by Lisa Berne
“I’m so happy to hear it, my darling.”
My darling. These, Hugo decided, were now two of his favorite words. He picked up a bowl of oatmeal laden with raisins, pecans, sugar, and cream. “While I eat, will you tell me again the things you said to me before?”
And Katherine did.
Hugo listened.
At the same time he remembered, last year, believing that he wasn’t cut out for love. That he hadn’t—wouldn’t—find the right woman.
By God, how splendid to be proved wrong. And without having to spout poetry, either, or pretending to be something he wasn’t. Life was good. Very good indeed.
When Katherine had done, and he had finished his breakfast, he said, “What made you decide to talk to me, all that time? Daresay most people would have thought it a hopeless endeavor.”
Katherine had been sitting in her chair with her knees drawn up and her arms clasped around them, but now she unfurled herself and sat up straight. “Never hopeless. Do you remember Gabriel telling us, back at Surmont Hall, how he followed his instinct in searching for Livia? And then Livia said that perhaps there’s more to life than we sometimes think. That maybe there’s more inside us than we can know. I believe I was searching for you, and that the only way I could do that was with my words. By talking to you. And by hoping—trusting—believing that you heard me.”
“Well, I’m awfully glad you did. Come sit next to me, Kate?”
“With pleasure.” She stood up, moved the tray away, then eased herself onto the bed next to him where he sat propped up on pillows, his injured leg, well wrapped by Dr. Wilson, cushioned also by pillows. He took her hand in his and looked with a kind of wonderment into her lovely dark eyes.
“You,” he said, “are so beautiful. Wish I could show you how I feel.”
She smiled. “I know what you mean. But the words are nice to hear.”
“It’s good to say them, too. Powerful things, words, aren’t they?”
“Oh, yes. Hugo, how long have you known that you love me?”
He thought. “I don’t know, Kate. Months, perhaps, or longer. Maybe forever. Should’ve told you sooner. But you already know what an oaf I am.”
“Dearest oaf,” she said, with such warm, teasing affection in her voice that Hugo decided that these two words were now among his favorites also.
“Kate,” he said, “it’s come to me.”
“What is it?”
“I hadn’t realized it before, but now I do. What a tremendous stroke of luck it was, breaking my leg again. Otherwise you’d never have told me you love me.”
She laughed, and, raising his hand to her lips, kissed it. “My own true love.”
“Am I, Kate?” he said, enraptured.
“Of course you are.” She kissed his hand again.
“Well,” Hugo said, “that makes us even.”
18 November 1812
Dear Percy and Francis,
Every day Hugo is better and better. Dr. Wilson says that he’ll soon be able to come downstairs, using crutches. He wants me to tell you that he’s very sorry that he won’t be coming himself to fetch you from school, but his partner, Mr. Will Studdart, is, and we both think you will enjoy his company very much. We’re all counting the days till you come home. Cook says she is going to make the biggest, most delicious Christmas pudding ever.
Love,
Katherine
“Madame,” said Céleste, standing in the doorway to the little parlor Katherine had taken to using as her study. “May I speak with you, s’il vous plait?”
“Certainly! Please come in.” Katherine put down her quill. “Oh, Céleste, it’s so nice to see you without that sling.”
“I feel the same, madame.”
After several weeks of Cook’s good food, Céleste had lost her haggard look and her dark straight hair had regained a glossy sheen; she looked neat and trim in her dark blue gown and spotless white fichu. She said, “I believe, madame, that votre manuscrit is completed?”
Katherine glanced down at her desk, on which the hundred or so pages lay in a tidy stack, next to it Claudia’s illustrations, finished also, and so handsome that both she and Will had had to admiringly look them over a dozen times or more. Katherine didn’t bother to inquire precisely how Céleste knew; that had always been Céleste’s way. “Yes. I was just drafting a cover letter, but I don’t know to whom yet.”
“You are looking for un éditeur, I understand, to publish your book?”
