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.

The business was concluded and the two men rose and clasped hands. Brandon stood thoughtfully as he watched the family depart, then sank again to his chair and poured himself another glass of Madeira.

A rather attractive woman with a daringly low gown, flaming red hair and heavily rouged lips got up from her chair where she had sat eyeing Brandon for some time with bold appraisal. The sight of his bulging money purse had not dampened her spirits, and she moved forward now with a sensuous gait and stood pointedly by an empty chair at his table, letting the sleeve of her gown fall over her shoulder.

“Hello, guv’na,” she purred. “Care to buy a lonesome lady a drink?”

Brandon raised a cold expression to her gaze. “I’m afraid I’m occupied elsewhere this evening, madam,” he replied. “Please excuse me.”

He gestured her away abruptly and she turned in a huff and stalked off, and George, having seen the woman’s interest earlier, smiled to himself and gave a sigh of relief. Since disembarking from the Fleetwood a month ago, he had watched his captain turn away one strumpet after another and retire to his room alone. Tomorrow they would be leaving for home and he would be returning to a wife too far along with child to ease his manly discomfort, yet not one woman had he taken to bed nor touched since arriving here. Having discovered a new respect for his captain, George nodded his head.

“Aye, the cap’n’s been stung, and deeply too. The little mum has wiggled into his heart without his knowin’ and there he sits adreaming of her while willing wenches parade before him. Aye, poor cap’n. He’ll never be the same again.”

George lifted his mug toward his captain as if in toast and set it to his lips in a long draught. Brandon rose from his table, unmindful of his presence, and the last the servant saw of him, he was mounting the stairs to his room.

Brandon closed the door of his room behind him and slowly began to undress for bed, his thoughts now centered on only one thing. He took off his shirt and dropped it over the back of a chair and gazed at himself in a long mirror which stood in a corner of the room. He saw a rather handsome man return the perusal and flex rugged muscles. The image inhaled deeply and Brandon looked with some satisfaction at the tall, broad shouldered, slim waisted figure before him, but he turned away in exasperation.

“Damn,” he thought. “I’m not so ugly that even a pretty wench would lightly refuse my bed. How can I approach that vixen when she so despises the very image of my face that she cannot accept the small thought of me slumbering by her side?”

He strolled thoughtfully across the room.

“I’ve known wenches here and abroad. Why does this simple one strike wisdom from my skull and make of me a bumbling fool? I’ve bade the most haughty spread their thighs and gladly they complied as if the greatest favor of the world I did them. But when I’m before Heather, phrases flee my tongue and leave me groveling as in a gutter for my words.”

He strode to the window and stood gazing out, knowing that within the block many a warm bed waited, and his hunger grew, but it was not for them out there. It was for in part a memory and in part a gentle dream he carried within him. His thoughts grew tender as he remembered golden candlelight upon creamy, silken flesh still moist from an evening’s bath and dark, softly curling hair flowing across a pillow as she slept, and his thoughts brought dreams to mind of how those sweet and gentle arms might feel about his neck and of how those full, pink lips might press against his and how her warm, young body might curve to him and small, white teeth would nibble at his ear to rouse his passions.

He turned away from the window and struck his fist into his hand in mute frustration.

“My Lord!” he thought. “That quiet virgin denies me and my very soul crumbles. What affliction besets me that I should tremble so?”

He seized a glass and poured himself a drink and sank into a chair to consider further his problem.

“I have not bedded another woman since that night they dragged her through my cabin door. This Heather, this tiny purple flower from the moors, has dined upon my heart and now it grows within her and I have no more a heart to share. But my heart, thou hast betrayed me deep. You have closed all doors but one and that I slammed in anger. My God, that I should love her so! I thought that simple emotion was below me. I thought that I had transcended that which other men declare. I drew myself the worldly gentleman, above these simple words of men, that I could casually accept a wife of well experienced joys. But now I find myself so stricken with the innocence of that one, that I cannot rouse myself to seek relief in someone else’s bed.”

He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and hung his head.

“And even when I forced her maidenhood, she served my pleasure well, more than any woman ever. She took my seed within her and betrayed me not with another man and from that first moment I clutched her to me, has held my every thought so tightly that even in my sleep I dream of nothing else but her and that her good favors might turn to me.”

