Heather nodded to assure her and flashed a soft, warm smile to her husband for his kindness to these people as she took the woman’s arm.
“Come,” she murmured gently. “I’ll show you around inside.”
As the two women entered the house with Mr. Webster following close behind, Jeff gently nudged Brandon who stared after his wife.
“A few more good deeds, Brandon, and you’ll be her knight in shining armor.”
As the month of March grew middle-aged, the days waxed warm and sunny. Brandon found that preparing the mill for production demanded most of his time, and he saw little of his wife or home. Both he and Webster made many trips between the mill and the logging camps upriver. Great rafts of logs were floated down to rest in the backwaters behind the mill and await the first greedy screams of hungry saws. Most of the old stock of lumber in the millyard went to repair and rebuild the tumbledown shanties that had housed the slaves. Two families and some half-dozen single men had come from New York on Webster’s urging to add their experience to the crews.
The hot, dusty days and the cool, damp nights formed a dreary pattern for Heather with both Brandon and Jeff absent from the house. She fought the lassitude of monotony and found brief moments of relief in small things. A spring shower broke the month’s drought and paved the way for a night of pounding rain. The next few days brought a pleasant metamorphosis to the land, and Heather was amazed at the sudden change caused by the rains. Almost overnight the burnt, dry browns of winter were replaced by the verdant, blushing greens of spring. Magnolia trees sent their rich scents across the countryside and purple cascades of wisteria fell from the trees where it clung. Azaleas, oleanders and assorted lilies threw their riotous colors across the woodland and pungent dogwood delicately graced the glens. Ducks and geese ranged overhead and the forest came alive with abundant animal life.
In the midst of this grandeur Heather felt her time approach. Her burden lowered in her belly, and when she walked her stomach cleared the way. Despite the beauty of the land she ventured out but rarely. She felt herself clumsy and slow, but whenever she sought to move, she always found a hand ready to assist her. When Brandon was gone, either to the mill or the logging camps upstream, it was Jeff, or Hatti, or Mary, but someone was always near.
A score of family friends came out to pay their respects to her and welcome Brandon home. It was on a Friday afternoon when they ventured forth. The pits had been readied for roasting early that morning, and young boys set to turning sides of beef and pork. Kegs of ale were cooled in the chilly waters of the creek, and food prepared in abundance.
Reverend Fairchild and his wife and brood of seven were among the first to arrive, and soon after, Abegail Clark’s huge, black landau came smartly up the lane without pausing to halt before the big house. The party grew light as the day grew long, and Reverend Fairchild was sorely set to keep some men from imbibing too much and with routing the young couples from behind the bushes where they were wont to lie and exchange poetic phrases. Brandon ordered several kegs of ale set out beneath the trees and Jeff in kind brought out a hogshead of his own aged bourbon. Spirits grew high and private kegs were brought out and tapped, ostensibly for comparison with the Birmingham wares. Children ran and played across the great lawns and consumed many pitchers of lemonade. The women collected in groups and stitched samplers while the men admired the horses and the women and seemed unable to decide just whose keg bore the sweetest brew.
It was Sybil Scott who drew most everyone’s attention at some time during the afternoon. She wore a daringly low gown of some considerable cost and was pursued consistently by a paunchy, middle-aged merchant whose intentions were clear to everyone but her. She evaded his pawing lunges with shrill giggles, somewhat overwhelmed by this unusual attention from a man and the absence of her mother’s restrictive hand.
Heather’s eyes widened as she saw the formerly reticent girl now giggling and flirting with her suitor and meeting his roving hands with only token resistance. Seated beside her, Mrs. Clark showed her anger by sniffing loudly and stamping her umbrella on the ground.
“Maranda Scott will rue the day she gave her daughter freedom. That poor young girl will end up broken hearted. He buys her wealthy clothes and gifts and makes no further promises, and she’s been too long protected to deal with a man and that one especially. Poor girl, she needs a guiding hand.”
“I thought she seemed like such a shy young girl,” Heather murmured, rather confused at the change.
