by Lisa Berne
“Yes. Plenty.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Then that’s where we’ll go.” To Whitehaven. There’s nothing for me there. Nothing. She pulled her hands free to cover her face with them. To hide her expression. To conceal her grief. Her agony.
“Katherine.”
She didn’t lift her head. “Yes?”
“We’ll get through this.”
“Will we?” She felt her mouth curving in a smile that wasn’t a smile. “Will we indeed?”
Chapter 15
Mrs. Serena Dauntrey, of the prestigious Dauntrey Employment Agency on Harley Street, looked across her desk at Mrs. Katherine Penhallow. She had previously only corresponded with Mrs. Penhallow, the newest relation of the redoubtable Mrs. Henrietta Penhallow, whose townhouse in Berkeley Square she’d had the honor of staffing the previous Season. Of course Serena knew all about Mrs. Katherine Penhallow’s remarkable second Season, and also she was aware that there had been some kind of mysterious alteration in Mrs. Penhallow’s financial affairs; she made it her business to keep abreast of the happenings in the haut ton. Not that she would mention it, of course. Discretion, in her line of work, was paramount. She said:
“How may I be of service to you, Mrs. Penhallow?”
“I must release by the end of the week all the servants I engaged in April. They’ve been given three months’ severance pay as well as letters of recommendation. I’ve written out copies of the letters, which you may wish to keep for your files.”
Mrs. Penhallow extended a soft leather document folder which Serena accepted with a surprise she hoped didn’t show. Not every employer was as generous under such circumstances. She looked a little more closely at Mrs. Penhallow, observing the pallor of her complexion, the dark circles beneath her eyes, which perhaps suggested the strain under which she labored. Yet Mrs. Penhallow was dignified and civil. She was wearing a simple pelisse of deep plum, and over her dark curls, an equally unfussy hat of the same rich color which complemented her vivid looks. The reports Serena had heard described her—quite accurately, it turned out—as a very striking young lady, something not in the common way at all.
Serena put the document folder onto the tidy surface of the desk at which she sat. “Thank you, Mrs. Penhallow. It’s very kind of you. Is there anything else I might do for you?”
“A reassurance that you’ll be able to find congenial new positions for the staff would be most welcome.”
“I have no doubt of it, ma’am. It’s something upon which I pride myself.”
“Excellent.” Mrs. Penhallow rose to her feet. “Thank you, Mrs. Dauntrey.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Serena said, standing also, and added, with an impulsiveness which was unusual for her, “I do hope to work with you again.”
A shadow seemed to come over Mrs. Penhallow’s face, but she only said, with the same civility, “Thank you. Good day to you,” and then she was gone.
Within a matter of days, their life in London was taken apart—disassembled with the speed and efficiency of a child’s puzzle. Naturally Katherine was not the first person whose financial issues were resolved by a rapid sell-off of assets, and it all turned out to be very easy. Harder, perhaps, had been receiving the influx of visitors to the townhouse. A few had come, she knew, to gawk and to carry away gossip, but quite a few others had come to say goodbye and to wish them well. She had, Katherine learned to her surprise, more friends in London than she had realized. Cousin Judith, the Duchess of Egremont, had even hugged her, said, in her kind, abrupt way, “You’re a good girl,” adding, “Don’t worry about the horses, they’ll be grand,” and had gone off with her customary long strides, quite possibly in search of her maddening and erratic grandson Philip Thane, whose whereabouts—following his brief, scandalous appearance at the DeWitts’ ball—were at present unknown.
13 June 1812
Mother,
I enclose herewith a cheque. It’s all that I have; there’s nothing left.
Adieu.
Katherine
The night before they were to leave London, they lay in the bed where they had shared so much pleasure, so much joy. Hugo turned to Katherine in the darkness; her face was a pale ghostly oval.
She said, “Hugo, are you there?”
A question, he knew, that meant far more than was he simply in the bed next to her.
“Yes. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No. Hugo, that time back in Canada, when you were shot, what did it feel like?”
“There was a pain, very sharp, in my chest.”