Katherine nodded, and Céleste went on:
“It may be, madame, that I know someone in London, who may know someone . . .”
Katherine began to laugh. “Oh, Céleste, you truly are the most resourceful person I know.”
Céleste smiled. “We all have our talents, do we not, madame? And it would be a very small way in which to repay your kindness to me. If you will but frank a letter for me, I shall write to ma connaissance at once.”
“Of course. Thank you, Céleste.”
“It is my pleasure. Madame, there is one other thing. The colleague of Monsieur Hugo, Monsieur Will Studdart—you know that he is to move into his new house next week?”
“Yes.”
“He has been making inquiries about finding une femme de ménage—a housekeeper. I went to him and offered my services, and he has given me the position. C’est-à-dire, if you do not object?”
“Of course not! What wonderful news! And you’ll be close by, on Duke Street. I’m so glad for you, Céleste.”
“Thank you, madame. It is odd to think it now, but when I first returned to Whitehaven, I thought my life was over. Now, I see, it is just beginning.” Céleste smiled, and went away, and Katherine, filled with fresh hope, went back to work on her letter. And when she finished it, she took a new, blank sheet of paper. She looked at it for a while, and then she wrote:
Be who you are.
To thine own self be true.
Who am I?
I am a human being, a person; a woman. A wife. A daughter and a daughter-in-law; a grandchild. A sister. A cousin. A friend.
Mrs. Hugo Penhallow. Katherine Penhallow. Katherine. Kate.
I am a writer.
I am all of these things, and more.
27 November 1812
Dear Katherine,
Percy and I are most awfully glad that Hugo is doing better. It was splendid of you to write to us. Also, thank you for the five-pound notes. We both hope that Mr. Studdart is a bruising rider as we intend to ride home as quickly as possible.
Faithfully yours,
Francis
P.S. Also, please could you tell Hugo to not throw away his crutches when he’s done with them? We’ve always longed to try hopping around on them.
Chapter 21
November gave way to December, the winds blew, the rain fell, and waves crashed on the shore. Céleste took over the management of Will’s new house with such unobtrusive competence that Will wondered how he had ever gotten along without her. Word came from Surmont Hall that Livia had had her baby, who was named Titania, and that everyone was healthy and well. The brusque, restless Christopher Beck spent so much time hanging around the harbor that Hugo, taking pity on him, hired him on as a temporary apprentice which, despite his father’s uneasiness, seemed to be doing him some good. Céleste’s contacts had produced the name of a likely publisher, and Katherine—using a pseudonym, as she didn’t want either her surname or her gender to influence the decision process—sent the manuscript off to London. The Arcadia was sold for a very satisfying sum, and so, waiting only for the arrival of Francis and Percy, who traveled without incident under the cheerful aegis of Will Studdart, a party to celebrate was held in the big old house on the beach.
By afternoon the weather had obligingly cleared, the drawing-room was festively decorated by Gwendolyn and Diana Beck, Cook had outdone herself with the refreshments, Señor Rodrigo had never looked so sleek and handsome, all was in readiness and everyone was there—except for Hugo and Bertram.
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One of the twins came into the drawing-room ferrying a platter of little ham sandwiches and Katherine, who had been helping Diana fix a sagging garland, said:
“Percy, do you know where Hugo and Bertram have gone?”
Gwendolyn looked over from the flowers she was arranging—both Will Studdart and Mr. Beck had arrived with great colorful bouquets—and exclaimed, “Katherine, how did you know that’s Percy?”
“I don’t know,” said Katherine. “I just did.”
Mrs. Penhallow nodded wisely, Percy said something about champagne, and then the dogs started barking; a few moments later Bertram came in bearing an enormous box from the confectioner’s. Behind him, on his crutches, came Hugo, who unslung from his shoulder his rucksack in which were several bottles of champagne.
As Bertram opened the box with a flourish, Hugo explained, “I had a craving for marzipan,” and looked so mischievous that more than one person wondered why, but, saying nothing more on the subject, he called immediately for glasses as, he said, there were so many good things to toast.
Everyone’s health had been drunk, and various other tributes made, both solemn and comical, and glasses refilled more than once, when Katherine stood up from the sofa she had been sharing with Hugo, and said:
“I would like to propose a toast.”
The room quieted, and Bertram said, “To what, Katherine? Or to whom?”
She smiled and looked around. Here, here, were the people she loved, and who loved her. Here was where she belonged; here, her heaven. And on the sofa, an arm’s breadth away, was her light and her heart’s joy, her ever-fixed mark and her guiding star. Hugo, always and forever. Katherine lifted her glass high. “To me,” she said. “For having had the infinite good sense to propose to Hugo.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Hugo, laughing, and raised his own glass. “To my Kate!”
“To Kate!” warmly echoed many voices, and everybody drank, and then someone cackled loudly and demanded:
“Kiss me, you saucy wench!”
“Oh, Señor Rodrigo, we love you too,” said Aunt Claudia fondly, and went over to him on his perch which had been set near the fire, and Hugo said:
“An excellent idea.” He reached for Katherine’s hand, and she sat down next to him again. “Will you, Kate?” he asked. “My saucy wench?”
“Darling Hugo,” she said softly, caressingly, “of course I will,” and then, in front of everyone, she kissed him. And Señor Rodrigo cackled again.
Later, when the party was over and their guests had gone home, Hugo and his family gathered in the library. The dogs, the recipients of a great many scraps, lay dozing peacefully on the hearthrug. His mama was sewing, Bertram and Francis were reading, Percy and Gwendolyn were playing chess, and Katherine, leaning back on one of the sofas with her feet on an ottoman, was gazing into the leaping flames of the fire. He could almost hear the gears and wheels in her brain turning.
“Katherine,” said Francis, looking up from his book, “this biography of Cornelius Tacitus suggests that much of his writing is flawed, though it may be difficult to perceive due to his persuasive style. Do you agree with that?”
Katherine didn’t respond at first, and Francis had to say her name again, a little louder, before she blinked and looked over to him.
“I’m sorry, Francis, I had an idea for something. What did you say?”
He repeated his question, and after a few moments she replied, “It may be that I do. For example, he once said that gratitude is a burden, and I’m not at all certain he’s right about that.”
Francis nodded and went back to his book, and Hugo said curiously:
“What’s your idea, Kate?”
“Oh, I was thinking about Livia and Gabriel’s baby, and about a gift to celebrate her birth. I want to write a little story for her—about a fairy named Titania, who likes to ride horses and go fishing and fight battles.”
“What a marvelous idea, Katherine dear,” said Mama, glancing up from her sewing. “Such a unique gift.”
“Thank you, Mama, I’m glad you think so. And I was wondering if perhaps Gwendolyn might be interested in illustrating it.”
Gwendolyn looked up from the chessboard, delight on her face. “Oh, Katherine, really?”
“Yes. Aunt Claudia showed me some of your watercolors the other day. You’re very talented, Gwennie.”
“I don’t know about that, but I’d love to illustrate your story! When can we begin?”
Katherine smiled at her. “Let’s start tomorrow.”
Hugo was already in bed, and Katherine, at her dressing-table, had just finished brushing out her curls and was about to weave them into a bulky plait, but Hugo said:
“Leave your hair like that, will you, Kate?”
“All right.” She stood and went over toward the bed, next to which, on the little yellow table, three candles flickered.
Hugo said, “My God, but you’re beautiful.”
She smiled, looking down into his face. Never, ever would she tire of hearing him say that. Suddenly something came to her, and she glanced over at the rucksack which Hugo had brought upstairs and left by the door, rather than putting it back into its usual place in his armoire. “Hugo,” she said, “what’s in your rucksack?”
He had, now, an expression of sweet mischief. “A gift for you.”
“How very kind.” She went over to his rucksack. “May I?”
“By all means.”
Lifting the flap, she saw within another, smaller box from the confectioner’s. She pulled it out and looked at Hugo. “Is this what I think it is?”
He grinned. “Open it and see.”
Katherine lifted the lid and there, as she expected, were a dozen chocolate conserves. She laughed and went over to the bed and climbed upon it, then held out the box to Hugo. He took a conserve, extended it to her so she could take a bite, and ate the rest of it.
“Delicious,” Katherine said, with a little purr in her voice. “What a . . . thoughtful gift, my darling.”
“Well,” he replied, still with that look of sweet mischief, “I did think about it a lot. That is to say, I thought about how awfully useful a conserve can be.”
“If one is creative.”
“Which we are. Damn this leg.”
“Never say that. I adore your leg. Both of your legs. All of you, in fact.” Katherine offered him the box again, while with her other hand she drew down the bedclothes. She smiled. “Another conserve?”
Christmas came and went, Katherine and Gwendolyn worked on their project, and Percy and Francis one evening instigated such a loud and jolly pillow fight that the whole family simply had to join in—and Katherine learned that it was indeed a great deal of fun landing a pillow with a hearty thwack. On January 2nd she and Hugo celebrated their one-year anniversary; she gave him a handsome brass spyglass, and he in turn handed her a small box about the size of a deck of playing cards.
Inside the box, nestled on a bed of amber velvet, was a necklace.
Its delicate links were formed out of silver burnished to a soft shine, and suspended from it, artfully wrapped in fine silver filament, were five pieces of sea-glass, white, green, amber, a deep ruby red, and blue.
“It took me a while to find the red piece,” said Hugo, “but I was determined.”
Katherine’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Hugo, I’ve never seen anything so lovely. Thank you. I’ll treasure it forever.” And of course she put it on right away. It complemented, she said, her cherished seed-pearl ear-bobs so beautifully.
A week after that, Francis and Percy went back to school, Will Studdart graciously agreeing to accompany them; in the beginning of February, Hugo was able to walk without his crutches, which, faithful to his promise, he put into the twins’ room until they came home again.
A fortnight later, on a crisp, cold afternoon, Hugo and Will were in their office, looking over some new hull designs, when Katherine came bursting in, her face alight with excitement. From her w
arm woolen muff she pulled out a letter. “Read this!”
15 February 1813
Dear Mr. Wolfe,
My staff and I have reviewed your manuscript with considerable enjoyment, and we are unanimous in agreeing that English Ships Out of Liverpool Harbor: A National Heritage would be a worthy addition to our list. I am gratified, therefore, to offer you the following terms: 200 pounds for the copyright, and a 5 percent royalty on each copy sold.
Believe me, sir, most sincerely, etc.,
Samuel Brereton, Esquire
Hugo and Will whooped with joy, and Will exclaimed, “Mrs. P., you’re a wonder!”
“Oh, but I’m not done,” said Katherine.
24 February 1813
Dear Mr. Brereton,
Thank you very much for your letter. It would be an honor to see my work published by your esteemed firm. These, however, are my preferred terms: 650 pounds outright, a copyright which reverts to me in 10 years, and a 15 percent royalty on each copy sold.
Yours very sincerely,
K. Wolfe
2 March 1813
Dear Mr. Wolfe,
While we all rejoiced to receive your acceptance of our offer, your terms, my dear sir, are a trifle steep. May I suggest instead the following: 300 pounds outright, a copyright which reverts to you in 15 years, and a 9 percent royalty on each copy sold.
Believe me, etc.,
Samuel Brereton, Esq.
11 March 1813
Dear Mr. Brereton,
Thank you for yours of the 2nd. I am obliged to inform you, sir, that I am resolute concerning the terms I delineated in my previous letter. Should they not meet with your satisfaction, I must request the prompt return of the materials so that I may seek a publisher elsewhere.
Yours very sincerely,
K. Wolfe
18 March 1813
By express
Dear Mr. Wolfe,
We accept your terms. A contract is enclosed.
We look forward to hearing from you again at your earliest convenience.