by Lisa Berne
“It’s true. Have you forgotten? Been this way all my life. Feel free to ask my mother the next time we see her.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Do,” he said cordially. He picked up his fork again and proceeded to eat his roast beef.
For a moment Katherine envisioned herself as an alpine climber, attempting without success to gain purchase on an icy slope. Although really it wasn’t a very good analogy. Hugo was tall and big and therefore could be considered mountain-like, but as for being icy? No, no, he was warmth and life, fire and light— She veered away from this unhelpful train of thought and doggedly went on, “You’re happy all the time. It can’t be real.”
“I’m not happy all the time.”
“You act that way.”
“I’m not acting at all.”
“But you’re so—so cheerful!” Katherine twisted the linen napkin in her lap as if it had suddenly come alive and she had to dispatch it. “I suppose,” she added in a belligerent tone, “you wish I were more like you.”
“I think you should be who you are.”
In her frustration and confusion the words just came out. “Oh, no, you wouldn’t want that, I assure you.”
“Why not?”
Defiantly she reached for her wineglass and took a long swallow. “Because I’m not a good person.”
“Really?” His voice was calm. “What have you done?”
Where to start, she thought, where to start, and had another drink of her wine. How curious on the tongue, tart and sweet all at once. She had never been allowed to drink anything other than lemonade at dinner. Metaphorically she thumbed her nose at those inane strictures and finished off her wine at a gulp, then looked at Hugo, waiting for him to remark upon her intemperate consumption of alcohol and try to make her stop.
But he only said, “More wine?”
She eyed him mistrustfully. Then: “Yes.” Already she could feel her body getting a little bit of a floating feeling. Her brain getting a trifle soft around the edges. How intriguing. How pleasant. Because sometimes she got rather tired of how her mind ran, and ran, and ran. What have you done? Hugo had asked. Oh, but wasn’t she supposed to be unmasking him, not talking about her fell deeds? She tried to hang onto this stern resolution, but found herself taking another big swallow of wine and saying, in a voice that seemed to be a little louder than was really necessary:
“Do you remember telling me about the cow you snuck into your dormitory at school?”
He smiled. “Yes.”
“I went to school too, you know.”
“Did you? Where?”
“In Coventry. At the Basingstoke Select Academy for Young Ladies.”
“By Jove, what a ghastly name.”
“A ghastly name for a ghastly place. And you weren’t the only one to have exploits. I had some shocking ones too, you know.” My, she thought, it was so interesting how the candle-flames seemed to be flickering in Hugo’s eyes. How deep, and blue, and fascinating they were. She stared; it felt as if she were falling into them. Gliding, floating; pleasurably yielding to the forces of gravity, drifting downward like a feather. And maybe, maybe, she’d never come up again.
Katherine was looking rather adorably owlish.
Gazing at her across the table, Hugo thought of several things at once.
One—she had, apparently, given up on trying to coax the various inn maidservants to put her hair up in anything approaching what he supposed was the fashionable style, very high and smooth. Instead her dark curls were gathered into a loose sort of bunch at the nape of her neck, some of which trailed down alongside her bare throat, spilling onto the white skin above her gown’s bodice, all in a simple, unfussy way he found very attractive.
Two—he was aware of a strong pull of desire, of wanting, strong and urgent. Which he doubted would be fulfilled anytime soon. One had to be thankful for all those years of military discipline, he supposed ruefully.
Three—she had said, I want to know if there’s something wrong with you, which was followed by I have some questions. . . . This suggested the possibility of further interrogation, which made him wonder, half-amused, just what her fertile and inventive brain might produce.
Four—he thought, not for the first time, just how complicated she was. He remembered, suddenly, a set of gold and silver nesting boxes a school friend, whose father had been attached to the British Embassy in China, had once shown him.
You opened one box, only to find another box inside. You opened the next box, and there was another one. And so on.
And here was Katherine, who evidently had had some adventures of her own. Another box revealed. He said, “I’d love to hear about them.”
She played for a moment with a curl that lay upon her collarbone. “Once,” she said, leaning forward, “after someone said something nasty to me, I put worms in her bed.”
He nodded. “I had that happen to me at school also. My cousin Thane did it.”
“Were you angry?”
“Furious. I thrashed him right in front of a housemaster. My only consolation was that we both ended up being caned. Were you found out?”
“Yes. I was put in what they called the Reflection Room.”
“That sounds bad.”
“It was actually a closet off the dining-hall. The punishment was that I had to sit in there and reflect on my iniquitous behavior.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Good for you. How long did you have to stay there?”
“They locked me in for half a day.”
“I’d have gone mad.”
She nodded and took another swallow of wine. “I spent a lot of time in the Reflection Room.”
“Due to further exploits?”
“Yes. Getting into arguments with the other girls. Speaking rudely to the teachers, and not doing my work. The only thing I liked to do were the compositions, but not the way we were told to do them.” Katherine’s smile was grim. “Oh, and they expected us to go to bed absurdly early, like babies. They sometimes caught me reading late at night, using candles which I’d—well, which I stole from the various parlors.”
