The Flame and the Flower

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  He drew the cloak from the young girl’s shoulders, and her eyes slid over the red gown. She smiled with pleasure, deciding no other mademoiselle could have worn it so well. Her curiosity had been aroused when he bought this dress and other clothes for a girl so dainty. She assumed he had found a new mistress. The gowns he had purchased during the two years preceding had been made for a taller woman, more statuesque. This slip of a girl, still in the youthful bloom of womanhood, could never have filled those ample dimensions, and there was something blasé yet naïve in’ this girl’s manner, almost innocent, refreshingly unique. It was enough to set her to wondering. Many of the more successful courtesans frequented her shop and on their wagging tongues Captain Birmingham’s name was often bandied with the most complimentary phrases. Thus she knew considerably more of the man’s personal life than he guessed. But here was something new and quite different, a small, trim mademoiselle such as one might choose for a wife. Heaven forbid!

  She was French herself, certainly not too old, and still very appreciative of a man who could be called a man. She had often regarded Captain Birmingham with more than a business eye, though she had always been careful to leave it at that. She was wise enough to know he would disappear from her world forever if she even suggested they become more than just friends. Out of kindness to an aging and susceptible heart, and lacking interest in an older woman, he would turn her down and never be seen again.

  It was then that her eyes fell to the gold band the girl was wearing.

  “Madame Fontaineau, may I present my wife.”

  The woman’s mouth dropped open in surprise, but she quickly spoke to hide her astonishment.

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Madame Birmingham. Your husband is a favorite customer of mine for a long time. He is an expert on women. You are most beautiful.”

  Brandon frowned slightly. “My wife must be outfitted with a complete wardrobe, Madame Fontaineau, if you please.”

  “Oui, monsieur, I will do my best,” she said hurriedly, realizing her blunder. Men did not like their amorous activities to be common knowledge, especially to their wives. But the shock had been too much for her. She had forgotten herself when she spied the ring.

  Madame Fontaineau moved her eyes over the girl and watched her walk away to look at the materials stacked on the tables. The young madame had a body slender as a reed, yet soft and alluring. A man’s hand would ache to touch it. No wonder the Yankee captain had married her. She was quite a beauty, and they made a pair, these two. They were to be envied.

  With resignation she glanced up at the Yankee. “Elle est perfection, eh, monsieur?”

  Brandon’s eyes lifted slowly to his wife’s back. “Oui madame. Magnifique.”

  Heather did not understand the conversation, nor did she try. She noticed, however, that Brandon had replied easily. He was full of surprises. They were conversing now in French, leaving her to wander about the room as she might. She moved aimlessly between the tables, eyeing her husband and the woman secretly. They seemed to know each other well. He laughed with her and the couturière casually touched him on the arm, something she, his wife, could not bring herself to do. She frowned, remembering with clarity what the dressmaker had said. It seemed she was just one of many women he had purchased clothes for.

  She turned quickly, vexed with Brandon for bringing her here. He could have spared her this awkward situation.

  She lifted a sketch from a nearby easel and looked at the drawing, forcing herself to concentrate on it instead of the man and woman behind her. It did not hold her interest for long. It was a sketch of a gown fashionably up to date, with a high waist but amply embellished with bows and giggaws, one a woman of loose virtue might wear. She didn’t like it.

  Raising her eyes from the sketch, she found herself being appraised by a young man who had apparently come through the curtain at the rear of the shop just a moment before. His eyes were roving greedily down the front of her dress as if he could see right through it. He licked his lips and moved toward her. She stood for a moment, immobilized in confusion. The lad, mistaking her pause, was heartened. He smiled broadly, and it was his complete misfortune that Brandon looked up from his conversation and saw him approaching his wife with this over-eager attitude.

  It was a small straw, but for Brandon it was the one that laid the camel flat. First thieves, then an old flame, now a stripling lad. The girl was his and not some public piece to be petted or gloated over. His patience was at an end. He’d be damned if he’d stand for another man feasting his eyes upon Heather.