He raised his head and sat back. He sipped his drink slowly and formed a new resolve.

“Her time grows near,” he mused. “I’ll bide my moment carefully. I’ll play the suitor and court her tenderly and then perhaps she’ll come to me.”

He finished his drink and rose and went to bed, and with the realization of his love and new resolve, for the first time in many months sank quickly into slumber.

The rain pounded down upon Harthaven and clouds hung low above the trees. The night was black and silent as if the rest of the world had already withdrawn and curled itself in some cozy nest against the storm.

Heather gazed about the room and saw that she had removed all traces of her presence here. She had spent these many nights in this great chamber and had grown to know it and feel a part of it. She stood looking down at the huge bed which seemed to welcome her and felt a pang that she must leave it now and return to the smaller bed in the sitting room. She sighed pensively and slowly made her way into the other room. The door of the nursery was open and taking a candle, she went to inspect it once again. She ran her finger lightly over a rocking horse that had been Brandon’s as a child and went to stand beside the crib and smooth the blanket in it.

“Strange, we all assume that the child will be a boy.” She fluffed the lace on the canopy. “Of course my husband has declared it so, and who will deny his right to wish a son?” She smiled to herself, thinking how she had once prayed for a girl. “Poor daughter, if you grow within my belly; seek your finer pleasures now for blue will be your maiden’s color.”

She turned and with a last slow look about, wandered from the nursery, through the sitting room and returned once more to the master bedroom where a fire glowed cheerfully on the hearth. She relaxed before its warmth in a large overstuffed chair and stared with pensive mood into the flames. She sighed and thought of Brandon’s return in the next few days. His brief letter to her some weeks ago had been curt and mentioned only his approximate day of homecoming.

What would his manner be? Would he be more gentle or perhaps more temperamental? Had he found some northern wench to ease himself upon? He’d given her, his wife, that other bed and other room. . . .

“He could not stand the sight of me before,” she thought sadly. “Now I’m plump with child, ill-shaped and so clumsy in my moves I must waddle more like the goose than a feminine woman. I will not blame him for his distant mood when he sees my swollen shape.”

She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

“Oh Brandon, would that I had been more tender when I had the chance, perhaps I’d share your bed and would soon feel your warmth again beside me. I would be sure no other bed you’d share.”

She looked again into the fire and felt a flare of anger within her.

“What sultry trollop has he chosen to pass the time with? Was it a sweet, simpering thing he cajoled to keep him warm in the north?”

Her temper softened some.

“I would have never seen this land, this house, these kind and gentle souls I’ve met, had not the fates decreed my maidenhood should be the price! I’ve but to make the best of it and when this child has come and I regain my former worth, then I shall ply my woman’s wiles to gain my husband.”

She wrapped her arms about her and grew warm in memories. That moment at the inn when he had seemed so tender, almost loving, and on the ship, his careful tending of her person. And even with Louisa he did deflect the more cruel blows and played the lover dear.

“Is it possible,” she wondered, “that somewhere beneath that scowling brow he does harbor some loving thoughts of me? If I would be the gentle, devoted wife, could he some time begin to love me? Oh, dearest love, and I do love thee, could you be in truth my husband, loving me above all others? Would you take me in your arms and caress me as a lover would? Oh Lord, I tremble at the thought that he would find me all that he should ever want.”

The fire had burned low. She rose and by its softened glow stood beside the great and tempting bed once more.

“And you, oh lovely resting place, will soon feel my weight again, I vow. You’ll not seem so lonely long for I will tempt him to my ends which are the same as yours, to be shared, to be loved, to be gently courted as if a maiden still. Oh, he will bend and time will be my friend. I’ll let my patience mend the bleeding wounds we share until they are no more and he will seek my comfort, my love forever more.”

She sighed and returned to the sitting room. She thought of it as the sitting room now, only temporarily hers until she took her rightful place. She sought her bed and bravely courted sleep.

