She obeyed quickly and as she was brushing it he came up behind her and fastened her gown. When he was done, she thanked him, smiling timidly as he gazed down at her, and both the day and her heart grew considerably lighter.
In the several days that followed she spent most of her time in their room, knowing that George was somewhere near. She saw her husband in the mornings when he rose to bathe and dress, and they would descend to breakfast together. He would then leave and be gone until late at night, long after she had retired. He always came in quietly and disrobed in the dark, being careful not to awaken her, but each time she would rouse for a few moments and feel secure in knowing he was back.
It was the fifth morning hence and the usual routine had become relaxed, almost second hand. His dour rising temper was softened by the hot bath each morning and he would even sit still for long moments while she scrubbed his back, a dear concession indeed. These early interludes were gentle and peaceful for Heather. She enjoyed the almost silent companionship they shared. An occasional spoken word and these small services performed one unto the other started her day easily and made them bearable. Even Brandon proved tractable, and on parting after breakfast below he would place a husbandly peck upon her brow and leave about his affairs.
This late October morning began the same, and with her hand upon his arm they went down to the common room to have their meal. He seated her at the familiar table in the corner and placed himself beside her. As went the rote, the bovine mistress of the inn yawningly brought them French coffee to sip before their meal. Brandon swallowed his black while Heather heavily creamed and sugared the vile brew. Soon the morning’s fare was placed before them. A large bowl of cold pork pudding and two ample plates of potatoes hashed with eggs and ham comprised the meal. There was also soft warm bread with newly-churned butter and honey, rich and mellow, to spread upon it.
Heather faced the pudding and plate and shuddered as she pushed them away. She chose instead a small crust of bread to spread and nibble. The coffee served to soothe her uneasy stomach though she was not fond of the drink, and she sipped it slowly.
“Your fitting is set for this afternoon,” Brandon said, breaking his bread. “I’ll be here to take you at two hours after noon. Ask George to have a carriage waiting for us.”
She murmured an obedient answer as he glanced at her and bent her head over her cup of coffee when his gaze caressed her casually. Her composure always slipped a little when his eyes fell on her, leaving her feverish and awkward under his careless regard. When he was near she usually found her tongue tied and intelligent answers came hard.
She sat quietly as he ate, watching him covertly. He was clothed in dark blue, and the high, stiff collar of his coat was embroidered with gold thread. His shirt and stock, almost painfully white, were freshly donned and held only the lightest hint of cologne. He was impeccably groomed, as always, and so handsome he made a woman feel weak just looking at him. Heather realized with some surprise that even she was not unaffected.
“I tore the cuff of the shirt I wore yesterday,” he said, pushing his plate from him and wiping his lips. “It would please me if you would mend it. George is not very talented with a needle.” He turned her way with a raised eyebrow. “I assume you are.”
She smiled and blushed, pleased that he should need her services. “Needlework is one of the first things every English girl learns.”
“All prim and proper,” he muttered, half to himself.
“What?” she asked hesitantly. She feared he was being snide with her again, and she wondered why he should lose patience with her after these days of tranquility.
But he laughed softly and reached up to tease one of the curls lying over her shoulder. She had washed her hair the day before and today had pulled it back and caught it with a ribbon, allowing loose ringlets to fall down her back. The curls were too much of a temptation for him to leave untouched.
“Nothing, my sweet. I was just thinking how well you are learned in the ways of a woman.”
She felt that he was making fun of her, but she was unsure and there was no way of knowing.
The front door of the inn opened and a tall, young man in braided tricorn and blue coat entered the inn. His gaze settled on Brandon, and he crossed the room, doffing his hat. As he approached Brandon looked up, then rose from his chair.
“Good morn’n, suh,” the young man drawled. He dipped his head slightly to Heather. “Morn’n, ma’am.”
