Island Flame (32 page)

Immured in the opulence of her aunt Elizabeth’s house in Grosvenor Square, Cathy was at first restless, then bored, then totally disconsolate. Even though she had attained the dignity of matronhood, it was still considered improper for her to leave the house without a female attendant. Her readily apparent pregnancy precluded her participating in the parties and balls and musical soirees of the London Season. The only pastimes left to her were sedate walks, or carriage rides through the park with Martha in attendance, or a visit to the nearby shops.

Cathy’s enjoyment of these diversions quickly palled. The thick chill of the coming winter made the park uncomfortable
for one whose blood was used to warmer climes, and her thickening waistline kept her from taking any real interest in fashion. For several weeks she managed to amuse herself by selecting the baby’s layette, but when that was complete, to the last tiny cap and satin coverlet, she could find nothing else to do. She moped about the house, smiling wanly in response to Sir Thomas’s and Martha’s attempts to cheer her. Resolutely, she refused to acknowledge that the inexplicable lowness of her spirits might have something to do with Jon’s defection. As far as she was concerned, she told herself firmly, he was a chapter in her life that was now closed.

Elizabeth Augusta Anne Aldley Case, Lady Stanhope by marriage, and sister to Sir Thomas, had no patience with Cathy’s megrims. In her considered opinion, the girl was very lucky to have escaped so lightly. If not for her willingness to cast the mantle of her sterling reputation over her niece, Cathy would have found herself a social outcast—despite the whitewash that Sir Thomas had tried to spread over the whole unsavory affair. For although the Duchess of Kent had refrained from discussing what had befallen Lady Catherine at the hands of the pirates, the Gradys had felt no such inhibitions. What they didn’t know for a fact, they made up out of thin air. And the story they told was scandalous enough to ruin the reputation of even the most unimpeachably virtuous lady.

Lady Stanhope, sailing into the fray like a bosomy man o’war, dismissed the rumors as false lies. Her niece, said the lady with a look that dared her listeners to contradict her, was secretly married to an American in Lisbon before sailing for England. When the unfortunate bridegroom had fallen ill of a fever and died just days
after the ceremony, a grieving Cathy had been packed off by her father to spend the summer with her aunt on the theory that a change of scenery might be what was needed to dispel the young widow’s grief. When the
Anna Greer
was overrun by pirates, Cathy was already
enceinte.
The pirate captain, when made aware of her condition, had chivalrously offered the expectant mother the use of his cabin, and had behaved toward her thereafter with perfect propriety. Sir Thomas had recovered his daughter in Cadiz after the duchess and those unspeakable chits were ransomed. And that, said my lady, was what really happened. Although polite society might titter behind its hands when Lady Stanhope was not present, no one quite had the nerve to openly dispute what she said.

Cathy, although not really ungrateful for these efforts on her behalf, was indifferent. Even after the baby was born, she did not anticipate feeling a burning urge to shine in society, or indeed to enter it at all. It would suit her far better to retire with her child to the country, she told her father. Sir Thomas was appalled. He foresaw all his careful machinations being made the casualties of an incomprehensible female whim. He appealed to Martha for aid in enumerating to Cathy the advantages accruing to a place in the polite world, and even a possible second marriage. When Cathy pointed out, with undeniable logic, that a second marriage was out of the question as she was not really a widow, Sir Thomas squirmed uncomfortably and told her not to bother her pretty little head about that. When the time came, he said, something could be arranged.

Besides Lady Stanhope, Cathy, Sir Thomas, and the servants, the present Lord Stanhope was also a resident of
the house in Grosvenour Square. Plump, pompous, and pasty-faced, he was the widowed Lady Stanhope’s only child and the apple of her eye. She thought Harold could do no wrong, and when Harold looked down his nose at his little cousin and pronounced her wild, Lady Stanhope could only agree. Cathy’s degenerate tendencies had brought about her downfall, as Lady Stanhope told the girl repeatedly. Cathy, mindful of her father’s career and the burden her adventure had already placed on it, held her tongue and submitted, with as good a grace as she could muster, to her aunt’s homilies. But with Harold, she had no such scruples. She despised him, and did not care who knew it.