Leopold and a wagon and team had been taken into town several days before to be left with friends against Brandon’s return. The day was one of the few sunny ones they had had so far, and Heather had taken the opportunity to go to the cookhouse and chat with Aunt Ruth and learn more of the strange Yankee foods and those dishes which were Brandon’s favorite. She sat on the stool, sipping tea that the old woman had prepared for her and listened intently as the Negress described some of her methods of preparing foods, impressed by the fact that with Aunt Ruth it was more a matter of talent and artistry than of actual knowledge. She seemed to know instinctively how foods and herbs would taste when blended and could make even a simple dish a true adventure of flavor.

The pleasant moment was interrupted by shouts from afar and soon Hatti bustled in breathlessly exclaiming:

“Master Bran—Master Bran’s coming lickety split down the back road! He-he,” she giggled. “He’s in such a hurry he’s gonna run that black horse into the ground.”

Heather’s eyes widened and she gasped as she slid from the stool. Her hands flew to her hair and then to her gown and she seemed horrified.

“Oh, I must look a fright!” she cried. “I’ve got to. . . .”

She turned without finishing and fled to the house and as she labored up the stairs, she called for Mary. The girl came running and was there when she flung open the door to the sitting room. Breathlessly Heather bade the servant lay out a fresh gown and hurried to press a cold, wet cloth to her face and pinch her cheeks to bring the color forth. She yanked her dress off, and as Mary hastened to fasten the selected gown of yellow muslin, she urged her on.

“Hurry, Mary! Hurry! Brandon is coming! He’ll be here shortly!”

She smoothed her hair, dressed and hurried down the stairs and outside to stand casually on the porch and see her husband slowly walk Leopold down the lane. The heaving sides of the horse and heavy froth upon his glistening coat belied the leisurely gait, for Brandon had pushed the mighty steed to the limit in his eagerness to regain his young bride. Now he approached the porch and dismounted with deliberate slowness. He handed the reins to a boy with instructions to walk the horse well and rub him down and be careful of the water. All this done, he turned to his wife and a slow smile grew upon his face. His eyes moved over her as he mounted the steps, taking in every detail, and slipping an arm about her waist, he greeted her and placed a somewhat fatherly kiss upon her lips. She smiled sweetly in reply and leaned against him lightly as they went into the house.

“Did you have a good trip?” she questioned softly as he passed his hat to Joseph. “The weather was so bad here I was quite worried about you.”

His arm tightened about her. “No need to have fretted, sweet. We beat the worst of it into New York and had no problems coming back. How have things been here? Did you get the nursery finished?”

She nodded quickly, her eyes shining. “Would you care to see it?”

“I would indeed, sweet,” he replied.

Smiling brightly, she took his arm and let him assist her up the stairs. He contemplated her stomach as she climbed.

“Have you been well?” he inquired.

“Oh yes,” she hurried to assure him. “I’ve been in the best of health. Hatti says she’s never seen a mother-to-be more fit, and I do feel wonderful.” She looked down rather ruefully at her belly as they reached the landing and laughed a little in apology. “Though I’m afraid I’m a bit of a sight and not very light upon my feet.”

He chuckled and put his arm around her again as he brought her chin up for their gaze to meet. “I hardly expected you to look like a prim little virgin while you carried my son, sweet. But even so burdened, you’d make many a slimmer maid turn green with envy over your glowing beauty.”

She smiled softly and pressed her cheek against his chest, more than content with his answer. In the nursery, he strode about the room as she stood with her hands behind her back, anxiously awaiting his reaction. Brushing aside the new mosquito netting, Brandon bent to inspect the crib under its ruffled canopy. Next he rocked a nearby cradle gently with his boot as a smile played about his lips, then slowly gazed about at the light blue walls and the snowy white curtains. He carefully stepped around the vividly hued rugs which lay about the shiny oak floor and opened a bureau drawer in curiosity, finding it full of neatly folded baby clothes, some of which he had seen his wife sewing before he left.

Heather went to stand beside the wooden horse with its painted red saddle and pushed it lightly with her fingers, setting it into motion.

“We found this in the attic,” she said, drawing his attention. “Hatti said it was yours so I bade Ethan fetch it down. When our son is old enough to go astride it, I can tell him his father once sat upon it.”

He grinned and came closer to look at it. “Sure hope it doesn’t run under a branch with him.”

A giggle escaped her before she turned hurriedly and pointed to a rocking chair of some expense. “Jeff gave me that. Isn’t it lovely?”