Brandon introduced the man as James Boniface, the purser of the Fleetwood. As he presented her, Heather noticed that Mr. Boniface showed not a flicker of surprise when she was identified as his captain’s wife. There was no doubt he had already been told of the sudden marriage. In what degree of detail she did not know, but she hoped he was left ignorant of most of the facts and most certainly the date the wedding took place though that indeed would be pleading for a miracle. When she began to show her pregnancy there would be much finger counting and the men of the Fleetwood would wonder if their captain and she had been lovers before their marriage.
Mr. Boniface smiled broadly. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”
She acknowledged his greeting, and Brandon motioned him to take a seat. “Is it too much to hope that you bring good news from the docks this morning hour, or is there some matter in dire need of my attention?”
Mr. Boniface shook his head and grinned, settling across the table from them as he accepted the proffered coffee. Brandon resumed his seat and leaned back, propping an arm on the back of Heather’s chair.
“You may rest at ease, suh,” Mr. Boniface assured him. “All goes well. A day from the morrow the slip for the Charleston stores will be open for us, and we can birth and load. The manager says since it’s a heavy rush with winter almost on the northern sea, we’ll be a full six days to lifting iron and setting sail. It’s the best we can expect with a dearth of seasoned hands about the docks.”
Brandon breathed a sigh of relief. “I’d nearly yielded hope at ever leaving this port. The hands must be sought out and we must see to the ship. It’s too long we’ve been here. They’ll be ready to go home.”
“Yes, suh,” Mr. Boniface eagerly agreed.
Heather could not share the young man’s enthusiasm. She experienced dread and uncertainty instead. She thought no more of what the man might know. This was her home. It was not easy leaving it and going to a strange land. But in her husband’s voice she heard a tone that was lighter and warmer than she had ever heard before, and she knew he was more than ready to be going home.
The two men left and she went again to the room to stay the hours her husband was gone. At her request, George fetched her a needle and thread and sewing scissors, then she set about mending her husband’s shirt, a chore she found strangely comforting. With his shirt in her lap and his baby moving within her, she felt a soft contentment and for a few moments very much like a wife. She paused in her task, thoughtful for a moment, and her peace of mind faded. She must soon pack her possessions and leave what had been her home for a perilous voyage to a new land. She faced a great unknown with a man sworn to vengeance on her. She would bear her child among unfamiliar people who might well be resentful at her very presence. She would be like a stripling oak, torn from the forest and planted in a new land. She had no hint of whether she would grow and flourish or wither and die among strangers.
Tears threatened to spill, but she wiped them away and raised her eyes to the window. She rose and went to stand before it and gazed out upon the city she had known. She thought of the shame and the grief she would leave behind and her head lifted higher. For so long now, each day presented her with almost insurmountable challenges that seemed to tear her self-confidence to shreds. At least this was a clean unknown and if God gave her courage, which she needed desperately, and strength, she might shape it into something better. She must deal with each day as it came and trust to the future to be kind.
She returned to the mending, no
longer content, but with a new strength forming in her, just as the child formed.
Heather finished the shirt and placed it neatly folded on the bureau. George had brought her a small lunch earlier and afterward she had tidied herself for the outing. She now waited for her husband’s return. George came in briefly to report that the carriage had arrived and was waiting in the courtyard. Somewhere in the city a bell tolled twice and as its echoes died away, she heard Brandon’s voice from the street below. Soon she heard his footsteps on the stairs, and the door opened. She smiled as he entered and greeted him warmly.
“I see that you’re ready,” he said gruffly, frowning slightly as he gave her a sidelong glance. He was carrying a gray velvet cloak over his arm and he came to her, lifting it from his arm.
She shrugged. “There wasn’t much to delay me, Brandon,” she murmured.
“Then here,” he said, handing her the cloak. “The air has a chill today and you’ll need a cloak. I thought this would suit you better than mine.”
She took the cloak from him, thinking it a garment of his. But as she spread it about her shoulders, she realized it was a woman’s cloak, and very costly. She had never possessed one so fine before, not even when she lived with her father. She touched it, feeling rather in awe of it, and smoothed the fabric over her skirt.
“Oh, Brandon,” she gasped at last. “It’s so lovely.”
