by Lisa Berne
She felt a hot blush coming over her, and, resisting the temptation to squirm like a snake under somebody’s boot, looked across the table to see that Hugo had sat down, picked up a newspaper which a maidservant had left on the table, and was drinking his own cup of coffee. He glanced over at her then, and said:
“Feeling better?”
“Yes.” And she added, in the tone of one being dragged to a miserable doom, “I can be ready to go in half an hour.”
“Oh, you needn’t hurry. I sent one of the carriages on to the Hall early this morning, with a note that we’re probably going to be late. So take your time.”
Katherine stared at him again, flummoxed. In her mind’s eye she seemed to suddenly see a marquetry table, on which ivory alphabet tiles had been laid out in preparation for a game. She could form so many different words—different sentences—with the tiles. For example, she could create Oh, thank you, how kind of you.
Or: No! I’m already worried about what your relations will think of me, and arriving late on our first day there will only make it worse.
Or: Let’s just stay here forever. We could become innkeepers. And hide from the world.
Or: You should just go on without me. Maybe that would be better.
Or: How dare you make a unilateral decision that affects me?
It was this last sentence that struck the deepest chord within her, its note of withering resentment entirely familiar to a person raised within the turbulent confines of Brooke House. How often we reflexively turn to what we know; and so Katherine said to Hugo:
“You ought to have asked me first.”
“Well, I did poke my head into your room, but you were sleeping so soundly I didn’t have the heart to disturb you.”
The tiles reformed. A few months ago, I was longing for a life in which nobody jerked me awake. Would have, in all probability, sold my soul for such a thing.
Then: I’m losing control. I’m losing control. I’m afraid.
Her shoulders went up. “You should have woken me anyway.”
Hugo looked across the table at Katherine. She was flushed, visibly tense, her dark eyes glittering. A very different Katherine from the one last night, who had reached out her hand for him to clasp. Who had shared with him a sweet moment of connection. But now she looked more likely to use that beautiful white hand to lash out at him with it.
Was this how it was going to be between them?
An unfamiliar feeling came over Hugo then—blazing through him, dark and bitter, like a shadow voraciously darkening the world.
It was regret.
Sorrow for what he had done. A glimpse of a future he didn’t want.
The shadow swallowed him up.
Blackness, bitter and corrosive: serving up, as if maliciously, a memory. Standing in the so-called ruins with Katherine; they had come to their agreement. She had said, I hope you won’t regret it. And without hesitation he had replied, I won’t. How absolutely sure he had been. How laughably sure.
And then, with an intense effort, Hugo cast off the shadow. To regret was to live life backward, and that was not his way. He gave himself a little shake, resettled himself in his chair, but not before he realized that Katherine had seen on his face what he had been feeling. Reflected back in her expression was recognition, and a kind of horror.
The fire was crackling cheerfully in the capacious hearth, and the low bank of windows admitted into the room the soft gray light of a winter’s day. She could hear from outside, in the inn-yard, the muted sounds of men’s voices, horses, a dog barking, carriages rattling in and jangling away. Inside there was silence.
He’s sorry, Katherine thought. He’s sorry he married me.
The tiles reformed, to create a new word.
T.R.A.P.P.E.D.
Oh, who wouldn’t be sorry he’d married such a hard, difficult person?
Shame and panic, unspeakable, whirling inside her like a storm, made her rise to her feet, to say to him:
“I’ll be ready to leave within the hour.”
“You needn’t hurry,” Hugo repeated, pleasantly.
“I will, though.” She was already on her way, walking quickly, away from him and out of the private parlor, up the stairs, as if pursued. Perhaps by her own frightened thoughts.
An hour later, there they were, each in their own separate sphere: Hugo riding, Katherine in her carriage. On her lap was a book, a dog-eared copy of Robinson Crusoe, and a hat she had been too harried to put on. It was made of amber velvet and trimmed with a brilliant green feather. Which, strangely enough, reminded her of that poor bird back in Whitehaven. Señor Rodrigo. How he would have liked the feather, she thought with an aching sadness, how he would have liked it if it were his own.