He nodded his approval and quipped, “Leave it to him. He always did like to be rocked to sleep.”

Heather started to point out another item of interest, but she stopped as if horrified. “Oh my goodness, Brandon! You haven’t eaten! You must be starving, and here I’ve been chattering on.”

She quickly called Mary and gave orders for a tray of food to be sent up and water heated for his bath. Brandon had gone into his bedroom and removed his jacket and stock and was pulling off his boots when she joined him.

“I’m no longer a captain of a ship, pet,” he commented, giving her a sidelong look as she picked up his coat and put it away. “I sold the Fleetwood for a tidy sum, and now you may expect to see me about the house every day.”

Heather smiled to herself, deciding she approved whole-heartedly of this situation.

A servant brought food, and Heather sat across from Brandon, watching him as he ate. She was pleasantly pleased by the intimacy of the moment and warmed by her new found love for him. The water was hustled in while the tray was taken away, and she tested its warmth before nodding her dismissal to the servants then busied herself putting out fresh linens as her husband disrobed.

Brandon eased himself into the hot water and lay back for some moments relaxing in it. When he finally sat up and began to scrub, Heather came and reached for the sponge. She dipped it into the water and held it up expectantly but waited for his approval. He gazed up at her for a long time contemplating this, then leaned forward, presenting his back to her.

“Scrub it hard, will you, sweet? I feel like I’m covered with a thick coat of grime.”

She bent happily to her task, lathering the soap up well with her hands over his well muscled shoulders and down his back. Impishly she initialed a large “B” through the white suds across his back and giggled lightly as she placed an “H” before it. He peered over his shoulder at her with a raised eyebrow and a one-sided grin.

“What are you doing, miss?” he questioned.

She laughed and wrung out the sponge over his head. “I’m branding you, m’lord.”

He shook his head vigorously, flinging water on her, and she laughed with glee. Stepping back to a safe distance, she threw the sponge at him and then gasped with surprise when he stood up and stepped over the rim of the tub and came after her, still soapy and wet.

“Oh Brandon, what are you doing?” she shrieked in merriment. “Get back in the tub.”

She turned as if to flee, but he flung out both arms and lifting her up, swung her up over the tub. She was laughing with him, enjoying the play until he gave her a little dip as if to drop her into the tub, then she squealed and clasped her arms tightly about his neck.

“Brandon, don’t you dare! I’ll never forgive you.”

He smiled into her eyes. “But, sweet, you seemed so interested in my bath, I thought you might like one.”

“Put me down,” she demanded, then her mouth curved sweetly. “Please.”

His eyes sparkled. “Ah, the truth will out, madam. It’s only that you have a fetish for scrubbing men’s backs, is that it?”

He set her down gently on her feet and grinned as she lifted her arm and twisted to see her wet dress.

“Oh, Brandon, you’re impossible! Look what you’ve done to me!”

He laughed heartily and pulled her back against him, encompassing her in his wet embrace again. Her giggles joined his merriment as he hugged her, his arms about her just above the rounded belly, pressing into her soft bosom. He spread his hand over her abdomen.

“I don’t deny a thing, sweet. But must you still be so outraged over my misdeed?” he teased. “That was eight months ago.”

“I was talking about my dress!” she corrected indignantly. “You got me all wet and now I’ll have to change. Now do be good and unfasten me. I shouldn’t want to ask Mary to help me change again.”

“Again?” he repeated.

“Never mind,” Heather said quickly. “Just unfasten me please.”

He complied and resumed his place in the tub before she turned to him, holding the gown up over her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she smiled and bent to press a kiss upon his cheek, then swept around and into her room.

The spot her lips had touched burned as Brandon leaned back, but he found it impossible to relax and enjoy the warmth of the bath. A movement caught his eye, and he could see her reflected in his tall, dressing mirror as she stepped out of her dress. A sudden, powerful urge struck him to ask her here and now if she would share this great room with him, to lie beside him in his bed tonight and let him hold her, not with passion’s intent, but gently and with love, as a husband should when a wife is nearing her time. But caution brought second thoughts. She had acted sweet and willing before and yet not cared to share his bed. She seemed so content and happy with present arrangements. Yes, later, he thought. When she will have no excuse and will not be able to plead motherly shyness. Then he would approach her and that bed would feel both their weights.

