Flaming June

by Emma V. Leech

  Henry sat, cross-legged at her feet, silent and still other than the movement of his hand and his eyes. He’d not spoken a word to her since her reaction to his drawing the week before and she knew he was punishing her. Though she’d tried to speak to him, he refused to answer, and he wouldn’t show her his work.

  Isabella vacillated between frustration, anger, and, to her own surprise, sadness. She became ever more curious about him as the days passed, and his stubborn silence vexed her.

  He’d held to his word and kept himself clean and shaved and well-dressed, something she was regretting demanding of him. It was far easier to think of him as dim-witted and peculiar when he looked like half-man, half-bear. Sitting at her feet and looking like a fallen angel in the fire-light, his eyes so full of softness and warmth, it became hard to remember just how strange he was.

  She pushed the furniture catalogue away and looked back at the fashion plates Jack had supplied her. The list of her choices sat by her elbow, her only decision remaining the fabrics to choose. The swatches scattered the table and Isabella stared at the brighter fabrics with something like longing. There was an emerald green, a bright sunny yellow, and a fiery vivid orange. They called to her from a sea of pastel pinks and safe muted colours. There were plenty of blues this season, at least, and she’d chosen several gowns in various shades. She refused to acknowledge that Henry’s compliment to her eyes had anything to do with her choices.

  On hearing the rustle of paper, she looked around to find Henry pulling another clean sheet from the pile on the floor beside him. Suddenly she found she wanted to speak to him. Jack had said he would likely cut her off for weeks, months, even, as punishment for lying to him. Why that bothered her so, she didn’t know, but it did.

  “Henry.”

  He stilled for a fraction of a second, but then carried on as though she’d not spoken.

  “Henry, I’m sorry.” The words hung in the air and Isabella realised she’d never apologised before. Never apologise, never explain. That was one of her mother’s many rules of life. Well, Isabella didn’t have to abide by those rules now. In fact, she felt determined to break as many of them as possible. “I am,” she added as he still didn’t react. “I was crying,” she admitted, feeling foolish talking when he was ignoring her, but determined to get a reaction. “I denied it because you looked upset and I worried about making you feel worse.” Henry picked up his pencil, moving it to the paper, though she believed he was paying attention now. “The truth is, your drawing made me cry. It was so beautiful, Henry, and … and I couldn’t believe anyone could see me like that.”

  He looked up and Isabella’s breath caught. There was an expectant look in his eyes, watchful, waiting, and she knew if she wanted forgiveness, she needed to continue.

  “I’m not a very nice person, you see, and … and you made me look so lovely, I …” Isabella swallowed and shook her head, sucking in a breath to steady her emotions. “I’d like to be like the woman you drew. She looked … she looked like a good person. She looked happy.”

  Henry frowned, puzzlement in his eyes. “I drew you,” he said.

  Isabella laughed and shook her head. “You drew me sleeping.” He frowned harder, and she smiled at him, her expression rueful. “I suspect I’m easier to like when I’m asleep.”

  He didn’t laugh at her joke, but looked troubled instead. “I like you now, and you’re not asleep.” He put his paper aside, moving to sit up on his knees beside her. “Are … are you unhappy?” he asked, such concern in his voice that Isabella felt quite taken aback. Why should he care if she was happy or not?

  She shrugged, unsure of how to answer such a question as a lump formed in her throat. Isabella turned away from the apprehension in his eyes, staring down at the table, scattered with patterns and fabrics. His hand taking hers made her jump.

  Henry snatched his own hand away, startled by her reaction, and she smiled at him, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. You startled me,” she said, wondering why she was apologising. It wasn’t like she wanted to encourage him to touch her.

  He reached out again, and she allowed him to take her hand. There was pleasure and curiosity in his eyes as he placed her hand against his, palm on palm. He traced the outline, each of her fingers, so much smaller than his large hand. “I’ll make you happy,” he said, his voice low and filled with sincerity. Isabella felt breath catch at the expression in his eyes as he looked up. “I’d like to,” he added, that dazzling smile adding force to his words.

  Before she could think of an appropriate reply, if such a thing existed in the circumstances, he had moved away, returning to his work. Isabella stared at him, bewildered and unsettled, but he was absorbed now. He didn’t speak another word for the rest of the evening.

  Chapter 8

  “Wherein Isabella sees Henry for the first time.”

  The decorators were due to arrive to prepare the rooms, emptying them of furniture. Isabella found herself torn between excitement at seeing her vision come to life and dismay at having to spend a large part of the day outside.

  Her breath clouded before her, little white puffs on the chill air as she stamped her feet. Wrapped up warm with as many layers as she could fit over her, she still felt chilly. Henry picked up his heavy bag, full of drawing supplies and a picnic, and slung it over his shoulder. She noted with surprise he carried a blanket and a cushion tucked under his arm, too. Had Jack given him those, she wondered, or had he thought to bring them himself?

  Jack would take her order to the dressmaker tomorrow when he returned to Bath. For now, she’d had to make do with the clothes and items still in her room. An old pair of lady’s boots discovered in the back of a wardrobe had helped. Of finely tooled leather, the workmanship was exquisite, if old-fashioned, but a little too big. Her feet were already cold though, and she huffed with irritation as Henry strode off down the garden, towards the woodland. He clearly expected her to keep up.

  She did her best for the first half an hour, but the woodland made walking far more difficult, and Isabella rested, leaning against a tree and puffing hard. Henry didn’t appear to have noticed, but she was indignant now and lowered herself to sit on a fallen trunk. She’d go back home if he didn’t turn and wait for her. Her back ached, now, and as she sat, the baby gave her a swift kick.

  “Don’t you start,” she muttered, smiling as she smoothed her hands over her stomach.

  As she looked up, she noticed Henry turn, having realised she was no longer following. He dropped the bag and the blanket, his face filled with alarm as he ran back to her and knelt at her feet.

  “What?” he demanded, eyes full of concern. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” she said, her voice tart. “But I can’t keep up with you when you stride off like that. I’m carrying a baby, remember. It’s tiring.”

  With remorse shining in his eyes, Henry reached out, placing his large hand on her stomach. Isabella yelped with surprise at the intimacy of it and shoved his hand away.

  “Don’t do that,” she said, breathless and shocked.

  Henry folded his arms, his hands tucked under his armpits, looking mortified. “It’s all right?”

  Isabella’s heart softened at the fear she saw in his eyes as she realised he’d been acting out of concern, not taking liberties. “Yes,” she said, feeling rather awful now. “Yes, Henry. It wasn’t your fault. I’m afraid you must go a lot slower, though, and not too far.”

  He nodded and settled himself down, crossing his legs. He had taken her at her word. Isabella laughed, amused.

  “I can go further than this,” she said, smiling at him. “I just needed to rest for a moment. I’m fine now.”

  She watched as he frowned, giving her a searching look, followed by a tentative smile. “Sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  They continued at a much slower pace, and Isabella was struck by how attentive he was now. He helped her over difficult patches and ensured they stopped if she seemed breathl
ess. It seemed he didn’t always understand what she needed, but if she pointed it out, he was willing to bend for her. Up to a point, at least.

  At last they arrived at their destination, and despite the cold, Isabella discovered she was glad she’d come.

  It was a beautiful spot with far-reaching views across the countryside. The only downside was the clear view it gave of the river. Isabella shuddered as she remembered, and then started as Henry took her hand, giving her fingers a squeeze.

  “We won’t go down there,” Henry said, releasing her fingers again and gesturing to the river with concern in his eyes. “It’s calm here, though. Quiet,” he added. “No waves.”

  Isabella frowned, not understanding what waves he was referring to, but realising that he’d read her distress with perfect accuracy, without her saying a word.

  “Thank you,” she replied, watching as he set about collecting wood for a fire and ringing it with stones before he reached for the tinder box. He was most efficient, quite at home in his surroundings, and within a short time, a merry fire was blazing. He arranged the blanket with care and placed the cushion against a tree to support her back. Isabella settled down, quite comfortable, bearing in mind they were in the heart of the woodland.

  She watched him arrange his own supplies before picking up his pencil and staring at her, tilting his head as he looked at her with that penetrating gaze.

  “Don’t you ever get bored with drawing the same thing, over and over?” Isabella asked him, wondering how long he’d keep this up for. Not that she minded now. She was becoming rather used to being observed. It was actually quite flattering.

  “Not the same thing,” he replied, puzzled by her words, going on his expression. “Changes all the time.”

  Isabella laughed, shaking her head. “But I don’t change that much. You draw me dozens of times in a day. Perhaps my position changes, but nothing else.”

  Henry looked up from his drawing, frowning and shaking his head. “That’s wrong,” he said, staring at her. He looked up at the sky and pointed at the sun. “Your hair is gold in this light, like ripe barley. Last night it was darker, the firelight changed it. It was … it was bronze and gold, with hints of copper. Not the same at all.”

  She stared at him, refusing to acknowledge the pleasure his words gave her. “But, Henry, you are drawing with a grey pencil. The pictures are all grey.” She felt a little smug, like she’d caught him out, but Henry snorted and shook his head. He gave her a pitying look.

  “These are just my preparation drawings,” he said, rolling his eyes now as she raised her eyebrows at him. “I can remember the colour, just as if I were looking at it.” Then he smirked and pulled out a large wooden box from his bag, opening the lid to show an array of water colour brushes and paints. “I will make paint sketches, too, though.”

  “Oh,” she replied, chastened and a little amused to get a set down from him.

  She sighed and sat back, closing her eyes. The fire burned fierce and hot now, thawing out her frozen toes, and a faint brush of warmth from the sun touched her face. It was rather pleasant.

  Isabella dozed as Henry worked. He never seemed to mind how she looked, or ask that she pose for him, just drawing her as she was. As the morning stretched to midday, her stomach gave a growl of protest, however, and she stretched and yawned.

  “I’m hungry. Would you get the picnic, please?”

  Henry ignored her reaching for a new sheet of paper as she’d changed position.

  “Henry,” she said again, her tone a little louder now. “Please, would you stop, I’m hungry.”

  She sighed as he remained unresponsive and got up to fetch it herself. Let him try to draw an empty space. Just as she began to move the baby kicked and she sucked in a breath, clutching at her stomach. That had been the strongest one yet.

  Isabella heard the clatter of a pencil falling and Henry was beside her, wide-eyed.

  “What is it?”

  Isabella let out a rather breathless little laugh. “The baby kicked. It was so strong it took me by surprise.” She gasped as the child repeated the action and she laughed again. “My, it’s lively today,” she exclaimed, grinning at him.

  Henry moved his hand, as if he might touch her again, but then his face fell, and he tucked his hands under his arms. Isabella watched him, seeing his desire to feel the child moving reflected in his eyes. Jack had said he wanted to understand everything, he wasn’t trying to overstep a mark. From the innocent curiosity in his expression, she believed it.

  “Would …” She hesitated, not quite believing she was inviting him herself. “Would you like to feel the baby move?”

  The smile that broke over his face was magical, pure delight, and Isabella could not help but return it.

  “Give me your hand,” she instructed. Isabella focused on that, trying not to look at his face. It would make the moment too intimate, too … too something. She didn’t know what, only that she didn’t trust it.

  His hand was rough, calloused, and as she guided him beneath her pelisse, the sensation of his large, warm palm pressing against her stomach was enough to make her cheeks flush. He waited, his expression rapt, and Isabella thought perhaps the baby would not perform for him. A moment later, it proved her wrong as it kicked again. Henry sucked in a breath, staring at her with wonder. He laughed then, delighted, and Isabella felt a rush of warmth for him.

  Jack was right. Henry needed protecting. No one could react in such a way, with such artless joy, if there was an ounce of malice in them.

  “Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?” he asked, his brown eyes sparkling with interest.

  “I don’t know,” Isabella replied, watching his face. My word, but he was handsome. “A boy, perhaps, the way it kicks.”

  He grinned at her, shaking his head. “No. A girl. I would like a girl,” he said, looking down at her stomach, awed by the prospect. “She’ll be beautiful, like her mother.” Isabella felt her heart kick this time, a strange, fluttering, unnerving sensation. “With hair the colour of ripe barley,” he added. He looked up then, removing his hand from her stomach, and reaching out instead to touch her hair. He coiled a lock around his finger as Isabella held her breath. She didn’t dare move, unsure of what she wanted from the moment. Fear kicked in and she decided she wanted him to stop, but she said nothing, not wanting to hurt his feelings despite her misgivings. “So soft,” he whispered. “Like a yellow ribbon.”

  He looked back at her, then, and perhaps saw something in her eyes, as he dropped his hand, his expression becoming a little guarded.

  “Could we have something to eat now, please?” Isabella asked, her tone gentle, experiencing a sudden sense of regret that he’d withdrawn from her, which was ridiculous. He wasn’t a man in the full sense of the word, despite his beauty. He could never be a real husband. “I think the baby is hungry,” she added with a smile. “It’s hoping Jack put some cake in.”

  His eyes flicked to hers, returning her smile, though it was shy now and a little reserved.

  They ate their picnic in silence, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. Isabella watched, amused at the volume of food Henry could devour in a short space of time. No wonder his bag had been so heavy.

  After lunch, Henry was gracious enough to allow her to stretch her legs before he returned to work. This time, Isabella lay down on the thick rug, and tucked the cushion beneath her stomach.

  “I never realised being with child was so exhausting,” she said, smothering a yawn. Despite having dozed on and off for most of the morning, she felt sleepy. With the fire warming her face and the winter sun at her back, she sighed and settled herself for a nap.

  What seemed to her moments later, she awoke to find Henry crouching over her.

  “Time to go home,” he said as she blinked in surprise.

  “It is?” Henry helped her to sit up and she noticed the sun had moved around, the air a little chillier than before.

  “It will get colder now,” he said, and she
realised he’d already packed up his work and the remnants of their lunch. “Need to get you home. Mustn’t catch a chill,” he said, his voice serious.

  Isabella nodded, touched by his concern, and allowed him to escort her home.

  Chapter 9

  “Wherein hasty words bring pain and the beauty of art stirs an anxious heart.”

  Isabella stared at the fabric swatches in her hand. Although Jack had remained tight-lipped about the state of Henry’s financial affairs, he said they’d get whatever she needed. According to Jack, Henry wanted her to have whatever she wanted, and she wasn’t to worry about the cost.

  The trouble was she didn’t know if he was just being generous and she was pushing his finances, or if this was a drop in the ocean. She’d written a list of things she couldn’t do without, but … the bright emerald fabric called to her. It was hardly appropriate, to be wearing such bold colours after her fall from grace, however, and it wasn’t as if she was going anywhere.

  It was late now, the fire in the parlour burning low. The decorators would move in here once her bedroom was done, but for now it was peaceful. Jack was pretending to read some sporting journal, though his eyes were closed, and Henry was drawing her.

  He’d left his clean paper on the table, and got up to reach for another sheet, when his attention fell upon the fabric swatches. She watched as he reached for them, his thumb testing each piece of material. He picked up the green one and his eyes lifted to hers, considering. He set that swatch aside and smiled as he picked up a vibrant orange one she would never dare wear.

  “Get this one,” he said, a note of command in his voice she’d only heard once or twice before.

  “I can’t wear that, Henry,” she protested. “In my condition, and after everything ...” She paused and shook her head. “I’ve no wish to draw attention to myself. Though I love the green,” she added with a wistful note.

  Henry picked up both the orange and the green, considering them for a moment.