“Gad, it does sound like a ghastly place. I’m still not sure, though, why all this makes you not a good person. Murder anybody?”
“I’d have liked to murder the headmistress. Or at least thrashed her, like you did to your cousin. That in itself makes me not a good person.” She fell silent, but looked at him with an odd expression on her face. It was as if she were longing to tell him something—of an earth-shattering nature—while at the same time she was struggling not to.
He waited. If she chose to tell him, he’d listen; if not, that was fine too, as he himself loathed it when people tried to force confidences. He took a sip from his wineglass. Good stuff, this: it was called Methuen, red and white Lisbon wines mixed, and very expensive. If someone had asked him ten years ago how he imagined his future, it certainly wouldn’t have summoned an image of himself sitting in a luxurious inn, drinking costly wine, and in the company of a clever, fierce, strong-willed, intensely complex wife who, it seemed, found him quite unappealing. How strange life was. And—for better or for worse—how infinitely interesting. He took another drink of his wine.
Katherine said, “There was a music instructor at school. I—I was drawn to him. And we used to find places where we could be alone. So we could—we could kiss.”
“Did you?” he said calmly.
Katherine seemed taken aback, as if expecting an entirely different reaction. “Yes, we did,” she replied, looking more owlish than ever, and added, “Ask me why I did it.”
“Why did you do it?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
And then she laughed. It was something between a giggle and a chuckle, and the pleasing sound of it was like an echo from the long-ago past. It was as if he were hearing Kate—his friend Kate—laughing again. And he laughed too.
She said, “You don’t mind my talking about it?”<
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“No.”
“His name was Monsieur de la Motte. Germaine.”
“A blasted Frenchman. Naturally. Did he quote poetry to you?”
“Yes. How did you guess that?”
“Seems inevitable.”
“Does it? At any rate, he was so handsome and charming. So debonair. At least that’s how he seemed to me. I knew it was wrong. So horribly wrong. But I did it anyway. May I have some more wine?”
He filled her glass again, and then his own. “Something tells me this all leads to the Reflection Room.”
“Oh yes, we were discovered eventually. One of the servants saw us and told the headmistress, who—well, who caught us in the act.”
“An awful scene, I daresay?”
“Yes.” Katherine sipped at her wine, once, twice, and again, then looked at him with eyebrows raised. “Don’t you think I was awful?”
He smiled. “No.”
“No?”
“No. And I don’t mean to be boastful, but I think I can top you with the time several of my friends and I decided we wanted to become—ah—more intimately acquainted with the fair sex. So money was pooled, and because I didn’t have any to spare I was delegated to slip out very late at night, go into a certain part of town, and bring back with me two of the finest Impures I could find.”
Her eyes were sparkling. “And?”
“We’d set up an elaborate communications chain which would let us bring our guests into the dormitory without being noticed. Unfortunately, our sentry in the second-story stairwell fell asleep and snored so loudly that one of the matrons heard him, and the jig was up. So when I came strolling up to the back entrance, arm in arm with a delightful pair of Impures, who do you suppose was waiting for me just inside?”
“Your headmaster.”
“Yes. Never saw a sadder sight than those luscious women hurrying away back into the night.”
“And what happened to you?”
“Whippings all round, though I got the worst of it, having been deemed the most enterprising one of the lot for having gone into town.” He laughed. “It was worth it. I received some very satisfying—and educational—tokens of their esteem on the way toward school.”
“How old were you?”
“Just fifteen.”
“I was fourteen when it all began with de la Motte.”
“Well, in that case you’ve topped me. You were far more enterprising than I.”
“I’ve topped you?” She shook her head, as if trying to galvanize her brain into better processing what he’d said. “Haven’t I shocked you even one little bit?” she demanded.
“No. That school of yours sounds so dreadful that had I been in your place I’d be looking for anything to make it a bit more bearable.”
Katherine sat back in her chair, looking dazed. Then, abruptly: “Do you remember asking why I’d never have brought my maid Céleste with me?”
He nodded. “It was the day I came to tell you about Aunt Henrietta’s invitation.”
“Yes, that’s right. It was after the de la Motte incident that my parents, at the headmistress’s request, sent a maid to sleep in my room. On a truckle bed.”
“A spy?”
“Yes. The story was given out that she was there to look after my health, but it was a lie. It made everything even worse. And Céleste was so mean. I despised her.”
“Understandably.”
Katherine fell silent, and turned again to her wine. Hugo finished his roast beef, then moved on to the asparagus en croute.
“I remember now,” she suddenly said.
“Remember what?”
“I’ve remembered something else I wanted to ask you.”
“Yes?” he said, politely.
“Are you functional?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Her face was a vivid crimson and her gaze wavered a little as she looked at him. “I was just wondering if—you lost some of your—your vital parts in the war. If that’s what’s wrong with you.”
He wanted to laugh, but managed to restrain himself. Another box revealed. How long, he wondered, had she been puzzling over this anatomical question? Gravely he replied, “No, I’m intact.”
Just as gravely she asked, “And functional?”
“Yes.”
She leaned forward again. “Prove it.”
Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, he told himself. “And how would you like me to do that?”