He closed his eyes, thinking of his homecoming. He would never like leaving her, but coming home to her—well, that was an entirely different matter. He relaxed, resting his head on the back of the tub, and the heat of the water was just beginning to take the aches from his tired body when there was a quick thump on the door and it was pushed ajar to reveal Jeff’s beaming face.

“Are you decent, eldest son?” he asked with belated concern.

“More so than you,” Brandon grunted, chafed at the interruption. “Now close the door. Preferably from the outside.”

Unruffled, Jeff pushed within, catching the door with his heel and slamming it shut behind him.

“Why, dearest Brandon,” he mimed. “I sought only to bring you some fine diversions, and,” this overly loud and directed to the other room, “to rescue my sister-in-law from your unusually brutish temper.”

There was a sound of soft laughter from the sitting room, and Jeff, chuckling over his own jest, placed a full glass of brandy and a fresh box of cigars on the stand by the bath.

Brandon nodded his appreciation and sipped the brandy and rolled a cigar between his fingertips. With a raised eyebrow he addressed his brother.

“I think I’ll keep you around. There seems to be some hope for you after all.”

Heather entered the room, smiling brightly, and greeted Jeff, paying only small attention to their conversation while she gave wifely attention to the laying out of fresh clothes for her husband. It was only when Brandon began to relate his meeting with the Websters that she moved to stand behind him and listen to his story. Brandon half consciously took her hand from where it rested on the high back of the tub and gently rubbed it against his ear as he spoke to Jeff. The movement was not completely lost on the younger brother, but it was not until later that he would wonder about this strange shift of manners between his brother and sister-in-law.

As Brandon finished his tale, Heather realized how little she really knew her husband. She was touched by the plight of the Websters, and yet she felt a strange pride with his own compassion for them. Her eyes were warm and moist as she looked up for a moment and found Jeff’s gaze full upon her. He smiled and returned his attention to his brother as Brandon spoke.

“Well, anyway they should be arriving on next week’s packet.”

Jeff helped himself to one of the cigars he had brought and lit it as he commented. “We’ll have to find a house for them.”

“There are plenty of houses at the mill,” Brandon replied. “They can stay in that big old house Mr. Bartlett used for his office.”

Jeff let out a derisive snort. “I thought it was your intention to have them stay. They’ll take one look at that house and head north again. Bartlett was a damned gutter rat, not mincing words, and that place is worse than a pigsty. He made use of his female slaves in those beds there, and the poor souls were covered with vermin. It’s not fit for swine, and you want to put the Websters in it? It would make your stomach turn to see the filth inside.”

“I have seen it,” Brandon replied with a slow smile. “That’s why we’re going tomorrow with some help and see to its cleaning.”

“I should have kept my mouth shut,” grumbled Jeff good naturedly.

Brandon chuckled. “If that moment ever comes, I’ll have to send for the reverend.”

Ignoring the jest, Heather stated a demand with a firm voice. “I’m going too. I wouldn’t trust the two of you to put a house aright for a family.” She looked at them and saw great hesitancy in their manner and hastened to add in a softer tone, “I’ll try to keep out of everyone’s way and not be too much trouble.”

The men’s gazes lowered to her oversize belly, and the common doubt in their glances was far from belied by their nods of approval.

The group that drew up in front of the overgrown and ill-kept house dismounted and stood looking at the structure with some apprehension.

Hatti snorted contemptuously. “Humph! No wonder that man got to sell. I ain’t never seen a house let go to such wreck and ruin in all my born days. I think they let the pigs loose in there.”

Jeff chuckled as he took off his jacket and laid it in the carriage. “It looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us, doesn’t it, Hatti?”

Brandon’s coat joined his brother’s and with a rueful grin, he muttered, “Well, let’s get to work. There’s no need to waste any more time.”

He set two boys to cleaning up the yard and went inside to see what was needed. Hatti and Heather trailed behind him, making their own feminine estimates, and Heather wrinkled her nose in disgust at the sight that greeted her. Rotting food was strewn about the floors and furniture. Dirt and trash were thick beneath the feet and a foul odor permeated the place.

“I do believe you’re right, Hatti. Swine have definitely nested here.”

Servants were soon carrying any and all movable objects outside for a thorough cleaning. Jeff set off to search through the other quarters for usable furniture. Hatti gave orders to the women and they were soon about the task of cleaning the house from top to bottom. Hatti’s husband and grandson, Ethan and Luke, took charge of the grounds and repainting the house. Brandon left the women to their work and went with George to check the outdoor facilities, which they found in poor state of repair. No hand lay idle.

In the bustle of the moment Heather had been ignored and left to her own ends. She tied a large kerchief about her hair, rolled up her sleeves, and with a long handled brush, set about cleaning the parlor fireplace. She was seated on the hearth and intent upon her labor when she was rudely startled by a voice behind her.

“Miss Heather! Lordy me, child! You gonna ruin yourself and that baby!” Hatti hustled to her mistress’s side and taking her arm, helped her to her feet. “Miss Heather, you ain’t supposed to be working, child. You just come along to give advice. Master Bran see you doing work and he’ll have a fit. You let these young girls do that what ain’t got no baby in their belly. You just sit yourself down and take it easy!”

Heather looked about the empty room and laughed.

“Just where am I supposed to sit, Hatti? They’ve taken all the chairs out.”

“Well, we’ll just find you one, and you make yourself comfortable.”

Heather was soon seated in a well-worn rocker before the dingy front windows with a book in her lap. Hatti bustled off and she was once more alone. She tried to read for a while in the dim light filtering through the grime and the filthy drapes, then out of curiosity wet her finger and brushing the drapery aside, ran it across a pane, leaving a clear streak in the dirt. She closed the book and rose in determination and soon had torn down the dirt-rotted drapes, and equipped with bucket and rag, was busily scrubbing away at the windows. She had climbed on a straight chair which she had brought in and was washing the upper panes when Brandon came through the front door. He took one look at her on the chair and didn’t waste time with words. He strode up behind her and swooped her up in his arms, startling her so she cried out in alarm.

“And just what did you think you were doing?” he demanded.

“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.

Brandon quieted as he stared down the now empty lane. He shook himself and ran his fingers through his hair and turning, gave Jeff a hand up. He looked toward the house, his wild rage being rapidly replaced by concern for Heather. A worried frown wrinkled his brow by the time he reached the first step, and he paused before his wife who fell into his arms, laughing with almost hysterical relief as she spread tearful kisses on his throat and chest and dabbed with the end of her apron at the dirt on him and the tears in her eyes. Thinking her truly overwrought and unable to find another explanation for her behavior, Brandon guided her tenderly to a chair to try to soothe her.

Brandon questioned Hatti a moment later, and Jeff found himself again on the verge of using force to restrain him as the story unfolded. Brandon rose to his feet, his cheek flexing tensely, vowing to kill Bartlett, and Heather’s heart jumped into her throat.

“Please,” she gasped, catching his hand. She drew him down again before her and pressed the palm of his hand against her abdomen. He felt his baby moving vigorously within her. She gazed into his eyes and smiled gently as she reached up to caress his cheek. “I’ve had enough excitement for the day. Let’s finish here and go home.”

When Jeremiah Webster first glimpsed the house prepared for him and his family, he thought it to be the Birmingham house and remarked what a fine place it was. The three Birminghams looked at him in some surprise, and Brandon hastened to correct him. The man’s jaw dropped in astonishment, and it was several moments before he regained his wits and turned to his wife.

“Did you hear, Leah? Did you hear? This here is to be our house.”

For the first time since they had met, the woman spoke with tears brimming her eyes, her shyness forgotten for the moment.

“It’s too good to be true.” She turned to Heather as if to reaffirm what her husband had said. “We’re to live here? In a real house?” she half questioned, still uncertain.

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 murmured, 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 mistaking 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.

Time was forgotten as she lay in the darkness. She heard Brandon come upstairs again and move about his room, then silence returned once more as he retired to bed. Sleep came finally for her but it was not long. She woke slowly as the drawing within her belly became painfully real and no longer a dream. It left her wide awake as it passed, and she slid her hand to her stomach knowing her time had come.

