoon for a few moments, then looked up and to Katherine. “I’m very sorry for how I’ve behaved toward you. I’ve been beastly. It’s because—well, I’ve felt so outside of things. And afraid.”

  “Afraid how?” said Katherine gently.

  “Afraid that Hugo wouldn’t love me as much, now that you’re here. I waited so many years for Hugo to come home, but—then you came, too. I didn’t want to share him, you see.”

  Outsiderness. Fear. Katherine made no attempt to hide the emotion in her voice as she answered, “I know what it’s like to be afraid. And to feel outside of things. I know it all too well. But I haven’t come here to displace you, Gwendolyn. And I know—oh, I know for sure that Hugo loves you just as much as ever.”

  “Do you, Katherine? How can you know that?”

  Katherine smiled at her. “I’ve learned, Gwendolyn, being here among all of you, that the human heart is a very capacious thing. That it can expand to hold more and more love, freely and generously. I used to know it, when I was a little girl living next door—I learned it here, in this house, long ago—but then I went away and forgot. I’m so glad to have remembered it all over again.”

  “I believe,” said Bertram, “you’re speaking metaphorically, Katherine. Although the heart does expand, it immediately contracts in a pumping motion, thereby sending freshly oxygenated blood through the aorta which is, of course, the main artery of the body and extends down to the abdomen, where it splits into two smaller arteries.”

  “Just so, Bertram,” Katherine said, with perfect gravity.

  “Je t’aime passionnément, ma chérie,” said Señor Rodrigo on his perch near the fireplace, in which a cheerful fire crackled. “Rapprochez-vous un peu, s’il vous plaît.” He added, as if in an afterthought, “Yo ho ho.”

  “So you forgive me then, Katherine?” asked Gwendolyn.

  “There’s nothing to forgive. Truly.” She smiled, and Gwendolyn smiled back, and Katherine felt her heart expand still more, pausing for a moment before she stood again, to watch as Gwendolyn got up to go over to Rodrigo and give him the little end piece of bread she’d been saving for him as, she had earlier disclosed to the family, it was quite his favorite part of the loaf.

  Oh, Hugo, I’ve been reading Shakespeare again. Your grandpapa has a beautiful edition of the Sonnets. Today I read Sonnet 116. Do you know it, darling Hugo? There’s this bit of it which almost made me cry. But in a good way.

  ‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds / Admit impediments. Love is not love / Which alters when it alteration finds, / Or bends with the remover to remove. / O no! it is an ever-fixed mark / That looks on tempests and is never shaken; / It is the star to every wand’ring bark . . .’

  Hugo, dearest Hugo, never once have you tried to make me into something I’m not. You’ve accepted me as I am, with all my faults and flaws, and you’ve shown me how to be that way with others, too. I love you so much. You’re my ever-fixed mark, you’re my star which never fades or falters.

  I know you’ll come back when you’re ready.

  I know you’ll come home when the time is right.

  I’m waiting, and watching over you, and hoping.

  I love you, Hugo.

  The mighty storms of autumn rolled into Whitehaven, bringing with them fierce winds and cold rain, and, at the beach, tall curling waves that crashed, magnificent, onto the sand. Inside the house they were warm and snug, thanks, Katherine knew, to the money which she had brought to them, a thought which gave her a great deal of pleasure.

  Eliza was well again, and Céleste, too, who had come downstairs determined to help however she could with an arm still in its sling. Will Studdart had received five competing offers for the Arcadia, but was waiting, he told the brokers, until his partner was well enough to participate in the decision; in the meantime he busied himself looking for a house to buy and also reading Katherine’s manuscript, a full first draft which she had copied out neatly and given to him. Claudia resumed her work on the illustrations, and Bertram finished his essay on copper extraction. The puppy Gwendolyn had brought home, plump now, had become great friends with Señor Rodrigo, whose feathers continued to grow, daily rendering him more handsome and regal, a fact of which he seemed to be keenly aware, for he spent a good deal of time complacently preening himself.

  And day by day, Katherine sat by the bed which she shared with Hugo, talking to him. Spooning into his mouth the light, nourishing broth which Cook made with the finest bones—the best bones—which the butcher’s wife set aside for him.

