The Bride Takes a Groom

by Lisa Berne

  They stood in front of Brooke House which had about it the still, forlorn look of an abandoned building. No smoke issued from its chimneys, and curtains had been drawn across its many windows. There was no one going up and down its front steps, no carriages arriving, no carts from the grocer and the butcher pulling round to the back, no distant sounds of hunters’ guns.

  Katherine stared at the vast empty façade. On the third story, toward the right, was what had once been her bedchamber. Empty now also. “I wonder who bought it?” she said to Hugo.

  “You don’t mind, Katherine?”

  “Oh, no. Not a bit of it. I suppose I wanted to come here to—well, I suppose to say goodbye. Oh, Hugo, what if an interesting family moves in? A great nabob from India, say, with a dozen lovely children?”

  “Or a legendary warlord from Timbuktu, having retired from the life. Who brings his herd of yaks.”

  “A rich, kind spinster, who turns Brooke House into an orphanage. A happy one.”

  “A kite factory.”

  “A chocolate factory.”

  They laughed together, and Katherine slipped her arm through his. “Shall we go back? What a nice day it is. I’m just sorry Gwendolyn didn’t want to join us. Another time, perhaps.”

  “Yes,” Hugo said, “when we come to pay our respects to the warlord, who’s married the spinster, adopted all the orphans, and opened his chocolate factory.”

  They laughed again, and began the walk toward home.

  “Hugo,” said Katherine, “will you tell me more about your job? What exactly is a merchant ship? How big are they? How do you build one? What is Mr. Studdart like? Is it hard to climb a rigging?”

  He looked curiously down at her. “You really want to know?”

  “Oh, yes, please. If you don’t mind telling me.”

  “No, of course not,” and as they walked, Hugo did.

  10 August 1812

  Dear Katherine,

  I write this to you sitting at my little desk, looking out at the tiny, sweet garden which is now my responsibility—my pleasure—to tend. My aunt is very fond of flowers and I am trying my hand at azaleas, delphiniums, and lilacs. I find, to my surprise, that I seem to have some talent for it.

  We lead a very peaceful life, my aunt and I. We go to the Pump Room to drink the waters; we visit the Circulating Library; I escort her to the baths. We read, we talk, I play her little pianoforte; and on the days she is feeling better, we go to the Sydney Gardens, or to a lecture, or to a concert in the Upper Rooms. I am happy.

  I think of you, and your kind husband, every day, and with infinite gratitude. Thank you for giving me my life back.

  Yours very truly,

  Lydia St. John

  12 August 1812

  Dear Mama and everyone,

  Frank, Owen, and I are back at school. The holiday at Owen’s was splendid. I can jump like anything now and Owen says I ought to take up steeplechasing which, I must say, I think I would enjoy quite a lot. In the meantime I am playing football and Frank has joined the Classical Society.

  Owen has invited us to go back to Northamptonshire after the Michaelmas Half but we want to come home. Even though we don’t talk about it we miss you all quite a lot.

  Most faithfully,

  Percy

  17 August 1812

  Dear Livia,

  Please forgive my long silence. I’m so sorry for not writing you back while Hugo and I were in London, but I will be a better correspondent now, I promise. Yes, we are in Whitehaven. And thank you for your thoughtful words of concern. We are all well. Hugo has been working at the harbor, helping in the construction of an enormous boat, the first in a fleet of merchant ships, and is hoping to take it out on its maiden voyage in a few months. He’s having the time of his life, and comes home dirty, oily, muddy, greasy, and ravenously hungry. Our Cook says he will eat us out of house and home, but you can tell she loves nothing better than serving up the most massive and delicious meals I’ve ever seen.

  I hope you are all well and thriving at the Hall. How are your chickens coming along?

  Sincerely yours,

  Katherine

  P.S. Have you ever had a feeling that you’re forgetting something? A vague, strange sort of sense that it’s right there in front of you all the time?

  22 August 1812

  My darling boys,

  We all enjoyed your letter so much. Thank you for writing. I’m so glad you had a lovely time at Owen’s. He sounds a delightful boy.

