The Flame and the Flower (41 page)

The evening meal was passed in embarrassed silence. Heather's chair remained conspicuously empty throughout. Hatti served the two men and seemed to take pleasure in setting Brandon's food as far away from him as she dared. Jeff finished the meal and slammed his knife and fork down angrily, then rose and left without so much as a glance at his brother. As he paused in the hallway, Hatti approached him and spoke loudly enough for Brandon to hear.

"Master Jeff, Miss Heather—she's sitting up there by the window, and she won't eat nothing at all. What should I do to get her to eat, Master Jeff? She and that baby gonna starve!"

He replied in low concern. "It's all right, Hatti. I think the best thing we can do is leave her alone for a while. She'll be all right, and he'll be gone tomorrow."

Hatti left, shaking her head and mumbling to herself, and Jeff, not feeling like retiring yet, went outside and sat on the steps for a while, staring down the lane in deep thought, wondering how big a fool his brother could be. Sighing heavily, he rose and strolled through the cool, quiet night toward the stables. As he leaned against the stable door, he heard Leopold stamp and snort within. He entered and went to stroke the steed's silky nose, making him snicker in contentment. A mumbling voice drew his attention from the horse and he saw a dim light coming from the tack room where George slept. Wondering whom the old man would be talking to at this hour, he drew closer. The upper half of the door stood ajar and he could see George sitting at the head of his cot with his legs folded before him. A half-empty bottle rested between the man's legs and a sleepy cat, dozing on the foot of the bed, seemed to be the object of his monologue.

"Oooh Webby, I done the little mum wrong giving her to him, I did. Look how he treats her now when she's burdened with his child!" He shrugged his shoulders slowly. "But how was we to know she were just a poor scared girl, Webby? Most any lass what roams the streets o' London 'lone at night be a strumpet, and the cap'n, he had his sheets to the wind that first night in port. He wanted a woman to warm his bed. But why, Lordy, did we have to pick her for him—she a poor girl, lost from her family and having no ideas where she was? He must of treated her bad that night, and she a virgin, too. That's the worst of it, Webby! She a little innocent girl being taken like that. Oh, the shame of it! Oh, Webby the shame—"

He tipped the bottle to his lips and drank deeply, then laughed as he wiped his sleeve across his mouth.

"But that Lord Hampton, he fix the cap'n. He made him come and marry the mum when they found her carrying his wee one." He chortled and peered glassy-eyed at the cat. "The cap'n sure were mad, Webby. Ain't many people what can force that man to do a deed again his will."

The old servant grew silent and slumped back, staring thoughtfully at his bottle.

"Still," he mumbled after a moment, "the cap'n must of took a fancy to her the way he tore old London apart when she run off after spending that night with him, and I've never seen him in such a rage afore when he found her gone. We'd 'ave still been there yet, looking for her, if it hadn't been for that old gentleman bringing her back for him to wed."

He roused himself and took another long pull from the bottle, then jabbed his thumb against his chest. "But it were me what first got her for him, Webby. Me! I done the blasted deed. I put her in his hands! And oh, what she's had to put up with being his. The poor sweet mum..."

His voice dwindled off and his head slumped wearily upon his shoulder. Almost immediately his drunken snores filled the tack room. Deep in thought, Jeff walked back to the stable door and leaned against it. A small smile broke his face.

"So that's how he found her," he mumbled to himself. He chuckled suddenly. "Poor Bran, he's got it cut out for him this time. Hell, what am I saying? Poor Tory!"

He left the stables whistling, his good humor restored, and made his way to the house. The study door was closed and as he passed it, he saluted it casually and grinned.

The next morning he came downstairs in the same jovial mood, and though Heather's place at the breakfast table remained unoccupied, he spared not his brother. He waited until Brandon had his mouth full and then casually spoke.

