Marry Christmas (Zebra Historical Romance)

by Jane Goodger

  “I shouldn’t worry about the smell of vomit,” she said glaring at him in the lamplight. “I shan’t have anything in my stomach for at least a week.”

  He simply stared at her and looked almost delighted by her news. “That is too bad. The cook is wonderful. I’ll sleep on the floor. Do try not to vomit too noisily as I’d like to get some sleep.”

  At that moment, Elizabeth wished the chamber pot were full, for she would have thrown it at his smug head. How could she ever have thought him kind? How could she think she’d been falling in love with such a complete ogre? What had she done, really, but wear a necklace that an old beau had given her. He was overreacting and she would have told him so had she the strength to do it. But at that moment, she was desperately trying to control her uncontrollable stomach and losing the battle.

  “How is your wife?” the captain asked Rand the following night.

  “Still sick. She cannot keep even the smallest thing down. Not even water.” He did not want to care, but he did not like to see anyone suffer the way Elizabeth was suffering. Even if she deserved it.

  “It should pass,” the captain said jovially. “She’ll get her sea legs, you mark my words. Though not tonight, I daresay. We’re heading into a storm.”

  “Not too big, I hope,” Rand said, thinking Elizabeth was barely holding on in relatively calm seas. He’d never seen anyone as violently ill as she was. Saying she was a bad sailor was a vast understatement.

  “No way to tell, really. But I saw some nasty clouds to the north. Crossing this time of year is always exciting. And always profitable.” The captain lifted his drink as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “You seem to be holding up well enough, Your Grace.”

  “I have a stomach of iron, it seems. I only got a bit queasy on the way over, and those were in some big seas.”

  “Should have been a navy man, then, like Admiral Nelson. Now there was a fine seaman,” he said, as if he’d known the man. Again, he raised his glass and Rand got the distinct notion that the captain would likely toast anything given the opportunity. With a storm bearing down on them, now was not the time to be making too many toasts. “Duke and duchess on my ship. Now there’s a story to tell my grandchildren,” the captain said. He’d said the same thing during dinner the previous evening.

  “Yes, well, I’d better see to my wife. I imagine you’ll be needed at the helm this evening,” Rand said, pointedly looking at his glass.

  The captain accepted the censor good-naturedly, although with a bit of obvious regret. “Yes, that I will be.”

  Rand was satisfied when the captain motioned his steward over and waved the brandy away. Just then the ship dipped dramatically, then flew upward. “Hell. We’re in for a night,” the captain said, sounding actually excited by the prospect of a violent storm. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, I’d best get back to work.”

  The next four days were nightmarish in more ways than one. Rand, who certainly didn’t have vast experience at sea, had become convinced in the midst of the two-day storm that the ship would certainly break apart. The ship slammed into the waves with such bone-jarring force, it felt as if the very steel would shatter beneath them. And Elizabeth, she had been nearly driven unconscious from a combination of fear, sickness, and simply being battered about the small cabin as the waves crashed again and again into the ship’s hull. While he sat in the cabin’s only chair, white knuckling it through the worst of the storm, she clutched the bed trying not to be thrown to the floor. On one occasion, beaten into a fitless sleep by hours of wakefulness, she was thrown to the floor, knocking her chin hard against his boots.

  Rand helped her up, asking if she were all right, but she pushed him off her without uttering a word. In fact, she managed only three coherent words during the height of the storm: “I hate you.”

  Rand was fairly certain she meant every syllable. He would probably hate himself, too, had someone been responsible for the kind of suffering Elizabeth was going through. If he had known the extent of her predisposition to seasickness, he might have delayed their trip. He’d wanted her to suffer, yes, but he began to fear she might actually die. And that was not endurable.

  On the fifth day of their journey, Elizabeth was finally able to sit up, though she looked like death. Her hair, usually lustrous and neatly piled atop her head, was a tangled, straggling mass that no doubt stank of bile and vomit. The circles beneath her hollow eyes were downright frightening, her lips were cracked, and her skin had taken on a greenish cast. Guilt gnawed at Rand when he entered their cabin, feeling hail and hearty after a fine breakfast of sausage and potatoes. Even at the worst, Rand had felt little more than slight dizziness and a touch of nausea. But today, the sun was shining brightly, the seas were calm and a rich blue, and even the temperature had risen above the freezing point.

