Sea Fire (4 page)

“Oh, go get my dress. The blush pink one,” Cathy was driven into snapping finally, naming another of the offending garments. With an audible sniff Martha did as she was bidden, while Cathy, draping a shawl about her shoulders for modesty’s sake, sat down at the dressing table and proceeded to try to brush some of the tangles from her hair. Martha came back with the dress before Cathy had made much headway, and, after laying the dress on the bed, took the brush from her young mistress. She began to brush out Cathy’s long hair without a word.

“Cathy, have you seen my razor? I can’t seem to find it anywhere.”

Jon stood in the open doorway between the bedroom and the dressing room, one shoulder propped negligently against the jamb. He was dressed in the sumptuous crimson brocade dressing gown that had been Cathy’s present to him on their first wedding anniversary. Shaving lather obscured the lower third of his face. Through the dressing table mirror Cathy saw an appreciative glint appear in his eyes as they ran over her, dressed as she was in her underclothes with her golden hair hanging in loose waves to her waist.

“I borrowed it,” she confessed guiltily, turning to face him. Jon straightened, coming a little further into the room.

“You borrowed it?
What for?” He sounded surprised, as well he might.

Cathy cast a quick look over her shoulder at Martha. If she told the truth her old nurse would rant for hours; Martha’s notions of what was and what was not proper behavior for a lady of good family were extremely rigid. The woman was already eyeing her with suspicion, while Jon waited for her reply with interest.

“I shaved my legs.” Throwing caution to the winds, Cathy announced it defiantly. “According to
Godey’s Ladies’ Book
, it’s de rigueur with the new sheer silk stockings.”

The effect of this pronouncement on her audience was immediate. Martha visibly swelled, while Jon grinned, his eyes dancing.

“I can’t say that I noticed the difference,” Jon murmured outrageously, looking amused as he came to retrieve his property, which Cathy held out to him.

“Miss Cathy, are you shameless?” Martha demanded rhetorically as soon as she recovered her power of speech. “What would your sainted mother say? The only kind of ladies who do things like that are—well, they are
not
ladies!”

Jon was grinning widely as he vanished back into the dressing room. He found Martha’s scolds hilarious. And so would she, Cathy reflected sourly as she listened to this seemingly endless one, if they weren’t always directed at her.

“Oh, Martha, do hush!” Cathy finally was driven into snapping. “I’m a married lady now, and I can do as I please!”

“Married lady indeed!” Martha sniffed. “Yes, that you are, for all the good it does either of us! I must say that I’m surprised at Master Jon for letting you carry on the way you do. He spoils you, that’s what it is. Any proper husband would put his foot down! Putting scent in your bath is bad enough—and yes, miss, I can smell it on you, so don’t think to fool me—but shaving your legs . . . ! Well, it’s all of a piece, if I may say so!”

After that Cathy listened to the monologue in fuming silence as Martha
styled her hair. If only the woman would go away, she would very much like to put a dab of rice powder, which she kept hidden in a drawer of the dressing table, on her nose. But even more than scent, or low-cut dresses, Martha disapproved of a lady painting her face. If I listened to her, I’d be a regular dowd, Cathy thought resentfully, but could not quite find the courage to openly defy her old nurse by applying the powder in front of her.

When Martha had finished arranging her hair in the elegant looped style that Cathy had lately taken to preferring for evening, Cathy pushed the stool back from the dressing table and stood up. Martha, still grumbling under her breath, went to fetch the disputed evening dress from the bed.

“Stand still,” she ordered Cathy, returning, and threw the dress expertly over the girl’s head without disturbing a lock of her coiffure. As the dress settled Martha twitched it into place, then moved around behind Cathy’s back to do it up. Her mouth was pinched disapprovingly all the while.

“And don’t think I don’t know about that powder in your dressing table, either,” Martha said sharply out of the blue, just as Cathy was beginning to hope the scold was over for the night. Cathy sighed. Really, that was the trouble with servants who had known one from one’s cradle, she thought irritably. They thought they owned you, and could do or say just whatever they pleased. She thought wistfully of how nice it would be to have a regular lady’s maid, one who did as she was told and spoke only to say “Yes, ma’am” or “No, ma’am” in respectful tones. Then, regretfully, she dismissed the notion. Martha’s scolds sprang from love and concern, and Cathy knew that she would miss the woman dreadfully if she ever had to do without her.

