Sea Fire (48 page)

Both women were silent as Martha helped her into the dress. When the last heavy fold had been twitched into place, Cathy turned to survey herself in the long cheval glass without interest. Today her appearance held no charms for her. She would rather by far have been wearing the tattered petticoat of Parrot Island days, as long as she had all that went with it. . . .

As Martha tidied up the room, a knock sounded on the door. Cathy looked at it with some impatience as Martha went to answer it. Most likely it was her father, come to add his harangue to Martha’s.

It was Petersham. Cathy stared at the wiry little man in some surprise. He looked both ill at ease, and determined.

“Is something wrong with Jon?” The question burst from her before she could catch it. Petersham stepped inside the room, twisting and untwisting the hat he held in his hands. Martha stood back to admit him, then closed the door, a peculiarly satisfied expression crossing her face.

“Yes, ma’am,” Petersham said, wetting his lips. Then, coming closer, the words fell from him like a torrent.

“Miss Cathy, you have to come home! Master Jon is killing himself!
Ever since you left with Master Cray, he’s been so drunk he can’t walk! I’m afraid he’ll drink himself into his grave!”

Petersham’s eyes were imploring on her face. Cathy, looking from him to Martha’s smug expression, felt immediately suspicious. Were they trying to put something over on her?

“Petersham, are you telling me the truth?” she demanded, her eyes probing as they met his.

“Yes, Miss Cathy, I am!” he said huskily. “Master Jon is swilling down whiskey like it’s water. He hasn’t been out of your bedroom since that day he got home and found you’d left with Master Cray. He won’t eat, he hardly sleeps, and last night, when I tried to get him to take a little soup, he told me to get out and let him be! Then, when I did, he locked the door! He hasn’t been out since, Miss Cathy, nor will he open it when I knock. Miss Cathy, I’m sore afraid for him!”

Cathy felt her heart constrict as she pictured Jon in these circumstances. Why she should care, she didn’t know, but she found to her surprise that she did. Still she eyed Petersham suspiciously.

“What makes you think I can do something about it?” she asked. Petersham made an impatient gesture.

“Miss Cathy, I told you before you took Master Cray that you’d break his heart if you left him. You know he loves you, and you know better than anybody why he is the way he is. I’ve been with the two of you from the first, and I know for a fact that he’s been good to you. You’re just letting pride stand in your way now, and your pride may be Master Jon’s death!”

Cathy stared at Petersham’s impassioned face for a long moment. What he said was true, as far as it went. Jon had been good to her, from the first moments of their acquaintance, when he had stolen her off the ship that was carrying her to London and her first Season. Even when he had taken her body, it had never really been against her will. She had wanted him from the first time she had seen him, only then she had been too
young and naive to realize what wanting a man meant. Jon had taught her, gently and tenderly initiating her into womanhood. Oh, they had quarreled, but that was inevitable in a mating between two people as hot-tempered as they both were. And making up had been sweet. . . .

He was drinking himself to death for love of her. Cathy found the notion warmed emotions that had been slowly freezing to death. If he loved her—if he loved her. . . .

“All right, Petersham, I’ll ride back with you to Woodham and I’ll talk to him. I’m not promising anything, mind. But I’ll talk to him.”

“Oh, thank you, Miss Cathy,” Petersham beamed his relief. “If you can just get him to sober up, and eat something. . . .”

“He’s more likely to throw me out on my ear,” Cathy said dryly, but she didn’t believe that any more than either Petersham or Martha did.

During the ride out to Woodham, Petersham drove and Cathy was largely silent. She was surprised to find butterflies in her stomach at the idea of facing Jon again. If Petersham had lied to her—she shot him a killing look. She would never forgive him—or Jon!

Petersham had not lied. The house was silent as a tomb, the servants moving about mournfully, speaking in whispers, as though there had been a death in the family. Even from the foot of the stairs, Cathy could smell the sickly odor of whiskey. Upstairs, not a sound came from the direction of the master bedroom.

“I’ll bring up a big pot of coffee and some sandwiches, in a few minutes,” Petersham said softly as she started up the stairs.

Cathy gave him a wry look.

“First you’d better wait and see if he’ll let me in.”