  We’re so pleased that you’re coming home for Christmas. Your room has been repainted and the fireplace repaired and I think you will like it all very much.

  It will soon be fall. I do hope you both will wear your jackets.

  With much love,

  Mama

  23 August 1812

  Dear Lydia,

  I was so pleased to receive your letter. Thank you for writing. And I’m so glad that you are happy in Bath. I’ve never been there, but you make it sound like quite a nice place to be. I like picturing you among your flowers. Have you found some interesting books at your Circulating Library?

  Sincerely yours,

  Katherine

  The work came to him, was understood by him, as naturally as breathing air. To be sure, he had a lot to learn, but Will Studdart, long a master-builder, was generous in sharing his knowledge, and in implementing it, in overseeing the men, Hugo’s abilities found true and rapid expression. He was here and there, all day long, on the ship and back and forth to their office, the joiners’ shop, the sawpits, the blacksmith’s, the storage sheds, the cookhouse, the so-called steam-box where planking was rendered pliable. Day by day, week by week, the Arcadia was coming to life.

  Katherine had preceded Hugo upstairs, and was tucked into bed with The Scottish Chiefs when a little while later he came into their room. The windows had been closed against a cooler, brisker breeze and Katherine had laid on top of her an extra wool blanket.

  “Oh, Hugo, listen to this,” she said, and read out loud: “‘Looking up, I beheld a young chieftain, with a bow in his hand, leaping from cliff to cliff, till, springing from a high projection on the right, he alighted at once at the head of a wounded deer.’ It makes me think of your Scottish cousin Alasdair. He’s a chieftain, isn’t he?”

  “I’ve never met him, but I believe so.”

  “Well, this is the very picture of romance! I’m going to think of Alasdair just like that, jumping nimbly over the cliffs in his kilt and sporran.”

  Hugo laughed, and took off his jacket.

  Katherine closed her book and set it on the little table next to the bed, on which stood a small candelabra. In its flickering golden light she watched as Hugo continued to undress.

  “Hugo,” she said, “I do like to look at you.”

  He stood, naked. “Likewise.”

  “Do you really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, good.” She slid to the edge of the bed and got out.

  “No nightgown, Katherine?”

  “No. I was waiting for you.”

  He smiled, a slow, slow smile that made her feel as if her blood, her bones, her spirit had caught on fire. And he looked at her, from head to toe and everywhere in between, and he said, “You’re beautiful, so beautiful,” his deep voice filled with such awe and sincerity that she believed him, believed him absolutely, and moved to meet him where he stood. He brought her against him, flesh to flesh, and kissed her, mouth against mouth, hard, hungry, sure and sinuous. Katherine made a low, urgent noise in her throat, brought her arms around him, slid one of her legs up high around his rock-hard thigh.

  Hugo lifted her then, effortlessly, turned them both until her back was against the wall, and, with her thighs around him, opened to him, he slid himself home within her.

  “Yes,” she gasped, and as Hugo moved, as steady and rhythmic as the waves outside their windows, and as pleasure and delight filled her, she was glad she had said the word. Just that one word signaling a wel
come, a desire, light, brightness, joy as together they moved and rocked, joined, connected, giving and receiving, receiving and giving. Yes.

  It was only later, when they lay in their bed, replete, that it occurred to Katherine. That there were other words she could say. Soft, sweet words. Tender. Truthful. Deep, immense, beautiful words, as big as the sky, the sea, the universe.

  She hesitated.

  Opened her mouth to speak.

  Closed it.

  Brought the covers a little higher up over her shoulders.

  Adjusted her pillows.

  Brushed a long spiral of hair away from her face.

  Opened her mouth, closed it again.

  Hugo said, “Good night, Katherine, sleep well,” kissed her, and within moments was fast asleep.

  “Yesterday was Katherine’s birthday,” said Gwendolyn to Diana Beck. The two girls were in the long yard to the back of Diana’s house. Gwendolyn swung her little wood racket hard and sent her cork-and-feather shuttlecock high into the air.

  “And?” Diana held out her own racket and caught the shuttlecock as it descended.

