“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.
Chapter 21
“Oh, I think we’ve landed.” Phoebe sat up on her bunk, keeping her head bent. Experience in the last week had taught her the danger of incautious movements in the upper bunk. It was early morning, judging by the pinkish light coming through the porthole, and the ship was no longer moving. The rattling release of the anchor chain, together with the changed bustle on the decks above, had woken her. There was more running, more shouting than there had been in the days at sea.