Flaming June

by Emma V. Leech

  “Excuse me one moment, please.”

  She hurried to Henry’s side, crouching beside him. “Won’t you come, too, love?” she said, taking his hand. He pulled it from her grasp, continuing to study the ribbon. She knew by now it wasn’t done to hurt her, more that he was hurting and didn’t know what to do about it. She laid her hand on his arm, her voice low and soothing. “Please? Henry, for me?”

  His hands stilled, his breathing picking up. The scowl on his face troubled her, but he gave a sharp nod and got to his feet, stalking out of the room without another word.

  Isabella got to her feet. “I’m afraid it’s been a trying evening, and … well, Henry doesn’t like people much. Just being in a room with the two of you …” She took a breath, shaking her head. “You do not understand how much effort that is taking him.”

  “I think you’ll find we understand better than most,” Edward said, and Isabella saw the truth of his words in his eyes. “Gabriel,” he said, turning to his cousin, who seemed to still be arranging the items to his satisfaction. “Come along.” The words were calm but firm, but it seemed to take DeMorte a moment to wrench himself away from the sideboard. He avoided Isabella’s eye as he followed Edward from the room.

  Henry occupied himself lighting candles, ignoring them all still as they walked in. Edward paused, his face one of astonishment as he took in the paintings.

  “Belle was right,” he said, sounding more amused than surprised. “Henry is a genius.”

  “I know that,” Isabella replied as Edward crouched to inspect a painting. To her dismay, it was one of a dead rabbit, its intestines showing, maggots writhing under the flesh. Edward seemed fascinated, however.

  “The detail,” he said, shaking his head in wonder. “It’s astonishing. I could reach in and touch the fur, it’s so … real.”

  She smiled as Edward moved on, to her relief, to inspect a portrait of Henry’s father. Turning, she sought Henry, to find him staring at Lord DeMorte with consternation and something that might have been concern. As she followed his gaze, she saw why.

  The huge figure who still frightened Isabella, despite his help tonight, was sweating, staring around the room with distress. He tugged at his cravat, looking as if he might be sick.

  “Excuse me,” he said, the words rough. “I … I can’t stay in here.”

  Isabella looked to Edward as the marquess got to his feet, watching his cousin almost run from the room.

  “He means no disrespect,” he said, his expression troubled. “It’s just that, Gabriel … he likes order. No, it’s more than that,” he said, shaking his head. “He needs order. Everything in its place. I’m afraid this room as … vibrant and charming as it is…” He hesitated, looking around at the roughly stacked canvases and disarray of paints and brushes, and Isabella smiled at his diplomacy.

  “It troubles him,” Henry said, his voice quiet.

  Edward nodded. “Quite so,” he replied, moving to lay a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “We all have our demons, Henry.”

  That Henry didn’t move away from him made Isabella smile with quiet pride.

  “I’ll leave you now,” Edward said, rightly judging the tension in the room. “I expect our nursemaid to be here with your daughter any time now.” He turned to leave and then paused. “I don’t imagine you’ll have any further trouble with Treedle, not once Gabriel has finished with him,” he added with a sardonic smile. “However, I hope you will count me as a friend, and call on me if ever you should have need.”

  “Thank you,” Isabella said, touched by his assurance. Edward nodded his goodbye and left the room.

  Isabella turned back to Henry. He had returned to lighting candles and she knew he intended to paint.

  “Henry,” she said, dismayed by the rigid set of his shoulders. He ignored her, the dark expression on his face betraying the depth of his troubles. “Henry, don’t shut me out. Talk to me.”

  But Henry would not speak to her. Marie returned with Jack and Belle’s nursemaid, as promised, and the baby occupied Isabella, feeding and settling her down. Jack, too, wanted to know everything that had happened, and it was the early hours of the morning before she made her way back to Henry’s studio.

  He was painting, that intense concentration she had not seen for some time surrounding him. He’d been less obsessive about his work of late, the draw of spending time with her and Marie enough to make him break away, albeit for short periods of time.

  “Come to bed, Henry,” she said, laying her hand on his arm. To her dismay, he shook her off, his face a mask. “Are you angry with me?” she asked, hurt and troubled by his reaction after the events of last night. There was a pause, the paintbrush hovering over the canvas before he gave a slight shake of his head, and then he returned to his work, and Isabella knew she’d not coax another word from him tonight.

  Exhaustion tugged at her mind and body, the fears and excitements of the evening dulling her ability to find a way through to him. So, she reached up and kissed his cheek, and left him to his work.

  ***

  “Don’t worry so,” Jack said as they sat at the breakfast table two days later. “You know how he gets when he works.”

  Isabella shook her head. “This is different, Jack, I know it is.” She remembered the first day she had sat for him in the orange dress. He’d painted for several hours, and then dragged her up the stairs to make love to her, unable to concentrate any longer as heat simmered between them. Now Isabella felt as though she had disappeared, as though she only existed on the canvas, as Henry would not see her. “He’s upset.”

  “Well, after the other night …” Jack shrugged, frowning into his mug. “Hardly surprising, I suppose.”

  Isabella nodded, knowing Jack was right, it was something to do with that evening, but what?

  “Perhaps leave him be for a day or two,” Jack said, his tone sympathetic. “Maybe he’ll snap out of it on his own. Seems to me sometimes he needs time to think things over with no distractions. He’ll come around.”

  Except Henry didn’t come around. Isabella sat for him, wearing the dress he so loved, though he didn’t ask her to. He observed her as he worked, as dispassionate as if he regarded a bowl of fruit, all the heat and love and passion shuttered up somewhere Isabella could not reach it. Days turned to a week, and Isabella’s worries only increased.

  It was late at night, a full ten days since Treedle had come for Marie. Isabella lay in bed, alone, fear in her heart that whatever had hurt Henry had changed him for good. She assured herself that wasn’t true, but the idea lingered, making tears prickle at her eyes.

  “Enough, Henry,” she said, the words determined as she swung her legs out of bed. She checked on Marie, who she’d fed not long ago, and seeing the baby fast asleep, she tiptoed downstairs, leaving her door open in case Marie should wake.

  The door to Henry’s studio opened with ease, nothing to announce her presence, and for a while she stood and studied her handsome, troubled husband. His beard had grown thick again, and she could see he’d lost weight. He had touched none of the food they’d brought. He’d left the cakes she’d made, too. That he was locked in misery showed in the shadows under his eyes, the defeated air that clung to him, where before when he worked, he’d blazed with energy.

  She walked towards him, her footsteps silent. As she grew closer, Isabella noted the work he’d done was almost all the room behind where she’d sat. He had made little progress on her figure. Her heart ached with fear and longing. Had Henry changed his mind about her? Had she done something that night to make him think about her differently? Treedle, perhaps, or his men, the things they’d said about her … Had he heard something?

  Isabella swallowed down her own misery, refusing to allow Henry to run from her any longer. If he didn’t love her anymore, she didn’t know how she would live with it, but she would not ignore the truth and not know why or what had happened.

  “Henry,” she said, her voice low, filled with sadness. There was
the briefest pause in his work as he registered her voice, but that was all. She walked up behind him, wrapping her arms about his waist, her head against his back. “Henry, please. Please, love. I miss you so much.” His body was rigid with tension beneath her touch, but he carried on painting. “Henry, I’m unhappy,” she said, her voice wavering now. “You’re making me unhappy.”

  His arms dropped to his sides, his breathing picking up. She could feel his heart as it hammered in his chest, his distress and panic obvious, though he said nothing. He dropped to his knees, startling her, and threw his brush away from him in fury, putting his head in his hands.

  “Henry!” Isabella sat beside him, trying to hold him. “Henry talk to me, please,” she begged, as her emotions ran out of control and tears gathered. “Did someone say something to you? Did they say something about me? Don’t you love me anymore?” Anguish coloured the last question, her tears falling unchecked now.

  Henry made a sound of such pain that she gasped, watching as he shook his head, and he clutched his arms about himself. It tore Isabella in two, needing to know what had hurt him so. She laid her body over his back, holding him, kissing him wherever she could reach, stroking his hair.