Still frowning he reached up to fasten the silken frogs at her throat, but she was most intent upon the garment and wouldn’t stand still in her excitement. She bent from side to side, trying to see it and finally drew an amused chuckle from Brandon.
“Hold still, you little squirrel, and let me do these,” he grinned. “It’s harder than trying to harness a bee to get these fastened.”
She giggled happily and bent her head to look over his hands at the fine cloak. The top of her head brushed his chest and a sweet fragrance rose from her hair.
“And now I can’t even see what I’m doing,” he teased softly.
A fit of laughter seized her as she tilted her head up. Her gaiety was presented in full countenance, and a smile softened his face as he enjoyed her obvious pleasure with the unexpected gift. His eyes darkened. Unthinkingly, Heather had placed a hand upon his chest, and the contact was electric. Their eyes met and held and the smiles faded. His hands seemed to finish their task of their own accord, then as if moved by some other force, they slid over her shoulders to her back, almost pressing her to him. Heather suddenly felt very weak. Her legs began to tremble and breathing was almost impossible. But still the green eyes held her prisoner, and in the room time seemed to hang suspended. Then a whinny and a shout from the courtyard shattered the spell. Brandon withdrew his hands and mentally shook himself. He smiled again and taking her hand, placed it within the crook of his arm.
“Come, sweet,” he urged softly. “We must hurry.”
Turning toward the door, he guided her from the room and down the stairs and out to the waiting carriage. It was a small livery, pulled by only one horse, and as they approached George apologized for not finding a roomier and more comfortable one.
“It seems the bigger liveries were taken, cap’n,” he said.
Brandon waved his apologies aside and handed Heather in. “There’s no need of a larger one, George. This will suffice. We’ll be gone several hours I would expect, so have a table set in our room for dinner. Also there’s a matter that needs be tended. My wife is in need of a sea chest. Find her an ample one and have it taken upstairs.” He drew a small pouch from his pocket and tossed it to the servant. “A nice one, George.”
The man grinned and bobbed his head. “Aye, cap’n.”
Brandon climbed in and took his seat as Heather carefully held her cloak aside. With a jerk and a lurch the carriage started off, and the stiff-sprung vehicle jolted its way through the crowded streets. Rather than be thrown about between Brandon and the wall, Heather chose to lean against her husband, and at sight of his usually neat lapel standing up, she reached up and smoothed it into place. Brandon accepted her attention passively and for the remainder of the journey sat silent and pensive. He was acutely aware of her presence beside him, the soft curves of her body pressed ever so lightly against him. The fresh clean scent of soap and rose water that clung to her filled his senses and set his mind to spinning.
Madame Fontaineau met them at the door of the shop with a gay burst of chatter and led them immediately to the fitting room.
“Everything is going well, Captain Birmingham,” she assured him. “Much better than I had expected. There will be no problem finishing the clothes on time.”
“It is well then, madame,” Brandon said, sitting in the proffered chair. “We sail a week from today.”
The woman laughed. “Don’t worry, monsieur. I do not intend to see you sail without clothes for the madame.”
As the woman began sorting through the basted gowns, Heather moved to Brandon and turned around, pulling her hair out of his way so he could unfasten her. A strange expression crossed his face as he lifted his hands to her gown, and his fingers were a little clumsier than usual. She stepped out of the gown, and Madame Fontaineau helped her into the first dress to be fitted.
“It is fortunate,” the woman chirped, “that the styles are as they are. You will have no difficulty wearing them for several months with the waistlines high as they are, and we are leaving a good seam in some to allow for your last months.”
Brandon’s brows drew downward suddenly, and his eyes fell to his wife’s abdomen. For a few moments today he had forgotten her condition and the circumstances dealing with their marriage.
“Do you think this gown will meet with your approval, monsieur?” Madame Fontaineau asked of the next dress. “The color is most attractive, eh?”
Brandon moved his eyes down his wife’s slender body and then up again, hardly noticing the rose-pink gown that clothed her. He murmured an agreeable answer and looked away.