When the dress was fastened, Cathy moved to stand in front of the long mirror that stood on its stand near the dressing table, while Martha watched grimly. Cathy ignored the woman’s sour look as she critically inspected her reflection. The dress was a little extreme, Cathy had to admit,
although wild horses couldn’t have dragged such a confession from her aloud. It bared her softly rounded shoulders, the neckline straight across, resting on, and seemingly held up by, the pointed crests of her bosom. Her creamy shoulders and the gleaming upper slopes of her breasts were left totally bare, and the shadowy hollow between the twin peaks was clearly visible. Except for the flowing flounce that edged the neckline, the bodice was perfectly plain, clinging tightly to the curves of her figure as it descended into the new pointed waistline before flaring out into an enormous, bell-like skirt that reduced her waist to nothingness. Even the color, deeper than the pastel pinks worn by young girls for years, was new. It seemed to shimmer with a life of its own, though the sheen of the silk was no smoother than her pearly skin, or more glowing than her golden hair. As a final touch, Cathy added her long rope of pearls which she wore looped twice around her neck, and matching pearl eardrops. Standing back, she knew that she had never looked lovelier, but still she felt—just ever so slightly—overexposed.

“A trifle—uh—revealing, wouldn’t you say?” Jon had left the dressing room and crossed to stand behind her, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders as he studied her reflection. “Have you left something off? Like a blouse?”

“Very funny,” Cathy retorted, thinking how handsome he looked in his formal black evening clothes. “You sound more like a husband every day. I remember a time when you would have loved this dress.”

“You mistake my meaning, sweetheart. I do—uh—love it. What I
don’t
love is the idea of our male guests ogling my wife, as they are sure to do.” Here he slanted a glance at Martha, who stood silently by, the look on her face expressing more clearly than words could have her approval of what he was saying. “Don’t you agree, Martha?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t get her started again! That’s all I’ve
heard from her for weeks!” Cathy was half-laughing as she turned from the mirror. “Anyway, Captain Hale, kindly remember that it was you who insisted that I have a new summer wardrobe, much against my wishes, I might add. You have only yourself to blame if the style is too extreme for you. Besides, don’t you think I look nice?”

“Very nice,” he agreed lazily. “And far be it from me to stand in the way of fashion! But don’t be surprised if old Mr. Graves pours his soup down his shirtfront instead of his throat, all from admiring your charms.” He ran a teasing finger along the low neckline of the gown.

Cathy laughed, reaching up on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his curling mouth.

“There, what did I tell you? Jon’s not so stuffy,” she said triumphantly to Martha. The older woman sniffed.

“As I said before, he spoils you. I only hope he doesn’t live to regret it.” This last was muttered under Martha’s breath, but, as intended, it was perfectly audible. Cathy, very much on her dignity, chose to ignore it. Jon, with a smile at Martha, followed Cathy’s lead.

From downstairs came the sounds of the first guests arriving. Cathy hurried to pick up her gloves and fan. Then she gave Martha a quick, conciliatory hug before taking Jon’s proffered arm.

“What a handsome couple we make,” Cathy thought as she caught a glimpse in the gilt-framed mirror adorning one wall of the entryway of their figures descending the stairs side by side. Jon was so tall and dark, topping her head and shoulders. Beside his commanding masculinity she looked small and fragile, absurdly young to be his wife and the mother of a year-old son. She met his eyes in the mirror, and by his slight frown she knew that he was entertaining similar thoughts. She smiled at him, and after a moment he smiled slowly back.

Besides Mr. Graves, the elderly gentleman who owned the plantation nearest Woodham, there were his wife, Ruth, and daughter, Millicent, awaiting
them in the reception room. Cathy was fond of both Mr. and Mrs. Graves, who had gone out of their way to make the Hales welcome to the area, but Millicent was something else again. Nearly thirty, and extremely plain, she had never married. She dressed as befitted a very young girl, and simpered endlessly in her desire to appear youthful. But what really rankled with Cathy was that Millicent never let an opportunity pass to make sheep’s eyes at Jon. Jon, to his credit, blandly ignored the whole thing.

