The Flame and the Flower (44 page)

"Oh, Brandon, you gave me such a fright!"

He set her down on her feet. "If I see you up on a chair again, miss, you'll have cause to be frightened. You're not here to work," he admonished. "We just brought you along for company."

She shook her head in exasperation. "But Brandon I..."

"No argument, Heather. Just sit yourself down and take care of my son."

She sighed in surrender and sank into the rocking chair again, trailing her hands over the arms in resignation.

"Companionship, huh! You're all working while I sit here alone."

He smoothed a stray lock of her hair and kissed her lightly on the brow. "You're much more important to me sitting still than this whole damned house."

She thrust out her lower lip in a pout, picked up her book and began to rock. "I'm treated like an old woman already."

Brandon laughed softly. "Never, my love. Only when I'm an old, old man."

He left her to her reading, but it wasn't long before she rose and began to wander through the house. She passed a room upstairs where the young girls were busy mopping and scrubbing and another where two young men were putting up new wallpaper, then went downstairs again to the cookroom. Here the filth had not yet been disturbed, and she shuddered at the sight of it. Locating a straw broom, she began to sweep up the trash and dirt and discarded bones of many a meal. She coughed and choked at the dust she stirred up while she cast occasional glances to the door and listened for footsteps, but to no avail. The old woman came on silent feet.

"Miss Heather!" Hatti yelled.

She jumped and dropped the broom and stood shamefacedly with her hands behind her back. Hatti blocked the doorway with arms akimbo, her mouth screwed into a scowl.

"That ain't good for you, breathing in all that dust! And you gonna have that baby right here in this filthy old place if you don't set yourself down!" she scolded. "I's gonna fetch Master Brandon right now. He'll make you set."

And with that she turned and left. Heather pursed her lips, mumbling something about it being more unhealthy for a person to be startled out of their wits, and gazed downward as she scuffed a small foot at the dirt on the floor. The two came back and stood silently frowning at her.

"You, madam," Brandon sighed, "are the most willful woman I've ever known. It's plain to see we'll have to find some light task to keep you busy."

He was at a loss for what until Jeff hailed him from the back yard. The three strode outside as some boys were setting down several large barrels. Jeff threw the tops off to show them packed full of a weird assortment of dishes, pots, and kettles and other utensils.

"I've an idea Mrs. Bartlett sent these out for the slaves to use," Jeff surmised. "They were stored up at the mill so I doubt if Mr. Bartlett even let the poor devils see this stuff."

"Mr. Bartlett is married?" Heather questioned her husband, remembering Jeff's words from the day before.

Brandon nodded. "A very nice lady too, so I hear. She must be blind to his ways though. It seems everyone in Charleston knows what kind of man he is."

"White trash, that's what he is!" Hatti grunted. She pursed her lips and went back into the house, mumbling to herself. "That man ought to have been strung up long time ago."

Brandon examined a few of the items in the barrels and then cocked his eye to Heather, thinking he had found just the chore for her. "Well, my busy little mouse, perhaps you can stay out of trouble with these. You can sort out the best and set them aside for the Websters. It wouldn't do to give them back to Mrs. Bartlett and give her any ideas about her husband."

As he helped her descend the rickety steps she smiled at him brightly, a little flirting grin that melted within his heart and ran through his veins like wine, leaving him a bit intoxicated. He had difficulty concentrating on what Jeff was saying as he watched her poke about the barrels and finally had to turn his back upon her so he could give his brother his full attention. After a moment Jeff looked past him and stopped in mid sentence, grinning, and Brandon turned to find Heather head first in a large barrel, struggling to raise a large kettle from its bottom.

"Dammit!" his voice rang out.

The kettle thumped and Heather stood up, brushing her hair from her eyes. Her kerchief was askew and there was a large greasy smudge across her chin. Jeff melted into laughter as Brandon shook his head in exasperation.

"Jeff, have your boys unpack all these things and set them up on the porch," he said, and seizing a white porcelain dish from a barrel, held it up before Heather so she might see her reflection. "And you, Miss Black Face, will not lift anything heavier than this. Do you understand?"

She nodded vigorously and made an effort to wipe her face on her apron.

Brandon sighed. "Here, you're making it worse. Let me." He took the hem of her apron and gently wiped the grease from her chin. "Now be good," he cajoled. "Or I'll have to send you home to keep you out of trouble."

"Yes, sir," she murmured meekly, and Brandon's eyes caressed her gently.

Now that Heather had something to occupy her mind, she kept out of everyone else's hair. Brandon and George spent the rest of the morning cleaning out and repairing the well. Jeff continued his search of the cabins and found a fairly good selection of furniture. The front yard was jammed with the fruits of his search. Just before lunch Hatti pronounced the upstairs clean and fit for habitation, and the front of the house gleamed with a fresh coat of whitewash. They stopped and brought huge baskets from the wagon, and a gay, lighthearted repast was enjoyed by all. The meal was finished and everyone relaxed, sprawling about in a bit of sun or shade as each taste dictated. A feather tick had been placed beneath a lofty pine for Heather, and Brandon joined her on it while Jeff sat nearby with his back propped against an ancient chest and regarded them with smiling eyes.

"I was beginning to wonder if you two had an aversion to sharing one of those things," he grinned. "Though for the life of me, I couldn't figure out how Heather got in her present condition without you doing so. Of course, it could only take one night for the deed to be done, couldn't it? And then she's caught."

A silence prevailed as Heather exchanged glances with her husband. Brandon shrugged his shoulders slightly in answer to her questioning gaze then raised an eyebrow at his brother and contemplated him, but Jeff just smiled and leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes.

The afternoon was as busy as the morning. The downstairs was put in spic-and-span shape, though it had seemed at first to be an impossible goal. A smell of pine soap now pervaded the rooms and everything shone and sparkled in a mantle of impeccable cleanliness.

Heather was relieved that the labors of the day were drawing to a close. She was bone tired, grimy, sticky with sweat and hardly looking like the mistress of a great mansion. Long tendrils of black hair tumbled down her back from beneath the kerchief around her head, and little beads of moisture could be seen in the deep cleft between her breasts where she had opened her bodice to allow the cooling breeze to touch her skin.

No man except Brandon had been within the house since the furniture was brought in, for all the chores remaining there required only a woman's hand for completion. Sheets were smoothed across new feather ticks and dishes were washed and placed within cupboards. So as Heather stood with Hatti before the now clean hearth, discussing the things yet to be done to make the place a bit more comfortable for the Websters, and gathering from the old woman's knowledge a list of items packed away at Harthaven that could be used, she was not conscious of any male presence. Her back was to the hall door and Hatti was half turned away, following attentively her every word. With her gown soiled with dirt and an apron tied beneath her bosom, she looked no different from the rest of the servants. A stranger coming up from behind might think her a small, trim Negress.

That was Mr. Bartlett's folly when he saw her beside Hatti, and he entered the room with noiseless stride to force his presence upon the two women. Heather became aware of him only when she felt a hand crudely clapped between her buttocks and heard a voice boom in her ear.

"Ho! What a tidy piece I've found me. Old woman, go tell your master Mr. Bartlett's here to see him, but don't hurry. I've a mind to taste this tempting morsel while you're gone."

Heather spun about, choked with outrage as Hatti swung round with a gasp of surprise and stared horrified at the intruder. Bartlett showed only mild surprise at the color of the smaller woman's skin and eyes. His initial thought was that she was a bondwoman; he never dreamed he had just insulted a Birmingham. His tongue flicked over his lips as he viewed the cleavage between her breasts, and his grin thickened into a leer as he took hold of her arm.

"Well, honey girl, it looks as if someone climbed on you ahead o' me. Your master, perhaps? He sure's got taste, I'll give him that." He gestured Hatti out with his thumb. "Get, old woman. This is white folk's business. Your master is going to do a little sharing whether he wants to or not." His eyes narrowed at the Negress. "And don't go blabbing or I'll cut that tongue outa that black head."