  “Good morning,” he said, staring at her and trying to mask the horror in his face. The morning light was doing nothing to make Elizabeth look better. Indeed, the harsh light gave her an almost ghoulish appearance. She didn’t acknowledge him, simply turned her head away. As he stood there, her stomach heaved and she bent over the empty chamber pot, her poor stomach heaving and heaving but expelling nothing.

  “You must try to eat something, Elizabeth.”

  “Go away,” she croaked.

  “Then at least drink water.” She remained silent, staring at the wall. He stood there looking at her helplessly, watching as she listlessly drooped to lay upon the bed. He immediately went to her side.

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me this would happen?” he demanded, his fear and frustration coming out in anger. “You knew, didn’t you?”

  “I did tell you,” she said softly.

  “I knew only that you were a poor sailor, that you got a bit seasick. Everyone gets a bit seasick sometimes. This goes far beyond what anyone on this ship has experienced. If I had known you would be this sick…” He likely would have left anyway, he thought guiltily. As he looked at her helplessly, he saw a large spot of blood, wet and bright and red on the sheets, and he felt his entire body go so weak, he sunk to his knees beside the berth.

  “My God, you’re bleeding,” he whispered.

  “I am?” she asked, as if it were no matter.

  “Yes, and quite a bit,” he said, pulling the covers from her, searching her for a wound. Blood was everywhere. “Oh, my God,” he said, his voice shaking. “I’m going to get the captain. Oh, my God.”

  “Rand,” she whispered.

  “Don’t worry, my love. You’ll be fine,” he said rushing to the door.

  “Rand,” she shouted, though it came out more like a croak. He turned, torn between going to her and running for the captain.

  “It’s only my monthlies,” she said.

  At first it didn’t register, and then he looked at the sheet again, at the blood between her legs. “Oh.” He nearly collapsed in relief, and in fact felt his knees give out beneath him so he was kneeling by her bed again. “We should clean you up. It’s quite a lot there,” he said, looking at horror at the blood on the sheet. Women bled this amount every month? Good God.

  “It’s not so much as it looks,” she said. “Women wear padding. But I forgot to. So sick.”

  “I’ll need clean sheets and clothes. And pads you say?”

  “In my trunk, on the right side, near the top. Folded cloths for my pads. And a nightgown, too.” Every word was such an effort for her. No doubt losing blood when she was already weakened had further sickened her. He would feed her, make her drink if he had to force it down her throat. As if to mock his thoughts, her stomach heaved uselessly again and the sound of her retching painfully nearly unhinged him.

  “I can’t take much more,” she said. “My head is going to explode. Boom.”

  Rand felt his eyes burn. She was making light when she was so very, very ill, trying to make him laugh.

  “Your head is not going to explode,” he said.

  “I wish it would.”

  “
No,” he said fiercely. “I’m going to get you cleaned up and well dressed and I am going to take you out onto the deck and sit you in the sun and you will get well enough to at least drink some water. And toast. Toast is just the thing when you can’t eat anything else.” He had opened the trunk and already found the pads and a fresh nightgown. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get some warm water and fresh linens. I hope to hell the captain has some. Don’t go anywhere.” She somehow managed to give him a withering look before he rushed off.

  Elizabeth lay listlessly waiting for Rand to return. Her head felt as if, indeed, it were about to explode. Every time the nausea hit, it pounded even more. If anyone for the rest of her life suggested she take a sea voyage she would shoot them on the spot. She couldn’t help think that God was punishing her for her sins. She’d been seasick before, yes, but this was so far beyond what even she had experienced she could only think that God was particularly displeased with her. If she had even the smallest bit of energy, having Rand discover she was having her monthlies would have been agonizingly embarrassing. She supposed she should at least be grateful that at the moment she truly wouldn’t care if the ship sank to the bottom of the ocean. She simply wanted the pain and sickness to go away.