The pains gripped her until it seemed every muscle in her body ached with the strain. She struggled from the bed finally, intent upon sending Mary for Hatti, and lit a candle by her bedside. By its glow she saw that her gown had been stained and seeking another, carefully moved toward the bureau. She was half way there when her eyes widened in surprise and she gasped. The discharge left her gown soaking, and the fetal water ran from between her legs without stopping. Standing in helpless confusion, she looked around as the door from Brandon’s room opened. He walked in naked, just shrugging into his robe.

“Heather, are you all right?” he questioned. “I thought I heard . . .”

He stopped abruptly, his eyes falling to her stained and clinging gown, then he came to her in a rush.

“My God, it’s the baby!”

“Brandon,” she said in an amazed tone. “I’m all wet. It happened so suddenly. I didn’t know it was coming.”

She stared up at him as if her soaked condition was the only thing that concerned her, then she began unfastening the garment.

“Please get me another. I can’t go back to bed in a wet gown.”

He hurried to her bureau and threw open the drawers, scrambling through them like a madman and leaving them gaping and lingerie hanging over the sides. He finally located the gowns, neatly stacked in the bottom drawer, and ran back to her with the top garment, but Heather declined it.

“But, Brandon, that’s pink. I’m having a boy, and boys don’t wear pink. Go get a blue one, please.”

He stared at her for a moment in astonishment and finally regained his wits.

“Madam, God’s truth, I don’t care whether it’s a girl or boy,” he exclaimed. “Just put this on and let me get you back into bed.”

“No,” she said stubbornly, “I’m going to have a boy, and I shan’t wear that.”

“But, madam, he won’t be wearing anything when he gets here so it doesn’t matter,” he cried. “Now will you get this on?”

She met his stare and pursing her lips, slowly shook her head in negative motion.

Brandon threw up his hands in exasperation and the nightgown floated to the floor as he ran back to the bureau and began tossing gowns this way and that in a frenzy. Finally he found a blue one and rushed to her with it. She looked up at him expectantly as she took it, but he was most confused and just stared down at her dumbfoundedly.

“Will you turn your back, please?” she requested, seeing his bewilderment.

“What?” he asked stupidly.

“Will you turn your back, please?” she repeated.

“But, madam, I’ve seen you without clothes be . . .”

He stopped and spun about, realizing it would do him no good to argue with her for she was hell bent to have her way and he would only delay things by trying to explain anything to her.

Heather threw the blue gown over his shoulder, finding no other place to put it, standing in the middle of the room as they were.

“Madam, will you hurry,” he urged. “You’re going to whelp right there if you don’t and our child will be the only one ever born on his head.”

Heather giggled lightly and let the wet gown fall to the floor as she reached up for the clean one. “I doubt that, my dearest.”

“Heather, for God’s sakes,” he pleaded. “Will you stop chattering and get that gown on!”

“But, Brandon, I wasn’t chattering. I just answered you.” She drew the gown in place and began tying the ribbon. “You may turn around now if you want.”

He whirled and bent to pick her up.

“But, Brandon,” she protested. “I must wipe up the floor.”

“To hell with the floor!” he exclaimed and gathered her into his arms. He stood holding her for a moment in indecision, glancing from her bed to his door and made up his mind quickly. He hurried from her room into his.

“Where are you taking me?” she questioned. “Hatti will never find me. She’ll have to go all over the house looking for me.”

He placed her carefully in the middle of his huge bed. “There. Does that answer your question, chatterbox? It’s where I’d like my son—or perhaps my daughter born.”

“I’m not having a girl. I’m having . . .”

She was again wrenched with pain as another contraction seized her and she bit her bottom lip in agony.

“I’ll awaken Hatti,” he muttered and fled the room quickly.

But the old Negress, having seen from her cabin Heather’s room alight, had sensed the situation and was already in the hallway when he came flying out.

“She’s having the baby!” he cried when he saw her. “Hurry.”

She shook her head as she speeded with him into the master bedroom. “It’ll be a long while yet before she has that baby, Master Bran. It’s the first and they takes their good natured time. It’ll be hours yet.”

“Well, she’s in pain now. Do something for her.”

