Romance Classics

by Peggy Gaddis

  Cathy blinked hard and managed a smile.

  “You scared me for a minute,” she confessed.

  “Good,” said Mark sternly, though the twinkle was warm in his eyes. “I meant to. I had a hunch you’d forget all about the Army if somebody didn’t hand you a jolt. You put that long distance telephone call through pronto, my pretty—and then apply for your discharge.”

  “Thanks, Mark—I will,” said Cathy gratefully.

  There was the sound of footsteps crossing the living room and suddenly Elaine was there, crisply tailored, very smart in what were obviously traveling clothes, complete to the gay, impertinent little hat tilted cockily above one bright eye.

  “Hi,” she greeted them accusingly. “I don’t much care for this cozy little domestic scene. Cathy, keep your hands off this man—he’s mine!”

  Mark eyed her solemnly.

  “If there’s anything I do admire,” he said gently, “it’s the nice little retiring, modest-violet sort of a girl who lets the man do the pursuing.”

  Elaine wrinkled her pert nose at him.

  “Phooey to shrinking violets,” she said cheerfully. “You know darned well a shrinking violet would shrink right into the ground and completely disappear before you’d even notice the darned thing.”

  Without waiting for any answer he might feel disposed to make, she turned eagerly to Cathy.

  “Has he told you the news, Cathy? He’s going to marry me.” She beamed. “Isn’t that marvelous? Isn’t he gorgeous?”

  Mark said sternly, “Pipe down, you!”

  Elaine only beamed at him and patted his hand caressingly.

  “Isn’t he sweet? I fully expect him to beat me and perhaps drag me about the place by my hair—”

  “You have good hair for that,” Mark contributed.

  “I can be such a brat—in fact, without half trying, I can be completely loathsome,” Elaine admitted with shattering honesty. “But then, I’ve never really loved anybody before, so I never gave a darn whether they liked me or not. But I’m going to be a good girl now, on account of I love Mark so very much.”

  “And on account of Mark would wallop the daylights out of you, if you tried being anything else,” Mark told her firmly.

  As though the words were a blazing caress, Elaine beamed at him and then at Cathy.

  “Isn’t he marvelous?” she breathed joyously.

  Cathy laughed.

  “I can see from here that your married life is going to be anything but dull,” she said lightly.

  “Mark’s staying in the Army and making a career of it, and I’m going to be an Army wife—and flirt with all his younger officers.”

  “I can see I’m going to have an excellent use for a really good razor strop,” said Mark pleasantly. “Nothing like a good stout strap for keeping a straying wife on the reservation.”

  Suddenly there were tears in Elaine’s eyes, as she leaned impulsively across the table and kissed him, her hand lingering over his.

  “Darling—dearest,” she said shakily, “you’ll never be able to get rid of this wife as long as you live. I wouldn’t stray two inches from you for all the treasure in the fairy tales!”

  All the lightness, the raillery and teasing vanished from Mark’s eyes, and he lifted her hand for his kiss, as Cathy, her own eyes misty with happiness for them, slipped away from the table, knowing that they were quite oblivious to her presence.

  Remembering Mark’s warning, Cathy put through her telephone call, and that same day she put in a request for her discharge, accompanied by affidavits from the doctors at the hospital, and from the Red Cross officials in charge of disaster relief work at Cypressville.

  She put out of her mind any fear that her discharge might not come through. She centered her heart and her mind on Bill, and submerged everything else in her concern and her devotion to him.

  The days slid by like beads on a string; days marked by Bill’s slow but steady progress toward recovery. There were dark beads on the string, days when Bill seemed not to be doing so well; there were one or two very black beads when it seemed that he had slipped back; but gradually he showed faint but sure progress until by the end of the month there was no longer any fear of unexpected complications that might delay or render doubtful his complete recovery.

  Cathy had bathed him and made him comfortable for the day. The doctor had come, read the chart, changed the dressings, and been very bluff and cheerful and had gone his way.