  Filled with almost uncontrollable rage, he crossed the room in the time it takes to blink an eye. Heather saw him coming and with a frightened squeak jumped out of his way. He seized the lad by his coat and lifting him clear of the floor, shook him like a dog shakes a rat.

  “You gutter-licking scum. You’ll learn quickly to keep your distance from my wife. I’ll smear you from one end of this shop to the other.”

  The poor boy’s eyes almost bugged out of his head, and he squealed in helplessness. Heather stood petrified, all senses stunned, but Madame Fontaineau flew to Brandon and seized his arm.

  “Monsieur! Monsieur!” she pleaded. “Monsieur Birmingham. Please. He is but a child! He meant no insult, monsieur. Please let him go! I beg you.”

  Brandon complied slowly, but his jaw still worked with rage. His hands slid from the boy and Madame Fontaineau seized the lad none too gently and hustled him to the back, chattering the while in angry French. Just before brushing the curtain aside, she was seen to land a stinging cuff upon the unhappy youth’s ear. Neither Brandon nor Heather had moved when a moment later the woman returned.

  “I apologize, Monsieur Birmingham,” Madame Fontaineau said humbly to Brandon. Brushing past him, she went to Heather and took the girl’s trembling hands. “Madame Birmingham, he is my nephew and a sometimes doltish child. But ah-h, madame,” she added with a shrug of her shoulders. “He is unmistakenly French, is he not?”

  As the woman laughed Heather glanced at her husband, her eyes still very wide and uncertain. He met her gaze and raised a mocking eyebrow, but he did not smile and she knew he was still angry.

  “Please step this way, Madame Birmingham,” the dressmaker smiled, taking Heather’s arm. “We will begin with the selection of material for chemises.” She pulled Heather with her to some shelves stacked with bolts of sheer muslins, linens and batistes. “May I perhaps suggest the muslin for everyday and the delicate batistes for special wear? They are very soft to lovely skin such as yours.”

  Again Heather’s eyes lifted to her husband’s face. He stood nearby and was leaning back against the table with his arms folded across his chest. His expression did not change as she looked at him, and she feared he was angry with her. Her gaze fell nervously and she turned back to the woman.

  “It is of no matter,” she murmured softly. “Whatever you think best.”

  Madame Fontaineau glanced up at Brandon to receive his nod of approval, and she grinned, remembering the care with which he had selected underclothing for this girl. The chemises had to be of the finest fabric, soft and transparent to meet his approval. She would not forget when making these new ones.

  “He is very possessive with his young wife,” she thought, remembering his sudden explosion. “And he will have to fight many men to keep them from her. She has the look of sweet innocence in her face yet she is a temptress. Better that he had fallen in love with me.”

  “Captain Birmingham, if you will bring madame to the fitting room, we can begin selecting for the gowns. I have some nice sketches which are of the latest styles.”

  She whirled briskly and led the way to the back of the shop, through the curtains into a hallway, and finally into a small room cluttered with materials and sewing. She brought out a chair and motioned Brandon to sit down, turning as he did so to Heather.

  “Madame, if you will allow me, I will unhook you and we may begin measuring as soon as this lovely gow
n is removed, eh?”

  Turning her back to Madame Fontaineau, Heather waited quietly as the woman unfastened the gown for her. The whole room was hardly bigger than the size of a bed and so cluttered with sewing, there was barely room for the three of them. In those close quarters, her skirts brushed Brandon’s knees as she moved and there was no place to go but in front of him. He had only to reach out a hand to touch her.

  The couturière was most exact in her measuring, using her tape skillfully. Heather found herself lifting her arms, straightening her spine, raising her shift, all at the woman’s command.

  “Will the madame hold in her stomach now,” the dressmaker continued, placing the tape around Heather’s hips.

  Heather glanced up and saw a silent chuckle shake Brandon’s shoulders. She glared at him over the woman’s head, not caring any longer that he might have been vexed with her. Disgruntled, she replied to the woman.

  “It is impossible.”

