The Accidental Bride

Chapter 20

Phoebe stood on the harbor at Harwich, drawing the hood of her cloak closer around her face against the freshening evening breeze. It was close to seven o’clock and the sky was already darkening.

The scene on the quay was hectic as ships prepared to leave on the evening tide and light spilled from the open doors and unshuttered windows of the taverns opening onto the cobbled, fishy-smelling landing stage.

Phoebe could see no sign of Cato. He’d supped with her earlier, made gentle love to her in farewell, and had then left her at the Ship inn, saying he was going to share a final pot of ale with Giles and his men at a tavern on the quay before boarding the White Lady en route for Italy.

Phoebe jumped out of the way as a pair of stevedores jogged past her, laboring under their load of flour sacks piled upon their backs. The lights of the ships riding at anchor further out in the harbor cast a pale glow over the dark water.

Phoebe felt bereft and utterly alone in this purposeful bustle. She had come on impulse, wanting-no, needing- to see Cato’s ship finally depart, so that she could say one final farewell. She looked forlornly towards the taverns where Cato was presumably laughing and jesting with his men, having put aside all thoughts of the wife he’d left behind in safety in the inn. The wife who was to return with Giles Crampton to Woodstock on the morrow and await her husband’s return as patiently as any Penelope.

She looked around and saw him. Brian Morse. He was deep in discussion with two men some twenty yards away, standing at the gangway of a small sloop. She stared at him, for a moment unable to believe her eyes. What could Brian possibly be doing here? As she gazed across at him, something changed hands, then Brian moved away from the two men. He raised his head and for one dreadful instant his eyes met Phoebe’s across the distance that separated them.

Phoebe’s stomach seemed to plunge into her boots. Had he recognized her? A cold wave of nameless panic crept up the back of her neck, shivered her scalp, brought a light dew of icy perspiration to her forehead. She felt the same terror she’d felt in the stable yard, when she’d had a glimpse of his true character beneath the urbane facade. Now she could almost fancy she could see the aura of malevolence emanating from him. It was fanciful, Phoebe knew, but she had a deep and absolute conviction of evil. Meg was always right.

Her hand instinctively went into the pocket of her cloak, closing comfortingly over the leather purse that lay heavily against her thigh. Without conscious intention she swung around to the gangway behind her leading onto the White Lady. It was for the moment deserted.

Phoebe darted up it, aware only of the overpowering need to get away from Brian before he saw her, if he hadn’t already done so. She told herself he couldn’t have recognized her, huddled in her cloak as she was. It wasn’t as if he could have been expecting to see her.

Once she had felt that he was within an inch of hurting her; had felt that he was absolutely capable of cold, ruthless hurting if it suited him. And just then she’d seen that same look in his eyes, despite the distance between them. Maybe he hadn’t seen her.- Maybe it it wasn’t directed at her. But it terrified her nevertheless.

She reached the deck and plunged into the shadow of the deck rail. Her heart was beating far too fast, her palms clammy.

“Eh, an‘ jest who might you be?”

Phoebe spun around at the voice at her elbow and found herself face to face with a fresh-faced lad of about her own age. He stared at her curiously.

“What’s it to you?” Phoebe demanded, unconsciously lifting her chin, her voice taking on the slight chill of hauteur.

“I’m a sailor,” the lad said proudly. “An‘ I works the White Lady. An’ it’s my business to watch who comes on an‘ who goes off in port, see.”

Phoebe regarded him closely. “You don’t look much like a sailor to me,” she said, gesturing to his ragged britches fastened at the waist with string, his bare feet, and the threadbare shirt. “You look more like a vagabond than a sailor.”

The lad’s grimy face took on a slightly crestfallen expression. “I’m the cabin boy,” he stated. “An‘ it’s my business to watch the gangplank in port.”

Phoebe considered this. Once again her hand closed over the purse in her pocket. Something was taking shape in the back of her mind, something so audacious, so exciting, she hardly dared admit it to full consciousness.

Slowly she said, “I’m Lady Granville. Lord Granville has taken passage on this ship.”

The lad’s eyes sharpened. He said, “Aye, that ‘e has. But nobody’s said nothin’ about a Lady Granville.”