The gown was removed a short time later and Heather spoke with the woman quietly about the fitting as Brandon watched her furtively. The strap of her shift had fallen over her shoulder but she seemed not to have noticed. From under his brow he stared at the full curve of her breast and the smooth skin of her shoulder, and he stirred in his chair, realizing he was becoming physically affected by the sight.
“Oh, this black gown is my favorite, monsieur,” the couturière piped several minutes later as Heather stood bedecked in another basted gown. “Who would have thought black could be so elegant but you, monsieur. The madame looks most radiant, does she not, monsieur?”
Brandon grunted a reply and moved in his chair, beginning to perspire. Just a while earlier at the inn he had been precariously close to breaking his promises with no thought whatsoever of them. With little encouragement he would have forgotten his pride, his honor, and allowed his word to mean nothing. He would have picked Heather up and carried her to the bed, and no one and nothing would have interfered with his making love to her. Now, sorely aggravated watching her dress and undress, he was about at his limits. He couldn’t stand much more. His pride and his passions were waging a terrible war, and the outcome was most uncertain.
Scowling, he brushed a fleck of lint from his coat and looked about the room. He did not watch when the dress was removed again.
If they didn’t soon finish he was going to prove himself no better than an animal. He would need nothing more than the partial privacy of the carriage to show Heather that he was. And it would do her little good to protest, the way he was feeling now, so wrought up inside it felt as if his vitals were being wrenched from him; and she would just hate him that much more. She seemed so damned pleased with the present arrangement, she would probably fight like a cat if he even suggested she’d have to let him make love to her. After her first experience who could blame her? But he didn’t want it to be like that again. He would have to be gentle with her, and show her he could give her pleasure too.
Several mor
e gowns were tried on, much to his discomfort, and he cursed himself for buying so many. His scowl grew ominous and his replies to Madame Fontaineau shorter. Heather and the dressmaker both cast wary glances in his direction.
“Monsieur is perhaps not pleased with the gowns?” the woman inquired hesitantly.
“The work is perfectly satisfactory, madame,” he replied stiffly. “It is the everlasting puttering that sets my nerves on edge.”
Madame Fontaineau breathed a little sigh of relief. He was just growing weary of the tedious fittings, as any man would.
Brandon looked away again and shifted his position in the chair. At least the gown Heather wore now covered her bosom and he was safe for a while if he chose to glance back at her. She was standing there so innocently, wondering why he was agitated. Didn’t she know what she did to a man? Couldn’t she guess? Just because he had given his word never to touch her, it didn’t mean that he wasn’t affected by the sight of her in a shift that left nothing to the imagination and gapped away from her bosom every time she bent over.
Madame helped Heather into another gown and instantly began a stream of rapid French. The gown’s bodice was so tight that Heather’s breasts swelled more than generously over the low neckline and seemed eager to overflow. In his chair Brandon squirmed and swore silently. A cold sweat broke from his brow and the muscle in his jaw began to tic.
“Ah-h, that Marie!” Madame Fontaineau spat angrily. “She will never learn to sew. Or perhaps she thinks all women are flat like she, oui? Or perhaps la petite madame is a child instead of a woman full grown. She must see her mistake. I must show her.”
The woman flounced out of the tiny room, leaving Heather barely able to breathe in the pin-riddled dress. She moved her arm and winced with pain.
“Oh, Brandon, will you see?” she pleaded miserably, moving to him. “I feel like a pincushion. The girl must have left all her pins in the dress. I can’t breathe without one sticking me.”
She held her arm out of the way, and Brandon paled as she moved guilelessly between his knees. There was an ugly scratch marring the white skin of her underarm, and a long vicious-looking pin protruded from the material at the side of her breast, but the head of the pin was inside her gown and it couldn’t be freed from without. Most reluctantly he reached up and slid two fingers inside her bodice against the soft warm flesh of her breast as she stood obediently motionless and watched him with trusting eyes. His gaze caught hers for a second, and amazingly his face flushed red.
The Flame and the Flower Page 18