“Did you feel as if you were coming apart?”
“No. Not then. Later, though, when the fever took me, I remember feeling as if I’d somehow been detached from the universe. Separated from myself.”
“Yes.”
“Is that how you feel now, Katherine?”
“Yes, Hugo.”
“I’m sorry. But I’m here.”
“I know that. Thank you,” and he heard the little wobble in her voice, but did not comment upon it, and so the long night wound its slow, slow way along.
It took them a week, traveling to the north and to the west. Past Oxford, past Stratford-on-Avon, through Coventry and Birmingham; past the Peak District, through Manchester, then through the Forest of Bowland and the Lake District. Katherine made no complaint, submitted to the long hours in the carriage, did not remark upon the modest nature of the inns at which they stayed, quietly ate her meals and promptly made herself ready each day. She did not read, Hugo observed, only sat straight as an arrow in the carriage, looking out the window, day by day growing more and more silent. More remote. Her lovely face, Hugo thought, like a graven mask. He knew she was hurting, he ached for her in his soul. But sometimes, he knew, words could do nothing. Sometimes you simply had to wait, and watch, and hope.
The carriage wheels turned, as if without end. Idly Katherine pictured them going round and round, and imagined that in their monotonous rumble she could hear them mocking her, saying—echoing what Gabriel Penhallow had said that evening at Surmont Hall—to the ocean, to the ocean. Toward nothing. Inside her was nothing, too. A kind of vast white expanse.
A blank page.
On the sixth day they came into Cumbria, and Hugo fancied he could already catch the familiar tang of salt air. He found himself listening for the sounds of the waves; he wanted to hurry their horses along.
But he didn’t. Because patience, he knew, is a virtue.
It was on the seventh day that they came at last into Whitehaven, and to the big old house on the beach—its windows now clean and sparkling, Hugo noticed with pleasure, the crumbling reddish clay bricks replaced with new ones, and the roof, as Gwendolyn had mentioned, now solid and sturdy. Altogether, he thought, the dear old place looked wonderfully well-kept. It had always been loved, but now it looked it. As he and Katherine walked toward the portico, the front door opened and out tumbled Gwendolyn, joyfully calling his name and wearing, he could see at a glance, a pretty new gown; she was followed at a slightly more decorous pace by Mama and Bertram. Here, he thought, smiling at them, glancing at Katherine, thinking of Francis and Percy, Grandpapa and the aunts—here was everything he needed. Here was everything.
Nothing, nothing, nothing. “Thank you for your hospitality, ma’am,” said Katherine to Hugo’s mother, doing her best to keep her voice from sounding wooden. “It’s kind of you to have us.”
“It’s not kind at all,” said Hugo’s mama, smiling. “It’s an entirely selfish happiness. I’m so glad you’re both here! Oh, welcome home, both of you,” and she turned to Hugo and enveloped him, as best as she could given his great height, in a comprehensive hug. He hugged her back, and then Gwendolyn said, “Oh, Hugo!” and threw herself into his arms. “We missed you terribly.”
Standing a little aside, Katherine watched, feeling, perhaps, as lonely as she ever had in her life. Maybe even lonelier. Outsiderness. The same old story.
Home. He was home again.
Then: the mattress shifted, bedclothes rustled.
“Are you there, Hugo?”
“Yes. Is there something you need?”
“No. Thank you.” And then Katherine fell silent again.
17 June 1812
Dear Hugo,
Thank you for your letter regarding your departure from the townhouse. You didn’t elaborate on the circumstances surrounding the removal, but rumors have reached me from London regarding the re-sale of jewels, carriages sold, and so on. Have you and Katherine suffered some kind of catastrophic financial setback? And if that is the case, what can I do to help? If you require assistance—pecuniary or otherwise—please do not hesitate to ask.
