During his time on board ship he had learned a good deal about sickness and cures. He wasn’t concerned about contracting the fever. He’d been struck down himself four years ago and survived, and he was a firm believer that some fevers didn’t visit a body twice.
The rigors that often precede a fever soon set in and Cassandra began shivering violently. Gathering her up, he held her firmly in his arms, hoping to transmit some of his warmth to her flesh, which was clammy and cold. ‘There,’ he said, rocking her like a baby, stroking back the hair from her face and placing his cheek against her head. He spoke no more, but the softness and tenderness of his arms seemed to soothe her to a quiet sleep.
But it didn’t last. Her flesh was soon burning hot and she was violently sick. Placing a cold compress on her forehead, Stuart was moved by compassion. When he’d done everything possible to make her comfortable he ordered the cabin boy waiting outside to fetch Mr Patterson, and to arrange for Rosa’s body to be disposed of.
The surgeon confirmed his fear. Cassandra had contracted the fever from Rosa. Stuart informed Mr Patterson that he would look after his wife himself, so the surgeon left him to it, supplying him with the same potions he had given Cassandra to help bring Rosa’s temperature down.
Alone with his wife—the cabin already taking on the oppressive odour of a sickroom—trusting to instinct, good sense and Mr Patterson’s medicine, Stuart began the job of saving Cassandra’s life. He pressed the cup to her lips to force the posset down her throat, drop by precious drop. ‘Come now,’ he breathed when she would have turned her head aside. ‘Drink it, Cassandra. Fight it. You can. I won’t let you die. You are going to get better.’ Her eyes were wide and staring and she looked at him but did not see him.
The minutes became an hour, and then another, and finally a day and a night. Stuart waited, listened and watched, trying to rid himself of the despair that wrapped itself around his heart, suffocating him. Trying to infuse his own strength into her, he clutched her limp hand, determination driving him to talk to her ceaselessly.
His voice came to Cassandra from somewhere in the darkness. She tried to concentrate on what he was saying to her, but her mind was too tired. Death was all around her, but she was too weak to fight it. She remembered telling someone that she wanted to die, but she didn’t die, and she was frightened.
That same someone was speaking to her from afar, telling her that he wouldn’t leave her, that he would stay right beside her, and she wanted to hold on to that person, for him to take her hand and fight off death until her strength returned for her to do it herself. In the swirling darkness she called out for Stuart, but it was just a forlorn whisper in her mind, for she recalled, as from a dream, that Stuart didn’t want her, but she wanted him so.
The fever took hold of her and consumed her. As Stuart nursed her and night followed day, it was impossible for him to detach himself from her suffering. His heart ached, and every fibre of his being willed her to live. Every half-hour he forced liquid and possets between her lips, all the while shrugging off his increasing exhaustion. There were times when he closed his eyes, but he did not sleep—as if he could, when Cassandra might need him. He sat or kneeled for hours, gazing at her, watching her, his elbows on the bed, his own face a mask of suffering close to hers. His meals and anything else he required were left outside the cabin, and apart from that he had no contact with anyone.
He kept a constant vigil, his fear for his wife etched deeply into his drawn features. He wiped her brow and spoke soft words of comfort as she rambled incoherently in her delirium. Her body was on fire. Unlike many people who believed that the only way to fight a fever was to sweat out the badness, Stuart did the opposite. He sponged her naked body hour after hour with cold water in an attempt to bring the fever down.
Miraculously she began to respond, and it was after midnight on the third night when the fever finally broke and she lay quiet, no longer a part of that nightmare, deliriumfilled world in which she had struggled. Stuart’s heart lightened, his hope renewed. He was convinced that now she would live.
Seated beside the bed, he gazed down at her serene face, unable to believe she had come through. The softness of her slightly parted lips, the curve of her cheek and the sweep of her dark lashes concealing her sparkling blue eyes, brought back a vivid memory of a laughing girl, full of love and teasing humour, and he remembered how magnificent she had looked as she had danced on deck with young Stark. Exhausted beyond measure, he placed his elbows on the bed and bowed his head, resting his face in his hands and closing his eyes.
As she floated in a comforting grey mist, Cassandra was aware of the sound of the ship’s creaking timbers first. Then came the breath of a gentle breeze wafting in through the open window. The last thing she remembered was how much her head hurt, and that a terrible weariness was dragging her body down. Now it had been replaced by languor. She clung to this blissful state, because it allowed her to escape the fears and haunting memories lurking on the perimeter of her mind like nameless, threatening shadows.
The sheet covering her felt cool against her bare skin—she found it strange that she was naked, and couldn’t work out how she came to be so just then. Her mind was fuzzy and her throat and lips dry. Lying perfectly still, she sensed someone was close to her. There was the light touch of fingers on her brow, so tender it barely disturbed her. Feeling strong enough, she opened her eyes and blinked, trying to focus, but her vision was blurry. She blinked again to clear it, and saw Stuart looking down at her, his ebony eyes hard and assessing as they regarded her with a serious expression.
Perched on the edge of the bed, Stuart’s heart throbbed with renewed life and he thanked God that her eyes were clear of delirium. He smiled, the light from the window revealing the relief in his haggard, handsome face. ‘Welcome back.’ His voice, quiet and tender, pulled Cassandra back to reality. ‘You’ve been very ill.’
‘H—how long has it been?’ Her voice was hoarse, her throat parched.
‘Three days.’
Memory flooded back. Spontaneous tears burned her eyes and a lone tear trailed its way slowly down her cheek. ‘Rosa,’ she whispered faintly. ‘Poor Rosa. She—she died. I remember.’
‘You too succumbed to the fever. You’ll get stronger.’
Cassandra closed her eyes to combat the struggle of her grief. After a few moments she licked her dry lips and, drawing a laboured breath, found the strength to ask, ‘Where is she?’
‘You do understand that because of the risk of infection spreading throughout the ship, Rosa’s body had to be disposed of quickly, into the sea, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ She swallowed down her tears. ‘Please can I have some water?’
Stuart helped her to lift her head and pressed the cup to her lips. She drank a little, feeling the cool water soothe her throat, making her feel stronger. Resting her head back on the pillows, she closed her eyes. The effort had caused her head to spin.
Compassion made Stuart’s chest ache. Her hair was spread over the pillows and her face was ghostly pale. ‘You should rest now. You’re very weak but you’re over the worst.’
‘Who looked after me?’
‘I did.’
Her eyebrows rose delicately. ‘All the time?’
He nodded, studying her with some intensity.
‘Did—did you remove my clothes?’
‘I am your husband. Your life was at risk. Preserving your modesty was the last thing on my mind. In such circumstances your hair would have been cut off to conserve your strength. I couldn’t bring myself to do it.’
‘Thank you. I—I must look a sight.’
He grinned, rubbing the dark abrasive stubble on his chin. ‘So do I.’
Cassandra observed his exhaustion was real. She curbed the impulse to reach out and caress his tired face, to smooth away his weariness. Her love for him rose up like a painful, throbbing ache. The shadow line of his beard accentuated the angular line of his jaw and the cleft in his chin. He
looked worn out, and with his hair falling over his brow in damp waves, he looked younger and for once vulnerable.
‘You must be feeling quite exhausted looking after me. Weren’t you afraid you might get the fever, too? You still might.’
He smiled faintly, pushing his hand through his thick, tumbled hair. ‘Don’t torture yourself. It wasn’t your fault that you fell sick. Someone had to take care of you. I stayed because I wanted to.’
‘But I can see that I have been a nuisance. I am sorry you have neglected your duties.’
‘I have every faith in James Randell’s ability to run the Sea Hawk equally as well as myself. Besides, we are becalmed once more, so there is little to do. How are you feeling?’ he enquired gently.
‘Tired. There was a time when I thought I was going to die. But then I heard someone talking to me, willing me to live and keeping the demons in my brain at bay, and I realised I wouldn’t die.’
Her words were so softly spoken and so utterly disarming, that Stuart reached out to lay the back of his hand against her forehead to test her temperature. He was gazing down at her with a lazy smile, then he said, ‘You were obviously hallucinating.’
Cassandra tried to ignore the treacherous leap her heart gave at the sight of that enthralling, intimate smile. ‘Was I?’
‘Maybe not.’
This time there was no mistaking the husky timbre of his voice. Cassandra couldn’t free her gaze from his. ‘Thank you for saving my life.’
Something stirred in the fathomless depths of his eyes, something hot and inviting, and Cassandra’s pulse quickened, even though he no longer touched her.
‘You’re welcome,’ he murmured softly.
Her eyelids suddenly felt like lead weights and began to close against her will.
Seeing that she was about to drift into slumber, Stuart got up from the bed. ‘You’ve talked enough for now. I insist you get some rest. When you wake you can eat.’
Struggling to look at him one more time before sleep claimed her, Cassandra gazed at the deeply etched lines of fatigue and strain at her husband’s eyes and mouth and embarked on her own concern. ‘You look like the very devil yourself, Stuart,’ she pronounced bluntly. ‘Might I suggest you do the same?’
Two days later Cassandra rose from her sick bed—weak, but she was young and strong and her strength was returning quickly, and with it her impatience to go up on deck. She grew restless and hated the enforced inactivity, but, afraid there might be a danger of them infecting the crew, both Cassandra and Stuart had to await Mr Patterson’s permission before they could leave the cabin.
Cassandra missed Rosa terribly, and her distress over her death was real and anguished. The pain and the guilt that had seized her as the spirit of the woman who had been her comfort and strength for such a short time had slipped away to another world, where for mysterious reasons of his own God had not allowed her to follow, could have been sustained within the arms of the man who had nursed her through the fever. But it was not to be.
Now that she had recovered, she would like Stuart to be like he was when she had opened her eyes, when she had seen his fear for her etched deeply into his drawn features, when he had spoken to her in that soft and tender tone, when he had looked at her with love and concern in his eyes, but he had withdrawn from her, reverting to how it had been between them before she had fallen sick, remote and detached, but without the acrimony.
Most of the time he was at his desk in the main cabin, silent and absorbed as he poured over maps of latitude and longitude and wrote in the ship’s log. From where she sat in the adjacent cabin, trying to immerse herself in a book or employ her fingers with needle and thread, she watched him through the open door. Sometimes she would venture into his abode, and without a word he would reach forward a chair for her to sit down, before carrying on with his work.
The day was fading and the Sea Hawk was rolling steadily before the trade winds when there was a change in the weather. A storm was brewing. Dark, angry clouds hung down so low they touched the sea, obliterating the other ships in the convoy. The sea began to swell, causing the bowsprit to dip and rise perilously. Enormous smooth waves lifted the ship high out of the water before she sank into a trough, only to rise again and take the full force of the increasing wind that filled her sails, the masts and yards groaning under the strain.
Spray rose and showered the waist of the heavily laden ship and soon the decks were awash. The experienced crew worked to make fast any movable objects and batten down the hatches, whilst Stuart, up on the quarterdeck, his expert eye on the sea and sky, knew they were in for a severe blow.
He ordered the bosun to strip the masts of canvas and the helmsman to hold course. Any footwork on the tossing deck was precarious enough, but aloft in the massive rigging, where seamen clung to ropes and had their arms stretched out along yardarms, one false step and they would be pitched into the sea.
Stuart’s eyes were caught by Cassandra clinging to the port rail for support, the wind whipping her skirts and hair wildly about her. The crew was well conditioned to stand the violent motion. She was not, and she was still not fully recovered. Infuriated and cursing angrily, he went to her immediately, taking her arm and almost dragging her to the top of the companion ladder.