“Sybil, my dear, is not young,” Mrs. Fairchild commented. “And most certainly seems to have lost her shyness.”
Mrs. Clark shook her head sadly. “It’s obvious since she failed to catch a Birmingham, Maranda has given up on her.”
She glanced at Heather, who for all her roundness was startlingly beautiful in that mysterious way expectant mothers are. She wore a gown of light blue organdy with frothy ruffles at the throat and wrists, and her hair was caught in a mass of soft ringlets with narrow blue ribbons falling over the cascading curls. Even so obviously pregnant, she was the envy of many.
The grand dame continued, now speaking directly to Heather. “You must know by now that Sybil had her eye set for your husband, though I can’t see where she, poor child, ever thought she had a chance with him. He rarely gave any of even the prettiest girls of our church a second glance, and then, of course, there was Louisa, who we must admit is a beautiful woman. Even then Sybil held some hope for herself, but that day she saw you I believe she finally realized her dreams were ended. It was a shame the way Maranda encouraged her to believe Brandon would notice her. He hardly knew the poor girl was alive.” Nodding toward Sybil she stated flatly, “This is Maranda’s fault, what is happening now, but she sits in her house and damns Brandon and will not think of her daughter.”
The woman’s voice ended full of ire and she stamped her parasol on the ground as if to emphasize it. Down the lane Brandon and Jeff were walking toward them when Sybil, trying to avoid her heavy handed suitor, darted around a tree and almost collided with them. Brandon stepped aside and nodded a greeting and continued on his way without so much as a second glance. The poor girl’s eyes widened as she recognized him and the blood left her face. She stood staring at his back dejectedly, all the gaiety driven from her day by his mere presence, and she watched him take a chair beside his wife.
Sybil’s view was obscured when a barouche came up the lane and stopped in front of the seated group. As the richly dressed Louisa descended from the carriage leaving her beau looking rather surprised at her hasty departure, Heather put her needlework down in her lap and waited for her to approach. Louisa smiled brightly as she strode forward and warbled a gay greeting. Her new beau climbed down and followed her but she ignored him, bestowing her full attention upon her former fiancée. She frowned when Brandon rose to stand behind his wife’s chair, and then she turned to consider Heather.
“My goodness, child,” she smirked, her eyes dropping to the round belly. “This will probably ruin your figure for the rest of your life.”
“What would you know of it, Louie?” Jeff asked sarcastically.
She disregarded him and spun around, showing off her attire as well as her voluptuous figure. “How do you like my new gown? I found the most talented couturier. He does such wonders with a bolt of cloth and a bit of thread.” She wrinkled her nose as if in distaste. “But he’s such an odd little man. You really must see him. It would almost make you laugh.” She looked pointedly at the younger girl. “But then he’s one of your countrymen, darling.”
She flitted away to talk to a group of young couples nearby as her beau turned to greet Brandon.
“Heard tell you got married, Brand,” Matthew Bishop drawled.
Brandon slipped his hands to Heather’s shoulders as he introduced her to the man.
“Matt and Jeff went to school together,” he explained to his wife.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Bishop,” she murmure
d, smiling.
The man glanced first to her stomach and grinned, then his eyes rose to her face and he seemed surprised at what he saw.
“This is your wife?” he questioned, almost incredulously. “Why, Louisa said . . .”
He stopped, realizing what he had almost let slip. He had thought it odd when Louisa ranted and raved to him about the homely little beggar who had used witchery to snatch Brandon from her. He had found it hard to believe Brandon that anxious to be caught or the type to take an unappetizing wench to bed much less to wife. He should have known the man would have found the prettiest to warm his bed.
“I believe the jest is on me,” he smiled. “You have a most lovely wife, Brand.”
Louisa hurried back in time to hear his last comments and scowled at him as she took his arm, but she turned to smile at Brandon.
“Darling, you give the most fabulous parties,” she simpered. “Even when there were just the two of us, your parties were never boring.”
Brandon seemed oblivious to her as he bent to ask his wife of her comfort, but Abegail was not so silent.