As Cathy turned from greeting these first guests, the remainder of the company began to arrive. In short order the room was filled with chattering people. Cathy and Jon separated, circulating and exchanging light small talk with the new arrivals. Cathy, watching Jon laughing politely over a matron’s description of her daughter’s many suitors, felt a rush of love for him.

Dinner passed smoothly, although Cathy was hard put to it not to laugh when Mr. Graves, true to Jon’s predictions, spilled his soup all over his frilled white shirt. Cathy caught Jon’s eye, saw his lips twitching humorously, and looked hurriedly away, biting her lip. For the next few minutes she concentrated her attention on Gerald Bates, a contemporary of Jon’s who sat on her left hand. By the time she was once again free to turn to Mr. Graves, the urge to laugh had passed.

After dinner, the ladies left the gentlemen to enjoy their cigars and brandy in peace while they retired to the drawing room to sip tea and gossip. It was some half-hour later before the gentlemen rejoined them. As they strolled into the room it was immediately apparent that they had drunk more than was considered proper. Gerald Bates was laughing just a touch too loudly, while some of the other gentlemen were very red of face. Jon was smilingly urbane as always. Cathy marveled, as she sometimes did, at his apparent capacity for drink. The only time she had ever seen him the worse for it was after Cray’s birth, and even then, according to Petersham, Jon had consumed enough straight whiskey
to fell a team of horses before showing it.

Cathy threw a reproving look at Jon, blaming him silently for letting their male guests get in such a state. He intercepted it and correctly deciphered its meaning, looking so penitent that Cathy had to smile in spite of herself. He rewarded her softening with a lopsided smile of his own that he knew from experience she found hard to resist. When she still eyed him severely, he made as if to come toward her.

“Won’t you play for us, Lady Cathy?” Gerald Bates’ overloud voice forestalled him. Cathy wanted to decline, but could think of no reasonable excuse for doing so. Instead, smiling at her guests’ polite urgings, she crossed to the small grand piano situated in one corner of the room, and seated herself without fanfare on the padded bench.

“What would you like to hear?” Cathy turned her head to smile at the assembled company. When they assured her that anything she cared to play could not fail to delight them, Cathy launched into the lilting strains of a waltz. Gerald Bates came to lean over the side of the instrument, watching her with poorly concealed pleasure. As she felt his eyes caressing the white flesh exposed by her gown, she began to wish fervently that he would go away. If he kept up his disgraceful perusal, there was bound to be trouble. Jon was fiercely possessive of everything he considered his property, and in his estimation Cathy was just that. If he was aware of it—as how could he not be?—he would not at all like the way Gerald was eyeing her. And Jon, if pushed, was entirely capable of laying Gerald flat on his back, guest in their house or not.

Cathy ended the waltz with a flourish, thankful that it was over. But before she could get to her feet she felt a swathe of soft cashmere drop over her shoulders. Startled, she looked around to find Jon standing behind her, regarding Gerald with a smile that could only be described as tigerish.

“I thought you might be growing chilly,” he said, transferring his attention to her after
he was certain that Gerald had gotten the message.

“Thank you, darling,” Cathy replied meekly, wrapping the shawl around herself so that it covered the most extreme parts of her décolletage and rising as Gerald silently melted away. “I was a trifle cold.”

She took Jon’s arm and allowed him to lead her back to her chair, all the while silently congratulating him on his self-control. He could be violently jealous, which Cathy forgave because she knew that it sprang from a deep-rooted insecurity bred by his earlier dealings with women. But she was hopeful that he was at last becoming convinced that her love for him was unshakeable, and his restraint in the face of tonight’s provocation seemed to bear out this hope.

Jon remained at her side for the next forty minutes or so. Cathy had to smile at the spectacle of Gerald taking extreme care to stay well out of their way. But he was wise to do so, she had to admit. Jon as an opponent could be more than formidable. . . .

“Miss Cathy.” Petersham stood at her elbow. Cathy blinked as she looked up at him. She had been miles away.

“What is it, Petersham?” Cathy’s first thought was that Cray must be ill. Nothing less than that would induce Petersham to interrupt when they had guests.

“There’s a man here with a letter for you, Miss Cathy. He says it’s urgent.”