A memory rose. Herself and Hugo—they were children then—standing near the column of bay trees, the boundary between their two houses. He had squeezed between two of the brushy trunks, come to show her a little bird he had constructed out of paper, which carefully he held in his hands. She had stared in fascinated admiration, and neither of them noticed that her grandfather had approached until he’d said over her shoulder, What’s that?
I made it, sir, for my mama, answered Hugo. For her birthday.
Silly thing for a boy to do, Grandfather had said in his loud blustering way. His voice full of scorn. Haven’t you anything better to do, you great block?
She had seen, instantly, the look of hurt on Hugo’s face. He had gone away and later, as soon as she could, she crept between the trees. She found him sitting behind the stable, the paper bird still held cupped in his hands, and without a word went to sit next to him. It was some time before he spoke.
People think because I’m big I don’t have feelings. That I’m stupid.
I don’t think that, Hugo. She had leaned her head against his arm. And I think your bird is beautiful.
They had sat together behind the stable, and finally he said:
Thank you, Kate.
The carriage rolled smoothly on into Somerset. They passed vast hilly grasslands, winding rivers, towering woodlands. Katherine heard again Hugo’s voice from long ago, not yet deepened by burgeoning maturity: People think because I’m big I don’t have feelings.
Her fingers clenched, too hard, on the amber velvet hat. Crumpling it. Her own voice—Katherine, all grown up, and determined to take control of her life—seemed to ring shrilly in her ears:
You ought to have asked me first.
You should have woken me anyway.
I’m tired. I’m going to sleep. Good night.
I want separate bedchambers, if you please.
It’s not as if this is a love-match, and I’ll wither away and die of a broken heart. It doesn’t matter to me.
It’s nonsensical to talk of happiness in an exchange of commodities. A business arrangement.
Had she hurt him? And had that been her—really been her—talking like that?
15 January 1812
Dear Mama,
A quick billet before Katherine and I leave on the final stage of our journey to Surmont Hall. All’s well here; trust the same is true for you—all of you? Storridge assured me that money would very soon be made available to you. Do use it. Also, I’ve had 50 pounds put on your account at the linen-drapers’—the clerk said some very nice new woolen fabric had just arrived, entirely suitable for winter gowns—and there will be a parcel arriving for Bertram shortly. Don’t let him rattle it about. It’s a microscope.
Love all round,
Hugo
P.S. I almost forgot. You know the milliner next to the linen-drapers, of course. I saw a hat in the window which rather reminded me of an admiral’s bicorne and so I bought it for Gwennie. Send her to pick it up, will you? She’ll look ripping in it.
Their cavalcade had turned off the road and stopped at a large stone and brick building of elaborate Gothic design, where they were greeted by the middle-aged lodgekeeper, a Mr. Allard, who hospitably waved them on.
Katheri
ne sat up very straight and stared out her window as her carriage rolled forward. A dozen or so diablotins would come in very handy right now, she thought with a sudden intense craving. Or a big slice of chocolate roll. It seemed to take forever to wind their way among the woods to arrive at open land. It was like being in one of those eerie tales by the Brothers Grimm; you never knew what dreadful thing lay just around the bend.
A shuddery prickle ran down her spine and involuntarily her gaze went to Hugo, who was riding ahead. He was only some twenty feet away from her, but it might as well have been a million miles. He sat tall and straight in the saddle, easy and graceful, every inch a Penhallow.
A Penhallow, with more of them ahead. Together, one of the greatest families in England. What in heaven’s name was she doing here?
And then Surmont Hall came into view. Katherine couldn’t stop herself, she craned her neck to see it. Caught her breath at its grandeur. The Hall was enormous, with several wings added on in differing styles of architecture—telling the tale of a long and noble heritage—and all combining to somehow create a powerful impression of pleasing unity. It made Brooke House, very large also, but built on the strictest lines of symmetry, seem uninspired, raw, gauche.
