Authors: Kathryn Blair
He’d laughed then, and as they took a last stroll round the deck he’d dropped his arm across her shoulders as he had done last night and the night before. He hadn’t kissed her.
This morning Lindsey had missed the early exercises and taken breakfast in her cabin. The steward had brought a note: “It’s all fixed up. Bishop delighted to wed us at noon. Can’t wait longer or the whole ship will know. Are you coming on deck or shall we be bourgeois and stay apart
ti
ll the crucial moment? By the way, I know you are twenty-three, but what is your date of birth? The purser needs your birth certificate.”
Shakily, she had scribbled a reply in similar vein. It seemed as though she were borne on a sea more powerful than the Atlantic. Now, at a quarter to twelve, the sense of unreality was still with her. The wind through the porthole had whipped her hair into strings, and a small pulse beat heavily in her temple. She twisted on the cold tap to bathe her face, automatically patted it with a towel and made up a little. No amount of brushing would dry the sea spray from her hair, but it looked passably pretty caught back above each ear. Intently, she leaned towards the mirror. Were those queerly bright stones the hazel eyes that had matched Lionel’s? Even the short nose and potentially merry mouth appeared oddly set and Sphinx-like. She was going to her wedding in a pastel linen dress.
Five minutes to twelve. Would the steward direct her to the Captain’s quarters, or would he deem her mad? Better in the first instance to ask for the purser.
“On ‘B’ Deck, miss,” replied the refreshing Cockney. “Number 23. You’ll see ‘Purser
’
on the door.”
Lindsey and the young purser were already acquainted. She met him just leaving the cabin and he bowed.
“I was on the point of coming for you. Will yo
u
come this way, Miss Gresham? The scene’s set and the Skipper’s ready. Feel nervous?”
“Well
...
it’s the first time! Are you used to this sort of thing?”
“I should say not. The Skipper won’t have it. But he and Mr. Conlowe are old friends.”
They seemed to walk through interminable alleyways before reaching a large cabin apparently crammed with ship’s officers. At her entry they came to attention and gave a smart salute. Most of them were
smiling
and intrigued, until the Captain detached himself and came forward to the side of the Bishop, who today wore his official black. A hush fell upon the room. Lindsey sensed Stuart’s presence at her side rather than saw him. She would have liked to slip a hand into his and feel a reassuring pressure.
Momentarily, she ached for the beauty of the service that they were missing, sun-gold beams through stained-glass windows, hymns and organ music, white lace and orange blossom. Then he moved and she felt him looking down at her bent head, and that made everything right again.
The ceremony proceeded. Responses were spoken and Stuart’s ring, a signet which he always wore on his little finger, was slipped into place. A certificate was signed and witnessed, and the Captain shook her hand.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Conlowe. You must transfer to my table tonight and we will celebrate. This is the first shipboard romance at which I’ve assisted for eight years.”
He said a lot more, pushing Lindsey politely before him into another cabin,
where an appetizing lunch for ten people was set. So much had happened so
quickly that she was scarcely surprised when Mr. and Mrs. MacLellan, her table
companions, added their congratulations and took their seats. It was like Stuart to
invite them as her guests in order that she should not be the only woman in a
cabin full of men.
When he could ignore the banter for a minute, Stuart reached down for her hand, just as she had hoped he would, and squeezed it.
“Feeling better?” he whispered.
Gratefully, she nodded. So he had seen her quick fright back there at the Captain’s desk when she was signing the certificate. He was watchful and considerate and utterly kind.
Her jaws were stiff with smiling when at last the toasts were ended. Stuart went with her to the almost empty lounge and she lay back in one of the embracing easy chairs, while he sank into another at her side.
“I’m sorry about the lunch,” he said. “Captain Cartwright wouldn’t let us off that, but I can get you out of any further celebration. I’ll fix it so that we’re given a table for two well away from the
limelight
.
The news will get round the ship, but innuendoes are easily ignored. Close your eyes and rest. The worst is over.”
She did close her eyes, but relaxation proved elusive. Presently, her lids raised. Stuart was smoking, staring in front of him and drawing on his cigarette as though it tasted bitter. His whole demeanor had changed completely, hardened and become aloof. She saw that his thoughts were a world away, and in an instant’s stillness of realization she could hear the frightened beating of her own heart
.
Like this, Stuart was a stranger. What did she know of him beyond Lionel’s unending paean of adulation and five days in the rarefied atmosphere of the lounge and sports deck? What of the man who lay behind the celluloid likeness she had come to love and respect as a person? Neither the photograph nor the charming companion of yesterday had warned her of this harshness in him. If she spoke to
him
now, would the lines about his mouth vanish?
“May I have a cigarette, Stuart?”
The ready smile. His cigarette case flipped open and was offered. The side of it nearest her held a complete row of cork-tipped.
“Your favorite brand,” he said.
Her eyes,
shining
under the delicate wings of her brows, shyly met his. “That’s sweet of you.”
No real need for anxiety, she assured herself. Plenty of other men had hidden scars. It was a wife’s duty to obliterate them with sincerity and tenderness. This horrid awkwardness would wear off, and in time he would tell her
thing
s
he had never told another living creature.
The MacLellans came in and joined them for tea, after which Lindsey had to accept the other woman’s invitation to a chat in her cabin, while the men went off to watch aquatic sports.
Mrs. MacLellan was small and grey-haired, her voice bird-like and friendly. Her only comment upon the hastiness of the marriage was, “If you were both certain, why should you tarry? I saw from the beginning that yours was no ordinary voyage affair. Good luck to you both, my dear.”
Thereafter, pushed back on two legs of one wicker chair as she surveyed Lindsey reclining in the other, she expanded upon the relative merits and troubles of housekeeping in England and South Africa,
finishing
with a laugh.
“I wouldn’t be out of it, though. Whatever they say,
marriage
is the only thoroughly satisfying occupation for any woman over thirty
...
providing she’s lucky enough to have the right mate, of course. There must be no secrets, no reservations. We all make mistakes at the start of sharing our life with another, but a sense of humor takes care of those. It’s the feeling of security that is so important to a woman, and sometimes blinds her to other things, but she is wise to remember that the choice was hers, and no one else’s. Not that much of what I’m saying applies to you and Stuart,” Mrs.
MacLellan tacked on good naturedly. “Marriage is a hobby horse of mine. It does annoy me to see couples crack up for the lack of patience and self-knowledge. I’ve been marvellously happy.”
After which she got out her purchases from Funchal and they talked bargains and impressions till it was time for Lindsey to return to her cabin and dress for dinner.
If Stuart’s friends among the officers had offered suggestions regarding a double cabin for the rest of the journey, Lindsey heard nothing about them. Like all ships bound from Britain to the Union, the
Perthshire Abbey
was packed to capacity, and a re-shuffle would only have resulted in inconvenience to others. He had managed the private table, and on one
corner
of it a riot of Madeira roses cascaded over the rim of a gilt basket. The chief steward served champagne, and the orchestra up in the mirrored balcony played a popular medley interlarded with scraps from
the
“Wedding March.” Judging by the covert smiles and glances of other passengers, the marriage was on the way to becoming an open secret.
Apart from returning her birth certificate and murmuring some reason why he should hang on to her passport, Stuart made no reference at all to the morning’s ceremony.
“We’ve passed the Canaries,” he said. “Undiluted sea now all the way to Cape Town. Soon we shall meet the flying fish.”
“Will it be very hot as we pass through the tropics?” she conventionally enquired.
“Fairly sticky, but not so bad at this time of the year. I remember once being stranded in a small port in Angola. The damp heat was appalling. We couldn’t move for the steam blanketing the town.”
And so on, through all the courses.
There was no dancing that night. The sports committee had arranged a “race meeting” on deck, with wooden horses moved by the throw of a dice, followed by a sing-song round the piano. It was all mildly entertaining; some even considered it exciting. Stuart seemed to enjoy himself—for a time, at least. Then he found a man who was interested in electric motors and car batteries, which happened to be two of the products of Conlowe Limited, and in no time at all he was deep in a discussion of the raw material situation in South Africa, and the vast potentialities for industrial expansion in the Port Acland area.
When the music ceased, the same man invited them to take a drink in the lounge with his family and some friends. Talk flowed among the group round the wine table. All were seasoned travellers to whom South Africa represented a second home. The races, native servants, yachting, tropical horticulture and diamonds
—
each came in for their share of criticisms or enjoyment.
Lindsey scarcely listened. Would this extraordinary day ever end? How could Stuart chat away so unconcernedly, as though acquiring a wife were a normal daily incident to be pigeon-holed for future reference? Was he deceived by her wooden smile into believing her as carefree as he appeared to be himself?
When at last he drained his glass and looked at his watch, her unrest had deepened into tremulousness.
“Jove, it’s twelve-fifteen. Will you excuse us?”
Good nights were exchanged, and Lindsey preceded him out to the covered deck. They took the customary walk round, but tonight it was so late that the decks were deserted. At the usual spot near the rail they stopped. The silence dragged.
Presently his arm slipped about her and her fears fell away. He turned her towards him and studied her face, his expression whimsical, almost teasing.
“I haven’t kissed you yet.”
Her raised lips parted, tender and pleading. He bent and touched his mouth to them, lightly. Involuntarily, her arms slid up to his shoulders. She heard
him
take a surprised breath, felt his restraint tighten. Some force stronger than himself compelled him to meet her lips again in a brief, hard kiss.
He released her gently. “It’s very late. We must go below.”
Lounge and staircase were deserted except for a few yawning stewards. At the bureau on “C” Deck, where they usually parted, Stuart grasped her elbows for, an instant.
“Don’t worry any more. Nothing between us is changed except that from now on you’re my responsibility.”
“You mean...” She was plunged into a sudden cold well of knowledge. The kiss ought to have warned her.
“I mean that circumstances forced us into the ceremony, but beyond that we ourselves are in control.” He changed, became casual and friendly. “Do you agree?”
Did she agree? Lindsey struggled with an hysterical weakness in her throat and knees. She contrived a pallid smile.
“Oh, of course.”
“Good. Go to bed now, and sleep well. Good
ni
ght, Lindsey.”
“Good night, Stuart.”
CHAPTER T
WO
THE stewardess came in, set the tray on the dressing chest and looped back the curtain at the porthole.
“Good morning,” she said, in brisk, cheerful tones which somehow matched the iron-grey frizz that stood up all round her white cap. “It’s hot this morning. We’re entering the tropics. Did you sleep all right? Orange or apple today?”
A string of staccato phrases of which only the last called for reply.
“Orange, please,” said Lindsey
diml
y
.
Her head was heavy and her tongue parched. Other women said they awoke with such symptoms every morning of the voyage, but this was the first
time
it had happened to Lindsey.
The stewardess came back with an orange, a plate and a fruit
knif
e.
“Are you swimming this morning, or shall I order a bath, Miss Gresham?”
“A bath, please.”
The woman was kind, but Lindsey did wish she wouldn’t hover about the cabin.
“Feeling poorly, my dear?”
“Not at all; only sleepy.”
She was gone, thank goodness. Lindsey stayed flat in her bed, conscious of two things: a sense of impending disaster and the weight of Stuart’s signet ring on her finger. The two were inseparable.
Across the tea tray Lionel was looking at her. Lionel at twenty was good looking and smiling and urgent with life. Just like Lindsey at twenty, and still like her at twenty-three.
Not quite so smiling this morning, perhaps.
Pouring tea, she thought back over yesterday. By nature she was as brave as any other woman or she would have crumpled under the grief of losing Lionel and the consequent loneliness. But it would have needed more than pluck to withstand Stuart’s persuasions to marry him because she had wanted it so desperately herself.
The headache was receding, taking with it the weight of foreboding, though the ring was still there. Men viewed life more objectively than women, she decided. Stuart’s idea was that their relationship should ripen normally; he did not resent the events which had enforced the marriage, but he saw in them no reason why they should be hurried into something for which they were not yet ready.
Stuart had not fallen in love with a photograph. To him, Lionel had remained a likeable junior officer, and Lionel’s sister, of whom the boy was demonstrably fond and proud, a nebulous figure in the background. This, she tried reasonably to reflect, constituted the difference between herself and Stuart. He was still at the friendship stage; she was utterly in love.
She got up and slipped on a wrap. The way to deal with this was not to pine for the impossible, but to accept each surrender on his part as it came. Someone once said that love begets love. If that were true, she had only to go on loving, and to wait.
Stuart would expect her to meet him at the swimming pool. It wouldn’t take long to put on a swim suit and sprint up on deck. She could knock at Mrs. MacLellan’s door on the way and offer the bath. The little woman complained every day that the bath steward left her
till
last.
The ship was ploughing through a warm mist and seamen were aloft, tightening the awning over the open lounge. One of them saluted her.
“Going to be a scorcher today, miss.”
Mrs., she primly but silently corrected him, returning a quick smile and a nod.
The huge striped bath robe slung over the rail was Stuart’s. He had seen her and was pulling himself out of the pool.
“Hello, there. Thought you were giving it a
mis
s
this
morning.”
“So did I, but I changed my mind.”
She was tucking her curls into her cap. He took her wrap and hung it with his own—close together, she noticed with satisfaction.
“Those idiots are still practicing on the greasy pole,” she said. “Is it very difficult to walk it?”
“Not if you start with dry feet. Most of the men are expert and that girl over there can make it, but she has
to run.” As she moved he grabbed her elbow. “Come back, Lindsey! It’s dangerous.”
“My feet are quite dry.” She felt she had to do something perilous and cooling to the temperament.
“You’re not to do it.”
“If I fail I can only fall in the water.”
“If you lost your balance near the side of the bath you’d crack your head.”
“I’ve never felt dizzy in my life,” she protested.
“I don’t care,” sharply. “I won’t have you risk it” She gave in. He couldn’t be too
stern
and proprietary for Lindsey.
They swam and played ball and then went to their cabins, he on “B” Deck and she on “C”, to dress for breakfast.
Later they sought out her tr
unk
in the baggage room and re-labelled it, and he gave her more labels to stick over those on her cabin trunk and the suitcase in her wardrobe.
“Sometime you must bring me your papers—ticket and so on, so that everything’s straight before we reach Cape Town.”
“Shall we stay long in Cape Town, Stuart?”
“
About a week. You’ll have time to look up your aunt’s friend and buy all you want.”
They were dawdling down to the shop for some razor blades he needed.
“And then we go on to Port Acland?” she asked.
“
Yes. You
’ll
enjoy Port Acland. It has a slightly different air from other towns.
Modern
, yet comparatively unspoiled—and the coastline is breathtaking. My mother’s house overlooks the sea.”
The hurt was coming back. “I hope your mother will like me, Stuart
.
”
“
She
’
s bound to. For years now, every one of her letters has begged me to marry someone pretty and practical. I used to tell her that the two didn’t go together, but now I shall have to retract.” They had
stopped and were gazing into a small
,
brilliantly lit shop window crammed with expensive gifts. “By the way,” he added, “the best of mothers are a trifle old fashioned. We won’t harp on the shipboard romance aspect unless it’s unavoidable. She’ll be curious about you, of course.”
And doubt whether I’m worthy of her son, feared Lindsey. She could see herself sitting in a big tapestry chair, her knees close together, her back stiff with nervousness, while Mrs. Conlowe raked her with pertinent questions. She must have trembled, for he gazed down suddenly into her clear face, which was a little flushed under the cheekbones.
“There’s not a thing to be frightened of,” he said quietly. “My mother’s a broad-viewed Colonial and, in any case, I shall be on the spot. Come on, now, let’s choose a handbag. What do you think of the red snake-skin? Or do you prefer that turquoise
thin
g
with ivory handles?”
Yes, so far as Stuart was concerned,
no
thin
g
was changed between them. He bought her whatever she admired, beat her at deck tennis, teased her, let
his
glance rove appreciatively over her evening dress, and dropped a good night kiss on her forehead. Valiantly, Lindsey played her part, realizing what a potential topline actress she had become.
As they neared South-West Africa, the ship was caught in the Cape rollers. Mrs. MacLellan, to her own surprise and deep disgust, went sick, and as the little woman’s head reeled unless she lay down, Lindsey spent several hours in the MacLellan cabin learning as much as could be imparted, without actual experience, of South Africa.
“The climate makes the country,” said Mrs. MacLellan. “The climate and the natives. In Newlands, just above Cape Town, where I live, we have beautiful oaks and can grow lots of English flowers. Last year I even nursed a few primroses in a shady spot, and a friend of
mine grows English violets. I suppose you and Stuart will stay at an hotel?”
“He’s fixed it already, by cable.”
“I wish you could have come to us, but our house has been let for six months and heaven knows what we shall find. I have to engage a new girl, too, and that’s always a problem, as you’ll
discover! But you must come and have dinner with us before you go on to Port Acland. I’m very anxious that we should keep in touch. Who knows, one of these days you may be glad to have a friend in Cape Town.”
“I’m glad now. Aunt Kitty’s death left me quite alone.”
“How perfect that Stuart should come into your life when he did.” Mrs. MacLellan’s head turned on the pillow, her eyes held compassion and encouragement. “He’s fond of you Lindsey. Don’t attempt to force him to love you till he’s ready. It’ll come in time.”
So her disquiet, skilfully guarded from Stuart, had communicated itself to the kind little woman, and she had added two and two and got the inevitable result.