  Rand returned in minutes, carrying a pitcher of warm water and several clean rags. He helped her out of her gown, and stared at her body, saying only, “We’ve got to get some food into you.” He cleaned her with the warm water, then removed the soiled sheets from the bed as she sat listlessly in the cabin’s only chair watching. Eyeing the bloodstain on the mattress that remained even after his attempt at cleaning it off, he smiled a bit mischievously at her and turned it over. “Good as new,” he said. Instead of leading her back to bed, Rand wrapped her up in several blankets, covering her from head to toe, then carried her out to the deck.

  The cold air felt wonderful against her skin, and Elizabeth closed her eyes, only to open them immediately when she felt the ship’s movement.

  “Look at the horizon,” he said, leaning against the bulkhead and holding her in his arms, much like a baby. She rested her head against his shoulder, tucking her forehead against his neck. “The captain insisted that no one has ever died of seasickness. But people have died for lack of water. You will drink, Elizabeth. Small amounts your stomach can tolerate. I don’t care if you vomit it up, you’ll drink again. And again, until we reach the Thames. And then you are going to eat every bit of food in sight until I fatten you up.”

  “My mother will be quite upset with you if I get too fat.”

  “I don’t care. I want you plump,” he said, pulling her closer to him.

  They were silent for a long time, Elizabeth staring out to sea, feeling better than she had in days. For the first time in nearly a week, her head was not pounding unmercifully, but only contained a dull throbbing that was easily tolerated. She still felt a bit queasy, but the body-racking vomiting had abated. For the moment.

  “Do you still hate me?” she asked softly.

  “You know I do not,” he said, his words clipped.

  “I don’t hate you. I think I said I do, but I don’t.”

  “That is good to hear.” She stared at his profile and thought she detected the hint of a smile. For now, it was enough.

  Maggie stepped through the door to her home and let out a sigh of relief. She was so tired of smiling, her face actually hurt. No one must ever know how very un happy she’d been since waving wildly at Elizabeth’s de parting carriage. She had a sickening feeling that she would never see her friend again, which was silly be cause Elizabeth wouldn’t be departing for England until at least March.

  It was purely awful not being able to talk to her friend. Even though they’d often been separated for months at a time, thanks to Alva’s penchant for traveling, Maggie never quite got over not having her around.

  After Elizabeth left, it might be years and years before they saw each other again. She’d received one happy letter from her and wondered if everything her friend had written were true or was she simply trying to put a happy face on a miserable situation. Her words certainly seemed sincere, and Maggie hoped they were. She liked the duke and she wanted them to be happy together.

  Happy, she thought, as she would never be.

  After that horrible scene at Elizabeth’s wedding break fast, she had not seen Lord Hollings and she assumed he was already gone to England. Without a proper good-bye, and certainly without promises to return. Or send for her.

  Maggie drew her hands out of her fur muff and crushed it in her fists. She was the most foolish, ridiculous girl in New York if she hoped for even one minute that Lord Hollings would suddenly find it impossible to live without her. And yet…how she did hope for just that thing. For far longer than a minute, as well.

  “I’ll take that, Miss,” her butler, Saunders said. He eyed the crushed muff thoughtfully. “Already dead, right, Miss?”

  Maggie gave him a withering look, trying, and failing, to suppress a smile. “If it wasn’t, it is now. I’ve had a purely awful day, Saunders. Where is Mother?”

  “In her sitting room, I believe.”

  Maggie shrugged off her coat and handed him that as well. “I needed that smile. Thank you.”

  Saunders beamed at her and disappeared with her cloak and muff as Maggie headed toward the stairs and her mother.

  “Oh, I nearly forgot. This came for you in the post today.” Saunders held up a letter and Maggie rushed down to retrieve it, her silly heart beating fast. She didn’t look at it until she reached the first landing, telling herself over and over that it could not be from Lord Hollings. Why ever in the world would he write to her? But he might have, she could be holding his letter right now and in it he would beg her to come to England to be with him. It could be from him.

  But it wasn’t, of course. It was another letter from Elizabeth, which made Maggie smile faintly. It seemed her friend missed her as much as she missed Elizabeth. Taking the stairs a bit more slowly, she broke the wax seal and opened it up, only to lean heavily against the banister.

  “I’ve no time to come to say good-bye, but wanted you to know I am leaving for England Monday. I’ll write more later when I have the chance. Your dearest friend, Elizabeth.”

  Maggie sank down to the step, the letter held limply in her hand. She hadn’t said good-bye. Surely she had time to stop by for a quick, tearful hug. Surely she couldn’t have been in that much of a rush. Maggie felt as if her battered heart could not take much more and wondered if she could remain cheerful when all she wanted to do was cry for about a week. Feeling as if the life had been sucked from her, she made her way up the stairs and to her mother’s sitting room, pausing before entering to gather herself together. Her mother hated tears; not because she had no tolerance for them, but because she simply could not bear to see them.

  Maggie knocked smartly, and entered when her mother called out. “Mother,” she said, “I’ve had the most dreadful news.” She said it in a tone that certainly did not express her sadness. Indeed, her mother smiled when she made the announcement, if a bit uncertainly.

  “Then you know,” she said. “My poor girl, your heart must be broken.”

  Maggie smiled. “Not broken. Not nearly so. But I am a bit upset Elizabeth didn’t stop to say good-bye in person. We are best of friends, after all,” she said, waving the letter in her hand.

  “Elizabeth is gone?”

  “Well, yes. She left two days ago. Isn’t that what you were talking about?”

  Her mother looked down at her needlepoint, worrying the fabric between her hands. “Lord Hollings stopped by this morning while you were out. He’s gone, Maggie. Left just hours ago.” Her mother searched her daughter’s face, likely hoping her daughter wouldn’t dissolve into tears.

  Maggie suddenly found it necessary to sit. “Gone?”

  “Yes. He’s such a nice man. He stopped by to tell you he’s leaving for England. I’m so sorry dear. I had hoped…”

  Maggie
was able to smile at her mother, though she was not quite certain where she found the courage. “He stopped by today?”

  “Yes. While you were with your cousins.”

  “Did he leave a note?” she asked, hating the hope she heard in her own voice.

  “No, no. Just stopped by. Are you heartbroken, dear?”

  “Goodness, no, Mother. I never held out hope that the earl would make an offer, though I know you did. I’m sorry. We did get on well enough, but, my goodness, neither of us had any strong feelings. But I can always say I danced with an earl. Not every girl can, you know.”

  Maggie smiled so brightly she thought her mother must know it was simply an act.

  But no. Her mother beamed back at her, visibly relieved that her daughter didn’t have a broken heart. “The Wright brothers are still vying for your hand, particularly that Arthur. I think your flirtation with the earl made you much more desirable in his eyes. And his mother’s. Did you have a fine time with your cousins?”

  The subject of Lord Hollings was swiftly dropped and Maggie managed to talk about her cousins for five minutes before escaping from her mother. She loved her dearly, but Maggie simply could not bear another minute of pretending her heart had not been broken not once, but twice, in the space of ten minutes.

  When she reached her room, Margaret Pierce did something she had not done since she was perhaps ten years old. She threw herself upon her bed and cried body-racking sobs until her face was swollen and her nose so clogged she couldn’t breathe. At supper time, she pleaded a sudden cold, made believable by her stuffed-up nose.

  Why hadn’t she been home? What had he come to say? She tortured herself with thoughts that had she been home, he would have fallen at her feet and begged her to marry him. But she hadn’t been home. For the first time since Elizabeth’s wedding, she’d gone out of the house. And he’d come to see her. She couldn’t bear to wonder what might have been, if only she’d been home. She had a wild idea to run out, to try to find him before he left. But she didn’t know where he was, how he was traveling. It would be impossible, though part of her, the part that was so very desperately in love, told her she should try. In the end, her practical side won out, as it always did. He was gone and she would never see him again and it was much better if she simply fully realized it. She’d always known she would never marry and now she was more certain than ever. For how could she ever love someone as much as she loved Lord Hollings?