The Flame and the Flower

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  “What the hell!” he thought angrily. “She has me blushing like an unsullied virgin!”

  He jerked his hand away as if he had been burned. “You’ll have to wait until Madam Fontaineau returns,” he growled. “I can’t reach it.”

  Heather stood bewildered at his brusque manner. His discomfort was obvious as he sat awkwardly and avoided her gaze. She moved away hesitantly and was greatly relieved when Madame Fontaineau returned with Marie, a thin, gawky girl of no more than fifteen.

  “See! See what you’ve done!” the woman flung at the little girl.

  “Madame, please,” Heather begged despairingly. “I must get out of this dress. It is full of pins.”

  “Bon Dieu!” the couturière gasped. “Ah, Madame Birmingham, I am so sorry. This Marie is still a child.” She turned to the girl and waved her away. “Shoo! Shoo! I will speak with you later. Now I must attend the madame.” At last the dress was unhooked and Heather was grateful. It was the final gown to be fitted, and to Brandon’s intense relief, in just a few moments they were out of the tiny fitting room and ready to leave the shop.

  On the carriage ride back Brandon was completely uncommunicative. His frown was now a fierce scowl and his cheek twitched spasmodically. When they arrived at the inn it was almost dark, and he swung Heather down rather roughly from the carriage and reached in for the bundles they had collected. He opened the door for her and they entered the inn, noisy as usual with fun-seeking sailors and harlots. As Heather passed through their midst, holding her cloak tightly about her, one brave but drunken soul made to approach her. He retreated rapidly when he saw Brandon and the look on his face. They proceeded without further incident to the room where Brandon threw the packages down on the bed and moved toward the window. A large chest bound with bright brass straps was pushed against the foot of the bed. He frowned down at it as he passed, then scowling over his shoulder at his wife indicated the chest.

  “This is yours,” he said gruffly. “You might as well put your things in it now. You’ll be packing anyway in the next few days.”

  He proceeded to the window as Heather removed her cloak. She lit a squat candle on the commode and noticed a table had been set with linen and service for two. It had been such an active afternoon she hadn’t realized she had grown so hungry. Now just the thought of food made her mouth water and she looked forward with anticipation to its coming. Her stomach gnawed at her as she hung her cloak beside Brandon’s on a peg near the door. She was straightening the bundles on the bed when a light rap was heard on the door, and at a gruff “Aye” from Brandon, it was pushed open by George. Two boys followed him carrying platters of food and a bottle of wine. They placed them on the table, then departed as George lit the candles. At the door the servant cast one last quizzical glance at his captain’s back and peered at Heather, then took his leave with a perplexed frown. After the door was closed, Heather moved to the table and began serving the plates with the tender roast beef and boiled vegetables. Not aware that Brandon watched her over his shoulder, she struggled for some moments with the wine bottle, trying to get it open. Finally he took it from her and drew the cork with one exasperated movement. He returned the bottle to her and she murmured her thanks and filled the goblets. When he made no move toward the table but stood staring at her instead, she raised dubious eyes to his.

  “May we eat now, Brandon?” she pleaded softly. “I fear I’m starving.”

  He bowed stiffly and pulled her chair from the table. As she moved into it his gaze ran down her back, the sweet curve of it tempting his hand, and he almost reached out. Then she sat down and for a moment he stood tensely gripping the chair. At last he seated himself and took a liberal draught of the wine and tasted a small piece of meat. Heather, feeling the drain of two bodies, addressed herself with delicate precision to the meal. Several times she felt Brandon’s eyes upon her, but when glancing at him found his gaze elsewhere. He picked at his food with preoccupation and ate little, though often he refilled his glass with the heady wine.