“No,” Phoebe said. “I don’t imagine they have.” She drew out the purse, hefting it thoughtfully in her hand. “Lord Granville isn’t exactly expecting me, but I’ll give you a guinea if you’ll show me to his cabin so I can leave a letter for him when he comes on board.”

“A guinea?” The cabin boy stared at her in wide-eyed astonishment. “An ‘ole guinea.”

Phoebe nodded and loosened the purse strings. She extracted a coin and held it up so that the light from the stern lamps caught the gleam of gold. “Show me to Lord Granville’s cabin and don’t tell a soul before he comes on board, and I’ll give you this.”

The boy gazed at the coin. He licked his lips. It was more money than he’d ever seen, let alone possessed. “This a-way.” He jerked his head towards the companionway and darted forward.

Phoebe followed him in the grip of a compulsion that made her shiver even as it enthralled her. She climbed down the narrow companionway in the wake of the lad and along a short, dark passage.

“In ‘ere.” The lad opened a door halfway down the passage, adding helpfully, “Mind the step.”

Phoebe stepped over the high threshold into a small, cramped space. An oil lamp hung from a hook in the ceiling, throwing a shadowy light over the two narrow bunks set one atop the other in the bulwark, and illuminating the table and stool that were bolted to the floor beneath a round porthole. Cato’s portmanteau stood on the floor beneath the table.

Phoebe put the coin into the lad’s eager palm. “Just a minute,” she said, laying a hand on his scrawny arm as he made for the door again. “There’ll be another one, if you don’t say a word of this to anyone until we’re… we’re…”

She considered for an instant, then said determinedly, “Until we’re in the middle of the sea.” Phoebe had but a hazy notion of what the middle of the sea might be like, but it sounded suitably far away for her purposes.

“I thought you said you was jest goin‘ to leave ’is lordship a letter.” The cabin boy frowned at her even as he clutched the coin tightly in his palm.

“Well, I’ve just changed my mind. I’m going to stay,” Phoebe said. “How long does it take to get to Italy?”

The lad shrugged. “ ‘Ow should I know, never been there… don’t ’spect I ever will.”

“But the ship is going there now,” Phoebe said, bewildered.

He laughed raucously, as if at some trick of a fairground freak. “We’re goin‘ to Rotterdam, in ’Olland, ye daft ‘apoth!” He doubled over with a gust of exaggerated mirth.

Phoebe, however, was too incensed at this piece of information to take immediate exception to his mockery. Cato had lied to her. An out-and-out lie.

“The White Lady always goes to the Low Countries from ‘ere,” the cabin boy continued with a most infuriating air of superiority. “We got to cross the North Sea. Can’t get to no Italy from there.”

Phoebe was silent. Geography had never been her strong suit. But why had Cato lied to her? He had lied to everyone, except, presumably, Giles Crampton, she thought bitterly. It was yet another example of his refusal to trust his wife, to take her into his confidence. Did he think she’d betray his secrets if he asked her to keep them? Oh, he was impossible! Infuriating! She’d done nothing to deserve such lack of confidence.

Well, that was about to change. She repeated decidedly, “Another guinea if you don’t say anything about me being here until we’re in the middle of the sea.”

The boy looked a little doubtful. “Aye,” he said slowly. “That’s all very well. But if the bosun gets to ‘ear of it, I’ll get the rope’s end, I will.”

Phoebe said persuasively, “If anyone asks, I’ll say I came on board while you were looking the other way, and found my own way to my husband’s cabin.”

The boy gazed down at the coin winking in the lamplight on his palm. He put it to his mouth and bit it. The gold was hard and metallic tasting. He examined it carefully. It was round and smooth, no sign of clipped edges.

“Another one?” He raised his eyes to Phoebe’s. She nodded. “Just like that one.”

“Lord love a duck,” he muttered. It was riches beyond imagining, worth even a painful session with the rope’s end. It wasn’t as if he was letting on board a gang of ruffians. It was only his lordship’s wife, after all. No great crime. Not one to bring down drastic punishment.

“But you mustn’t say a word,” Phoebe insisted again. “Not one single word to anyone. You understand.”

“All right,” he said after a minute, his fingers closing over the coin. “I’d best be off now.”