The carriages pulled up on a wide gravel drive, Hugo swung himself down from his horse. Quick, quick, you, Katherine thought, pull yourself together. Lift your chin, arrange your face, don’t rush your sentences. You may be a stranger in a strange land, but you’re just as good as they are, so stop that stupid trembling at once.
Footmen had materialized as if out of thin air, her carriage door was opened and she was helped out. Be dignified, she told herself, be calm, stately, just like Livia Penhallow would be—
A fluttering movement, low on the ground, caught Katherine’s eye and she half-turned to see that a large black chicken, with an immense spray of curling tail-feathers, had come pelting around the side of the Hall, its bright red comb wobbling madly. A few seconds after that, a pretty young woman followed behind, the white hem of her gown rippling and scarlet cloak streaming behind her as she ran after the chicken.
Oh, I hope the poor servant girl won’t be in trouble for letting the chicken get loose. Impulsively Katherine stepped forward, as if to try and block the chicken’s escape. The chicken, in turn, seemed to check for a moment, which enabled the girl to swoop it up in her arms.
“You miserable, wretched thing!” she said to the chicken, but with affection palpable in her voice, and the chicken clucked and settled against her, now as docile as any pet. Then her gaze shot up and her vivid green eyes went wide. “Oh! You’re here!” she exclaimed, and Hugo said with a laugh:
“Hullo, Liv.”
Liv? Livia Penhallow? thought Katherine, astonished. Could it be? This lively-looking girl, surely no older than herself, with her upswept auburn hair rather tumbled, her feet in sturdy, muddy boots, and holding a chicken?
“Oh dear, I’m so sorry, I lost track of time,” said the girl, looking remorseful. A footman approached, offering to relieve her of her feathered burden, but she said, “No, thank you, James, nobody else should be forced to deal with this silly bird.” She came forward then, smiling, and said, a little shyly, “You must be Katherine. I’m so glad to meet you! I’m Livia, you know. Won’t you forgive me for being a bad hostess already?”
“How do you do,” answered Katherine, still in such a state of amazement that the words came out sounding stiff. Stilted. The chicken eyed her with a malevolent gleam, as if she were an equally silly bird it would very much like to peck.
“And Hugo!” Livia went on, sounding considerably less shy. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”
“Likewise,” warmly answered Hugo, and, coming around to Livia’s side, hugged her, careful to avoid the chicken. “Gone in for poultry, have you, Liv?”
She nodded, laughing. “I’m obsessed. I promise not to bore you with longwinded stories about my Hamburgs and Blue Andalusians! Won’t you both come inside? The wind is so sharp.”
They followed Livia up the short flight of shallow stone steps to the porch and past the massive door of dark knotted wood which another footman held open, and into an immense hall, where Katherine caught jumbled glimpses of a huge fireplace flanked by gleaming suits of armor, an armament display, a coat of arms carved into the chimney piece with the words Et honorem, et gloriam featured upon it—Honor and pride—all throughout was gracious stateliness—and then abruptly realized that in the center of the Great Hall stood a tall, extremely good-looking man, with brown hair and piercing brown eyes, gazing with wintry sternness at another, shorter man clad in rusty black. Behind them ranged half a dozen brawny men dressed in rough, ragged clothing, on their less than clean faces expressions ranging from sullen defiance to outright fear.
The tall, handsome man said, in his deep cultured voice such hauteur that involuntarily Katherine took half a step back:
“I don’t tolerate attempts to forcibly impress the men of my estate. If there are any who wish, of their own accord, to join His Majesty’s Navy, then that, of course, would be a different matter.”
The other man drew himself up to his full height. “Well, as to that, Mr. Penhallow, impressment’s legal, don’t you know.”
Although Katherine would not have thought it possible, Gabriel Penhallow—it had to be him—looked yet more regal and commanding. He said, icy cold, “Try coming again, sir. Come again and try to kidnap the men of my estate. You may trust me when I tell you won’t enjoy what happens next.”
“You’re—you’re threatening me?”