From Petersham’s answering smile, it was obvious that he had no doubts about that. Cathy wished that she were as confident, as she stood
in the hallway, hesitating outside the bedroom door.

Finally she gathered up enough courage to knock. The sound echoed hollowly through the hall. There was no answer.

“Jon?” she called, pressing her ear against the thick panel, the better to hear any movement from inside.

“Jon?” she called again, knocking, when there was no response. This time she heard a crash, as though something made of glass had fallen to the floor and broken. The sound was followed by a steady stream of curses, uttered in a thick but clearly recognizable voice.

“God, now I’m hearing things,” she thought she heard him mutter from just beyond the door. Before she could ponder the meaning of that, the portal was jerked open. Leaning against it, she almost fell into the room. Immediately a steely hand closed about her arm, gripping it punishingly as it kept her from falling.

“I thought I told you to keep the hell away from here!” Jon began harshly, then broke off, his bloodshot eyes widening as they fastened on Cathy’s face.

“Oh, God!” he said on a queer, strangled groan, thrusting her away from him with what she could have sworn was revulsion. Cathy staggered backward, only to find the door being slammed in her face. She blinked at the closed panel bemusedly for a moment. Whatever reception she had expected, it had certainly been nothing like this! How dare he be so rude, when she had driven all this way just to see him!

Anger sparking from her eyes, she marched up to the door again and boldly knocked.

“Jonathan Hale, you open this door!” she demanded furiously, rattling the knob.

It opened almost at once. Before Cathy could do more than glare hotly at him, he was pulling her into his arms, holding her so
tightly that she could feel every hard muscle and sinew of his body.

“Oh, God, it is you,” he muttered thickly, pressing his lips to the silken cord of her neck. “I thought I was imagining things again!”

Cathy found herself enveloped in a haze of whiskey fumes, but just at the moment she didn’t care. She wrapped her arms around his strong back, hugging him fiercely. He returned her hug, murmuring endearments she couldn’t quite make out into the curve between her shoulder and neck.

After a moment he let her go, only to pull her into the bedroom and close the door behind them. He stood leaning rather unsteadily against the panel, regarding her with red-rimmed eyes that seemed to devour her. After a few moments his gaze sharpened, hardened.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded as brusquely as the drunken thickness of his tongue would allow. “If you’ve come to gloat, you can just go away again. I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone. . . .”

Cathy was somewhat taken aback by the abrupt change in his manner. He was glowering at her, his expression fierce. She got the impression that he almost hated her.

“Petersham. . . .” she faltered before she thought. His face darkened.

“Did that old goat fetch you?” he asked fiercely. “Damn, I’ll kill him! I suppose he told you some nonsensical tale about me drinking myself to death for love of you?”

His tone was a sad parody of mockery. Under the influence of so much whiskey, he couldn’t quite control the grain of truth that was evident in his words.

“He did tell me something like that, yes,” Cathy admitted, watching him closely. She saw hot red color wash into his cheekbones. Those gray eyes looked away from hers.

“Damn it, I
will
kill him!” he growled. “Hell, if that’s why you came, you might
just as well leave again! I don’t want your pity!”

“You don’t have it,” Cathy answered steadily, her eyes never leaving his dark face. “You have my love instead, you dolt. That’s why I came.”

Jon’s eyes swung back to her face, a mixture of hope and doubting in his eyes. Before she could say any more, he was coming away from the door in a lunge, catching her against him. This time his kiss found her mouth. Cathy returned it freely, her hands sliding up around his neck, ignoring the sour taste of whiskey against her lips. She felt him sway suddenly, and braced herself to steady him.

“You’d better sit down before you fall down,” she told him humorously as he freed her mouth at last.

“Yes, I. . . .”

A knock at the door interrupted him.

“Just a minute,” Cathy called, and helped Jon to a chair before answering it. He sank down into the chair gratefully, his long legs sprawling out in front of him.

“Who the hell is that?” he demanded irritably.

“Probably Petersham, with coffee and some food,” Cathy answered, her face serene as she went to answer the door. Behind her she heard Jon grumble, “Interfering old fool!”