“You seem to dote upon parties, Louisa. As to men—it’s not often that you’ve displayed the taste to limit your affections to just one.”
Jeff gave a hearty chuckle and winked at the old woman. Louisa glared at them both. She turned her attention to Heather in time to see the girl rub her cheek lovingly against her husband’s hand and murmur a reply to him as he bent over her. Jealousy raged within her. Her eyes fell to the handkerchief Heather was monograming for her husband and her eyes narrowed slyly.
“Whatever do you have there, darling? Do you waste your time with trivial sewing? I thought you would have more important things to attend to, married to Brandon.” She cast a glance toward him. “But then, I suppose there are few real pleasures you can indulge in when you’re that far along with child. As for myself, I . . .”
“Sewing is a gentle art, Louisa,” Mrs. Fairchild interrupted, paying close attention to her own needlework. “One which you might do well to learn. It occupies the hand and keeps the mind from less desirable pursuits.”
Deciding she could not successfully ruin Heather’s fun without someone barging in to protect the little mouse, Louisa strolled away, bested for the moment but never beaten. There’d be another opportunity to shred the girl’s confidence to ribbons, and she was patient. She smiled up at her new beau and rubbed her breast against his arm to tease him. He was not as handsome as Brandon nor half so rich, but he would do until she connived to get that arrogant and talented stud in her bed again.
Forever the bachelor on the make, Matt pulled Louisa behind a large bush and into his passionate embrace. He taunted her in turn with his own body, and his parted lips sought hers as his hand slid inside her bodice to caress her warm, abundant flesh.
“Not here,” she murmured, pulling away slightly. “I know a place in the stables.”
Hatti came out the front door with a tray of lemonade for the ladies, and Mrs. Clark greeted her warmly as she served them.
“Aren’t you ready to leave this den of iniquity and come live with me, Hatti?” she iniquired. “We older folks must stick together, you know.”
“No’m,” Hatti declined with a chuckle. “I’m gonna have a new Birmingham to bring up shortly and Master will have to kick me out before I leave this place and Miss Heather. A team of Master Bran’s mules couldn’t pull me from here.”
She drew a laugh from all present, and with a questioning look at Heather, she turned her attention to her mistress’ comfort.
“How you feeling, honey child? Don’t tire yourself out sitting too long. That baby gonna come soon enough without nobody rushing it. Master Bran, don’t you let her do too much, you hear?”
“I hear, Hatti,” he chuckled.
It was well after dark when the meat was pronounced ready and torches were brought out to provide light. Savory dishes from different families were brought together on a long table, and the guests avidly devoted themselves to the food. The beef and pork were sliced right over the pits and heaped on eagerly presented plates as everyone formed in lines. Heather and Brandon moved around the table with their own plates and selected those foods which tempted them most. He pointed out the dishes unfamiliar to her but which he thought she might enjoy. As they walked from the table to the pits she looked down rather amazed at her plate.
“I am so fat that my eyes cannot see my feet and yet I burden my plate like this.” She lifted a corn pone from her plate and giggled happily as she fed him a bite. “You’ll just have to help me eat it, Brandon. That’s all there is to be done.”
He chuckled and pressed a warm kiss upon her lips as she gazed up at him with her smile bright. “Anything to please you, sweet. Anything at all.”
When they returned to their chairs, Heather watched her husband place his plate upon his knees and slice off a juicy bit of rare beef with the greatest of ease, while she sat in indecision, not knowing where to put her plate. She contemplated his long legs, then her own loss of lap. Brandon glanced up at her as she gazed doubtfully at her belly and chuckled with amusement. Getting up, he handed her his plate and went to fetch a small table for them.
“I believe you’ll be able to manage here, madam,” he grinned when he set it before them.
As they sat together Brandon caught sight of a disgruntled George sitting at the far end of the porch, whittling on a twig with vicious intent. Puzzled by this display of temper from the old man, he beckoned him over.
“What ails you?” he questioned when the manservant stood by his side.
George glanced hesitantly at Heather and was slow to answer. “There were some varmints in the stables, cap’n.”
