The Flame and the Flower (10 page)

"It ain't worth a farthing, and I won't be having your tits poppin' out of those old dresses of mine when you go to the village."

Blushing deeply, Heather pulled the neck of the gown up for the hundredth time that day. The dress was so large that what had been modest for her aunt was just the opposite for her. When she bent over, the monstrous neckline revealed a great deal. If not for the string tied around her waist it would divulge everything, right down to her knees, especially since she had nothing to wear underneath. For modesty's sake, she had to save her chemise to wear when she went to the village.

It was less than a month later when she finally received permission to go with her uncle to the village. Though she had waited anxiously through the weeks for the authorization from her aunt, she was leery of going because her uncle still continued to watch her. It made her jittery to have him stare at her so. She feared that once out of Aunt Fanny's sight he would be tempted to ask questions, wanting to know about William Court, and she wondered if going to the little hamlet was worth them finding out that the man was dead; however accidentally it had been, she was still to blame. But she had to go. It was the only way she could read the town paper that was posted in the village square. The sooner she found employment elsewhere, the better. Besides, her aunt was expecting a lovely gift from the bartered gown.

White-washed cottages with thatched roofs nested cozily by the village pond, and an inn near the crossroads invited strangers to stop and enjoy the peaceful serenity of the country hamlet. Late summer flowers adorned window boxes and flowerbeds, and trimmed hedges made do as fences between the cottages. It was by far a nicer place to live than London, where filth, beggars and sinfulness predominated.

When they arrived in the hamlet, Heather and her uncle went immediately to the village common, a piece of land a chain or so square in the center of which a posting board stood. Uncle John made a habit of going there first. It was his only contact with the world outside the boundaries of the village and his farm. There Heather discreetly scanned the notices. A scullery maid was needed, she read, but she cringed at the thought. Someone desired a governess, making her heart thump wildly in her bosom, but she read further and found they specified an older woman, no younger than forty. Her eyes ran over the notices again as she prayed desperately to find one she had missed which would be suitable. She was willing to work as a maid, but if there was something better, she would be happier. But there was nothing more. Her hopes fell, and when her uncle turned to go, she followed in his path with tear-filled eyes.

He led her next to a shop where she could select a replacement for Aunt Fanny's broken dish. She did so listlessly, feeling now in the lowest of spirits. When her uncle had pulled the little cart to a halt near the square, she had been wonderfully elated because he had not questioned her. Now, though still thankful for his unasking silence, she wanted to go somewhere alone and cry. She chided herself for being so impatient. There was bound to be a notice later that she would find agreeable. But her aunt let her come so rarely with Uncle John that it might be ages before she could return, and that would mean having to stay with her aunt just that much longer.

Mr. Peeves, the shopkeeper, took the dish she handed to him. "Will there be anything else, Maid Heather—a new gown perhaps?"

Her face flushed with color. It was not the first time he made mention of a new gown. She knew how everyone stared at her with pitying glances behind her back and how the young girls made merry of her oversize clothes. She had too much pride not to be embarrassed. But as long as she had life left in her body she would hold her head high and pretend it didn't matter.

"No," she replied. "I just want the bowl."

"A very lovely dish it is too, well worth the money. That'll be six shillings, Maid Heather."

She dug the knotted kerchief from her pocket and untied it. She counted out the money carefully and gave it to him. It left her with seven shillings, which she knew her aunt would eventually be getting. Her eyes went longingly to some colorful ribbons on a nearby table.

"The blue would go pretty in your hair, Maid Heather," Mr. Peeves suggested, having sharp eyes in his head. He took up the ribbon and handed it to her. "Try it on, why don't you?"

Glancing uncertainly at her uncle, Heather let the shopkeeper press it into her hand. She turned slowly to the mirror, the only one in the village, and raised her eyes. It was the first time she had looked at herself in a mirror dressed as she was. Her hair was neatly braided and looped heavily from above each ear, and she was well-scrubbed and her clothes clean, but it made little difference in the absurdity of her dress. Her aunt's gown fit worse than any sack, making her slight figure appear even smaller.