Petersham, when she opened the door to admit him, looked anxious. Cathy smiled reassuringly at him as he crossed the room to place the food on the table. Jon watched him balefully, and when Petersham cast him a quick, appraising look, he growled, “Remind me to fire you later.”

“Yes, Captain,” Petersham replied woodenly, then winked broadly at Cathy before leaving them alone again.

Cathy pulled the little table to stand at Jon’s elbow, then poured him a cup of black coffee. He took it impatiently, his eyes never leaving her face.

“Cathy . . .” he began. She silenced him with a gesture.

“Eat first,”
she ordered sternly, passing him a sandwich. “Then we’ll talk.”

As he complied, gnawing hungrily at the sandwich, Cathy glanced around the room. It was complete chaos, she saw, wrinkling her nose at the whiskey fumes rising from a half-full bottle that had apparently broken when he had come to answer her knock. Besides that mess, dust lay visibly over every available item of furniture. Clearly Petersham had not been exaggerating when he had said that Jon had refused to allow anyone into the room. It hadn’t been dusted for at least a week. The bed was unmade, its pillows lying on the floor on the opposite side of the room where Jon had apparently flung them, whether in a temper or an effort to get comfortable Cathy couldn’t tell. The curtains were drawn, enveloping the room in a thick gloom. Shaking her head, she jumped up to open them. Sunlight streamed in, its light brightening every corner. Behind her, Cathy heard Jon groan.

“Oh, my eyes,” he mumbled, shielding them with his hand from the light. Cathy crossed to his side, looking down at him with affectionate chiding.

“Serves you right,” she said unsympathetically. “After all that whiskey, your hangover should last for weeks. If you’re feeling better, I think I might call Petersham in to help you get cleaned up. Quite frankly, my darling, you wouldn’t be out of place in a pigsty.”

Jon grinned a little at that.

“I must stink to high heaven,” he murmured, lowering his protective hand a little to peer up at her.

“You do,” she said frankly. “Never mind, Petersham will soon have you feeling very much more the thing.”

As Cathy moved toward the door, Jon caught at a fold of her velvet skirt.

“You won’t go away?” he asked huskily. Smiling down at him tenderly, Cathy shook her head.

“I won’t
go away,” she promised, and went to call Petersham.

She waited downstairs in the back parlor while Petersham assisted Jon with his toilette. When Petersham had finished, she meant to go up again, to continue that most interesting conversation where it had been broken off. She hummed as she waited, her heart lighter than it had been for months. She had made the right decision, she knew. She would stay. In spite of everything, she loved him, and he loved her. That was all that mattered.

To her surprise, she heard Jon’s booted feet on the wooden floor outside the back parlor door. She was just turning to face the door when he entered. He was looking very much better, she saw, as he halted just inside the room, his hands thrust into his breeches’ pockets, his expression guarded as he looked at her. He was freshly shaved, and bathed, his black hair neatly brushed, and dressed in a clean white shirt and dove gray breeches. His eyes were still a trifle red, but Cathy supposed that that was only to be expected.

She smiled at him somewhat hesitantly. He didn’t return her smile. If anything, his expression hardened.

“You’re free to go, if you like,” he said stiffly. “I assure you, I’m in no danger of dying from over-consumption of whiskey, despite what Petersham may have told you.”

Cathy looked at him closely. Dull red crept up his neck under her scrutiny. Satisfied, her smile widened.

“You sound as if you’re anxious to be rid of me,” she said lightly. His jaw tightened.

“For God’s sake, don’t tease me,” he said harshly, crossing the room so that he stood looking out the window, his back to her.

“I’m not teasing.” Her voice was soft as she came to stand behind him, her arms sliding around his muscular waist. She felt him stiffen at her touch, then slowly he relaxed.

“I love you, you know,” he said gruffly to the window. Pressed closely against his back, Cathy smiled.

“Enough to marry
me?” she asked. He turned slowly in her arms, his own sliding around her. She saw that he was smiling a little uncertainly.

“Are you proposing to me?” His voice was husky.

“Yes.” She smiled shamelessly up at him, her eyes alight with love. His gray eyes started to return her smile, glinting warmly down into hers.

“Does that include two children, and possibly a dozen more in the future?” he asked, as if considering.