The Flame and the Flower (17 page)

Heather closed her mouth and moved to sit down, feeling more than stunned.

"Crazy Yankee," Aunt Fanny muttered.

Brandon clicked his heels together and bowed formally before her. "From you, madam, that is truly a compliment."

She glared at him and made as if to sneer an insult but thought better of the idea, much to her credit. Instead, she clamped her mouth shut and jerked her face away from his mocking gaze.

"As you are well aware, madam," he said to her back, "what I say is true. I do take care of my own—and their debts."

The meaning of what he said was lost upon Heather, but Fanny Simmons grew very pale and very nervous. She refused to look at him. She was still silent when a servant came to announce that luncheon was served.

A cold October thunderstorm had washed the autumn air and left the day with occasional squalls chasing themselves across London. The wheels clattered over the cobblestones and splashed through mud holes as the landau lurched and jolted its way toward the docks. Heather sat quietly by Lady Hampton in the rear seat. The woman spoke softly to her and now and then smoothed a glossy black curl lovingly, or lightly touched her hand. It was the only indication of nervousness displayed despite the sorrow of the approaching moment. But often Heather's eyes were drawn hesitantly to the stoical face of her husband who sat beside Lord Hampton across from her. He was braced in the corner against the bumps and his eyes moved slowly and impassively about the carriage, falling on her for a moment then sliding away with the same ease with which they had touched her. Lord Hampton made sporadic attempts to engage him in conversation, but was rewarded with brief, noncommittal answers uttered only for the sake of politeness.

The carriage made a careening turn and swept down a narrow waterfront street, crossed an open muddy court, and drew up in the lee of a building. A small sign rattled and clapped above a door, labeling the structure:
Charleston Enterprises Warehouse
.

Brandon stepped lightly from the carriage and turned to Heather. "You'll have several moments to say your farewells. I must have the warehouse agent signal my ship for a lighter."

With this he strode away, the wind ruffling his close-cropped hair and the lace at his cuffs. Heather's gaze followed him into the building, then she slowly turned to Lady Hampton and found tears brimming in the woman's eyes. Their parting sorrows could no longer be withheld. She fell into the woman's arms and through their tears their hearts communed—a motherless girl, a childless woman. Lord Hampton rather hoarsely cleared his throat. It was a brief moment's passing before Heather sat upright again and he took her hand into his.

"Rest easy, child," he comforted. "It is the way of the world that few partings are forever. Who knows when our paths may meet once more and we might share another moment of life. Take care, my child. Take very special care."

Impulsively Heather hugged his neck and brushed his leathery cheek with her lips. "Won't you please come and see me again before we sail?" she pleaded.

"No, we mustn't, Heather. Your husband's ire has been strained enough. It's best we bid farewell here. Perhaps he will later forgive us, but for now, God speed, my very own."

She threw her arms around Lady Hampton again. "I'll miss you both," she gasped, tears flowing freely.

Her ladyship clasped the girl firmly to her. "You will have your husband, my love, and soon a child. You'll have precious little time to think of us. But something tells me you'll be happier with him than you were here. Now go, my dear. Go seek your angry man. And Heather—remember that anger and love are but a whit apart."

Reluctantly Heather drew from Lady Hampton's embrace and moved to the door of the landau. She heard her husband's voice just outside as he spoke briskly to a lounging tar, and she realized he had returned and was now standing by the horses waiting for her. Brushing the tears from her face, she opened the door and lifted her skirts to descend from the carriage. Brandon hurried to assist her and slid his hands to her waist. Their eyes met, and for once, thankfully, he did not mock her tears. He lifted her down gently, then reached into the carriage as Lord Hampton handed him their cloaks and the small bundle of gifts from Lady Hampton. She moved away as he spoke in a low voice to the Hamptons.

The
Fleetwood
stood out in open harbor several hundred yards from the dock awaiting her turn at loading. Just pulling around the bow, a whaleboat skimmed toward them, four deckhands straining at the oars. A small, elderly, somewhat agitated man stood in the stern, urging them on, no doubt with colorful phrases.

Closer around her the dock was alive in a chaos of sound, sight and smell. Idle sailors loafed about with the stench of the prior evening's revelries still upon them, and drab, unwashed strumpets quite boldly hawked their wares, hoping to make a shilling or two or an evening's bed and board. A group of rats squealed stridently over garbage in the open gutter, then fled as a rock flung by an urchin thumped among them. Shrill laughter rang as several unwashed ragamuffins skittered across the dock, leaped over the gutter and disappeared in an alleyway.

Heather shuddered, remembering how she had thought of giving birth to a bastard and letting him grow up knowing this life of the streets. At least now the child would have an existence above this. What did it matter that she was neither loved nor wanted as a wife? Her child would have a father and something of a home despite having a sire who sailed the sea.

This was the life of a merchant captain—this squalid, filthy scene around her and that small ship yonder. What part she would play in her husband's life she did not know as yet, only that she would be the mother of his child. Whether he took her with him on other voyages in the future or left her conveniently behind was his decision and one in which she would have little or no say. But as she faced the wind that brought the scent of the sea to her nostrils, so she must face life—head on, taking whatever small pleasure her husband allowed her and being content. In time, perhaps, she would not care that love had passed her by.

At the touch of her husband's hand on her back, Heather's thoughts fled swiftly. He had come with a noiseless tread, startling her. Feeling her slight body quiver, Brandon drew his cloak over her shoulders.

"We must go now and meet the boat," he murmured.

Taking her arm, he guided her through stacks of cargo, coiled ropes and nets as the whaleboat approached the end of the pier. When the craft first touched the dock, the small man leaped ashore and scurried to meet them. He snatched the round stock cap from his head, and Heather realized with a start that it was George, her husband's cabin boy and manservant. The man bowed in a jerky manner and addressed his master.