  “Do you want me to go?” she asked him through her tears, holding her breath until he shook his head with such vehemence she knew it wasn’t what he wanted. “Marie misses you.” The words struck him hard and Henry sobbed, the sound so heart-rending that she almost wished to take the words back.

  “Henry, talk to me!” Isabella pleaded, the words almost shouted as desperation clutched at her heart. “I can’t let you shut me out like this. Tell me why, dammit!”

  He stilled, his breathing harsh as he forced himself to calm. With anguish, she saw that tears still streaked his face as he sat with his head bowed.

  “Talk to me,” she said, her voice softer now. “Please, Henry. I love you, so much. It’s killing me to see you in such pain.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t deserve it,” he mumbled, almost incoherent.

  “Don’t deserve what?” Isabella demanded, perplexed and wanting to understand.

  “You. Marie, anything!” Henry shouted as he pushed to his feet, anger rolling off him in waves now.

  Isabella scrambled up, rushing after him and grasping his arm, afraid he’d run off into the woods if she let him go. “Whatever are you talking about?” Her own words were angry now as she wondered who had put such thoughts in his head.

  “I’m a coward!” She stilled as he roared the words, his fists clenched. “I hid in the dark while you … you and Marie …” His voice broke and he turned away from her, his arms clutched about himself.

  “Oh, Henry,” she said, wondering how he could think such a thing. “You did nothing of the sort.”

  He spun around, his eyes wild now, pointing a finger toward the woods. “I was there, cowering in that hut when I heard the shots, and even then … even then …” He stopped, his throat working. “I was scared, Isabella.”

  “Henry Barbour,” Isabella shouted, her voice hard and angry now as she grasped his arms, wishing she had force enough to shake him. “Listen to me, and you listen good. You saved me from drowning when you might easily have been swept away yourself. You didn’t even know me then!” she exclaimed, her fury growing with the moment. “You half killed Treedle and his men when they came for Marie, and you didn’t stay in the dark, Henry. You were frightened but you came for us. You came, and you defended us, and you put yourself in danger to do so.”

  He shook his head, avoiding her eyes, refusing her comfort, so Isabella took his head in her hands, forcing him to look at her. “If you aren’t frightened, you can’t be brave, Henry. You … are the bravest person I’ve ever met. I don’t know what you face every day, my love, but you do face it, and with such generosity of spirit. I love and admire you for that.”

  He looked up at her then, a little hope in his eyes though sorrow still lurked. “I should have confronted Treedle again,” he said, guilt lacing the words. “Not Lord DeMorte.”

  Isabella made a noise of amusement, shaking her head. “If you’d have shown up, the man would have likely run to France or expired on the spot, after your first meeting.” Henry frowned, and she sighed, taking his hand and putting it to her face. “These hands were made to create beauty,” she said, turning her face and kissing his palm. “Not for violence. I know you would defend us if we required it.” Henry opened his mouth, a stubborn look in his eyes, but Isabella pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. “You’ve proved that.” She glared at him, daring him to contradict her, and he let out a breath. “You’re everything I want or need. I wouldn’t change a thing about you, other than those things that make you unhappy, and that’s for your sake alone, not mine. You are perfect to me, just as you are.”

  “You had to defend yourself,” he said, his voice low. “To defend me. You had to take a gun and …”

  “Yes, I did,” Isabella retorted, angry with him now. “Do you have a problem with that, because I don’t.”

  Henry’s expression grew cautious, a little startled by her vehemence.

  Isabella let out a breath, exasperated now. “Let me save you, too, Henry. At least once in a while,” she said, struck again with the urge to shake sense into his massive frame. “It’s only fair.”

  He made a sound of surprise that might have been a laugh, and Isabella sighed with relief, hoping she’d drawn him out of the dark place that night had trapped him in. She moved closer, putting her arms around him, and this time he held her in return.

  “I want to go out with you, Isabella. I want to go out into the world with you and Maire, but ... but I can’t.”