  The dinner was finished and no word spoken though Brandon still struggled with his weighty problem. Not wishing to draw some cruel retort, Heather rose and went to the bed where she began opening the bundles and sorting the contents to put them away in the trunk. She up-wrapped a rich fox muff and did not resist the urge to tuck her hands into it. She blew on the fur and rubbed her nose into its softness without knowing that Brandon had drawn near and stood watching her. He stretched out a hand and gently lifted a curl from her shoulder, and she glanced up to find him close beside her. There was an odd look in his eyes, half way between pain and pleasure, and he made as if to speak but the words caught in his throat. He gritted his teeth and a scowl darkened his features. Dropping the curl, he spun on his heels and his angry stride took him across the room. He began to pace the floor like a caged cat, and Heather watched him and grew more bewildered. His voice startled her when he spoke and she jumped.

  “Dammit, Heather, there are some things you must learn about a man. I can’t—”

  His jaw clamped shut and the small tic showed in his cheek when he turned to face the light. He stopped his pacing before the window and stared once more into the darkness.

  After she had waited a long while for him to speak again, Heather gathered the things from the bed and packed them carefully into the trays of the chest. She puttered about the room for some time, casting occasional apprehensive glances at her husband and finally settled herself in a large chair and began to work on a sampler Madame Fontaineau had given her that afternoon. Brandon turned from the window and strode to the table. He picked up his glass and mumbled an oath when he found the bottle empty, then slammed the glass back to the table, causing Heather to start and prick her finger on the needle. He stood by the table a short time, then finally came to her dragging a chair with him. He sat down before her as she put the sampler down in her lap and looked up at him expectantly. He struggled for a moment with what he wanted to say. His hands moved to her knees and smoothed the velvet fabric over them.

  “Heather,” he finally murmured. “It’s a long voyage to America. We’ll be together most of the time in a room much smaller than this and sleeping together in a bed half the size of the one that’s here. It will be miserably cold and uncomfortable and it won’t be pleasant for you at all, especially since you’ll be the only woman aboard. You won’t be able to wander about freely aboard ship, or leave my side when you’re out of the cabin. It would be dangerous for you to do so. You must understand, Heather—sailors long from shore can’t look at a woman without becoming—aroused. If repeatedly aggravated they become desperate.” He studied her closely to see if she understood what be was trying to say. She was gazing at him intently, listening to his every word, but he doubted that she associated any of this with him. He sighed heavily and began again. “Heather, if a man watches a beautiful woman and is around her for a long period of time without reprieve, he gets a strong urge to bed her. If he can’t it becomes painful for him. He must . . .”

  He couldn’t seem to finish the sentence. Her cheeks had grown pink and she picked at the sampler in her lap nervously.

  “I will stay in the cabin as much as possible, Brandon,” she said softly, not looking at him. “I’ll try not to get in anyone’s way.”

  Brandon swore silently and the muscle jerked in his cheek. “My God, Heather,” he rasped, rising to his feet. “What I’m trying to say is—it’s going to be a long voyage without—without—dammit, you’re going to have to let me—”

  He didn’t finish. His pride won out, and with a vicious curse he threw the chair out of his way and stormed across the room to the door.

  “Don’t go downstairs or leave this room,” he snapped over his shoulder. “George will be here to watch after you.”

  He jerked open the door and strode out swearing, and for a moment Heather sat stunned, unable to comprehend exactly what had happened. He had lost his temper with her so quickly, when all she had been trying t
o do was understand. She heard him growling orders to George, and a moment later the servant came to the door looking as confused as she. He came in with her permission and began clearing the table, and with a small sigh she rose from the chair and went to stand by the window. Brandon’s tricorn lay on the sill and she picked it up and smoothed it tenderly, almost lovingly. She turned, still caressing it.

  “He forgot his hat, George,” she murmured wistfully, tracing her finger over the braid. “Did he say when he’d be back?”

  The servant glanced up from the dishes and looked at her. “Nay, mum,” he replied almost apologetically. “Not a word.” Then slowly, as if the words came with great difficulty, he added, “Mum, the cap’n sometimes takes with an odd notion, but if you wait a bit he’ll usually straighten himself out. Have a bit of patience with him, mum. He’s a hard man, but a good one.”

  Shamefaced, as if embarrassed by his own verbosity, George continued stacking dishes on the tray, and Heather smiled softly, holding Brandon’s tricorn pressed to her.