"We thought you were to come back yesterday, cap'n. We almost give you up for lost. I was about to form up the hands and beat through the city for you thinkin' you'd fallen ill to the 'pressment gangs. You give us quite a worry, cap'n." And with a bob and hardly a pause. "Hello, mum."

"We were detained at Lord Hampton's for a bit," Brandon replied.

With a nod and another jerky bob, George resettled his hat over his shiny pate, relieved his captain of the bundles and walked behind as they proceeded to the boat. Brandon descended first to the craft, then swung his young bride down beside him and settled her in the bow. George tossed him the bundles and painter, slid down the ladder, assumed his place in the stern and set the tiller.

"Look lively, mates," he demanded. "We're under way now. Push off. Port oars awash, not stroke, lads—stroke—stroke. Now both and bend your backs to it, lads. 'Twill be a cold enough journey for the mum yet we drag it out. So hump, laddies, make it good."

The small craft slid beneath the stern of a moored merchantman and headed out across open water to the
Fleetwood
. There was a light chop rolling before the breeze and a chill spray of water struck Heather's face, snatching her breath and sending a cold shiver through her. She pulled Brandon's cloak tightly about her and huddled deeper into its warm folds. Any comfort was short lived, however, for the elements combined in a concerted effort to effect renewed discomfort.

The whaleboat's prow broke the back of each wave, swung high then slid down into the trough. The unaccustomed motion upset Heather's stomach, and each new plunge seemed to raise her gorge a bit higher. She cast an uneasy glance to her husband who sat with his face into the wind, seeming to enjoy the feel of the salt spray, and pressed her hand to the base of her throat.

"If I retch now, I'll hate myself forever," she thought wildly.

Her knuckles grew white but her face gradually assumed the greenish shade of the sea. Her battle was nearly won, yet as they drew near the ship, she raised her eyes to the tall masts, lurching back and forth above her in direct opposition to the motions she felt. A miserable groan escaped her lips at the confusion of movement and drew Brandon's immediate attention. He looked for one brief moment at the pale, distressed face and the slender hand struggling for control and acted swiftly. Sliding his arm around in front of her, he lowered her head carefully over the gunwale and let nature resolve itself in the sea.

A few moments later Heather gave a last shudder and straightened, loathing herself. Shamed and humiliated, she dared not raise her eyes. Beside her, Brandon wet a handkerchief and pressed it to her brow.

"Are you feeling better now?" he asked gently.

The motion had died away and the craft now stood in the lee of the ship. She managed a weak nod as George eased the boat against the curved belly of the barque.

As Brandon secured the bow painter on the chains the older man did likewise aft. The captain then braced his foot on the ladder and turning, gestured to Heather.

"Come,
ma petite
, I'll help you aboard."

She came cautiously and made to set her foot on the ladder beside his. His arm went about her and, taking her slight weight against him, he climbed up to the deck of his ship. He set her down and for a moment his attention returned to the whaleboat, leaving Heather to gaze about. She found herself standing at the bottom of a seemingly confused tangle of ropes, cables and spars, and through them all, the great, raked masts lunged skyward, now swaying with a soft, gentle rhythm against the clouds. From the bowels of the ship came an almost musical squeaking, creaking and groaning. The tempo of sound and motion matched and almost made the ship a living, breathing thing beneath her. It had a clean, salty smell, and as she looked she realized each item was neatly in its place, ropes coiled at hand, pins and buckets stowed. A sense of order lay about the ship.

Brandon returned to her side. "You will need to change your gown, Heather. I purchased a few things for you before I found you had disappeared. They're in my cabin." And with a mocking eyebrow raised, he added, "I believe you know the way."

She blushed profusely and glanced hesitantly toward one of the doors beneath the quarter-deck.

"Yes, I can see that you do," he murmured, watching her. "You will find the clothes in my trunk. I will be along in a moment."

So dismissed, she moved away from him to the door. Before she opened it, however, her gaze went back for one brief moment to her husband and found him deep in conversation with George. It seemed he had already forgotten her.

The cabin was as she remembered it, compact and small, occupying as little of the precious cargo space as possible. The day's dreariness made it a deep twilight within as only soft hazy light came from the windows at the stern. Before she moved to the trunk she lit a candle on the table and hung her husband's cloak on a peg by the door. Then she knelt before the trunk and her fingers touched the latch and lifted the lid.

A startled gasp escaped her as she saw the beige gown neatly folded on top. Memories came flooding back, reminding her of William Court and of the night spent in this very cabin.

Her eyes were drawn reluctantly to the bunk where she had lost her virginity and she gazed at it for a moment, remembering the struggles that had taken place there, the passionate and fiery lips against her flesh, and lastly of the defeat. Her hand slid to her belly with a will of its own and her face burned.

She started when the door behind her opened and Brandon walked in. Hastily she pushed the beige dress aside and pulled out a deep red velvet gown that was beneath. It possessed a neckline cut low, and sleeves, fitted and long, trimmed with white lace at the wrists. It was a gown made for a woman with no childish affectations to mar its simplicity and beauty.

As Brandon pulled his coat off and threw it on the bunk, she rose and began unfastening her gown with trembling fingers. She stepped out of it carefully and put it away in the trunk.

"There's an inn nearby," said her husband behind her. "It will be more comfortable for you there than it is here."

A small frown touched her brow as she turned and looked at him. He had unbuttoned his shirt and was already engrossed in his ledgers at his desk. As easily as he dismissed her from his ship could he dismiss her from his mind. Perhaps he would even leave her behind when he sailed. There was no guarantee that he would not, and she would be left destitute.

"I am not unaccustomed to discomfort," she replied in a soft voice. "I will be content to stay here. You need not take me to an inn."