  Cathy was putting the room in order when, from the bed, Bill said suddenly, “Stop doodling and come here.”

  Cathy laughed joyously.

  “The voice of my lord and master,” she said lightly, and came to the side of the bed and sat down, her hands demurely folded in her lap.

  Bill was not smiling. His eyes were grave and steady upon her, and her own gaiety faded beneath his look. In swift alarm, she laid her hand on his and asked softly, “Bill—what is it?”

  Bill’s uninjured hand quickened beneath her own and turned until his fingers enfolded hers.

  “I think it’s time we had a little serious talk, don’t you, sweet?” he said gravely. “I’ve been doing a devil of a lot of thinking, lying here flat on my back, with you and the doctors all shushing me vigorously every time I wanted to say five words. But now—well, now you’ve got to listen, Cathy.”

  “Of course, dearest—always,” she told him.

  He was silent for a moment, his eyes bleak.

  “Cathy, I’ve remembered a lot of things since my mind cleared up from that smacking I got,” he told her after a moment, as though he sought for words with which to clothe his thoughts. “And I’ve remembered that it wasn’t a dream, after all—your saying you wanted a divorce.”

  “It was just a bad dream, darling. One we shared, but one that wasn’t real,” she assured him.

  He shook his head and winced with pain.

  “No, Cathy, it wasn’t a dream,” he said slowly. “You wanted a divorce and you were entitled to it. I’d treated you shamefully. But now that I’m flat on my back and likely to be for some time you are going all noble and self-sacrificing, and have given up the idea. Well, Cathy, you must go ahead with the divorce.”

  She caught her breath and went white as the crisp uniform she wore.

  “Oh, no, Bill!”

  “Yes, Cathy. I won’t have you making any more sacrifices for me,” said Bill, and as she tried to speak he went on almost sharply, “Wait—let me finish. I know how much your profession means to you—”

  “It doesn’t mean a thing to me, compared to—being your wife,” she cut in swiftly.

  “I know. That’s the way you feel now, Cathy, but you’ve let your heart run away with your head. You were quite sure that you’d got over loving me that night before I was hurt, but seeing me down and out, you kidded yourself that you were still in love with me—” He broke off, outraged and astounded at her sudden little peal of quite honest laughter.

  “Oh, Bill, darling—the couple of fools we are!” She laughed and though the laugh was not quite steady it was sincere. “It should be illegal for two people like us to be married to anybody except each other. It wouldn’t be fair to anyone completely sane to be saddled with either of us.”

  Bill was puzzled and distinctly annoyed.

  “I don’t get it!” he said stiffly.

  Cathy kissed him tenderly, her eyes brimming with loving amusement.

  “You will, darling, you will,” she told him. “Don’t you see, Bill? From the very first, we were all wrong; the secret marriage—it created a sort of obstacle to our happiness. And there was a mental strain, too—loving each other, having every right to belong to each other, yet unwilling to let anyone know. My seeing Mark annoyed you and aroused your jealousy, yet there was nothing I could do to discourage him without breaking my word to you. Seeing Elaine there in your home, knowing that your aunt wanted you to marry her and that so far as she knew there was no reason why you shouldn’t—you and I having to snea
k and slip about in order to be together—it was a situation that was bound to blow up in our faces. And when it did, we both got all haughty and prideful and—well, I was so worn out emotionally that I sort of went numb; I didn’t feel anything at all, and I told myself I was all over being in love with you and I was glad—though in my secret heart, I was scared, too. Then when you were hurt, everything was clear to me again. I realized that it was only because I’d been so tired, so completely worn out that I could ever fool myself for a moment that I’d stopped loving you—or that I ever could stop loving you!”

  Bill had listened eagerly, and now his eyes were shining and his hand was holding hers closely. But he had to make double sure.

  “You—you aren’t just being all noble and everything because I need you?” he asked uncertainly.

  Her kiss answered that even before she told him, “It took your being hurt, Bill, to make me see clearly. But I’ll never be blind again, Bill! I promise.”

  Bill gave vent to a long, deep-seated sigh of relief.

  “I was plenty scared,” he confessed a little later. “I thought you were just making a sacrifice because I’d been hurt, and I wasn’t going to let you outdo me in sacrifices. I was going to tell you I wanted a divorce, too—and then as soon as you were out of the room, I was going to burst into tears and recognize my life as ruined.”

  “Silly,” said Cathy, and her tone made the words a caress that ached with tenderness. “Mine certainly would have been.”

  They were silent for a long, happy moment and then he asked anxiously, “But, Cathy—what about the Army?”

  “I’ve applied for a discharge, under plea of domestic responsibility,” she told him promptly. “It should come through any time now. The Army’s sometimes very understanding about gals who have husbands who need their love and attention.”

  Bill drew a deep breath and said happily, “And I’ll be up and around soon, and from here on out, we go the fairy tales one better. We’re going to live ecstatically ever after!”

  “How else could two people live who love each other so much?” asked Cathy reasonably.

  This edition published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, Ohio 45242

  www.crimsonromance.com

  Copyright © 1968 by Arcadia House

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-7566-5

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7566-2

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-7565-7

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7565-5

  Cover art © massonforstock/123RF

  SNEAK PEEK EXCERPT FROM The Duplicitous Debutante by Becky Lower

  Harry Hawk and the Tycoon’s Daughter—Book Six in the Harry Hawk Series

  Harry Hawk stared down the barrel of his Colt .45. A huge Sioux Indian was in his sights, but was holding the girl in front of him as a shield. Her eyes were as big as saucers as she struggled against the man, and she trembled as she kept her eyes on the end of Harry’s gun.

  New York City, March 1859

  Rosemary Fitzpatrick laid her fountain pen on the paper, oblivious to the blob of ink that fell from its tip and damaged the page. She picked up the letter she had received earlier in the day.

  It was her own gun, and she was staring down the barrel.

  The letter informed her that her publisher, Page Books, had been sold, as Mr. Page had retired. The new company, Cooper and Son Publishing, was sending an envoy from Boston to New York to meet with all the authors. And to decide whom to keep.

  She read the words between the lines. And whom to cut.

  She had never met Mr. Page. All their correspondence had been through the post. So Mr. Page had no idea one of his best-selling dime novel authors was a woman. F.P. Elliott was the name she’d come up with when she was only fourteen and submitted her first story, not once imagining she’d become one of Mr. Page’s most productive and popular authors.

  She had only two days in which to find someone to impersonate F.P. Elliott.

  Rosemary ran her ink-stained fingers through her hair as she pondered what to do. The logical choice, and her only real hope, was her older brother Halwyn. But he was married now and settled. And, despite the fact he loved his sister, Rosemary doubted he’d ever cracked open one of her books.

  Well, it was worth a try, anyway. She hastily stood, removed her pinafore—which was covered in purplish-blue stains resembling bruises, but protected her dress—patted her hair back in place, and glided down the steps from her garret study in the four-story townhouse to the main level, where she encountered her mother in the drawing room.

  “Oh, good. I was just on my way upstairs to find you. Do come in.”

  Rosemary took a seat opposite her mother, who picked up the embroidery she had been working on. Rosemary took a moment to smooth her pale blue muslin dress and inhaled her mother’s subtle, comforting scent of lilacs before she brought her eyes up.

  “Mother, I have a problem.”

  Her mother glanced up from her needlework. “Well, if it’s a problem with one of your stories, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I don’t know where you get your ideas. Help yourself to some tea and a bit of Cook’s tangy lemon cake, why don’t you?”

  Rosemary rose and poured herself a cup of tea, forgoing the cake. “Well, indirectly, it is about my stories.” She took a deep breath. “Mr. Page has retired and he’s sold the company to a Boston publisher.

  Charlotte Fitzpatrick’s eyes locked on Rosemary’s. “Oh, dear.”

  “Precisely. And the new publisher is sending someone to New York in two days to interview all the authors Mr. Page currently has under contract. They insist upon an in-person visit. Whatever can I do?”

  Charlotte tapped her finger on her teeth for a moment, before her face broke into a smile. “We’ll just have to find someone to be Mr. Elliott! What about your father?”

  “Papa’s way too busy to spend an afternoon impersonating me. I was thinking more along the lines of Halwyn.”

  “Hmmm. I suppose either of them would be a good choice. They can certainly think on their feet. But has either of them read your stories? Do they know where your inspiration for Harry Hawk comes from?”

  “No, I don’t think either of them cares. They merely pat me on the head and tell me they’re glad I have a ‘hobby’ that keeps me off the streets and away from the Bloomers and their demonstrations for women’s rights.”

  “All right then. Here’s what I suggest. You can prepare a series of questions about your stories, not just your characters but also about your current contract with Mr. Page, and administer the test to both your father and brother. Halwyn and Grace are coming over for dinner tonight, so your timing is perfect. Whoever does the best on the test will be the one to impersonate your Mr. Elliott.” Charlotte clapped her hands together.

  “Your idea might just work,” Rosemary replied as a touch of excitement washed over her. “I’ll compose the pertinent questions this afternoon.”

  Her mother patted her hand. “Surely we New Yorkers can pull the wool over a Boston Brahmin any day of the week.” She set aside her needlework and picked up the most recent copy of Godey’s fashion magazine. “Now we must discuss the important business of your debut next month. That’s the real reason I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Must I still go through with this archaic European folly?”

  Charlotte fixed a level stare on her daughter. “It is neither archaic nor European anymore. Judging from its success in finding suitable partners for our young ladies of society since its introduction into American culture five years ago, I must say it’s a convention that’s here to stay. I let you talk me out of it last year, when you shou
ld have had your season, simply because I was exhausted from planning the weddings of your two sisters. But no more dawdling, Rosemary. 1859 has to be your year. You’re nineteen and must begin entertaining the idea of getting married. Besides, if the talk of war between the States evolves into actual battle, the cotillion may be cancelled temporarily—at least until we take care of the Southerners and free all the slaves. You may not have another chance to find a husband for years.”

  Charlotte pointed to a gown in the magazine. “Jasmine has already created a lovely white gown for your coming-out ball, but we must think beyond the dance, to the entire season. We’ll have a formal dinner in the weeks following the dance. How about a dress such as this?”

  Rosemary placed a hand on her stomach, which now knotted with anxiety on top of her excitement. “Mother, I can’t think of dinners or ball gowns right now. My entire future is in jeopardy.”

  “Quit being so melodramatic, for goodness’s sake. I’m quite certain your father or brother can come up with a solution, so indulge me a bit and let’s talk dresses. After all, having a wonderful season is part of your future, too.”

  ”I’m sure whatever you decide will be fine, Mother. I need to get to work on my questions for Papa and Halwyn.”

  Rosemary’s stomach calmed a bit as she rose and went back to the garret to compose her test. Maybe her mother’s idea would work. Perhaps her father or brother could pull it off.

  • • •

  Boston

  Henry Cooper stood defiantly in front of his father. His back was ramrod straight. Instinctively, he lifted the toes of his right foot and straightened his leg at the knee, pushing his heel out in front. He landed on his heel and brought his back foot up to the en garde stance. This was indeed a fencing match, even if the weapons were words rather than swords, and he was ready for it. Prêt, his mind whispered as he prepared for his father’s initial attack.

  “I am not pleased, Henry.” His father, Maxwell Cooper, glanced up from his perusal of the latest issue of The Atlantic Monthly, tossing it across the desk toward Henry. “Why didn’t you think of this magazine-style format? Wasn’t the purpose of your fancy education to give you an advantage over our competition? I still don’t understand why you couldn’t have just gone to my alma mater.”