Hatti and Heather found their voices at the same time. Heather let loose a screech of indignation as she tried to snatch free.

"How dare you! How dare you!"

Hatti gripped a rag mop nearby, waving it menacingly as she screamed. "You let her go! Get out of here, white trash. Master Bran'll make hash of you."

Mr. Bartlett took a step forward and lifted his arm to backhand the Negress but found himself under attack instead by Heather who struck him hard across the face.

"Leave her be!" she demanded.

His hand flew to his cheek, and he turned his shocked attention upon her.

"Why, you little hellcat!"

She glared at him, her bosom heaving, and pointed to the door. "You get out of here," she hissed. "And don't ever come back."

He snatched her to him. "You're talking mighty big for being just a servant girl, honey."

Angrily she pummeled his chest and face with her fists, demanding her release. He only laughed in uproarious glee and locked an arm roughly about her shoulders, smothering her blows in a sweaty embrace.

"You're sure anxious to save this old woman's skin, lil' gal," he chuckled. "But you're going about it in the wrong way. All you have to do is be nice to me. What's your master got that I ain't?"

Hatti swung her mop at the same time Heather's sharp heel fell crunchingly on his instep. Bartlett's pained howl was abruptly choked in a tangle of wet mop and both wounded and thrown off balance, he stumbled backward into the hall. Now faced by the huge Negress with blood in her eye, brandishing her mop, and a tiny wildcat gripping a bar of soap as if it were a dagger, he turned and fled from the vengeful pair. As his foot lit on the top step of the porch the huge bar of soap struck the back of his head with a meaty
chunk
and sailed off into the yard to be followed shortly by Mr. Bartlett who did a beautiful somersault in midair and landed the full length of his backside in the dust. He rose, gasping for breath, enraged at being so sorely abused by two common servants, and women at that. The small one faced him from the porch with a feral gleam in her eye.

"Now take your filthy, slimy person from these premises and make haste doing so," she sneered. She raised an eyebrow contemptuously. "Or
my master
will make you wish you had."

"Why, you little bitch!" he choked. "I'll teach you to set upon your betters."

He stepped forward threateningly and the huge mop whistled within inches from his face, leaving small trails of dirty water dripping down it. Hatti pulled Heather behind her and her voice rumbled with rage as she spoke slow but painfully clear.

"Now, Mr. Bartlett. If you ever lay a hand on this Birmingham again I'll wrap that mop so hard around your head they'll have to shave you like a sheep."

The man's next retort was startled from him as he heard a rapid thud of feet behind him, and he turned to see the master of Harthaven coming toward him with an angry grimace distorting his reddened face. In that brief moment Bartlett realized what it was like to face death. He had insulted the wife of a Birmingham, and not only a Birmingham, but Brandon Birmingham, the one known for his foul temper.

Whitening considerably under his swarthy skin, he stood rooted to the spot, unable to move, with fear oozing from every pore. Brandon had heard enough to set his mind afire and now saw only the man before him, all else blotted out by a reddish haze. He yearned only to feel that same one's bones break beneath his hand and as he neared he swung his fist with blood-thirsty vengeance. His knuckles caught the man across the cheek and right eyebrow, laying skin open and spinning Bartlett around. Brandon drew back, with his fist ready to fly again, but Bartlett fled toward his carriage with an agility amazing for his age and size. Brandon was hardly in the mood to let him go and was just reaching forward to seize the man when Jeff entered the fray. Realizing his brother's blood lust rage, he flung his body full length into Brandon's, sending them both tumbling into the dust. He sought to hold him down but Brandon flung him off, and Jeff looked up to find his brother standing legs spraddled in a cloud of dirt, swearing at the rapidly dwindling carriage. Mr. Bartlett raised once from his seat to shake a hurried fist and then settled again to the task of full flight.