No wonder people stare at me and laugh, she thought wearily.

The door of the shop opened and she dragged her eyes from her reflection. It was Henry Whitesmith, a tall, thin lad of one and twenty who had long been infatuated with John Simmons' niece. Though Heather had never encouraged him, he was always near when she was about, gazing upon her with adoring eyes, taking her hand whenever possible. She was fond of him, but only in a sisterly way. He came immediately to where she stood and grinned down at her.

"I saw your uncle's cart outside. I was in hopes you would be with him."

She smiled at him warmly. "It's nice to see you, Henry."

He blushed with pleasure. "Where've you been? I've missed you."

She shrugged her shoulders, glancing away. "Nowhere, Henry. I've just been staying at home with Aunt Fanny." She didn't want to speak of her trip to London. She felt her uncle's eyes on her, but she didn't care.

The door opened once again, and Heather sensed the identity of the person before she looked up, knowing that Henry was never without a tagtail. The new arrival advanced toward him but came to an abrupt halt when she spied Heather. The expression on her face changed, and Heather shivered under the withering stare.

It wasn't the first time Sarah had glared at Heather, being as jealous as she was of Henry's attentiveness to another girl. Sarah would have gladly done more if it had brought Henry down on his knees before her. Their families had already discussed the dowry she would be bringing to him when they were married, but he stood stubbornly opposed to being wed, and Sarah knew his infatuation with Heather to be the reason. It didn't matter how much she made fun of Heather's odd dress with the other village girls, she was still well aware, as were they, that beside Heather Simmons, even dressed as she was, they were found lacking. Even her own father had commented often of the uncommon beauty the Simmons girl possessed. All the men, young and old, were smitten with the Irish girl.

Henry scowled at Sarah before he turned back to Heather. "I have to talk with you," he whispered urgently, reaching out to touch her arm. "Could you meet me by the pond later?"

"I don't know, Henry," Heather replied softly. "I have to stay with my uncle. Aunt Fanny doesn't like me wandering off alone."

"If he can keep an eye on you, can you still talk with me?" he asked hopefully.

She frowned slightly, confused. "I suppose so, but not, for very long."

"Have him bring you to the pond before you leave," he said in a rush. "I'll be waiting."

He left her without saying more and brushed past Sarah on his way from the shop. It wasn't long before the girl followed him out.

Later, when Uncle John stopped his cart by the pond, Heather descended and went to where Henry stood by a tree. The young man was unable to speak for a moment as he gazed at her with adoring eyes, tracing lovingly each detail of her small, perfect features. When he did, his voice was uncertain and quavered with emotion.

"Heather," he choked out. "Do you think your aunt would ill-favor me. I mean—would she think me not good enough for to court you?"

Heather looked up at him, surprised. "But, Henry, I have no dowry."

"Ah-h, Heather, I care naught that you have none. I love you, not what you can bring me."

She could hardly believe her ears. Here, indeed, was the suitor she thought she would never have because she possessed no dowry. But he was too late. She was no longer a virgin. She could never bring herself to marry any man now, sullied as she was.

"Henry, you know as well as I that your family would never let you marry me without a dowry. It's just not done."

"I'll naught marry if I can't have you, Heather, and my family wants my children. They'll come round soon enough for us."

Heather's gaze dropped to her clenched hands. "Henry, I can't marry you."

The boy frowned. "Why, Heather? Are you afraid of having a man bed you? If that be it, rest at ease. I would naught touch you lest you felt ready for me."

She smiled sadly. Here was patience and love offered to her and she could not take them. Captain Birmingham had seen to that. What a difference there was between the two men. She couldn't feature the bearded captain of the
Fleetwood
being so patient with a woman. It was a pity she couldn't marry Henry and lead a normal quiet life here in the village and raise children they both could love. But that was out of the question now.