  Katherine talked to him, easily, softly, naturally, holding Hugo’s hand, tenderly brushing the golden hair, longer now, off his forehead. Told him about what everyone was doing, and about the Arcadia. Read out loud to him from her manuscript. And she spoke her words of love, and need, and hope, words which sprang from a well that would always, she knew, be full.

  And then, on a cold, foggy day in November, Hugo opened his eyes. Katherine had gone to look out the windows, admiring the beauty of the ocean in all its many moods, and when she came back to the bed she saw that Hugo had woken up. He smiled at her and he said:

  “Hullo, Kate.”

  Carefully, so as not to jostle him, she sat down next to him on the bed and took his big hand in hers. Joy, sweetest joy, flooded her, and in a flash of memory she remembered how, a year ago, she had imagined that heaven was a place where she could be alone. That there was no greater happiness than to be by herself. But slowly and gradually, week after week, she had changed her mind. And now—oh, now, here, with Hugo, here was her heaven. In a voice that surprised her with its calmness she answered, softly: “Hullo.”

  “Gwennie all right?”

  “Yes, she’s fine.”

  “Everyone else well, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Including you?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Well, that’s excellent news.”

  “Yes, it is. Can I get you anything? I’ve a cup of mulled cider right here, or I can go get you anything you like.”

  “Don’t go away, Kate.”

  She smiled. “I won’t. A little cider, then?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Tenderly she helped bring him upright on his pillows, hating to see how he grimaced. “Your leg, Hugo?”

  “Yes. Did I break it again?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Damn it to hell.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” She held the cup of cider to his lips, and he drank.

  “Thanks. Kate, I’m as weak as a damned cat.”

  “It’s understandable. Does your head hurt you, or anything else?”

  “No, it’s just my leg.”

  “You’ll be better soon. I’m going to take very good care of you.”

  He was looking at her, and even with the pallor of illness on his now-gaunt face, the dark circles underneath his eyes, the scruffy golden beard, he was so handsome to her, so familiar and so beloved, that Katherine had to keep herself from kissing him with the fervor—all the relief and the happiness, the hope and the optimism—that made her feel that she could float up like a feather on the breeze.

  “I think,” Hugo said, “you have been taking good care of me. You’ve been talking to me, haven’t you, Kate?”

  She nodded, and he said:

  “You saved me.”

  She smiled. “It was Will and yo
ur men who did that.”

  “Yes, they saved me from the ocean. But it was you who brought me back.”

  “Well, if we’re to talk of saving,” Katherine answered, stroking his hand, “you saved me too, my darling Hugo. Which means we’re even.”

  He looked at her, in his blue eyes a dawning glow. “Am I your darling, Kate?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes.”

  He took this in. And he smiled, too. “I’m glad. Very glad. Will you tell me again those things you said to me, while I was elsewhere?”

  “Of course. But a little later, perhaps? Right now, there are so many other people who need to know that you’re awake. Will you excuse me for just a few moments?”

  “To be sure.”

  When she was at the door he added:

  “Kate.”

  She stopped, and turned. “Yes, Hugo?”

  “I love you, you know.”

  And she said, easily and naturally: “I’m glad. I love you, too.” Yes indeed, the heart certainly was an ever-expanding organ. Katherine smiled back at Hugo, then went to gather her family and bring them upstairs, so that they could all share, together, in the joy of Hugo’s awakening.

  14 November 1812

  Dear Francis and Percy,

  A very quick note to let you know that Hugo regained consciousness today. He spoke with all of us, had some of Cook’s delicious chicken soup, and went back to sleep. Your mama has gone to the parsonage to share the wonderful news with your grandpapa and aunts and I will shortly send this to you by express.

  I hope this finds you both well.

  More soon.

  Love,

  Katherine

  “Breakfast in bed,” said Hugo the next morning, eyeing with satisfaction the tray which Eliza had brought up. “Excellent. I’m hungry as a bear. Thanks very much.” Smilingly Eliza dipped a little curtsy and left the room, and he looked over to Katherine, sitting in a chair by the bed. “Where’s yours, Kate?”

  “I’ve already had mine, downstairs. How are you feeling?”

  “Rather tired. But better.”