  “Thank you, George,” she murmured.

  At the door he glanced back at her over his shoulder. “Would you be wanting hot water for your bath as usual, mum?”

  She nodded her head slowly, still smiling. “Yes, George. As usual.”

  Heather roused from sleep slowly. Brandon was in the room again, and she stirred under the downy quilt and smiled a little to herself. She blinked sleepily, moving a hand toward his pillow, then sat up with a start. It was almost dawn. The sky was light and the stars were gone. Her eyes flew to he door and there Brandon stood slumped against the sill, staring at her. His eyes were red and watery, his stock loose and his jacket askew. A drunken grin twisted his lips as if he were amused with himself.

  “Brandon?” she gasped. “Are you all right?”

  This was a side of him she had never considered. He was stinking, reeling drunk. He lurched forward and the reek of issue rum and cheap perfume struck her as if a solid thing. She recoiled slightly and watched him warily.

  “You privy wench,” he leered. “With your high-curved breasts and your rosy butt, you tempt a man even when you’re asleep.”

  His arm swept out suddenly to clear the top of the nightstand with an angry swipe, and Heather sidled away cautiously, beginning to feel afraid.

  “Aaah, damn you precious virgins!” he snarled. “You’re all alike, every bleeding one. You castrate a man within his own mind and make him unable to bed another. You rake his pride from his heart with careless claws, then primp and prance and strut about like a hen before a rooster and parade your innocence upon the world with your fine noses high in the air.” He stumbled forward unsteadily and locked his arm about the bedpost. He gestured wide as if presenting her to the world. “And here before me sits the queen of virgins, poised upon her throne of ice and surrounded by a moat of purity. And what of me? I played the game and won the prize, and now I have it home and cannot touch the bow.”

  He grasped the bedpost with both hands and rubbed his brow against it as if rubbing out some pain. “Oh, virgin wife, why weren’t you made thin and ugly, then I could ignore you as you wish. But of all the women in London town, my weak-minded self chose you, the finest bit of fluff that ever tempted any man’s eye. And you treat me not like a man but as some old buck, too worn to seek a doe. You play and pose before me and expect my spirits not to rise. You tempt and taunt then deny me husband’s rights. My God, you wench! Do you think me some safe eunuch? A shilling buys more kindness than I get from you!”

  He leaned toward her and peered intently at her face. “But I’ll teach you, my lusty vixen,” he ground out, jabbing his finger at her. “I’ll take you when and where my little heart desires.” His eyes raked over her and his voice deepened. “By damned, I’ll take you now.”

  He lunged across the bed, his hands outstretched, intending to seize her by the waist. Heather squealed in fright and scrambled away from him, leaping to her feet in a flurry of nightgown. There was a rending tear, and Brandon lay sprawled across the bed, staring stupidly at a handful of fabric clenched tightly in his hand. He raised on an elbow and lifted his eyes to her in bewilderment and stared at her nakedness, her flesh gleaming white in dawn’s light. Then slowly he sank to the bed as his alcoholic stupor overcame him. His hand relaxed and the gown fell to the floor.

  Heather watched him cautiously for a moment, expecting him to rise again and come after her. When he did not she came a step closer and peered over his arm at his face half buried in the quilt. His eyes were closed and his breathing regular.

  “Brandon?” she said, distrustfully.

  He did not move. His eyes remained shut. She reached out gingerly and touched his hand, ready to spring away if he made to catch her. It swung limply as his arm dangled over the bed. She came still closer and stared down at him and moved his arm onto the bed, realizing that she was quite safe now. She bent and picked up her gown from the floor and laid it over the end of the bed, then turned again to him and tried to pull off his coat. It was not as simple as it appeared. He was too heavy to be moved by her alone. There was only one thing left to do and that was to get George. She put on her shift and threw her cloak about her and leaving their room, went down the hall a short way to the servant’s. At her knock she heard some dire mumblings from within, then a stumbling. The door creaked open and George appeared, rubbing his eyes. His great nightshirt almost masked the bandy legs thrusting from the bottom. His toes curled away from the chill floor, and from his head a long knit nightcap dangled. His eyes widened when he saw her through his drowsiness, and he hurriedly placed his lower half behind the door. He cast a jaundiced eye to the dawn streaming through the window, then looked at her again.