  Madame Fontaineau sat back on her heels where she was kneeling in front of Heather and thought about the matter, how la petite madame could have this slight problem. Finally her eyes rose and a knowing smile curved her lips.

  “The madame has a wee one coming, yes?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Heather admitted begrudgingly with her face glowing pink.

  “An-h, that is wonderful,” Madame Fontaineau murmured. She gave Brandon a sidelong glance. “The monsieur is a proud papa, yes?”

  “Most assuredly, Madame Fontaineau.”

  The dressmaker laughed softly. She thought, “So, he has no doubt it is his. He replies easily and without delay. Perhaps the girl is as innocent as she looks.”

  Aloud she said, “Ah-h, monsieur, you do my heart good. You do not flush nor stutter with embarrassment when admitting you will be a father. It is good. There is no shame in a man claiming what he has done.” She gave Heather a quick, appraising glance before she turned again to him. “And your wife will be a most charming mother, eh, monsieur?”

  Brandon’s eyes moved over his wife slowly and glowed with a strange light. “Most charming,” he agreed warmly.

  “Ah-h, look at him!” Madame Fontaineau thought with a sigh. “Already he is impatient to get her back to their bed. La petite madame will never go long without a child of his making in her belly. He will use her well. Ohhh, to be she!”

  “Madame looks beautiful in the chemise I made, eh?” she inquired, watching his eyes almost devour the girl. “She has the body of a goddess—full breasts, the slender waist to fit a man’s hands, and the hips and legs—oo-lala!”

  Heather closed her eyes, shamed to the very depth of her soul. She felt like a slave being sold to a man—this man—for the purpose of giving him pleasure. One could expect to be pinched and examined any moment. But it was her body Madame Fontaineau spoke of so freely, not a slave’s. The woman had no right to degrade her or her person in this manner. A woman’s body was something sacred, something private, to be given respect and not sullied by those who would make it so. It was not meant for a slave’s block, to be sold nor bartered.

  She gritted her teeth angrily and opened her eyes, only to find herself being watched in the mirror by Brandon. Time stood motionless as he caught and held her gaze and would not free it. Even when his eyes lowered to her body, making her acutely aware of the transparency of her undergarment, she could not look away from his face. Then once again his eyes held hers and a small tremor passed through her body and left her feeling weak and giddy and terribly strange.

  With no answer from the Yankee to encourage her to continue with her appraisal of the girl, Madame Fontaineau rose to her feet, once again the business woman.

  “I will go get the sketches now. If the madame wishes to put on her gown now, I will fasten it when I come back.”

  She swept out of the room and Heather dragged her eyes from the mirror and reached for her gown. As if in a daze she stepped into it and pulled it up. She slid her arms through the sleeves and crossed them to hold up the gown until Madame Fontaineau’s return but glanced up with a start when Brandon reached out and caught her skirt and drew her between the spread of his legs. She stared at him in astonishment, her eyes wide, her mouth open slightly. Her heart pounded fiercely with emotion. The movement did not escape Brandon’s observant eye, and he laughed softly as he watched her breasts tremble.

  “Why so frightened, my little rabbit?” he grinned. “All I intended to do was fasten your gown.”

  In a nervous reaction she tried to shield her breasts from his gaze by spreading her hands across them above the neck of the gown, but he only drew them away and grinned mockingly.

  “There is no need to cover yourself, my love. No eyes but mine are here to see.”

  “Please,” she whispered breathlessly. “Madame Fontaineau will come.”

  He laughed softly. “If you will oblige me by turning around, all she will see is a man fastening his wife’s gown. Otherwise—”

  She spun around quickly and heard his amused chuckle as he lifted his hands to her gown. He was still fastening it when Madame Fontaineau returned.

  “I have brought all the sketches that I have. There are many to choose from, as you will see.”

  The woman swept a low tabletop clear and dropped the stack of drawings on it then pulled the table before them, imprisoning Heather between Brandon’s knees. When he finished hooking her dress, she sank to the floor and began to study the drawings. These were more to her taste, but she doubted that her husband would want to spend on her the amount these gowns would cost. She looked at them longingly, then sighed.