Affectionately yours,
Aunt Henrietta
P.S. A report has also reached me as to Katherine’s magnanimous gift to Lady Mainwaring’s war-widow charity. Here I must observe that Katherine seems to be developing a habit of discarding entire wardrobes at a stroke. Nonetheless, as by so doing she is assisting a great many of those in need, such gestures, however eccentric, can only be lauded. Indeed, Katherine may not know it, but apparently she has launched a trend in London—almost an avalanche one might say. So many women of the haut ton have donated to Lady Mainwaring such vast quantities of clothing and the various accouterments that she has had to scramble mightily to find extra storage space to accommodate it all.
17 June 1812
Dear Katherine,
Granny mentioned that you and Hugo encountered some unforeseen circumstances in London and are now reestablished in Whitehaven. She didn’t go into detail but I must confess to feeling concerned. Are you both all right? Is there anything I can do?
I hope that my other letters, sent to you while you were in London, arrived safely? Please do write back if you have the time. It would be lovely to hear from you.
Yours most sincerely,
Livia
5 July 1812
Dear Aunt Henrietta,
Thanks very much for your letter. It’s awfully kind of you to offer to help. Please be assured that we’re all right in the way of money—not just Katherine and myself, but also my mother and my sister and brothers. As you might guess, the whole thing’s been wretchedly difficult for Katherine, but she soldiers on. Pluck to the backbone.
Trust all’s well at the Hall.
With affection and gratitude,
Hugo
19 July 1812
Dearest Percy and darling Francis,
We all enjoyed your latest letters. We miss you dreadfully but are also glad you’re having a splendid time in Northamptonshire. Owen sounds so nice. I’m sorry you find his sister Helen such a nuisance, Francis. I wonder why she trails after you and pesters you so?
It is lovely to have Hugo home again. I’m not quite sure what to say about Katherine. I had been looking forward to having a sister, but now . . . Please, please, don’t tell anyone else, but now I’m not so sure. Hugo belongs to her now, doesn’t he? I hadn’t thought of this before. It makes me feel, well, rather like an outsider.
It must be dreadful to be rich and then suddenly not, don’t you think? Hugo doesn’t seem to mind it, but of course he was only like that for six months or so. He has been over at Grandpapa’s church quite a bit lately, helping the laborers fit in the new stained-glass windows which Mr. Beck has so kindly donated, and Grandpapa says if it weren’t for Hugo he’s sure several of them would already have been broken. Also Hugo goes over to the wharves as he used to do when he was a boy, just to look he says, but Mama has made him solemnly promise not to sign on as a sailor. He agreed, although Mama said afterwards that there was something in his eyes that made her so nervous she actually brought out our Bible and had him swear upon it, which made Hugo laugh.
Speaking of the wharves, Hugo told me I’m not to wander alone there anymore, which is annoying as they are terribly fascinating. They simply reek of adventure.
Love always,
Gwendolyn
P.S. Bertram blew up one of the attics again. But most luckily he didn’t lose any more fingers. His hair was completely black for an entire week and Mama had to wash it ELEVEN TIMES until it was back to normal.
P.P.S. Diana has just come over and I shared this letter with her. She says that Helen probably likes you, Francis. I find that difficult to believe. If she likes you, why is she always trying to pinch you?
Hugo looked around the table. Grandpapa, Aunt Verena, and Aunt Claudia had come for dinner, as they did at least once a week, and his enjoyment would have been complete had it not been for the still, set expression on Katherine’s face. Not that it was new. She’d had it for weeks now. Quiet, polite, detached, she moved restlessly around the house—on the beach—as if she were here and yet not-here. It was painful to see.
“Kiss me, you saucy wench,” suddenly uttered Señor Rodrigo from his perch near the fireplace, and Aunt Claudia put down her knife and fork to turn and look at him.
“I’d love to sketch him,” she said in her dreamy way.
“Good gracious, why?” retorted Aunt Verena. “It would hardly be decent, given his scandalous lack of plumage.”
“Oh, but he has such personality, Verena dear.” Aunt Claudia was undeterred. “Only see what a lively look he has.”
“No doubt he’s still enjoying the fact that he almost took my finger off an hour ago,” answered Aunt Verena sourly.