"You know, Brandon, it takes about two hundred seventy days for a woman to have a baby. It will be interesting to see how long this one takes. It might seem odd if you had to marry Tory while still at sea. Of course, being a ship's captain, that would have posed a problem, wouldn't it? Marrying yourself? Tsk! Tsk! Tsk!"

He continued his breakfast thoughtfully as if contemplating this circumstance while Brandon eyed him quizzically. Jeff finished his meal and wiped his lips with a napkin and sitting back, spoke as if to himself.

"I'll have to keep track."

And before Brandon could comment, he rose and left, leaving his brother sitting in puzzled solitude.

The bags were loaded on the carriage and George sat beside James on the driver's seat, painfully squinting bloodshot eyes against the bright morning sun. The two brothers were standing beside the carriage door when Heather came out on the porch. She stood watching them, solemnly holding a shawl about her shoulders.

"I hope you have a good journey, Brandon," she said softly. "Try to come home as soon as you can."

He took a couple of steps toward her, his face grim, then stopped and stared up at her. With a mumbled curse, he turned and got into the carriage.

Jeff watched the landau rattle down the lane and then mounted the porch to stand beside Heather.

"Have patience, Tory," he murmured. "He's not as stupid as he sometimes seems."

She gave him a quick smile for his understanding, turned with a heavy heart and went into the house.

In the days that followed she gave herself no time for thought. She busied herself with menial and major chores, making arrangements for repairs to be done to both nursery and sitting room, selecting material for new drapes and curtains and wallpaper to compliment the rooms. When she sat, her fingers were usually busy with making baby's clothes and small blankets for the child. It was only at night, when she lay in Brandon's bed and lightly ran her fingers over the carved headboard, that she thought of how lonely Harthaven seemed without him.

Brandon entered the inn and doffed his greatcoat and hat and placed them in a chair at the table he took, failing to notice George sitting near the bar, tending a mug of ale. He ordered food and wine and was sipping the Madeira absently, distracted by his own thoughts, when the door of the inn opened and admitted a family of great number, all painfully thin and scantily dressed for the cold weather. Brandon watched the procession of tow-headed youngsters and their mother shuffle to the fireplace and sit down on the raised hearth to warm themselves before the fire while the man went off to talk with the innkeeper. Brandon guessed the woman's age to be no more than his own, but her face was deeply lined and shallow, and her red, gnarled hands gave signs of a hard life. The dress she wore was patched and frayed, and only one button held it in place over her sagging breasts, but like the children she was clean and had a well-scrubbed look. She held a baby, not more than eight months old in her lap, and a timid toddler had a firm grip on her threadbare skirts. A boy who seemed to be the eldest of the ten children at an age of twelve, stood stiffly beside his mother, holding a younger sister's hand while the other children sat very quietly watching a serving maid bustle about with a well filled tray, their round blue eyes as large as moons at this display of so much food.

Their father approached Brandon's table, holding a weather-beaten hat clutched in his hands, and Brandon turned his attention to him.

"Begging yer pardon, sir," the fellow said. "Would you be Cap'n Birmin'ham? The innkeeper said you were the one I was looking for."

Brandon gave him a slow nod. "Yes. I am Captain Birmingham. What can I do for you?"

The stranger gripped his hat tightly. "I'm Jeremiah Webster, sir. The word is that you're looking for a good timber hand. I'd like to have the job, sir."

Brandon gestured to a chair. "Have a seat, Mr. Webster." When the man complied, he inquired. "Just what are your qualifications for this work, Mr. Webster?"

"Well, sir," the man started nervously, shuffling his hat in his hands. "I've worked in big timber since I was little more than a lad, some twenty-five years now. The last eight years I was a foreman and the last two a straw boss. I know the working end of the business inside out, sir."

Brandon started to speak but was interrupted by the serving maid with his food. "Do you mind if I eat while we talk, Mr. Webster?" he inquired. "I hate to waste good food."

"No, sir," the man quickly replied. "Go right ahead."