The first of December saw Cathy going into the sixth month of pregnancy. She felt as large and ungainly as an expectant sow, and her dissatisfaction with her appearance and general malaise caused her to be snappish and impatient with anyone who came near her. The tensions in the house grew to such an intensity that she was driven to spending much time in her bedroom. It was large and elegantly furnished, with a satin-draped four-poster, delicate chairs, a mirrored dressing table, and a plush gold oriental carpet. But the lack of fresh air and exercise made Cathy pale and listless. Her days were spent huddling apathetically in front of a roaring fire, a book forgotten on her lap as she gave herself up to wistful daydreams. “If only Jon had loved me” was their usual theme, and Cathy was too heartsore to banish them. But she finally managed to convince herself that her love of Jon, if indeed it had ever existed, was now dead. In its place was an implacable antagonism.

The coming child was becoming more real to her with
every passing day. She could feel it moving inside her, its tiny kicks and rolls tickling like the flutterings of a trapped butterfly, and she thrilled to the knowledge that in less than three months she would be able to hold her child in her arms. Despite Jon’s betrayal, she would love their child with every ounce of her being. The baby would be her whole life.

Martha was growing seriously concerned about Cathy’s melancholia, and consulted with Sir Thomas endlessly on the subject. He too was becoming alarmed. Except for the bulge at her middle, the girl had lost weight, and she was uncharacteristically quiet. Sir Thomas began to wonder if he had done the right thing. The remedy was even now in his hands, he knew, but any change of plan must be worked out quickly. After the third of January, it would be too late. Cathy would in truth be a widow.

Newgate Prison was a horrible place, as Sir Thomas had found on the first of his numerous visits. To a prisoner without friends or money, and under sentence of death, it was hell itself. The guards had no scruples about dragging a condemned man out into the courtyard, tying him to a whipping post, and beating him until the blood ran. Sir Thomas learned that a carelessly tossed silver coin could assure such treatment on a weekly basis. He didn’t have to waste his money bribing the guards to withhold food and drink. The standard prison fare was a piece of moldy bread, twice a day, accompanied by a scummy mug of water.

His craving for revenge was almost satisfied as he watched the weekly beatings, gloating as the once powerful-looking man was reduced to a wild-eyed skeleton. If Cathy could only see her pirate now, he thought, turning
up his nose at the unwashed odor of the man’s body and staying well back out of reach of hands that he knew itched to kill him, she would recoil with revulsion. There was nothing about the pirate now to awaken maidenly hearts, and the knowledge pleased Sir Thomas mightily. Still, he worried about what Cathy’s reaction would be if by some unlikely mischance she were to discover that her pirate captain had been hanged at Tyburn instead of escaping as she supposed. Was it possible that after the passage of so much time she would be angry nonetheless?

No anger, however, could match that which Jon Hale felt for Sir Thomas. A homicidal gleam would come into the crazed gray eyes when they rested on their captor, and his parched lips would curve in a feral snarl. Although the man was chained hand and foot, and was under the constant guard of armed men, Sir Thomas was conscious of an occasional stirring of fear. The pirate only made the mistake of lunging for him once, when Sir Thomas had remarked deliberately on his plans for his daughter’s future. The pirate emitted what could only be described as a howl and leaped like a wild beast for his throat, but Sir Thomas was able to jump back in time while the guards clubbed the man senseless. They then dragged the prisoner over to the whipping post, tied him to it, and beat him again as soon as they revived him. After that, the pirate feigned deafness when Sir Thomas mentioned how sorry Cathy was to hear of the treatment he was receiving. Feeling that his daughter’s vengeance was being well and truly served, he began to tell the man before each beating that they had been ordered by Cathy, and not himself. And the malevolent glitter in the pirate’s eyes or the twitching of a muscle in his cheek conveyed to Sir
Thomas that his prisoner was indeed cognizant of what was being said to him.

Although Sir Thomas hated Jon Hale for having dishonored his daughter, he began, very reluctantly, to feel a glimmer of respect for the pirate’s iron endurance. The man never uttered a sound, although the pain he suffered was excruciating, and the only time he showed any reaction was when Sir Thomas mentioned Cathy’s name. Even then, the emotion in his gray eyes was so fleeting that Sir Thomas was unable to identify it.