Señor Rodrigo giggled, and Gwendolyn put in from across the table:
“Oh, Aunt, it’s quite possible you offended poor Rodrigo when you called him ‘a great ugly thing.’ He’s very sensitive, you know.”
“Sensitive?” Aunt Verena gave a sardonic laugh. “If that animal is sensitive, then I’m the Empress of France.”
“Speaking of animals,” said Bertram, seated to her right, “I read a very interesting article last year in the Royal Society’s Philosophical Transactions which argued that humans’ place in the Great Chain of Being should be on par with both wild and domesticated animals, rather than claiming a more elevated status.”
Aunt Verena frowned. “It sounds highly irreligious.”
Grandpapa, a vicar for nearly all of his adult life, gently cleared his throat. “I lent Bertram my copy of the journal.”
“Francis read the article also,” Bertram said, “and so did Mama.”
Aunt Verena’s frown deepened, and from his perch Señor Rodrigo remarked, “Ho, bilged on her anchor,” and reached up a sharp prehensile claw to scratch at his head.
“I’d love to sketch Katherine, too,” pursued Aunt Claudia, turning her dreamy gaze to the foot of the table where Katherine sat looking at her plate, on which reposed a generous slice of Cook’s excellent roasted chicken, small boiled potatoes in a tangy mustard sauce, and a wedge of spinach pie. She was looking, though Hugo was fairly certain she wasn’t seeing it. She gave the impression, rather, that she was listening intently to something, but not necessarily the conversation at the table.
“A sketch first,” Aunt Claudia went on, “and then I should like to paint Katherine. In oils. Not watercolors. Only oils could do justice to her personality.”
“As you are interested in personality,” said Aunt Verena, “perhaps you could paint both Katherine and the bird.”
The suggestion was obviously a sarcastic one, but Aunt Claudia slowly nodded, without taking her eyes from Katherine. “The brilliant green of Rodrigo’s feathers, contrasted with Katherine’s dark, dark hair . . . How beautifully it gleams. What a marvelous idea. Would Rodrigo sit for me, I wonder? How clever of you to propose it, Verena dear.”
“If he had any feathers.”
“You must envision what could be,” said Aunt Claud
ia to her sister, still thoughtfully studying Katherine. “The possibility of things. Perhaps after dinner you might permit me to begin a sketch, Katherine? There will still be plenty of light.”
It came to Katherine at last. That image of the blank page—empty, frightening—had gradually given way to something else. She imagined that inside her was a swarm of bees, stinging bees, buzzing, swirling, colliding, as if creating a low dreadful hum to which one would have to listen all day long.
“Would you let me do that, Katherine dear?”
She jumped at the sound of her name and quickly she looked down the table at Hugo’s aunt who was smiling at her. Which one was it, Verena or Claudia? Why did they have to be identical twins? (How curious, just like Percy and Francis.) These two here, the aunts—older sisters to Hugo’s mama, both of them unwed and living with their father Mr. Mantel in the parsonage—seemed to be strikingly different in nature, one very soft and vague, the other alert and rather crisp. Katherine answered, “Would I let you do what, ma’am?”
“Sketch you, dear, after dinner. I’d like that ever so much.”
So one of the aunts—it had to be Claudia—wanted to sketch her. Why? Was she good at drawing bees? Katherine knew that her mouth was curving in a small, bitter smile, but before she could answer there was a sudden hush in the dining-parlor, one of those odd, awkward conversational lulls that occur seemingly at random, and then Bertram said, as if unaware of it, or that he was coming to Katherine’s rescue:
“There was also a very good article in that issue of Philosophical Transactions which discussed Molyneux’s Problem. Did you read it, Grandpapa? Or you, Mama?”
Mr. Mantel replied that he had, and enjoyed it, and Hugo’s mama said she had too, although there was a reference to John Locke which she had thought not quite correct, and Gwendolyn turned to Hugo, to ask if they could go riding tomorrow, and Aunt Claudia was now gazing at that poor scrawny parrot, who was chuckling under his breath, and the maid Eliza came into the room, to clear away the plates, and Bertram said, having agreed with his mother about the John Locke reference:
