Flaming June

by Emma V. Leech

  Chapter 4

  “Wherein Isabella hopes for the best and expects the worst, and Henry makes a decision.”

  Isabella woke, blinking in the dim light as her tired brain tried to understand where she was. The maid hadn’t woken her by lighting her fire. There was no rich aroma of hot chocolate to welcome her. The light, floral scent of her favourite perfume didn’t linger on the air. Panic flickered on the edges of consciousness. She sneezed, the movement jerking her awake as her nose detected dust and the odour of a room long unused.

  Oh.

  She pulled herself upright, looking at her surroundings with misgiving. The urge to give into the panic that rose in her chest was hard to resist.

  “You’re alive,” she reminded herself, the words a little sharp as misery welled. “You’re both alive.” At this point in time, that was as much as she felt she deserved.

  Her hands slid beneath the blankets to cover her stomach. As if asked to confirm her words, the baby moved, a strange, ticklish sensation that made her gasp and give a startled little laugh. Despite her predicament, despite everything, she was glad. Glad to be alive, glad to have this chance with her child, no matter how tenuous her hopes for the future might be.

  With relief, Isabella noted the carpet bag she’d left by the river was by the fire. Her pelisse hung on the back of a chair to dry, the slippers placed beside it. She flushed as she imagined either Jack or Henry stealing in to place them there. She hoped it was Jack.

  Henry disturbed her. He was dirty and unkempt, for starters, only increasing her impression of a wild creature kept in a cage. The men she socialised with were pristine, pampered, and primped, their silks and finery almost as extravagant as hers. Henry looked like he could crush such a man with one hand. He was as far from a civilised man as it was possible to get. There was something raw about him, something untamed and savage that made her heart skitter in her chest. She reminded herself that it was a civilised man who had used her and thrown her away as she remembered the look in Henry’s eyes as he’d studied her, a glittering intensity she’d found unnerving. Yet his touch had been gentle when he’d taken her hands from her face.

  Still, mad or not, a danger or not, he was not in his right mind. That was frightening.

  Isabella dressed by the fire, cursing and muttering as she’d never needed to do without a maid before. Well, she’d just have to learn and get used to it. She reached over to rub the dust off of the mirror on the dressing table and managed her hair as best she could by herself. The thick tresses tangled and knotted, as it needed washing, but she would not worry about that for the moment. There were more pressing things to think about.

  Despite her exhaustion, she’d lain awake for some time, thinking over her options. To her dismay, she kept coming back to John Smythe, he of the whalelike proportions and spittle. She shuddered, but there were few choices left to her. She knew he admired her. He’d made several clumsy tries to flirt with her since she’d come out, and received several scathing set-downs for his troubles. He was bad ton, an oaf, repulsive to look at, and his manners were appalling. Yet he was wealthy, he would give her security, and though the image in her mind of the man touching her made her want to retch, she suspected he would not be cruel. No more than any other man.

  With a resigned sigh, Isabella looked around the room they had given her. As with the glimpses she’d seen of the darkened house last night, everything was of the finest quality. That was obvious even under the thick layer of dust and neglect. This room was that of a woman of taste and refinement. Though decorated in the style of an era long gone, Isabella admired the beauty of both the colours and fabrics and the furnishings. Whoever decorated this room possessed an eye for beauty and detail.

  Curiosity got the better of her.

  Isabella peeked into the vast wardrobe, looked into the large chests and the many drawers about the room. With each revelation, she became more astonished. The fabrics, the colours, the sheer number of gowns and shoes and gloves and jewellery was incredible. There was a small fortune in this room alone. It told her only one thing, this family had been wealthy beyond anything she’d ever known. Whatever happened to them?

  With relief, she found a lovely wool shawl, decorated with the finest embroidery of fat, golden bees and silken butterflies. It was beautiful and warm, and she put it about her shoulders with a smile. It was a luxurious piece, made for a fine lady, which she was far from being. So what? She must take pleasure in small things now. There was little else to do. With that in mind, her spirits lifted as a new thought occurred to her. She would never again have to endure another meal with her mother as long as she lived. As Isabella left her room and made her way down to the kitchen, she felt almost light-hearted at the idea.

  ***

  Henry stared at the drawings in his hand. The wary eyes of the woman he’d pulled from the water stared back at him. The sense of excitement made him edgy, the longing to draw her again, to study her, to paint her … it was intoxicating. A new project always filled him with a sense of anticipation, a buzzing, impatient, restless feeling that prowled beneath his skin until the moment he started work. It kept him from sleep, refused to let him eat, it haunted his every moment if he didn’t give into the desire.

  Nothing had ever captivated him like this, though. The blue of her eyes, the mistrust in her expression, the way she tilted her head, he wanted to record it, every nuance. That she carried a child in her belly was all the more intriguing.

  Henry recorded many creatures, from deer to foxes to rabbits, rats and mice. He detailed the way they hunted and fed, how they procreated, how they gave birth, how they lived, and how they died. The desire to know how, how things worked, the mechanics of life, gave order to a world that often overwhelmed him.

  Jack said she would leave. That was unacceptable. The idea made him sick, unsettled, the restless anxiety that often plagued him making him pace with increasing speed. No. She would not leave. He would not allow it. Yet Jack said he couldn’t force her to stay. His father would have been furious with him for doing such a thing. Disappointing his father made a sick, cold sensation rush over his skin, and panic rose in his throat. He had to make her stay. He had to make her stay.

  He’d already gone down to the river to fetch her bag. There had been a coat, and dainty slippers, too. So tiny. He’d placed one next to his huge foot, intrigued by the disparity of size. He hadn’t told Jack he’d brought her things. He hadn’t told Jack he’d slipped into her room, either. Just for a moment. He’d not stayed, not pried, though the temptation to watch her sleeping had been hard to deny.

  Henry hoped she would be pleased to have her things back. He was under no illusion that she would like him because of it. Nobody but Jack liked him, though Jack said that was their loss.

  What was it Jack said? With difficulty, he forced himself to remember. Most conversations didn’t hold his attention. He had no interest in them, words only muddled his mind, impeded his work. Better to do. Better to just get on and do.

  Jack said she needed to marry. She needed a name and a home.

  Henry stopped pacing.

  He would never marry. Everyone said so. He was too strange, too …

  He would never marry, they said so, Jack said so. But he could. He could marry her. He had a name, a good name. Father had said it was a proud name. So, he would marry her and give her his name and his home. She would stay, she would have her baby and he would see it, he would record her and the child. He would understand how they worked.

  With a renewed sense of purpose and resolve, Henry rushed for the door. The woman would stay. He’d make sure.

  ***

  Isabella reached the bottom of the impressive staircase, in no doubt that the Barbour family had once been a force to be reckoned with. She’d peeked into rooms where the furnishings hid under dusty covers, but one thing became obvious. Every corner of this vast building spoke of quality, of attention to detail, wealth of a kind even her own family could never aspire
to.

  She lingered on the stairs, looking up into the faces of the past generations that lined the walls. Their disdainful expressions judged her, finding her lacking. Isabella found nothing new or surprising in that. Her mother’s face would fit here as if designed for the purpose. In a way, Isabella supposed it had been.

  All but one portrait held the mocking superiority of the upper classes, that innate sense of self-worth Isabella had never quite convinced herself of. It was the last and most recent portrait here, and by the most skilled artist by far. Isabella touched the surface of the paint with reverence, surprised that the nap of the velvet wasn't soft beneath her fingertips, so clever was the hand of the artist. She saw Henry’s eyes looking back at her, though it was the portrait of a far older man. There was a warmth in his eyes, a twinkle of amusement glimmering, though there was an air of sorrow about him, too. What had made him so sad and yet made him smile with such warmth? Isabella stared at it for a long while before a voice made her jump.

  “That’s William Barbour,” Jack said, making Isabella cling to the bannister as she started with surprise. “Henry’s father,” he clarified, smiling at the portrait. He sighed, shaking his head and looking sorrowful. “No finer man ever lived, if you ask me.”

  “When did he die?” Isabella asked, a strange sense of disappointment filling her as she realised she would like to have met him. She didn’t doubt Jack’s words, either. There was kindness and understanding in the man’s expression, an innate sense of goodness. Whoever had painted this had held a deep affection for the man, too, and had known him well.

  Jack sighed, a wistful sound that Isabella realised was genuine. “’Bout eighteen months ago, now. Hit poor Henry hard, that did. Didn’t speak a word for nigh on six months, and he weren’t exactly chatty before,” he added with a rueful smile. “He painted that, about eight months before the old boy passed. I’m so glad he did.”

  Isabella gaped at him and then stared back at the painting in awe. “H-he painted this?” she demanded, disbelieving. The notion that the hulking brute of a man who looked like he rarely washed and slept in a ditch could create work of such finesse and quality was astonishing.

  “I told you he was an artist,” Jack replied, amusement in his voice and something close to judgement in his eyes. “You’ve never seen anything like the work Henry can do. Sometimes I feel like I could step into the paint and never notice a jot of difference from the real world.”

  “I believe you,” Isabella murmured, though Henry still struck her as an unlikely artist. She had always considered them romantic figures, and, as a girl, had harboured silly dreams of falling in love with a poet or a painter. Such nonsense. Though perhaps her fate may have been kinder if she’d done so. Isabella loved the arts, though, music and poetry and paintings. She had always found pleasure in beautiful things, but a fine painting in particular could make her heart sing. That a man like Henry had produced something of such skill and beauty … How strange.

  “Come and have breakfast, then, my lady,” Jack said as he turned back to the kitchen. “I’ve made porridge, though you may not thank me for it.”

  Jack’s words proved true enough as Isabella forced down the glue-like texture with difficulty. She washed it down with a creamy glass of milk, refusing to remember the breakfasts at home. At least eating this … stuff was better than getting indigestion as her mother listed out her most recent failures and the many ways in which she was a disappointment to her.

  Indigestion seemed rather inevitable as Henry shoved his way through the kitchen door, an air of restless anxiety rolling off him in waves. He loomed over the table, his presence intimidating. He met no one’s eye, just stood, fists clenched as Jack shot him a wary glance.

  “Sit down, Henry,” he said, his tone firm as he got up and filled another bowl with the grey paste by giving the spoon a firm shake. Isabella watched, rather fascinated as the porridge hit the bowl with a dull thud. Jack glanced back to see Henry hadn’t moved. “Put your backside on the chair, Henry. There’s no need to make the place look untidy.” He put the bowl down, pressing his hand on Henry’s massive shoulder until he moved to take his place, and then sat down again. “Eat it, then,” he instructed. “Before it gets cold.”

  Henry stared at the table for a moment, a frown on his face, before taking the spoon and digging it into his porridge.

  “So then, Lady Isabella,” Jack said, his eyes still on Henry, who was shovelling the porridge into his mouth with some speed. “What do you reckon you’ll do now?” he asked as Isabella tore her eyes from Henry. “Not that we’re throwing you out, but it’s not like you can stay here.”

  Henry’s hand stopped moving, the spoon suspended in mid-air.

  “No, of course not,” Isabella replied, torn between turning her attention to Jack and staring at Henry, who was fascinating and appalling and appeared to have turned to stone. “Even in my situation, that would be most …” She hesitated, fighting the blush that threatened to stain her cheeks. “Irregular,” she finished, deciding that staring into her bowl was safer than looking at either of them. “I … I thought perhaps …” Isabella stopped again, wondering why on earth she was confiding in these two peculiar men. She wouldn’t even have deigned to speak with them hours ago, and now … now they were privy to her shame and her most private, desperate thoughts.

  Isabella felt no judgement from Jack, though, only a rather reserved sense of sympathy. After a lifetime of enduring Lady Scranford, that was close to receiving a benediction. It wasn’t as if she was surrounded by friends and family eager to help her, either. What choice did she have?

  Jack didn’t prompt her to continue, there was no air of inquisitiveness or prying from him. She could tell him, or not, as she preferred. Henry was still motionless, though she had the sense he was listening with the same intensity as he had studied her last night.

  Isabella cleared her throat. “I thought perhaps I would visit … Mr Smythe.” The flush came this time, along with a fear that the porridge she’d forced down would not remain where it was.

  Jack’s eyes grew wide with obvious horror. “John Smythe?” That repulsive oaf with the fat neck and a voice like thunder, he didn’t say, though words to that effect were shining in his eyes. “I see,” he murmured, sitting back in his chair and avoiding her eye.

  “I don’t have many options now,” Isabella replied, unable to look at him either. She stared instead at the porridge, which was cooling fast, a thick wrinkly skin forming on the surface. She swallowed hard as her stomach turned, and then jumped as Henry stood, his chair screeching as he forced it backwards.

  “No.”

  Isabella looked up, unsure who he was talking to.

  “She’s got to go, Henry,” Jack said, his voice firm. “She needs to marry someone and there’s few will take her now. Not with …” He trailed off, giving Isabella an apologetic shrug of his shoulders.

  Henry’s large hand opened and closed again, the knuckles showing white. “She’ll stay here. I’ll marry her.”

  She wasn’t sure which of them was the most shocked. Jack was running her a close second. He gaped at Henry, mouth open with surprise, before pushing to his feet.

  “Henry, might I have a word with you, lad?”

  He walked around to stand beside Henry, tugging at his arm.

  Isabella watched with shocked fascination as Henry shook his head, a slow and deliberate movement. His fist remained clenched, the other one curled around the spoon so tight she wondered if he’d crumple the metal. He looked neither of them in the eyes.

  The suggestion that she could even think about marrying the strange and frightening man standing beside her was beyond horrifying. She could smell him, a mixture of earthy, woody scents and unwashed male body, that sense of barely contained power emanating from him in waves.

  Then she thought about John Smythe and shuddered.

  “Henry, I don’t think you’ve thought this through, lad,” Jack said, and Isabella could hear th
e careful tone of his voice, the way he spoke, slow and deliberate. “You don’t like people around you. I know you want to paint her, but what then, eh? What about when the baby comes? It’ll scream all day and all bleedin’ night, too. How’ll you work then? What about when it’s older and runs about the house, touching your stuff, tearing up your drawings?”

  Isabella watched as Henry stiffened a little, his shoulders growing tense and a mutinous set to his jaw suggesting that Jack’s words hadn’t gone unheard. Still, he shook his head.

  “She stays.”

  There was a thread of anger to his voice and Isabella swallowed.

  “And what if she doesn’t want to?” Jack demanded, his voice growing strident now, and Isabella saw panic in his eyes. Jack thought she’d cause trouble. He gave Henry a push, shoving at his shoulder, which had no effect whatsoever. “Look at me,” he said, getting no reaction. “Look at me,” he said again, the words louder now. He reached out and grasped Henry’s chin, tugging his beard and forcing his face to him. Henry’s eyes slid unwillingly around. “What do you think your father would say about this, Henry? Would he be pleased if you forced a young woman to stay here with you?”

  The pain and disappointment in Henry’s eyes were raw and unguarded, and Isabella sucked in a breath.

  “Want her to stay,” he mumbled, a bereft note to the words that tugged at her heart, a sense of empathy she hadn’t known she possessed. No one had ever wanted her anywhere before. She didn’t act the highbred lady well enough to please her mother, but she did it well enough that no one else wanted to spend time with her.

  “She’s not staying,” Jack replied, his words sympathetic but hard just the same. “It’ll cause you nothing but trouble, Henry.” He tugged at Henry’s arm, trying to move him away, but the man stayed put. With the inequality in their sizes, Jack would never move him if he didn’t want to budge. He’d have more luck shifting a mountain range. “She’ll want things you can’t give her,” Jack hissed, the words low and urgent as Isabella fought the desire to run from the table.