  “Oh, Hugo gave her a pair of seed-pearl ear-bobs, and Mama a shawl she knitted. Aunt Claudia gave her a little watercolor of a cherry-blossom tree, and—” Gwendolyn broke off. “Oh, I don’t want to talk about it anymore! But then Grandpapa told everybody how successful were the letters that he and Katherine wrote, and today Bertram actually took her up into the attic and let her look through his microscope, and—oh, Diana, it’s dreadful of me, but I feel so alone inside my own family!”

  Diana was flicking her racket, making the shuttlecock bob up and down. “Yes, but Gwennie, your birthday was last month, and everyone made a great fuss over you. You said so yourself.”

  Gwendolyn frowned. “That’s true, but—”

  “I know what it is,” said Diana. “Katherine’s mean to you, isn’t she?”

  “No, she’s not mean, but—”

  “Does she keep you out of the conversations, then?”

  “No, but—”

  “Ignores you?”

  “No, she’s very nice to me, but—” Gwendolyn paused, then burst out, “I don’t know what it is! I’m just unhappy, Diana, that’s what it is!”

  “You won’t be unhappy when Hugo lets you climb the rigging on his new boat.”

  Gwendolyn’s face cleared. “Oh yes, I’m so looking forward to that! Hugo says we can all go next week and look it over. I’m going to wear that marvelous hat he gave me, and put Señor Rodrigo on my shoulder, too! The bad news is,” she added, a note of discontent creeping once more into her voice, “Hugo says I can only go up six of the ratlines and not all the way to the top.”

  “Still,” Diana replied, rather enviously. “Climbing the rigging! You’re so lucky to have a brother like Hugo. Christopher is the greatest beast in nature. Nothing ever pleases him. He can’t go back to university till the Lent term, and Papa’s told him he’ll be very disappointed if he gets sent down again.” Diana bounced the shuttlecock over to Gwendolyn, who caught it on her racket and said:

  “Did you ever find out what happened?”

  Diana shook her head. “No, which makes me think it was something splendidly bad.”

  Gwendolyn brightened again, and then the two girls leaned close together, whispering, speculating as to what, exactly, Christopher’s bad, splendid, and wholly fascinating crime might have been.

  It was a lazy Saturday afternoon, and Katherine was lying on a sofa in the library with the big white and brown Great Dane, Ruby, dozing on the carpet, snugged up against the sofa, snoring ever so gently. Katherine had one hand on Ruby’s soft furry side, and in the other held a letter from Livia which she read, smiling.

  —and the baby is due sometime in November. Everyone is coddling me outrageously, which is silly given that I feel so well, but I must admit I’m rather enjoying it. I get fatter by the day and to own the truth I couldn’t be more pleased, especially when Gabriel says I look like some kind of pagan goddess, a compliment I like very much.

  As for the chickens—how kind of you to ask!—they are coming along nicely, particularly my Hamburgs, although the Blue Andalusians, I have found, are temperamental creatures and only seem to lay when I go into the hen-yard and talk with them for half an hour at a time. Gabriel finds this very amusing, but it really does seem to make a difference. He came out with me the other day and despite himself had a little conversation with the hen Hetty—do you remember her? the renegade I was chasing the day we met?—who took a great fancy to him. The next day she gave us the biggest, nicest egg she has ever produced, which only made us laugh the more.

  You asked in your letter about a curious sense of forgetting something. Have you found what you were looking for? I hope so.

  With love from all of us at the Hall—

  A tap on the door had Katherine looking up. It was Eliza, who poked her head in and said:

  “Oh, ma’am, Mr. Studdart is here, looking for Mr. Hugo, but I couldn’t tell him where he is. Will you see him, ma’am?”

  “Of course, Eliza, bring him in, please.” Katherine sat up and set her feet on the floor, even as Ruby lumbered upright on her crooked front legs and went to greet Will Studdart, who came into the library holding a battered leather portfolio under his arm. He smiled, petted Ruby’s great head, and gave Katherine a courtly little bow, saying:

  “How d’you do, Mrs. P.? Beautiful afternoon, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed it is, Mr. Studdart. May I offer you some tea?”

  “No, ma’am, thank you, I wanted to show Hugo something, that’s all.”