Brandon raised an eyebrow at him. “Varmints?”
The servant shuffled his feet and peered at Heather again. “Aye, cap’n. Varmints.”
Brandon thought this over for a moment and then nodded in understanding. “All right, George. Take yourself a plate and settle your thoughts on some of this beef and forget what you may have seen or heard.”
“Aye, cap’n,” the man replied.
When he had gone, Heather looked at Brandon with a puzzled expression. “Did George find rats in the stables?”
Brandon laughed heartily. “You might say that, sweet.”
The party continued into the night. Brandon took Heather for a stroll among their guests and then once again settled her in the midst of the ladies. He was drawn away by a group of men and it was a late hour before he could free himself from their hold and return to her. She sat quietly, listening to several middle-aged women talk of their current illnesses and womanly upsets. Mrs. Clark was no longer present but had retired some time earlier to one of the bedrooms upstairs. Mrs. Fairchild had left for home with her husband and their brood. Brandon took Heather’s hand and drew her from the chair.
“Ladies, I must beg that you excuse my wife now. She’s had a long, tiring day and needs her rest. I hope you don’t mind.”
They hurried to assure him that they did not mind, and smiled among themselves as they watched him so considerately help his young wife up the steps and into the house. Inside, Heather released a tired sigh.
“Thank you for rescuing me,” she murmured. “I’m afraid they thought me quite dull. I couldn’t think of anything to say that would impress them with my intelligence, and besides, that chair was most uncomfortable.”
“I’m sorry, sweet. I would have come sooner, had I known.”
She dropped her head against his arm and smiled. “I fear you’ll have to drag me upstairs. I’m so tired I don’t believe I can manage them alone.”
He stopped and lifted her into his arms amid her protests.
“Put me down, Brandon,” she pleaded. “I’m so heavy. You’ll hurt yourself.”
He chuckled. “Hardly, madam. You still weigh no more than a mite.”
“Well, well, well. What can this be?” a woman questioned from behind them and there was no mistaki
ng Louisa’s soft, purring voice.
Brandon turned slowly with his wife in his arms and met the woman’s mocking eyes as she came toward them.
“Do you do this every night, Brandon?” she inquired jeeringly, with a raised eyebrow. “It surely must put a strain on your back, darling. You know you should take better care of yourself. Whatever would you do if you broke your back? You would certainly be no good to her anymore.”
His face was expressionless as he made his reply. “I’ve lifted heavier women in my life, Louisa, including you. I’d say my wife has yet to gain before she matches your weight.”
The mocking smile was replaced by a tightly-set mouth, and she glared at him, but he turned away and without a backward glance spoke again.
“By the way, Louisa, you should go comb your hair. You have straw in it.”
Over his shoulder Heather permitted a small, triumphant smile to appear on her lips as she looked at the other woman, and she tightened her arms about her husband’s neck.
Instead of going directly into the sitting room, for Louisa still stared up at them, Brandon carried her through his room. In her room he lounged in a chair while Mary helped her undress behind a screen. While she was so misshapen, Heather preferred her nakedness concealed from him. She would wait until she was again slim and could tempt him with a trimmer waist, then she would gladly yield her body to his gaze—and to whatever might follow.
When a gentle breeze ruffled the draperies by her bed the next morning, Heather stirred from sleep. The dull ache in her back still was with her, and she felt strangely tired, though she had rested some eight hours or more. As she rose from bed she felt the heavy weight of the child within her pressing downward.
The day was slow to pass. She saw the last of the overnight guests leave by late afternoon, with the exception of Mrs. Clark, who would be staying a few more days. Night came and dinner was served. Family and guest enjoyed a delectable bouillabaisse of Aunt Ruth’s artistry, and as the last dishes were taken from the table the group settled in the drawing room, but Heather soon found there was little more comfort to be had in the chairs here than in the dining room. She sought her bed early and when Brandon escorted her upstairs and left her in the sitting room, she dismissed Mary and undressed herself.
The Flame and the Flower Page 34