“Yes,” said Gabriel Penhallow, his voice lethally soft.
The other man stared up at him, and Katherine could almost see the bravado collapsing. “Come on,” he said roughly to his ragtag group of men, and they all hurried to the door, and out of the hall, with a scuttling sort of haste that struck her as more than a little comical.
The chicken in Livia’s arms gave a squawk and Gabriel Penhallow turned to look at his wife. Katherine watched, fascinated, as into his brown eyes came a subtle, but unmistakable warmth, and the corners of his handsomely molded mouth quirked up, ever so slightly.
“My dear,” he said, “must you bring that absurd creature into the house?”
She laughed. “Oh, Gabriel, I’m sorry, I only meant to bring Katherine and Hugo inside, and then dash away. I must say, you were splendid just now. I was very nearly shaking in my boots.”
“You were splendid, Coz,” said Hugo. “Those impressment fellows are a beastly lot. Wish I’d kicked them in their pants for good measure.”
“Now that,” Gabriel Penhallow said, “would have been an undignified spectacle, but not altogether displeasing.” He came forward to where Katherine and Hugo stood, and Hugo said:
“Coz, may I introduce you to my wife, Katherine? Or ought I have to introduced Katherine to you? What an oaf I am! Katherine, here’s Gabriel.”
“How do you do,” said Gabriel. His eyes no longer had that devastatingly attractive warmth, which perhaps he reserved only for his wife, but his tone was entirely civil. “We’re delighted you’ve come for a visit. I hope your journey here was a smooth one?”
Katherine wondered, rather wildly, if she should curtsy, then caught herself and said with all the composure she could muster, “Yes, thank you. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
Gabriel and Hugo warmly shook hands, and as they did two servants came into the Great Hall from a side corridor—the butler and, Katherine thought, a housekeeper.
“Crenshaw,” said Gabriel, “send a dozen or so men—armed—after the impressment gang, please, and tell them to make sure they go well past the boundaries of the estate. Mrs. Blake, would you take Captain and Mrs. Penhallow up to their room?”
“Oh, but Gabriel, I wanted to take them,” put in Livia quickly. “I’m so proud of how nice it looks.”
He looked at Livia again, and Katherine saw again that same subtle warmth, that same, small smile. “But perhaps,” he suggested
, “without the chicken?”
Livia returned his smile, and held his eyes with her own. It was only for a second, but it enabled Katherine to see, with a startling clarity, how deeply in love she was with her husband. And he with her.
Then the moment passed, and Livia turned again to her guests. “Would you mind very much waiting while I run to the poultry-yard, and return the wayward Hetty to my flock? I won’t be but a few moments, I promise you.”
“Not at all,” said Katherine, still feeling bewildered. Gabriel Penhallow was everything she had expected, but Livia! She couldn’t have been less of a haughty Society matron. How, she wondered, had Gabriel come to marry her? Surely his aristocratic grandmother would have fought against this unconventional union with every breath in her body!
And speaking of whom, Katherine glanced nervously around the Great Hall. This was an encounter which, she imagined, would go rather like a case presented before the ancient Greek jurist Draco. Whose famously harsh sentences produced the term “draconian.” Her uneasy gaze collided with Gabriel’s, who said, in his calm, reserved way:
“You are looking for something, perhaps?”
Flustered, she answered, “No—that is—well, I was wondering where your grandmother is.”
“My grandmother routinely naps in the afternoon. However, she’s looking forward to renewing her acquaintance with you at dinner this evening.”
Katherine had to admire his tact. She managed to say, “I also,” and was grateful that Livia soon reentered the hall, her red cloak exchanged for a simple wool shawl and her sturdy boots for a pair of delicate slippers.
“Please won’t you come with me?” she said to Katherine and Hugo, and as they walked with her up a grand and curving staircase, she went on, “I feel dreadfully about not greeting you properly! When we got your note, Hugo, I thought I might just spend an extra hour or two in the kitchen garden and poultry-yard, and allowed myself to get distracted.”