  “He’s over at the parsonage. A pipe burst in the scullery, and he’s helping fix it.”

  Will Studdart laughed. “Of course he is. Never knew anyone more clever than Hugo at fixing things.”

  “It’s true,” Katherine agreed. “Do you want to leave something for him?”

  Will paused, looking so eager and bright-eyed that she couldn’t keep from adding:

  “Is it anything I can see also?”

  At once he whipped open the portfolio, and with such enthusiasm that its contents—a large notebook—fell to the floor, big yellowed pages splaying everywhere.

  “Damn! That is to say—begging your pardon, Mrs. P.—”

  Katherine crouched down to help Will gather up the pages. On them were illustrations of ships, rather crudely rendered albeit with great verve and detail, with handwritten text underneath describing them. And then she noticed, below each illustration, very small, the words William Studdart.

  “Mr. Studdart, this is your work?”

  They rose to their feet, Will replying, with unmistakable pride in his voice:

  “Indeed yes, Mrs. P.! It’s an old sketchbook of mine. I wanted to show Hugo what inspired the Arcadia.” He held out one of the pages for her inspection. “This old clipper, the Starling. Only two masts, but fast and sturdy.”

  “What a handsome ship! And how many pages you have in your sketchbook! May I see more of them?”

  With equal care Will spread out the yellowed sheets on the low table set near the sofa. Katherine sat and looked at them admiringly. “Mr. Studdart, this is remarkable. Your expertise—your love for these ships—is so clear.”

  “That’s it, Mrs. P., it’s been a labor of love,” answered Will, pleased. “I’m no artist, nor a writer, either, but I’ve been keeping these little notes for more than thirty years now. Don’t mean to be boastful, but back in Liverpool I had all kinds of offers to sell my sketchbook. Why, Lord Barham—First Lord of the Admiralty as he was then—begged me to let him have it back in oh-five, and a few years after that I got a note from the Duke of Clarence—a Navy man, you know—offering me a hundred pounds for it.”

  “The Duke himself! But you said no?”

  “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t flattered, Mrs. P., or that I wouldn’t have welcomed the money, but there was something that stopped me.” Will began to collect the pages. “I suppose it was the i
dea of me not having my drawings anymore. Almost as if my sketchbook was going to disappear into thin air.”

  Katherine nodded. “Yes, I see what you mean.” Then she added, “I met the Duke a few months ago. When Hugo and I were in London.”

  “Did you now!”

  “Yes, at the Queen’s Drawing-room. He told me how he joined the Royal Navy when he was thirteen and that it was the best decision of his life. He got to help with the cooking, he said, and get into drunken brawls, and it all made him feel like he was just another sailor. Oh, Mr. Studdart, he actually began to cry.”

  “Good God, Mrs. P., what did you do?”

  “I was so taken aback that all I could think to do was to offer him my handkerchief.”

  “And?”

  “He took it, blew his nose, and gave it back to me.” Katherine laughed. “Luckily the Queen called him away and I could escape with my dignity intact. That is, if one could be said to escape wearing a gown that weighs twenty pounds.”

  Will slid the pages into his portfolio. “Quite the metropolis, London. You must have had a grand time there. Whitehaven’s a very different place—seems a bit drab to you, I reckon?”

  Katherine sat very still, arrested. “No,” she answered thoughtfully. “No, it doesn’t.”

  “That’s nice to hear. Well, Mrs. P.,” Will said, his portfolio tucked once more under his arm, “I’ll be off then. I’ll show Hugo the Starling some other time.”

  “I’ll tell him you came by,” replied Katherine. And when Will was gone, she stretched out again on the sofa. Thoughtful still, and more than a little surprised. No, Whitehaven didn’t seem at all drab to her.

  “Oh, Hugo, please let me go higher!” begged Gwendolyn, radiant, her golden hair flying loose about her face. She’d been upset about not being allowed to bring Señor Rodrigo—Mama having said, compassionately, Dearest Gwennie, I know you believe he would enjoy it, but only think, darling, how cold he would get—but she was wearing the hat he’d given her, and had leaped up the six ratlines with such nimbleness that Will had laughed and exclaimed: