by Lisa Berne
Believe me, etc.,
Samuel
“Hugo.”
“Yes, Katherine?”
“I want to publish the book using my real name. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not.”
They stood at their windows. Outside, above, in the full dark of evening, the northern lights glowed and danced in dazzling arcs of green, yellow, pink, and violet. Hugo added:
“There’s just one problem.”
“Oh?”
“If I were any more proud of you, I think I might burst.”
Katherine laughed, and brought herself more snugly into the circle of his arm around her. “Please don’t. But thank you. I’m going to write to your Aunt Henrietta, to make sure she feels the same way. And do you remember that other idea I had, the one I mentioned to you and Will? I’m going to write that letter, too.”
And not long after that, she got her replies.
22 April 1813
Dear Katherine,
Thank you for your note. It says a great deal about the kind of person you are that you would consult with me as to the use of the family surname in such a public fashion. I think it is a splendid idea, and may I tender my congratulations? It sounds an excellent book and I look forward to ordering my copy in due course as well as quite a few additional copies which I shall give to the deserving among my acquaintance.
You will be glad to hear, I am sure, that Titania now has a total of four teeth. We have several times shown her your charming story, with its equally charming illustrations, and though she is not yet quite capable of holding it herself, she has indicated her approval by blowing some very delightful bubbles.
I cannot help but muse, my dear Katherine, that it seems somehow fated that you were to join our family. After all, “Penhallow,” when one separates the word into its two components, is a name entirely suited for a writer and soon-to-be author, is it not?
Affectionately yours,
Aunt Henrietta
P.S. In future, if you like, you may address me as per the above, and leave off the more formal “Mrs. Penhallow.”
P.P.S. Your second note has just this moment arrived, with your news regarding the Duke of Clarence. What a clever idea to ask if he would like to write a foreword to your book, and how very gratifying that he agreed. I daresay your publishers are at this moment tossing their hats in the air with jubilation.
An image was forming in her mind’s eye.
A blank page.
But not an empty, frightening sort of blankness.
Rather, it was an image of pure possibility—challenging and exciting.
The image continued to form.
She envisioned her own hand, a little pot of ink, a quill moving across the white expanse.
Then, words:
Some people seem to be born underneath a lucky star. Others seem unlucky from the moment of their birth. But Lucy Dale, in the course of her adventures, would come to learn that luck—seemingly good or bad—is a complex, even mysterious entity. She would learn that perhaps there’s more to life than we sometimes think. That maybe there’s more inside us than we can know.
She pondered these words.
She liked them, but it was difficult to know whether they would stay as she went along. She might shift them around, or change them entirely.
Nonetheless, it was a beginning.
You had to start somewhere, after all.
The rest would follow.
She smiled.
And then came a voice, deep, calm, patient, and beloved:
“Kate.”
Katherine blinked, looked over to Hugo, who stood behind Aunt Claudia as she worked at her easel. He had walked with her to the parsonage in the warmth of a lovely spring afternoon, wanting, he said, to see how the portrait was coming along.
“Yes, Hugo?”
“This painting of you and Rodrigo is simply ripping.”
She nodded. “Aunt Claudia is a brilliant artist.”
“Nonsense, my dears, you flatter me,” murmured Claudia, her gaze, both dreamy and intent, moving back and forth between her canvas and Katherine, who said, her own voice rather dreamy:
“I’ve just had an idea.”
“Tell it to us,” said Hugo.
“I’m going to write a novel. It’s about a girl who comes from an unhappy family and is sent to a ghastly boarding school, then goes out into the world a rather hard, troubled person. It’s not going to be about me, though. It’s just that I’m going to use my own experiences and reshape them. Play with them. Make them into fiction.”
“That’s what art is,” remarked Aunt Claudia, dipping her brush into a little puddle of vibrant green. “Taking what we know and molding it anew.”
“Yes, exactly,” agreed Katherine, and Hugo asked, interested:
“What happens to your heroine, Kate?”
“It will all turn out well. I’m not sure how yet. But it will.”
“I can’t wait to read it,” he said, and she answered, laughing:
“I can’t wait to write it.”
Epilogue
A few years later . . .
If, say, you happened to wander into a certain shop on Lowther Street when custom was slow, and decided to linger there for a little while, contemplating the purchase of a beef haunch or a nice flitch of bacon, it might be that the butcher’s wife—Whitehaven’s most fruitful source of information—would lean a dimpled elbow on the counter and regale you with some choice tidbits of news.
She might, for example, tell you, in a voice resonant with awe and pride, about the town’s most well-known resident, Mrs. Katherine Penhallow, whose fame as an author was rapidly spreading. Why, she’d been to faraway London, not once but twice, where she had everywhere been fêted as a literary lioness, and her husband, the dashing Captain Penhallow, had frequently been heard speaking with the highest admiration of his wife’s talent. (The talent which, the butcher’s wife might add in a confidential tone, brought in a regular flow of cheques from the distinguished publisher Samuel Brereton, Esquire.) The captain and his missus had committed the dreadful gaffe of publicly being seen to be madly in love with each other but, as they were Penhallows—to whose illustrious ancestor the mighty Conqueror himself had bowed—Polite Society only smiled and pretended not to notice.
Word of Mrs. Katherine’s success had even spread to the wilds of Scotland, made plain when one day she received a friendly letter from a chieftain’s wife named Fiona who, thanks to their respective marriages to Penhallow men, was thus a newfound cousin to Mrs. Katherine. This letter, full of praise for Mrs. Katherine’s celebrated novel Lucy Dale, had sparked between the two ladies a cordial, ongoing correspondence.
Meanwhile, the firm of Studdart & Penhallow, over at the harbor, was selling ships as quickly as their crews could make them and fast gaining a reputation as one of the country’s best and most forward-thinking shipbuilders. Captain Penhallow and his partner Will were said to now be quite wealthy, though neither of them, being modest men, was ever heard mentioning it, much less boasting about it.
Altogether the Penhallow family was doing so well they had several times been to Seascale where bathing machines had at last been made available to the public, and—this interesting side note might well be conveyed to you in a lowered voice, given the radical nature of the disclosure—some of the ladies in their party went swimming in the ocean without the benefit of a bathing machine. And though Miss Verena Mantel said she only did it so she could keep an eye on her adventurous sister Miss Claudia, everyone could see that she was, in fact, having a wonderful time.
Speaking of Miss Claudia, wasn’t it marvelous that her portrait of Mrs. Katherine and that handsome green parrot had been exhibited at the Royal Academy of Art during its annual exhibition, and was so widely acclaimed that no less a personage than the Prince Regent himself begged to purchase it for his own collection, offering Miss Claudia a sum so monumental that fashionable London was positively abuzz.
/> You couldn’t help but admire Miss Claudia for refusing, saying that some treasures were ultimately meant to be kept close to home. And wasn’t it lovely that after decades of genteel poverty, she now had plenty of money thanks to the clever illustrations she did for those books—money which generously she shared with her sister and papa, and also contributing to all kinds of charitable endeavors here in Whitehaven.
Yes indeed, thanks to her, and the captain and Mrs. Katherine, too, and their mama, and that pleasant Mr. Studdart, the charity home was running properly at last, and the indigents’ relief fund was finally all nice and flush, and their dear vicar Mr. Mantel could even leave off writing those endless letters of appeal to potential benefactors elsewhere.
Well, well, what else? Oh, of course, the three Penhallow boys! They were all at Eton these days, doing splendidly in their respective pursuits, and absolutely thick as thieves with their cousin Owen FitzClarence, the Marquis of Ellington, who, after a lifetime of being extremely short, had in recent years shot up in height, a promising development which gave him enormous satisfaction.
Miss Gwendolyn, now, was all of eighteen and so beautiful that people were comparing her left and right to a Greek goddess—an accolade to which she responded with a mixture of embarrassment and (being only human) gratification. She was soon to embark on her very first Season and nobody had any doubt that she would enjoy a triumphant debut. Mrs. Katherine was hoping to join her sister in London, but having not so long ago given birth to twins—identical twins—and also being so busy writing more books, wasn’t quite sure yet if she would.
It was remarkable, the butcher’s wife might add, leaning a little closer to you over the counter, how even though the babies were only a few months old, everyone in the family could already tell them apart. You wouldn’t think such a thing would be possible, and yet so it was.
But there, she might comfortably say, perhaps there’s more to life than we realize. Maybe there’s more inside us than we can know. Maybe—just maybe—we’ve all got inside of us a little bit of magic, all our own.
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
The Bride Takes a Groom is a story about love, of course, and it’s also about hope, belonging, and the power of words—all things that to me matter a great deal.
I owe a debt of gratitude to the poet Emily Dickinson; this famous, exquisite poem of hers has long been a favorite of mine:
“Hope” is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—
And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—
I’ve heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet—never—in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.
In The Bride Takes a Groom, that talkative, rather mysterious bird, Señor Rodrigo, el Duque de Almodóvar del Valle de Oro, comes to represent the power of hope. I’m so glad that in the end he got his feathers back, aren’t you?
All my best,
Lisa
Acknowledgments
With warmest thanks to Lucia Macro, Katelyn Detweiler, and Sophie Jordan. And to Eloisa James, too, who kindly pointed me to the perfect phrase from Shakespeare, which appears in Chapter 13.
Announcement
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At Lisa Berne’s next Penhallow Dynasty novel
Coming in 2019
An Excerpt from Untitled 5/19
Chapter 1
London, England
Spring 1818
The first time Gwendolyn Penhallow saw the Earl of Westenbury, her heart seemed to lift and soar like a bird in flight.
He was the most handsome man she’d ever seen—had ever dreamed of—with his serene, even-featured countenance and his tawny light-brown hair neatly cropped à la Brutus, and he walked into Almack’s with such easy, unaffected grace that she was, a little, surprised that the musicians didn’t freeze, that all the dancers hadn’t stopped dead in their tracks, that an awed hush didn’t fall upon the room with the piercing sweetness of a long and exquisite grace note.
She had no idea, then, that he was one of the ton’s most eligible gentlemen. That he was an earl, fabulously wealthy, owner of several magnificent estates in Gloucestershire. That for ten years, a great many young ladies just like herself—come to London for the Season—had gazed upon him with eager, hungry eyes, hoping for his favor, waiting anxiously for him to choose a bride. And if Gwendolyn had known, she wouldn’t have cared. What mattered is that he made her breath catch in her throat, in just the way it would when you suddenly stumbled across something rare, something very close to precious.
She was dancing with somebody else, but had just enough time, before she had to turn back to her partner, to see that the tall, handsome stranger was looking at her. That he’d paused, and onto his face came first an expression of astonishment, followed, quickly, by wonder and delight.
For a giddy moment Gwendolyn thought he might walk right into the dance, disrupting the intricate formations, and boldly sweep her away from her partner—what was his name? She’d forgotten it, could barely even feel her gloved hands in his—but he didn’t move, didn’t come her way.
Her heart sank low, foolishly low, and she could have kicked it across the floor like a sad little ball, but afterwards, when the quadrille was over and she was standing next to Mama, and she was doing her best to focus on their conversation and not let her eyes move searchingly around the room in a rude and immature way, the Honorable Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, the haughtiest, most minutely correct of the Patronesses, glided into view, at her side—as if by magic, a wish made manifest with all the dreamlike logic of a fairy tale—the handsome stranger.
He smiled. And joy shimmered throughout Gwendolyn, like a thousand lanterns lighting all at once.
“Mrs. Penhallow,” said Mrs. Drummond-Burrell to Mama in her cool remote way, “may I introduce to you the Earl of Westenbury? He has just yesterday arrived in Town, and wishes me to present himself to you as a desirable partner for your daughter.”
Gwendolyn watched with lips gone suddenly dry as the Earl bowed to Mama, registering more fully, now, how elegantly he was dressed in the dark knee-breeches considered de rigueur for Almack’s, the dark long-tailed coat set superbly across broad shoulders, his snow-white cravat tied with marvelous precision. And then he was saying to her, with a smile in his gold-flecked deep-green eyes, “How do you do, Miss Penhallow,” and that was that.
The fabled coup de foudre.
Love at first sight.
She was obliged to inform him that all her dances tonight were taken, but added, as if a casual afterthought, that tomorrow evening she would be attending Lord and Lady Mainwaring’s ball. He promptly secured her hand for two dances—any more than that would have of course been considered risqué—and Gwendolyn had to wait a long, very long twenty-four hours until she could see the Earl again, and learn, during their cotillion and then a waltz, that he danced beautifully. He didn’t step on the hem of her gown, or try to squeeze her hands in a vulgar way, or bring her too close to him during the waltz as some other gentlemen tried to do and which always made her feel all annoyed and prickly and icy inside.
The Mainwarings’ ball took place two weeks and four days after Gwendolyn had attended her very first event of the Season (an intimate dinner-party hosted by her relation the Duchess of Egremont). In the days and nights that followed the ball, she and the Earl met at other gatherings, at assemblies and art galleries, at Vauxhall and at Venetian breakfasts, as frequently as propriety allowed.
Exactly three weeks after their propitious encounter at Almack’s, the Earl sent a note to Gwendolyn’s mother informing her that he was leaving Town on an urgent matter.
Eleven days afte
r that, Gwendolyn’s older brother Hugo arrived unexpectedly in London. The Earl had traveled to Whitehaven, and formally requested from Hugo—his sister’s guardian—her hand in marriage. Was this what she wanted? Hugo now asked Gwendolyn.
Gwendolyn did. Oh, she did. The Earl was so nice—so charming—so kind. And (she thought but did not say out loud) so handsome, so gallant. So unaffected and graceful in his manners. And the way he gazed at her, as if with his entire soul in those fascinating eyes of his. It made her feel so . . . cherished.
She was sure about this? Hugo asked.
Yes, she was absolutely certain.
It had all happened rather quickly, he observed.
It had, Gwendolyn agreed. But sometimes you just knew.
Hugo acknowledged the truth of this, having been most fortunate in his own marriage. Lucky to know in his bones he’d found his own true love.
And so on April 23, 1818, Gwendolyn and the Earl of Westenbury were officially betrothed. The Earl presented her with a singularly beautiful pearl ring which had been in his family for generations, a gift from Queen Elizabeth to a previous Lady Westenbury who had served as her Mistress of the Robes. In its warm gold setting, surrounded by tiny perfect rubies, the pearl glowed with a lovely milky luster which bewitched the eye.
When she was by herself, Gwendolyn would hold up her left hand and stare wonderingly at it. A symbol of her future happiness. Her life’s great adventure. She was engaged. And to the most wonderful man in the world.
Seven years earlier . . .
Whitehaven, England
Autumn 1811
“Christopher, may I talk with you, please?” Gwendolyn Penhallow said, and Christopher Beck, annoyed at the interruption, brought his axe down with a thunk into a fat yew log and split it in two. They stood in the long yard to the back of his house, where he’d come to chop wood—over Father’s objections, who said that it was a servant’s job, not that of a gentleman—and all he wanted was to be left alone after yet another one of Father’s longwinded lectures. So what if he’d been sent down from university? What did it matter? He rolled another log into place with his boot and lifted his axe high.