‘What the devil do you think you’re doing? Haven’t you the sense you were born with? Go below at once,’ he ordered, the wind whipping the words from his lips. ‘The storm is likely to get much worse and you’re not strong enough to withstand it. You’ll find yourself washed overboard if you remain on deck.’
‘But I don’t want to go below,’ she cried, having to shout to make herself heard. She had no fear of storms at sea and felt the inactivity of watching out of the stern window impossible to contend with.
‘You selfish, stubborn jade,’ Stuart thundered. ‘We have enough to contend with without having to keep an eye on you. Don’t make things more difficult. If you refuse to go below, I will have you taken there by force if necessary.’
Cassandra turned away from his ferocity and nodded dumbly, tears welling up in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry. You are right. I’ll go below. I won’t place yet another burden on you or the crew with my stubbornness.’
Stuart watched her climb safely down the ladder before returning to the more urgent task of keeping the ship on the right course, but all the time his mind kept going back to Cassandra and how dejected she had looked, her trembling lips and tears as she had surrendered to his order and turned and gone below reminding him of her low spirits.
When darkness shrouded the ship and the storm showed no signs of relenting, everyone braced themselves against the pitch and roll, knowing it was going to be a long night. To make matters worse, a sheeting rain swept in from the sea. No matter how hard he tried, Stuart could not cast Cassandra from his mind, thinking of her alone down below in the cabin, and his concern deepened. For his own peace of mind, and not intending to be absent from his duties for more than a few minutes, he left the ship in James Randell’s more than capable hands and went to her.
The main cabin was in darkness with no sign of Cassandra. Frowning, he looked around, seeing that the door to the cabin where she slept was closed. Sighing, he turned away, intending to go back on deck, thinking that perhaps she was asleep, but suddenly he paused, certain he had heard a noise coming from the other side of the bulkhead. Moving towards the door, he stopped and listened, straining his ears against the roar of the storm. It came again, a soft muffled sound of someone crying.
Stuart stared at the closed door, torn between his longing to go to his wife and his duties back on deck. The harder she cried, the more difficult it was for him to leave her. Pushing the door open, in the dim light he saw Cassandra lying face down on the bed, sobbing into her pillow as though her heart would break.
Never had he heard anyone cry with such profound distress. Swamped with pity, he felt a surge of deep compassion at her obvious pain, which drew him from his own desolation. Crossing over to her,
he sat beside her and lifted her up, drawing her into his arms and cradling her against his chest as he would a child.
‘Don’t, Cassandra. Don’t cry so, my love,’ he murmured in a deep, velvety voice. He held her trembling body tenderly, his strong hands stroking her hair, unaware that his shirt was soaking wet from the spray and wetting her thin shift as he held her close.
The words of comfort slipped from his lips quite naturally and he did not try to check them, because here, in the intimate confines of the cabin and holding her in his arms, all the rancour between them seemed not to exist. He knew that along with the grief she suffered over Rosa’s death he was partly to blame for her misery, which only added to his own wretchedness.
Conscious of his presence, of him holding her in an embrace she had despaired of ever feeling again, Cassandra’s heart missed a beat. She couldn’t believe he was there, radiating warmth inside her, which swelled and throbbed. Embarrassed that he should find her in such a distressed state, she averted her gaze.
‘Don’t look away,’ he whispered, and she forced her gaze back to his. With her lips moist and half open, she raised her head a little and looked at him, astonishment and surprise registering in her tear-filled eyes on seeing concern and compassion written on his handsome features, darkly shadowed in the dim light. His eyes looking into hers were as black and soft as velvet.
‘Stuart!’ she breathed. ‘Are you not still angry with me?’ she asked with quiet gravity.
‘No, but I was when I saw you on deck. You little fool,’ he admonished gently. ‘With your seafaring knowledge I thought you of all people would be aware of the dangers of being on a heaving deck during a storm. Had you remained, there was every danger of you being washed overboard.’
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