  “Mum! What be you doing this hour?”

  “Will you come, George?” she asked softly. “The captain has taken ill of spirits and I need your assistance in moving him.”

  He frowned his confusion at her but replied, “Aye, mum. Be but a moment.”

  Heather returned to the room and George followed a short time later with his trousers properly in place. He saw Brandon sprawled on the bed and his eyes widened in surprise.

  “Oh, the cap’n’s really outdone himself this time,” he gasped. He cast a glance awry at his mistress. “It’s not a normal thing for ‘im, mum, I assure you.”

  She didn’t reply but turned to Brandon and began easing a shoe from his foot. George’s gaze went past her to the torn gown tossed over the foot of the bed, and he hurriedly attended his captain without another word. He straightened him about and together they removed his coat, stock and waistcoat. Except for an occasional groan or sigh, Brandon did not wake from his drunken dreams. Only his breeches remained when Heather’s eyes met George’s in indecision, and they silently agreed to leave him thus. They pulled the sheet over him and before George left he set the night bucket beside the bed, close to Brandon’s head. He paused at the door.

  “It will be nigh on to noon before he rouses, mum. I’ll bring you a little something to ease his head before then.” And with a quick glance out the window at the broadening day he murmured, “Good day, mum.”

  Heather closed the door behind him and returned her cloak to the peg. Dragging a quilt from the bed she went to the large chair in the room and curled into it, tucking her feet under her, and began working on her sampler. Slowly the shock of Brandon’s return wore off and in its stead came rising anger. The sampler no longer was stitched with slow, calm motion. The needle was jabbed in it and jerked through as if in vengeance upon the cloth.

  “He roams the streets and finds no purchased paramour lively enough to meet his taste,” she hissed to herself, “And then he stumbles here and seeks to make me again his nanny goat!”

  She glared at Brandon as he slept soundly on his pillow, looking as innocent as a well fed baby, and stabbed the needle through the sampler again.

  “You horny fool!” She yanked the thread. “It’s only when you’ve sacked the town you turn to me. A
nd then you posture me the villain who tempted your soul!”

  His lack of response drew her courage further out. It was rare indeed that she had a chance to display her anger and sarcasm without fear of retribution. She whipped the needle through again.

  “You curse all virgins now but not so long ago you found it met your mood to take me.”

  She flew out of the chair, throwing the sampler on the floor and in a highly agitated state began to pace the room.

  “What does he think me? That I would wait humbly and when he snaps his fingers, fall into bed like a well-trained bitch?”

  Her eyes fell on the coat hanging over the back of a chair, the shoulders broad, the waist narrow.

  “Does he think I dote upon him and plan to spend my life serving his whimsy?”

  She whirled and strode to the side of the bed to look down at him, still uncommunicative in his dreams.

  “You blithering ninny, I am a woman. What I had I was holding for the man I’d have chosen and you stripped me of even that. I’m a living, breathing human being, and I do have some pride.”

  With an infuriated groan she spun about and stormed to her chair again, flinging the quilt about her as she sat down. A small snide smile twisted her lips as she gazed at his handsome face. Ah, but he was a magnificent man!

  It was past ten of the morning when she woke from a nap in the chair. Brandon still slept soundly, and as she rose she gave him a contemptuous sneer before going about the business of getting dressed. George brought her a cup of tea and a muffin, and after she ate she tidied the room and returned to her sampler to wait the waking of her husband. Noon had long since passed when the first groan was heard from the bed, and in a calm way she continued stitching, watching him as he sat up cautiously on the side of the bed. He put his tousled head in his hands as if it were a weight too burdensome for his shoulders and moaned. Then he caught a glimpse of her shoulders of the corner of his eye and he straightened painfully.