"Henry," she whispered softly, "you would do well to notice Sarah. She loves you very much and she would make you a good wife."

"Sarah don't know who she loves," Henry snapped. "She's always chasing after some boy and right now it happens to be me."

She chided him gently. "Henry, that isn't so. She sees no one but you. She wants to marry you very much."

Henry wasn't having any of it. "But I want you for my wife, Heather, not some simple-minded, plain girl like Sarah."

"You shouldn't say things that aren't true, Henry," she said in the same soft, reproving voice. "Sarah would make a far better wife than I."

"Please! Don't speak more of her!" Henry cried. His face had taken on a tormented expression, not so different from the one that had been on Sarah's face. "I want only to look at and think of you. Please, Heather, I must have your uncle's permission to court you. I can't wait much longer to make you my wife."

Here it was, a plea for her hand. Her aunt perhaps would be surprised. But it was too late. Now she had to convince this gentle man that she couldn't marry him. But he would not listen. What was she expected to do—tell him what had happened to her? Then he would be repulsed, sickened, and she would be shamed.

"Henry, I won't ask my aunt if she will allow it. I cannot marry you. It wouldn't be fair to you. I could never be happy here. Don't you see, Henry? I was brought up much differently. I'm used to having everything done for me and being dressed in the finest clothes. I can't be content being a mere cobbler's wife."

The look on his face plunged a sharp pain through her bosom, yet Heather knew it was best this way. He would soon be able to lick his wounds and realize he had a life to live without her. She watched in agony as he staggered from her, blinded by his tears.

"Oh my God!" he cried. "I loved you the moment I saw you. I naught could think of no one but you these two years past. And now, you say I'm not good enough for you. You're a black-hearted wench, Heather Simmons! May God have mercy on your soul!"

Heather stretched out a hand to him pleadingly, but he was gone, not caring where he ran, stumbling, then rising again. Tears welled up in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks as she watched him run away.

"I'm cruel," she thought. "I've hurt him deeply and now he will despise me."

She turned toward the cart and walked slowly back. Her uncle was watching her. He always watched her now. Was he ever to stop?

"What's the matter with young Henry?" he wanted to know when he reached down to pull her into the cart. His fingers closed over her upper arm, and he lifted her up as she clung to his shoulder.

"He asked to court me," she murmured, taking a place beside him on the narrow seat. She wished not to discuss it. Her stomach quivered and she felt sick.

"And you told him no?" he questioned.

She nodded her head slowly as though an incautious movement might make her retch. She shuddered and was silent, and he, thankfully, stared off into the distance over the head of the old horse that pulled them, lost in thought.

The first of October passed and the weather grew cooler. Here and there a stray leaf drifted to the ground and came to rest on grass still green. Squirrels could be seen scurrying along limbs of trees in search of food to hoard for the winter. Soon it would be time for slaughter and Heather dreaded even the thought. She needed no further encouragement to be ill. Each morning she rose, dragging herself from the cot with an effort, feeling sick and listless and wondering if she would ever get well. With the extra load of chores her aunt had thrust upon her, she was finding it hard to keep her illness a secret. She had vowed never to allow her aunt to see her ailing, but it was becoming difficult. Sometimes she felt so faint she expected to collapse any moment. She had hoped in time that those tormenting memories which made her ill would leave her in peace. But still they remained with her, and so did her troubled stomach and frayed nerves.

"Stop your mopin' around and finish those dishes, missy."

Heather shook off the daze that enveloped her and hurriedly wiped another wooden bowl. In just a moment more, she would be able to relax in a warm bath and soothe her aching body. She was tired and weary, and there was a dull ache in the small of her back. She had done the washing earlier in the day and her strength had been sapped away with the lifting, the scrubbing, the beating, the reaching. And later she had almost swooned when carrying in a load of firewood.