Flaming June

by Emma V. Leech

  Belinda faltered, her hand suspended in mid-air.

  “Your wife was telling me what a talented artist you are,” Belinda said, and Isabella could have hugged the woman as Henry’s gaze slid back to her. He gave Isabella a doubtful look, and she smiled at him.

  “I did,” she said, adding with sudden inspiration, “In fact, I was wondering if I might show her the beautiful painting you did for me?”

  Henry frowned, glancing back at Belinda, who had the good sense to keep her mouth shut. He gave a taut nod. “You show her,” he muttered, rather ungraciously, though Isabella saw it for the gift it was.

  “Thank you, Henry,” she said, kissing his cheek.

  He nodded, his expression still rather gruff. He went to let go of her hand, but Isabella held onto him. “Where are you going?” she asked, worried that he might disappear now. She didn’t want him running into the woods or locking himself in his studio for days.

  He rubbed the back of his neck, his desire to be gone plain. “Upstairs.”

  She smiled with relief and kissed his cheek. “All right, then, I’ll see you later.”

  He nodded, casting Belinda one last, mistrustful look, before heading for the stairs.

  Isabella let out a breath. She turned back to Belinda, wondering what she’d made of it, and decided she’d not ask. “Come with me,” she instructed. If anything could explain Henry, it wasn’t her words, it was his work.

  They had ordered a frame for the painting, so for now it still stood on the easel in Henry’s studio. She heard Belinda’s intake of breath as she saw the hundreds of canvases stacked around the huge room, but she knew nothing would prepare her for this.

  “Oh!”

  Isabella studied her guest instead of the painting as Belinda took in the work Henry had done of her, asleep on the forest floor. The woman covered her mouth with her hand, tears glittering at her eyes.

  “My husband doesn’t find people easy to deal with, Lady Winterbourne, but he is very far from mad.”

  “Oh, my dear,” Belinda said, the words sounding rather choked. “I believe you, and it’s clear from his concern, and from this …” She gestured to the painting, wonder in her eyes. “He adores you.”

  Isabella smiled, looking back at the painting as a lump rose in her own throat. “Yes, he does. Heaven alone knows why,” she added, the words rather choked. “God knows I don’t deserve it, or him.”

  To her surprise, Belinda shook her head and threaded her arm through Isabella’s. “Everyone deserves a second chance at happiness. Circumstances make people say and do things they would not if life wasn’t so hard.”

  “Why are you being so kind?” Isabella demanded as the likelihood of crying again became inevitable. “I was beastly to you, and your sister.”

  Belinda shrugged, the kindness in her eyes showing what the marquess had fallen in love with. According to gossip, the bad-tempered, violent, and unpredictable man had become meek as a lamb under his wife’s gentle hand.

  “I understand, you know.” Belinda’s voice was low, confiding as she turned to Isabella. “Edward, he … he suffered in the war. Scars that aren’t visible but that are still raw, even now. It has never left him, and sometimes …” She paused, staring at the painting and taking a breath. “Sometimes the world, and the people in it, they get too much. So, he lashes out in anger, upsetting those who would help him, or … he runs away.” She reached out and grasped Isabella’s hand. “If you ever need a friend, you may depend on me.”

  Isabella’s throat ached with the effort of not crying, but she managed a smile and gripped the woman’s fingers.

  “Thank you, Lady Winterbourne.”

  The woman shook her head. “My name is Belle.”

  “Belle,” Isabella repeated, wondering at what she’d done to deserve such a visit. She’d treated Belle and her sister like the enemy when they’d first met, but then, she’d seen her as a rival. Rightly, as it turned out.

  “I do hope you’re not a Bella,” Belle said, laughing. “We shall get in a muddle.” Her new friend grinned and stared about at Henry’s work. “May I see the rest?” she asked, eyes alight with pleasure. “And … do you think Henry would ever do a formal portrait?”

  Chapter 14

  “Wherein bravery, fear, and joy visit Barcham Place.”

  Isabella stretched under the covers of her bed and sighed. Exhaustion tugged at her eyelids, her eyes gritty and dry. Stomach cramps which had woken her at odd intervals had disturbed her sleep. She still had at least two weeks to endure, though. She was the size of a whale and the effort of carrying the baby about more than she could bear. From the light brightening behind her bedroom curtains, she could tell it was long since time she ought to be up. Her stomach rumbled, clamouring for food as the baby shifted, perhaps agreeing with the sentiment. Not if it involves moving, she thought with a groan.

  For a moment, she dreamed she could smell food, and hot chocolate. Her mouth watered, but she didn’t move until a weight upon the bed startled her. She turned to find Henry stretched out at her side.

  “Henry,” she said, pleased to see him. He’d kept his word after Jack’s talk to him and hadn’t barged into her room unannounced again, until now. This time, she found she didn’t mind.

  “I brought you breakfast,” he said, gesturing to the tray on the table beside her and the source of the pleasant scent of chocolate, perfuming the air.

  “Oh, how lovely,” she said, struggling to sit up.

  Henry got up and opened the curtains and a window, allowing a sultry breeze to filter in. The air was heavy, that strange taut stillness that often preceded thunder an almost tangible presence.

  “It’s stormy.” He leaned outside, staring up at the skies, which were sombre, the purplish colour of a bruised plum.

  “Will you still go out?” she asked, watching as he nodded.

  “Yes, I don’t mind getting wet.”

  Isabella patted the bed, and he returned to sit beside her. “Your paper will,” she said, smiling at him and offering him a bite of bread and jam.

  He took it from her fingers, chewing with content as he shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

  The baby kicked, upsetting the tray she’d balanced on her stomach, and Henry laughed, righting the lid on the sugar bowl. To her relief, Isabella held the cup of chocolate in her hands.

  “Little devil,” she muttered, allowing Henry to take her cup from her and smoothing her hands over her stomach. “Oh, Lord, I’m so fat,” she groaned, wondering if she’d ever be able to see her toes again. What her body would look like when all this was done, she didn’t even dare to consider.

  “Not fat,” Henry said, shaking his head. He pulled back the covers, despite her gasps of shock, and kissed her stomach through the cotton of her nightgown. “Beautiful,” he said, staring up at her, the sincerity in his eyes undoing her composure in an instant.

  “Oh, stop it,” Isabella, protested, waving her hand at him. “You know it will make me cry, and it isn’t even true. I do have a mirror, you know.”

  “It is true,” he said, the words firm as he moved up the bed to kiss her lips, her nose, her eyes, before returning to her lips. “So beautiful.” The word and the look in his eyes were insistent and Isabella sighed, resigned to be his muse, his flawless beauty. There were worse fates. She gave a hopeless sigh, allowing him his romantic view of her.

  “You can’t argue with me, I’m an artist,” he said, his voice grave now, knowing she didn’t believe it was true, but just his idealistic vision of her. “I know these things.”

  Despite herself, she laughed, and Henry grinned at her as he got up.

  “Don’t get too wet,” she called after him as he left. Henry paused at the door and turned to blow her a kiss.

  “Goodbye, beautiful Isabella.”

  She watched the door close and then lingered in bed, finishing her breakfast and wishing she’d asked him to stay. He would have done. He’d like it if she insisted, pleased to be wanted, b
ut she knew he got restless if he stayed indoors for too long. Henry was like a big friendly dog, knocking over ornaments and stepping on toes if he couldn’t get out and burn off his energy.

  Once washed and dressed, which seemed like a marathon effort of late, Isabella made her way down to the kitchen. She felt restless today, tired but unable to sit, bored but unable to concentrate. A half hour passed as she flicked through a recipe book before she resolved to stop being so indolent and make a cake.

  Outside, thunder rumbled overhead, the trees whipping back and forth as the storm that had threatened all morning drew closer. The first fat drops of rain pattered against the window pains and Isabella wished that Henry hadn’t gone out. They needed a storm, though, the air was hot and weighty, the atmosphere oppressive with a sticky heat that made her skin prickle. She sighed, wondering if he’d seek shelter or hurry home, hoping for the latter as the rain began.

  Jack bustled into the kitchen where the sweet scent of cinnamon filled the air, and Isabella reached down to pull the cake from the oven. As she moved to straighten, her stomach tightened, a contraction slicing through her that stole her breath. The cake almost tumbled to the floor, but she slid it onto the table top as Jack hurried to stand beside her.

  “Oh dear,” she said, the words breathless as the patter of liquid on tiles announced that her waters had just broken. She clutched the back of a chair, staring at Jack, who’d gone a remarkable shade of white.

  “That’s never, it’s not … it can’t b-be,” he stammered, wide-eyed with alarm. He looked horrified.

  Isabella sucked in a breath, feeling remarkably calm in the circumstances. “Well, I’m afraid it is, Jack. It is about time, I suppose.”

  “You said two more weeks!” Jack threw back at her, pointing at her as though not keeping to the schedule had been her idea. The poor man sounded so terrified that Isabella bit back the retort brewing on her tongue and smiled instead.

  “So I did,” she remarked, heading for the door. She needed to get out of her wet skirts and prepare herself.

  “I’ll … I’ll …” Jack followed her out into the hallway, at a loss for what it was he needed to do. “I’ll fetch the doctor,” he said with sudden inspiration.

  “No.” Isabella paused with her foot on the stair as the realisation hit her. She didn’t want that obnoxious man and his sneers and his insinuations. The thought of having his judgemental presence when she was in such a vulnerable state made her feel ill. Yet then she’d be all by herself. A thrill of fear rolled down her back at having no one to attend her until she realised she didn’t have to be alone. “I don’t want the doctor, Jack,” she said, turning back to him.

  “B-but, Isabella!” Jack spluttered, outraged now. “You’ve got to have someone, a doctor … You have to!”

  Isabella started as thunder exploded overhead, rumbling through the great building.

  “The doctor won’t come out in this, anyway,” she said, feeling sanguine about the whole thing now. She felt certain that God would not have sent Henry to save her from drowning if he meant only to take her away again in childbirth. Whether that was true, she had no idea, women died all the time giving birth. She wasn’t special. Yet her conviction remained. She turned back to Jack. “No doctor, Jack. I don’t like him, and I don’t want him. I want Henry.”

  Jack gaped at her. “Henry?”

  Isabella rolled her eyes and wondered why Jack had to choose this particular moment to turn into such a ninnyhammer.

  “Yes, Jack. Henry. My husband. Fetch him for me. At once!” she added, as Jack still stood staring at her in shock. He moved then, like someone had lit a fire under him, and Isabella sighed with relief and made her way up the stairs.

  ***

  “Henry!”

  Jack’s voice bellowed through the woodland, drowned out by the sound of the rain and wind and the glittering crackle of lightening as it lanced across an angry sky.

  “The devil take you, man, where are you!” Jack leaned against a tree, fighting for breath. He’d been searching for hours now. Exhausted, his throat hoarse from shouting, and his unease at leaving Isabella alone for so long growing by the moment, Jack realised he ought to have ignored her and gone for the doctor. She didn’t know what she was saying, though she was likely right about the blasted fellow not coming out in this. The wretched dandy-prat had been full of his own importance and Jack hadn’t liked him one bit. No wonder the poor girl didn’t want the old fool at such a moment. The fact remained, however, he was a doctor and right now the girl was all alone.

  Jack pushed on, remembering Henry mentioning a rough, woodsman’s shelter he’d found down by the river a year back. He’s said it was in bad condition, but any shelter was better than none in this weather. Jack decided that if he didn’t find him there, he’d have to go back alone and prayed his instincts were right.

  The walk to the river was tortuous, fighting the wind and the rain that lashed at him, but at last he made it. The water rushed past him, swollen, surging and violent, and Jack kept calling.

  “Henry! Henry!”

  Jack had gone as far as he dared and was about to turn back when a familiar voice hailed him.

  “Jack?”

  In the dim light of the storm, Jack saw the dark shape of an uncertain structure leaning against a tree.

  “Henry, thank God,” he said, staggering through the trees. “I’ve been searching everywhere for you.”

  “What is it?” he demanded, as Jack reached forward and grasped his lapels, shaking him as guilt and terror stole his composure.

  “It’s Isabella! The baby’s coming. She won’t have that fool doctor and she sent me to look for you.”

  “Isabella?” Henry repeated, fear in his eyes. “She’s all alone?”

  “Yes!” Jack shouted, guilt rolling over him once more, the weight of it sickening. “She’s been alone for bloody hours now. For the love of everything holy, get yourself back to the house.”

  Jack discovered he talked to thin air as Henry had already turned, running back towards the house as fast as it was possible for a man to move. Jack let out a breath of relief and then groaned as he turned himself back to follow with as much haste as he could.

  ***

  Isabella knelt on the bed, clutching the bedpost, panting as the pain ripped through her. Curses, swear words, obscenities she wasn’t even aware she knew, seemed to spill from her mouth, but the pain was nothing she’d ever experienced or had expected. She was of the firm opinion that pain of this sort would be fatal under any other circumstances. Before she could rain down another curse on whoever decided women ought to be the ones to have babies, the pain came again. Her scream rent the air, a primal, animalistic sound that echoed around the room.

  The pain receded, giving her time to breath, and she collapsed on the pillows she’d piled up to support her stomach. The contractions were coming faster and stronger now. Isabella whimpered, her earlier calm and stoicism fleeing as she realised she would have this baby alone and she didn’t have a clue what she was doing. To be fair, her body appeared to be managing things perfectly well with little thought from her, but the longing for Henry was an ache in her heart.

  The pain rolled in again and Isabella sucked in a breath, readying herself for the onslaught. Thunder rumbled overhead, drowning out her cries as Isabella bore down, knowing at least this would be over, one way or another, before very much longer.

  She sucked in a breath, dazed with exhaustion, blinking in the light of the candles she had lit, to see the most beautiful sight in the world.

  Henry.

  She cried out, reaching for him, uncaring of the state she was in, the indignity. He was here and that was all she cared about. Relief overwhelmed her, her previous certainty she would be all right returning to her as he climbed onto the bed.

  “It’s all right,” he said, his voice calm and certain as he leaned into kiss her, stroking her hair.

  “You’re freezing,” she said as his cold lips left
hers.

  “It’s raining.”

  He grinned at her, the sight so wonderful and reassuring she no longer felt afraid. Henry would take care of her.

  Henry stripped off his wet things, but this time she didn’t have the time or the energy to appreciate the view. Another contraction gripped her, holding her stomach in a vice as the pain overwhelmed everything else. As she came back to herself, she noted Henry moving about the room. He’d covered the floor with pillows, covering them with a thick layer of sheets and towels and arranged a chair. What the devil was he doing?

  As he came to her on the bed, he smiled, taking her hands. “Time to get up,” he said, as Isabella glared at him, astonished.

  “I’m a little busy, Henry,” she said, her tone irritated now, despite having longed for him to be here.

  “I know, love, but it’ll be easier for you over here.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re not confusing me with a horse or a rabbit, now are you?”

  Henry’s mouth twitched, but his face remained placid. “I promise,” he said, the words solemn.

  Walking to the chair was the most exhausting thing she’d ever done, and that was with Henry practically carrying her. She felt dazed, outside of herself, when at last she sat and realised she wasn’t sitting on the chair at all, but that Henry sat behind her, supporting her.

  She leaned back, reassured by the sturdiness of him, by the large hands that gripped hers.

  “Come along then, my beautiful Isabella,” he whispered in her ear. “Time to meet our daughter.”

  “It’s a boy,” she grumbled, with the certain belief only the male of the species could cause her this much pain and trouble.

  “Whatever you say, love,” Henry chuckled, kissing her forehead as the next contraction pulled her body tight. “Now push.”

  Chapter 15