began to undress as quickly as she could, splashed herself with cold water and a little perfume, and climbed into a fragile nightgown of pure white silk that had obviously been designed with a bride in mind. She ran a quick brush through her hair and leapt into the bed, pulling the covers up around her waist as she lay back provocatively against a mound of pillows. At all costs she had to make this believable.
She was ready not a moment too soon. As she heard Harold fumble with the door latch she took a deep breath. Then, determinedly, she thrust a slender finger as far down her throat as she could reach.
Her timing could not have been bettered. Harold finally made it through the door to be greeted by the sight of his incredibly lovely bride, dressed in nearly transparent white silk with her golden hair loose and gleaming in the light of the many-branched candelabra, vomiting grotesquely all over the jade velvet of what was to have been their bridal bed. He recoiled against the doorjamb,feeling his own stomach heave at the gruesome sight. In a high-pitched, shaking voice, he began to call for the ship’s doctor.
Over the next few days, Cathy was hard put to it not to laugh. She played at being desperately nauseated, and Harold believed her. Whenever he was in the cabin she had only to clutch her stomach and moan to send him scuttling from the room. His own digestion was delicate at the best of times, he informed her nervously, and just the sight of her being so ill had been enough to put him off his feed. He took good care to stay out of the way as much as possible, even going so far as to have the steward make up a bed for him in an empty cabin. Since he had previously taken care to inform everyone on board that they were on their honeymoon, this circumstance was greeted with hilarity by the ship’s crew, and those male passengers in the know.
Ian Smith, the ship’s doctor, was puzzled at Cathy’s illness. He examined her only cursorily (it was not considered proper for a doctor to do more, unless the lady lay at death’s door), and he had to admit that she had all the usual symptoms of seasickness: vomiting, listlessness, a refusal to eat or even suffer food near her. Still, something did not quite seem right. But he could not put his finger on it, and, when pressed, said reluctantly that Lady Stanhope appeared to be suffering from a severe case of mal de mer.
Cathy was well aware that she couldn’t hold Harold off forever by pretending to be ill, but while they were still at sea it served very well. There was no possible way he could take reprisals against Jon, for the simple reason that there was no way he could send a message; besides, after she had had time to think things through, it had occurred to her that if Harold really did, as he had threatened, go ahead and have Jon hanged to punish her for her lack of cooperation, he would no longer have anything to hold over her head. She would then leave him so fast he wouldn’t have time to blink. Since her freedom involved Jon’sdeath, the very thought of which made her shudder convulsively, she hadn’t yet figured out how to turn this deduction to her advantage, but given time she was sure she would. And that was what she was doing now—
playing for time.
F ive days later Cathy was growing more than a little tired of her pretense. Staying in bed when one felt perfectly well was boring in the extreme; besides, it gave her too much time to think, and her thoughts inevitably centered on Jon and little Cray. By now Jon must know that he was not to be hanged, and she wondered if he knew how his reprieve had been achieved. She hoped desperately that he did; the memory of his last anguished cry, after Harold had told him that they were wed, tortured her. At least, if he knew, he would also know that her seeming betrayal had been prompted by her love of him. Perhaps it would serve to take away some of his hurt.
Thinking of Jon was too painful, so Cathy tried not
She was ready not a moment too soon. As she heard Harold fumble with the door latch she took a deep breath. Then, determinedly, she thrust a slender finger as far down her throat as she could reach.
Her timing could not have been bettered. Harold finally made it through the door to be greeted by the sight of his incredibly lovely bride, dressed in nearly transparent white silk with her golden hair loose and gleaming in the light of the many-branched candelabra, vomiting grotesquely all over the jade velvet of what was to have been their bridal bed. He recoiled against the doorjamb,feeling his own stomach heave at the gruesome sight. In a high-pitched, shaking voice, he began to call for the ship’s doctor.
Over the next few days, Cathy was hard put to it not to laugh. She played at being desperately nauseated, and Harold believed her. Whenever he was in the cabin she had only to clutch her stomach and moan to send him scuttling from the room. His own digestion was delicate at the best of times, he informed her nervously, and just the sight of her being so ill had been enough to put him off his feed. He took good care to stay out of the way as much as possible, even going so far as to have the steward make up a bed for him in an empty cabin. Since he had previously taken care to inform everyone on board that they were on their honeymoon, this circumstance was greeted with hilarity by the ship’s crew, and those male passengers in the know.
Ian Smith, the ship’s doctor, was puzzled at Cathy’s illness. He examined her only cursorily (it was not considered proper for a doctor to do more, unless the lady lay at death’s door), and he had to admit that she had all the usual symptoms of seasickness: vomiting, listlessness, a refusal to eat or even suffer food near her. Still, something did not quite seem right. But he could not put his finger on it, and, when pressed, said reluctantly that Lady Stanhope appeared to be suffering from a severe case of mal de mer.
Cathy was well aware that she couldn’t hold Harold off forever by pretending to be ill, but while they were still at sea it served very well. There was no possible way he could take reprisals against Jon, for the simple reason that there was no way he could send a message; besides, after she had had time to think things through, it had occurred to her that if Harold really did, as he had threatened, go ahead and have Jon hanged to punish her for her lack of cooperation, he would no longer have anything to hold over her head. She would then leave him so fast he wouldn’t have time to blink. Since her freedom involved Jon’sdeath, the very thought of which made her shudder convulsively, she hadn’t yet figured out how to turn this deduction to her advantage, but given time she was sure she would. And that was what she was doing now—
playing for time.
F ive days later Cathy was growing more than a little tired of her pretense. Staying in bed when one felt perfectly well was boring in the extreme; besides, it gave her too much time to think, and her thoughts inevitably centered on Jon and little Cray. By now Jon must know that he was not to be hanged, and she wondered if he knew how his reprieve had been achieved. She hoped desperately that he did; the memory of his last anguished cry, after Harold had told him that they were wed, tortured her. At least, if he knew, he would also know that her seeming betrayal had been prompted by her love of him. Perhaps it would serve to take away some of his hurt.
Thinking of Jon was too painful, so Cathy tried not
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