  Isabella smiled and looked up at him. “I believe you can do anything you want, if you want it enough.” His expression remained doubtful and she raised up on her toes, pressing a lingering kiss to his mouth. “But that is something we can talk about. For now…” She kissed him again and then moved back, undoing the tie that fastened her nightgown and allowing it to fall from her shoulders, a puddle of white cotton at her feet. “For now, I need you with me, close to me. I’ve missed you so much.”

  He pulled her into his arms, his grasp on her hard and desperate as she realised that he needed this more than she did. Isabella clung to him, pulling his shirt from his trousers, sliding her hands underneath to touch his skin.

  To her dismay, he pushed her hands away, a look of regret in his eyes. “I haven’t washed in days,” he said, as he rubbed at his beard.

  Isabella chuckled, astonished that he’d believe such a thing would put her off at this moment and after all they’d been through. “As if I care,” she retorted, sounding a little frantic and tugging at his neck, urging his head back down. “Now shut up and kiss me.”

  Chapter 21

  “Wherein our hero is set a tricky task.”

  Isabella turned onto her side, watching Henry as he slept. It had been days since he’d broken down, and things were returning to what they’d been. That it had shaken his confidence was obvious, though, and she had tried and tried to think of a way to help him.

  She reached out, pushing his dark hair from his eyes. It needed cutting, his beard still needed shaving, too, yet she’d told him to leave it for now. There was something a little wild about him like this, something raw and powerful that made her blood heat.

  A warm breeze fluttered through the curtains, all the windows opened wide as the heatwave continued. With a smile, she pulled back the sheet that covered him, admiring that powerful body and wondering at the gentleness of the man that possessed it. She sighed as Marie stirred, soft little mewling noises that would become fractious at any moment. How did the girl always know when Isabella’s thoughts followed such a path? Isabella sat up, swinging her legs out of the bed. The baby could not need feeding yet, it was only half an hour since the last time. She tiptoed over to the cradle and wrinkled her nose. Ah, that was the problem.

  Isabella went to reach for her daughter w
hen something stopped her. The idea caught and held, and she turned to stare at the bed where Henry slept. He still hadn’t picked his daughter up, despite the fact that Isabella knew he longed to. With a prayer she was doing the right thing, she ducked her head, pressing a kiss to Marie’s downy head.

  “Forgive me,” she whispered. “It’s only for a little while. Papa will look after you. He’ll have to,” she murmured with a smile, as she crept from the room, snatching up her wrapper as she went.

  Isabella hurried to the kitchen where Jack was making breakfast.

  “Jack,” she said, her voice urgent. “Quick, we need to hide.”

  “What?” Jack replied, staring at her as if she’d gone mad. “What the devil for?”

  “Because Marie needs changing,” she said, tugging at his sleeve now. “And she’s going to lose her temper if someone doesn’t do it very soon.”

  Jack stared at her, none the wiser, and Isabella rolled her eyes at him.

  “If I’m not here, and you’re not here, who will do it, Jack?”

  A slow smile curved over Jack’s mouth as he returned an approving expression. “That’s crafty, that is,” he said, chuckling.

  Isabella frowned at him, suddenly anxious. “You don’t think …”

  “No,” Jack said, his voice firm as he ushered her out of the kitchen and towards the door that led to the cellars. “I think you’ve struck gold. Henry won’t let the poor babe suffer. He doesn’t have it in him. He’ll figure it out.”

  Isabella sighed and nodded, and they hurried down the stairs to hide in the dark of the cellar.

  ***

  Henry rubbed his eyes, yawning and scratching at his beard as he woke to the sound of Marie’s protests. He blinked, surprised to find the curtains opened and the sun streaming in, but no sign of Isabella.

  “Isabella?” He frowned as there was no response and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Where’s your mama?” he asked Marie, smiling at her over the side of the cradle. She stopped crying, mollified for a moment by the sight of his face. The desire to reach out and stroke the soft fuzz of hair on her head, to allow her tiny hand to grasp his finger, caught at his heart, but fear still held him back. She was so tiny, so delicate, and he was big and clumsy, too inept to be of any real use to her.