  “Do you not have sketches of plainer gowns, less costly than these?” she asked the woman.

  Madame Fontaineau stuttered in surprise and Brandon quickly sat forward in his chair and leaned over his wife, dropping a hand to her bare shoulder.

  “My love, I’m quite capable of buying these for you,” he said, glancing at the sketches.

  Madame Fontaineau breathed a sigh of relief. The captain had excellent—and expensive—taste in clothes. He was not going to let his wife think of pennies at a time like this. And since he was able to purchase a more costly wardrobe, what was the girl’s purpose? If the positions were reversed, she would be grabbing the finest clothes she could.

  “Since you appear timid of spending my money,” Brandon said softly to his wife, “I will help you select the wardrobe—if you have no objections.”

  Heather shook her head quickly, feeling jittery with his hand on her. His long fingers seemed like tongues of fire on her bare flesh. Yet they rested on her casually, over her collarbone and the beginning swell of her breast, not seeming to know what they did to her, not seeming to feel her labored breathing under their grip.

  “But he must be aware of it and is only tormenting me. He knows I fear him,” Heather thought.

  She was surrounded by him, his thigh was a hard rock against her shoulder blade, his hand a lead weight holding her at his feet, his head and shoulders looming above her to keep her from rising. She was caught in his trap like a fly in a web, yet to all outward appearances she sat lovingly at his feet and was happy to have his hand on her.

  Brandon pointed to one of the sketches. “This will go well in a blue silk the exact color of my wife’s eyes. It must match. Do you have the shade?”

  Madame Fontaineau first studied Heather’s eyes as they lifted to her, then she smiled broadly. “Oui, monsieur, it is the color of sapphire blue. It will be as you wish.”

  “Excellent,” he replied, then gestured to another drawing. “Take that away. She would be lost in all those ruffles.”

  “Oui, monsieur,” Madame Fontaineau agreed. As always he was choosing well. But then, when did he not? The man knew how to dress a woman in the best.

  Another drawing was passed over with an explanation that the gown was too gaudy. Five more were chosen. Another two declined.

  Heather watched, fascinated, unable to speak. Everything he selected she more than agreed with,
and those discarded she had prayed would be. His sense of color astounded her. The man was gifted. She had to admit he chose better than she.

  Many more gowns were decided upon at a rapid pace and swatches of material were tagged to them. Nothing went undone. Silks, woolens, velvets were chosen, brocades, muslins, voiles. Heather lost count. Ribbons, jets, beads, furs were accepted for trim and adornments. Laces were carefully examined and ordered. She was aghast at the amount of clothes he bought for her, certainly a great deal more than she had expected. She would never have selected so many for herself if given a free hand, and she found it hard to believe he could be this generous with her. Yet, the gowns were ordered.

  “Does everything meet with your approval, my dear?” he asked lightly, and she knew he wouldn’t have cared if they had not. He had bought the gowns to please himself, to have her dressed the way he wanted her to be. But everything did meet with her approval, How could it not when it had been chosen so well?

  She nodded. “You have been more than generous,” she murmured.

  Brandon glanced down at her. His position above permitted him the unrestricted view of her bosom as the gown gapped away from her. His hand ached to move downward under the garment and caress that silky flesh.

  “My wife is in need of another gown that she may wear now,” he said, dragging his eyes from her once again. “Do you have something to fit her that is more conservative than the gown she has on?”

  Madame Fontaineau nodded. “Oui, monsieur. There is a little dress I finished just the other day. I’ll get it now. It might be what you have in mind.”

  She hurried from the room and returned shortly with a gown of blue velvet. It had long snug sleeves and a very demure white satin collar which fitted closely about the throat. White satin cuffs trimmed the wrists.

  “Is this what you had in mind?” she’ asked, holding it up.

  “Aye,” Brandon replied. “Wrap it up and we’ll take it with us. Now we must attend to the accessories. You will, of course, have everything ready in ten days.”