He ducked out of the cabin, leaving Phoebe to look around her surroundings and wonder whether she was quite mad. When she’d left the inn, she hadn’t intended doing anything so unimaginable.

Or had she?

She looked at the purse in her hand. Why had she brought it with her if she hadn’t had some idea that it might prove useful? Why had she pawned the rings in the first place if she hadn’t envisaged doing something outside Cato’s jurisdiction?

A tremor of excitement slid down her spine. Whether she’d intended it or not, it seemed she was now set on this adventure.

Phoebe frowned around the cabin again. She had to hide herself somewhere. Cato mustn’t find her until it was too late to turn back to port. Did the two bunks mean he was sharing the cabin? That could prove a nuisance. But the cabin boy hadn’t said anything about another passenger. Either way, there wasn’t anywhere in the cramped functional space for a fugitive.

She opened the door and peered down the passage again. The only light came from the open companionway at the end. Voices mingled with running feet on the decks above her. She thought she could detect a heightened degree of urgency, as if preparations were growing close to fruition. If so, Cato would come on board within a short while. She had to find somewhere to hide.

Phoebe ventured into the corridor, closing the door gently behind her. A very narrow door in the wall opposite caught her eye. She opened it and peered into a tiny space occupied by several thick coils of rope, a bucket, and a mop. It smelled offish and tar, with undercurrents of a more noxious odor. However, it would have to do.

She slipped inside, pulling the door to behind her. Immediately she felt as if she couldn’t breathe; the rank stench filling her nostrils made her gag. She opened the door again a crack and sat down on the coils of rope, drawing her legs beneath her, holding the door almost closed, leaving just the tiniest crack for a reassuring breath of reasonably fresh air.

Phoebe lost track of time. Above her head the sounds of impending departure continued. She listened for the sound of Cato’s voice but it never reached her. Once she had a moment of panic, imagining what would happen if he’d decided at the last minute not to board the White Lady and she’d be heading off for Holland all alone. But no one came down to the cabin opposite to retrieve his portmanteau.

A great rattling sound from immediately below her startled her so that she jumped and banged her head on the cupboard’s low ceiling. A rattling, creaking, banging racket that set her perch shivering. And now the thudding feet above her took on a new urgency interspersed with voices raised in command. The ship began to move in what to Phoebe seemed a cumbersome swinging motion.

Above, Cato stood with the captain on the quarterdeck, watching as the ship’s boats with their long sweeps of oars towed the White Lady to the mouth of the harbor. All around them ships riding the high tide were following the same course.

“What kind of a crossing are you expecting, Captain?” Cato inquired with an assumption of only mild curiosity, although his peace of mind, not to mention stomach, rested on the answer.

“Oh, quiet enough, sir,” the captain replied, gazing upward into the deep blue sky now thickly studded with stars. “We should pick up a brisk wind come morning for the North Sea passage, but it’s set fair for the moment.”

Cato muttered a response and turned to look up into the rigging where sailors were moving purposefully, preparing for the moment when they’d pass the harbor bar and the oarsmen would return on board, their boats winched after them, and the White Lady would hit the open sea. He grimaced in anticipation.

“Grog, Lord Granville?” the captain inquired as a sailor ran up the gangway to the quarterdeck bearing two steaming pitch tankards. Captain Allan had no other passengers for this crossing; his cargo was tin from the Cornish mines for the Flemish market. Lucrative enough but not as much as the delicate Delftware, Brussels lace, and Flemish wool that he hoped to bring back to the quality English markets.

Cato took the tankard with a nod of thanks. The grog had a good spicy aroma, and its steam curled into the now chill air. He drew his cloak more securely over his shoulders, determined to remain on deck most of the night. Fresh air was the best antidote to seasickness.

They had reached the harbor bar and the oarsmen shipped their sweeps and swarmed up the rope ladders back on board the White Lady while the boats were winched up and secured on deck. Sipping his grog, Cato looked up at the masts as the sails were run up, bellying in the fresh cold wind. Phoebe would be asleep by now, snug beneath the feather quilt in the big four-poster at the Ship.

Cato sighed. He had hated to leave her, and the shadow of her absence was getting in the way of his clearheaded appraisal of the mission that lay ahead of him.