“Let’s go upstairs. You can—you can have me.”
He assessed her with an experienced eye. Yes, it was a good time for them to leave. “I await your convenience.”
“I’m ready.” She finished off her wine at a gulp and off they went, up the stairs and along the corridor and into her bedchamber. Hugo closed the door behind them, then turned to see that his bride had sunk into a chair.
“Hugo.”
“Yes, Katherine?”
“Oh, Hugo.”
“Yes?”
“Oh, Hugo, I don’t feel so well,” she said, and Hugo, without surprise, moved quickly to take the ceramic basin from the washstand and make himself useful as Katherine retched and then—in the charming colloquial parlance of the soldiering corps—flashed the hash, and in spectacular style too.
Later, later, after he had mopped her face, given her a little water to drink, and helped her into bed, he pulled a chair up close and sat down. She was very white and wan. There was nothing left of the pugilist within her now.
Even as he thought this, Katherine’s eyes opened to exhausted slits. One of her hands groped its way free from underneath the covers and weakly reached out to him. He took it in his own, noticing how white it was, the close-bitten nails, how the long tapering fingers seemed at once both delicate and strong. An interesting hand, and rather beautiful.
“Hugo.” Her voice was a faint little thread.
“Yes, Katherine?”
“I’m sorry.”
He smiled at her. “Don’t be. Happens to the best of us.”
“To you also?”
“My God, yes.”
“Really? Oh, Hugo, I feel terrible.”
“I know you do. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, thank God.”
Her eyelids drifted shut, and he waited, watching her. He thought she’d fallen asleep, but she opened her eyes again and looked up at him.
“Hugo.”
“Yes?”
“Thank you,” she said, and then she did sleep.
He waited for a while before carefully disengaging his hand from her relaxed one, and stood up, blew out the candles, and went to his own room. Once in his large elegant bed, he lay awake for a while, thinking.
Boxes concealed, boxes revealed.
In his mind he heard again, as if in a pleasant echo from the past, the sound of her laughter tonight.
Her eyes—big, dark, and lovely—had lit up when she laughed.
In the darkness Hugo smiled a little, and turned onto his side, noticing as if for the first time just how much empty space there was. This bed, he thought, was far too big for just one person.
Then he, too, was asleep, and dreamed of the big, beloved house on the beach, the ocean’s waves unfurling as they always did, one after the other, a welcome reminder that while some things changed, other things never did. Everyone inside the house was sleeping, safe, sound, content.
Chapter 8
Morning had come, and Katherine was back to sitting at the table in their private parlor, her eyes closed, leaning her throbbing forehead on her hands. Inside her skull, a gang of industrious little demons was, apparently, pounding away. With mallets, gavels, spiked mauls, flanged maces, quarterstaffs, and broadaxes. Oh yes, and with tomahawks, too.
She vaguely remembered Hugo saying last night, You’ll feel better tomorrow. She supposed he was correct, in that she wasn’t vomiting in a horribly sordid way anymore. Dear God, could there be anything
more embarrassing—more unromantic—than that? Right in front of him! The immaculately beautiful Ellena di Rosalba, for example, would never have done something so low and vulgar. Nor would saintly Ellena have had too much wine; but if she were to feel unwell, she would only look interestingly pale, and perhaps press a white handkerchief to her lips, and her noble swain, Vincentio di Vivaldi, would keep a respectful distance and inquire, in the most delicate and flowery language, as to the state of her health.
Unlike Hugo, who had swung into action and deftly produced a basin exactly when she needed it, without a single word of reproach.
Would Vincentio have been so pragmatic? Or would he have wasted valuable time calling for a maidservant, or producing from somewhere on his person his own handkerchief which, in any case, would not have been very useful?
On the whole, she would rather have had Hugo nearby at such a moment.
Katherine heard the sound of the door opening, and with every fiber of her being she hoped it wasn’t yet another maidservant popping into the room with a further offer of food, which only made her gorge threaten to rise again. If she could just sit very still, without moving, without thinking—she’d even try not breathing if it would help.
“Good morning. I’ve brought you something.”
She opened her eyes. Here was Hugo, looking so cheerful and pleasant, so healthy and robust, so utterly in contrast to her own enervated state that she stared at him as one might view a visitor from another planet. Then she saw that he was carrying a silver pot, and to her nostrils came wafting the unmistakable aroma of freshly prepared coffee, slightly sweet, faintly bitter and woodsy. She waited for the nausea to swell up, but it didn’t.
Normally she didn’t drink coffee, but then again, neither did she normally consume alcoholic beverages until she was violently ill, so when Hugo poured some into a china cup and held it out to her, she reached out her hands to accept it.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. It’ll help your headache quite a bit.”
“How did you know I have a headache?”
“Don’t you?”
“Yes. A horrid one.” Katherine sipped at the fragrant coffee, and as if by magic, the pounding in her head began to recede and her stomach settled. Too, her brain began to reanimate and all at once she remembered that not only had Hugo cleaned her up and put her to bed, just prior to that she had brazenly told him he could have her. What a ridiculous thing to say! And to have used such a melodramatic phrase!