Jon’s hanging was scheduled for seven o’clock on the morning of January third. As Christmas came and went, Sir Thomas began to have serious misgivings about the wisdom of what he was doing. Was he indeed serving his daughter’s best interests by having the pirate hanged? Or would she be better off with him for a husband? For instead of getting over her infatuations, as Sir Thomas had been certain she would, Cathy seemed no happier now than she had weeks ago. If anything, in fact, she was plunging more and more deeply into depression. If she genuinely loved the pirate, then Sir Thomas would reluctantly put her wishes before his own career. But he was still morally convinced that what Cathy felt was a mere girlish infatuation that time would remedy. It was just that it was taking rather more time to cure her than he had at first supposed. Anyway, it was too late now to restore the pirate to her, the man would very likely do her serious harm if he could get his hands on her, believing what he now did about her. Thus Sir Thomas decided that it was in the best interests of all concerned to let the execution take place. Even the pirate might welcome death as an alternative to his present sufferings.

New Year’s Day, 1843, dawned clear and crisp and very cold. Snow lay thickly on the windowsill just outside Cathy’s bedroom. The antics of the child in her womb had awakened her earlier than had lately become her custom. For a long while she lay quietly in bed, one hand pressed to her belly, while she watched the sky turn from midnight blue to a leaden gray. From the looks of it, there would be more snow before the day was out, adding to the foot or so that was already on the ground. Cathy grimaced. The somberness of the day exactly matched her mood.

The fire in the hearth had burned down to a few glowing embers, and the room was chill. Cathy burrowed beneath the thick satin quilt, tucking it cozily around herself so that only the tip of her nose and her eyes were exposed to the raw air. She thought about getting out of bed to poke up the fire but then decided against it: it simply required too much effort. Martha would be bringing her morning chocolate in a few minutes, and the woman could do it then.

A knock sounded very formally at her bedroom door, and Cathy smiled ruefully. Martha usually acted far more like her mother than her servant, and when she made a point of remembering her place, it was a sign that she was gravely offended. Cathy sighed, because when Martha was offended she could be as difficult to placate as an outraged Brahma bull. Apparently the words she had flung at the older woman the night before still rankled. She hadn’t meant to hurt Martha’s feelings, God knew, but she was so cross now. Her personality had changed so much in these few short months that she scarcely recognized herself.

“Come in,” she called, resigned to spending the better
part of the morning soothing her nanny’s ruffled feathers.

Martha entered with a dignity that would not have been out of place in Queen Victoria herself.

“I’ve brought your chocolate, my lady.”

The stilted form of address told Cathy, more clearly than a diatribe would have, that Martha felt that she had been ill-used. Cathy sighed again, not feeling up to the task of placating anyone. It took a great deal of effort just to maneuver herself into a sitting position against the pillows.

“Please don’t be angry with me,” she coaxed as Martha arranged the tray of chocolate and warm croissants on her lap. “You and my father are the only friends I seem to have left. If you desert me, I’ll have no one.”

“There’s no talk of anyone deserting you, Miss Cathy.” The woman responded to the sadness of Cathy’s tone just as she had been meant to do. “It’s only natural that you should be a bit peevish now and again, what with the baby and you not being in good health. When I see how you’re changed, I could kill that pirate myself if I knew where to lay hands on him. What he’s done to you is criminal!”

“Martha, please!” Cathy cried, biting her lip. Any mention of Jon was excruciatingly painful, and, as a rule, Martha and Sir Thomas were careful never to allude to him in any way. Although Cathy had done her best to banish his lean image from her thoughts, it was impossible to do so, with his child moving so strongly inside her. The man was beginning to haunt her night and day like some earth-bound ghost.

When she closed her eyes it was easy to picture him, feet braced wide apart, on the
Margarita
’s quarterdeck,
while a warm wind ruffled through his thick black hair. By now he could be sailing any sea in the world, preying on weaker ships and making love to a procession of willing women. Cathy felt a long-denied rage begin to build inside her as she imagined him slanting his mouth across the eager lips of some sloe-eyed Polynesian beauty. Bastard, she thought vindictively, as she remembered how he had deserted her when he had found out about the child. He wasn’t worth wasting a single tear on—not that she had any intention of crying over him. It was bad enough that he could abandon her, his wife, whether the wedding had been of his design or not. But that he could so coolly leave their coming child bore out every harsh word her father had ever said about him. Jon Hale was a heartless, merciless brigand who had taken advantage of her inexperience to make her think she loved him. His own actions condemned him in Cathy’s mind.