To be absent from thy heart is torment…

Mother of God, why couldn’t he rid himself of that damned scene? The lines kept popping into his head completely unbidden. At least he thought they were unbidden. But supposing there was something over which he had no control…

The captain said something and Cato banished introspection. “I beg your pardon, Captain…?”

Phoebe remained in her cupboard until she felt the motion of the ship change and its slow steady progress seemed to quicken, to rise and fall beneath her. She found she rather liked the motion, although when she stood up, she tottered and had to grab at the cupboard door to steady herself.

She edged out of her hiding place and stood in the passage listening. Voices still called orders from above, feet still raced across the decks, but it was an orderly sound, as if the activity had settled down into an accustomed pattern.

Phoebe opened the door to the cabin and slipped inside, closing it at her back. No one had come down during her stay in the cupboard, and everything was just as she’d left it, the oil lamp throwing a swaying glow over the sparse furnishings. The ship lurched abruptly and she nearly fell against the bulkhead.

Righting herself, she looked around with rather more attention than hitherto. To her relief, she saw a commode in the far corner. She’d been puzzling about necessary arrangements on board ship, remembering the inadequate facilities at the Cotswold farmhouse. It seemed Cato had a degree of privacy in his cabin.

She took off her cloak, boots, riding habit, and britches, laying them neatly over the stool, then climbed the ladder into the top bunk. The ceiling was so low it seemed to press down upon her as she wriggled beneath the thin blanket and lay very still, feeling her body settle into the motion of the ship.

The scratchy sheet of rough calico covered a straw-filled pallet that rustled at the slightest movement. The sound of water flowing against the bulkhead and the gentle motion of the ship had a soporific effect, so that within a very few minutes, Phoebe felt her eyes growing heavy. She wasn’t sure whether they were yet in the middle of the sea, but surely they were too far from shore now for the ship to put back to harbor. Cato was stuck with her now… on this journey to Holland.

How could he have told her he was going to Italy? He might never have come back to her, and she would never have known where he’d died. Sometimes she couldn’t begin to understand why she loved him to such distraction.

It was gone midnight when Cato decided to go below. It was too cold to sleep on deck, and the sea seemed calm enough for the most susceptible stomach. The captain had long left the quarterdeck to the quartermaster, who stood at the helm, whistling softly between his teeth as he steered by the North Star.

Cato bade him a courteous good night and descended the companionway. He entered the cabin, yawning deeply, to find it in darkness, the oil lamp out of fuel. By the faint moonlight coming through the small porthole, he struck flint on tinder and lit the candle that stood on the table.

His foot caught the stool beside the table and he glanced down. At first what he saw merely bemused him. A heap of clothes that were not his own had no place in his cabin. But there was something familiar about these garments. Something familiar…

With a creeping sense of inevitability Cato turned slowly towards the bulkhead, raising the candle high.

The golden light fell upon a tangled glowing mass of light brown hair, a pale cheek pillowed on the curve of her forearm, the crescent shadow of her eyelashes, the soft full mouth, lips slightly parted in sleep.

Cato regarded his sleeping wife in disbelief.

Grimly he picked up a copper jug that stood beside the commode and went back up on deck to the scuttlebutt. He filled the jug and returned to his cabin.

Phoebe slept on.

Cato dipped a towel into the jug, wrung it out perfunctorily, and approached the bunks.

Phoebe came to in a spluttering shower of cold water, arms flailing, incoherent protest on her lips. Her eyes shot open and she found herself looking up into her husband’s flinty black eyes.

“Oh,” she said inadequately, trying to dry her drenched face with the back of her hand. A complaint about his method of waking her died stillborn as she absorbed his furious countenance.

“How dare you!” Cato demanded.

Phoebe wiped her face on the scratchy sheet, trying to think of something to say. Unfortunately she was still half asleep and words seemed to have deserted her.

“Come down here,” Cato commanded, tossing the soaked cloth into the jug.

Phoebe sat up properly and looked doubtful. It didn’t seem like a wise move in the light of Cato’s expression. “There’s not a lot of room. I’m sure we could have a more comfortable conversation if I stayed up here,” she suggested tentatively.

“Phoebe, get down here!” The softness of his voice did nothing to detract from its ferocity.