Brandon nodded his thanks and returned to business while he ate. "Why aren't you employed now, Mr. Webster?"

The man swallowed hard and answered. "I was until last summer, sir. I was caught in a log jam and had my left shoulder and arm smashed. I was laid up until early winter and since then have only been able to get occasional jobs as common timber hand. All the better positions were taken, and the cold and wet up north sets an ache in my bones. It's a bit of a tiff keeping a family going on a millhand's pay."

Brandon nodded, chewing his food. He sat back and folded his hands, looking squarely at the man. "Actually, Mr. Webster, I'm looking for a manager for my mill." He paused and the poor fellow seemed to slump in his chair. "Your name is not unknown to me," he continued. "In fact you were recommended to me by Mr. Brisban who purchased my ship. He said you were a good hand and had as much experience as anyone around. I'm starting a mill and I need someone who knows the ins and outs. I think you fit the bill, and if you'll accept the position, it's yours."

Mr. Webster sat as if stunned for a moment, then smiled broadly. "Why, thank you, sir. You'll not be sorry for one moment, sir, I promise. Might I tell the missus the good news?"

"Of course, Mr. Webster. Please do so. There are a few more matters that need to be discussed."

The man departed and as he talked to his wife, Brandon watched the children who were much more interested with the food around them than their father's news. He remembered the man's eyes constantly dropping to his plate as he ate, and looking over the family now, he realized they were very low on their luck indeed. The father returned to the table and Brandon frowned slightly.

"My most humble apologies, Mr. Webster, but have you eaten?"

The man laughed nervously and was quick to assure him. "No, sir, we came directly here, but we have some vittles in the wagon and we'll eat later."

A smile touched Brandon's lips. "Now, Mr. Webster, you have just been employed by me to a very responsible position, and I believe that deserves a bit of a celebration. Would you please invite your family to be my guests for dinner. I would deem it an honor."

Flabbergasted, the man bobbed his head. "Why—yes, sir, thank you, sir."

He hurried to his brood as Brandon motioned for a serving maid and gave the appropriate order. She hastened to set ample chairs around a large table nearby and with quiet manners the Webster family gathered around it and took their places. Brandon rose as Mr. Webster led his wife to a chair at his table.

"Cap'n Birmingham, this is my missus, Leah."

Brandon made a shallow bow and graciously commented. "It's my pleasure to know you, madam. I hope you both and your children will find our country to your liking."

The woman smiled quite shyly and cast eyes downward as the baby she held hid his face against her bosom. Brandon resumed his seat and waited until the meal was served and the initial hunger satisfied before he again took up business.

"We hadn't discussed wages, Mr. Webster," he began, "but my proposal is this: The wage will be twenty pounds a month and quarters near the mill. If it proves a success you will be in for a share of the venture."

Again the man seemed speechless and could only nod his agreement.

Brandon continued, withdrawing a paper from his jacket. "Here is a letter of credit drawn on my bank in Charleston. This will pay your fares, and if you know of any good men who would like a job at the mill, you may bring them with you on this letter. Do you have any debts that need settling before you leave?"

Mr. Webster shook his head and smiled as if in amusement. "No, sir, they don't let a poor man have credit."

"Very well then," Brandon replied and reached into a vest pocket for his purse and counted out ten coins.

"Here is a hundred pounds for traveling money. I shall expect you within a week of my arrival. Do you have any questions?"

The man looked a little hesitant to speak but then ventured, "There is one thing, sir. I don't like to work with slaves or convicts."

Brandon smiled. "You are a man of my own beliefs, Mr. Webster. For good factory labor, paid men are best."

The dishes were cleared away and the older children whispered among themselves while the younger ones sat drowsily blinking back sleep. Watching the quiet group, Brandon wondered about his own child.

"You have a most wonderful family, Mrs. Webster," he commented. "My own wife is carrying our first. He'll be due some time in March so I'm anxious to be home."

The woman smiled timidly, too shy to even answer.