There seemed nothing for it. She pushed aside the thin blanket and wriggled around so that she could come down the ladder backwards. She tugged at the hem of her chemise, aware that it only reached mid-thigh and was riding up as she descended the ladder. It did nothing for her sense of vulnerability.

“I saw Brian on the quay. That’s why I came on board… to tell you that,” she declared in a rush, glancing hopefully over her shoulder to see the effect of her explanation.

Cato took her by the waist and swung her down the last two rungs of the ladder, setting her on her feet with a jarring thump. “What?” he demanded.

“Brian.” Phoebe tugged again at her chemise. “On the quay. He was talking with two men. I thought you’d wish to know.”

Cato stared at her. “Are you telling me you crept on board, hid in my cabin, waited until the ship was well out of port, just to inform me that my stepson has found his way to Harwich?”

“Isn’t it something you would wish to know?”

“That’s beside the point.” Cato dismissed the question with an impatient gesture. “And don’t be disingenuous. If you wished to tell me something, just why did you wait until now to do so?”

“I was asleep,” Phoebe offered.

Cato drew in a sharp breath.

Phoebe, regretting her flippancy, went on the attack. She said hastily, “You told me you were going to Italy, and you’re not. Why did you lie to me? You could have been killed and I’d never have known where you died… always supposing someone bothered to tell me you were dead,” she added with undisguised bitterness.

“My destination had to be a secret.” To his astonishment Cato found himself on the defensive. “For safety reasons as much as anything.”

“But why wouldn’t you tell me?” Phoebe demanded. “I wouldn’t jeopardize your safety… or did you think I might?”

“That has nothing to do with it. A secret mission is just that. No one can know of it.”

“I’ll lay odds Giles Crampton knows,” Phoebe stated.

“That is different,” Cato said firmly. “Giles is my lieutenant.”

“And more important than your wife,” Phoebe retorted.

“In some matters, yes. But none of this is to the point. I cannot believe you… even you.. . would have the brass-faced nerve to do this, Phoebe. Do you have any idea what’s at stake? What you have put in jeopardy by your blind and utterly thoughtless impulses?”

“I saw Brian Morse on the quay and thought you ought to know of it,” Phoebe reiterated. “Does he know where you’re really going?”

“He didn’t. I daresay he does now,” Cato observed. “But that has nothing to do with you.”

“It does! Everything that concerns you is to do with me,” Phoebe said. “But you won’t understand that. You’re always telling me to sit at home and ply my needle-”

“I never said that!” Cato interrupted, thrown off course by this image. “I’d never say anything so ridiculous. Just the very idea of you plying a needle is an absurdity.”

“Well, you didn’t say that exactly,” Phoebe conceded. “But you told me my place is at home.”

“Which it is.”

“No!” she cried. “No, it’s not. My place is with you. You’re where my home is… it’s beside you.” Impassioned, she jabbed at his chest to illustrate her point.

Cato caught her wrist. He looked down into her flushed face, her fiery eyes. She was impossible to ignore, impossible to manage, utterly determined, and so very, very loving. There was absolutely no point in being angry. It was a complete waste of time and effort. All his legitimate fury simply washed off her like rain on an oiled hide. She was so absolutely sure of herself, of what she believed was right.

A deep sigh, almost a groan, of resignation escaped him. “Whatever did I do to deserve you?” he muttered, his fingers still clamped around her wrist.

Phoebe put her head on one side, her bright eyes regarding him just like the ragged robin he so often called her. “A very good deed once that you’ve probably forgotten,” she suggested with a smile that while tentative was also mischievous.

Cato put his hands lightly around her throat, pushing up her chin with his thumbs. “For two pins, Phoebe-”

The cabin floor suddenly shifted beneath his feet as the ship rolled violently. It seemed to hang in midair, then it pitched forward. The jug of water slid across the table, then back again as the ship pulled itself up and out of the trough.

Cato’s hands dropped from Phoebe and with an incoherent mutter he turned and half ran from the cabin.

Puzzled Phoebe stood with one hand unconsciously at her throat where she could still feel the warmth of his fingers. The ship rolled sideways again and she allowed herself to move with it, realizing instinctively that fighting the motion would only unbalance her.

Where had Cato gone in such a hurry?

She scrambled into her clothes and left the cabin, grabbing onto the doorjamb as the pitch and roll intensified. She made her way towards the companionway, holding on to the passage wall for balance, and climbed up onto the deck.

It was a brilliant, star-filled night but the wind was strong and cold. Phoebe pulled the hood of her cloak tightly over her ears and looked around for Cato. She couldn’t see any sign of him at first and watched for a minute as sailors swarmed the creaking rigging, taking a reef in the sails. No one seemed perturbed by the wind or the swell of the sea; indeed the men were chattering and laughing as they worked, clinging to the rigging as the ship rode the waves, as she plunged into deep troughs and hauled herself back up again.

Phoebe found it exhilarating as she stood braced against the wind and the motion, her feet planted well apart on file spray-soaked decking. A few curious glances came her way, but everyone seemed too busy to take much notice of this unknown passenger. Phoebe, assuming that Cato would have to negotiate passage for her with the captain once the bustle of present activity was over, looked around again for her husband.

She saw him eventually on the lee side of the ship, peering over the rail. She made her way towards him, holding on to the rail for safety.

“Isn’t this exhilarating?” she called enthusiastically as she approached him. “Do you think you should explain to the captain that I’m here?”

Cato didn’t respond. He remained hanging over the rail.

“Oh,” Phoebe said as she reached him. “You’re sick. I remember you said the sea made you so.”

Cato straightened as the wrenching paroxysms ceased for a minute. He wiped his mouth on the handkerchief he clutched in his hand and regarded Phoebe, radiating rude health, with considerable disfavor. “Just go below and leave me alone,” he said, then with a groan swung back to the rail, vomiting helplessly.

“But can’t I do anything?” Phoebe touched his back in anxious concern. “There must be something.”

“Just go away!” he directed when he could draw breath again. “I can’t worry about you at the moment, so get below and stay out of the way!”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Phoebe said in hopeful reassurance. “Indeed you don’t. I am worried about you. There must be something I can get you.” She put an arm around his shoulders, trying to support him through the violent retching.

“Brandy,” Cato gasped after long minutes. “In my portmanteau there’s a flagon of brandy. Sometimes it helps.” He hung over the rail again.

Phoebe flew belowdecks. Tossing neatly folded shirts aside, she rummaged for the flagon and found it at the bottom of the portmanteau. Then she flew on deck again, uncorking the flask as she went.

Cato staggered upright, supporting himself on the rail. He reached for the flagon and tipped it to his mouth. Sometimes it steadied his stomach and eventually it could bring merciful sleep.

“How dreadful for you,” Phoebe said sympathetically. “It’s strange, but I don’t feel in the least unwell.”

“How fortunate for you,” Cato muttered dryly, leaning back against the rail, holding the neck of the flask loosely between finger and thumb while the fiery liquid burned down his gullet and settled in his aching stomach.

“In fact,” Phoebe said with devastating candor, “I seem to find myself very hungry. Perhaps it’s the sea air.”

“Repellent brat!” Cato declared with some force, before turning with a groan to lose the brandy to the waves.

“I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean to make matters worse,” Phoebe apologized.

“Just go away!”

Phoebe thought that perhaps she should. There didn’t seem to be anything she could do to help him in his misery. And she was famished. She moved away from the deck rail, wondering where food might be found on a ship, and was swiftly accosted by the cabin boy.

“Eh, you owes me another guinea,” he announced, grabbing her arm. “I ‘aven’t told nobody.”

“Oh, yes.” Phoebe reached for her purse, then had a thought. “You shall have the guinea as soon as you bring me something to eat in the cabin. Can you do that?”

“Watcha want?” He looked at her speculatively. “Might be able to lay me ‘ands on a mite o’ bread ‘n’ cheese.”

“Perfect. And milk. Do you have any milk?”

“Nah!” The lad shook his head in unconcealed scorn. “Milk on a ship! Lor! You dunno much, do ya?”

“Not about ships,” Phoebe agreed rather loftily, shaking the purse so that the coins clinked.

“There’s ale,” the lad suggested at the music of money. “Reckon I could bring ye ale.”

“Thank you. That will do very well.” Phoebe nodded at him and made her way belowdecks.

Seasickness was a really wretched ailment, Phoebe thought, as she headed for her cabin, her mouth watering at the prospect of bread and cheese.