“Master Bran, I’s sorry, but there ain’t nothing I can do for her pain,” she replied. With a concerned frown creasing her black brow, she bent over the writhing Heather and smoothed her hair from her face. “Don’t fight it, child. Just pant while you’re having them, then relax when they go. You’ll need your strength for later.”

With Hatti directing, Heather panted. The pain eased soon and she was able to smile at Brandon as he came to stand near her. He sat down on the bed’s edge and his hand moved to hers, and she saw that his face was grim and seemed suddenly lined.

“I’m told every mother has to go through this,” she murmured consolingly. “It’s part of being a woman.”

Hatti roused the household and banked fires were stirred up and great kettles of water set to boil. Fresh linens were brought and with Brandon’s help some of these were placed beneath Heather. The blue gown was pulled up out of the way and a clean sheet spread to cover her nakedness, and the time went slowly for some, swiftly for others. Hatti rocked in a chair by the bedside when she was not tending her mistress, and Brandon with each contraction became more distraught.

“Hatti, how much longer do you think it’ll be,” he questioned anxiously, wiping his brow.

“No one knows that, Master Bran,” the woman replied. “But it sure looks like Miss Heather is holding up a darn sight better ‘n you. Why don’t you go have a nice big drink of that stuff you like to drink. It sure couldn’t hurt nothing, and it might help a lot.”

Brandon felt in strong need of a brandy but declined, wanting to stay and comfort his wife in any way he could. She clung to his hand tightly, seeming to want him there by her side, and he could not leave her when she was so tortured with giving his child birth.

Again the agony came and again it went. Brandon wiped Heather’s face with a cool, wet cloth and brushed her hair up from her neck and looked a little paler than he did before. Hatti moved to the bedside and taking his arm, urged him from it.

“Master Bran, you best let Master Jeff fix you something strong. You don’t look so good.” She guided him to the door and opening it, gently pushed him out. “You go get drunk, Master Bran. Go get drunk and don’t come back until I calls you. I don’t want you fainting while I got to tend the missus.”

The door closed and Brandon was left staring at it, feeling lost and out of sorts. He glanced around him, and finally went downstairs and into the study where George and his brother waited. Jeff took one look at him and pressed a stiff drink into his hand.

“Here, you look as if you need this.”

Brandon tossed the drink down without hardly noticing the two who regarded him, and Jeff motioned to George and the servant quickly took his captain’s glass and poured a small draught of brandy in it and an ample supply of water. Brandon didn’t realize the difference as he paced the floor.

Between the two of them, Jeff and George managed to keep Brandon’s drinks pretty well watered. Jeff watched his brother light up one expensive cigar after another then crush them out after taking only a puff or two. He moved in a sort of daze around the study, inattentive and unconcerned with what went on around him, ignoring them and paying no heed to what he did. He strode into the hallway many times and gazed upward toward the second floor, then he would turn again and reach for another drink. A maid scurrying up or down the stairs now and then would send him rushing to the door, but for no reason. When he poured himself a bourbon and swallowed a good third of the contents without noticing the difference, Jeff knew he was in another world entirely.

“Brandon, you’re getting too old for this sort of thing or else that little girl up there matters more to you than you admit. I’ve seen you go after a wounded boar without fear, knowing exactly what you were doing. Now you’re so addled, you’re drinking my bourbon and you can’t stand the stuff.”

Brandon thrust the glass at him. “Well, why the hell did you give it to me then if you knew I disliked it?”

Jeff turned a bemused expression to George, and the man smiled in return and shrugged his shoulders. The younger brother went to the desk, shaking his head, and relaxed back in the chair. After a moment he took up quill and paper and began to scratch out a few figures. When he turned to Brandon again, he wore a grin broader than a barn door. It couldn’t have worked out better if he had possessed a hand in fate.

“You know, Brandon, according to my calculations, you’d have had to marry Tory the first day you were in London port.”

George spewed a mouthful of ale out in surprise and coughed and choked as some went down the wrong way, while Brandon lowered his head between his shoulders and scowled at his brother.

In the master bedroom Heather writhed in silent agony as she bore down in an effort to force the child from her. She breathed in deeply as the pain eased, but her relief was short and she was again tortured. She clung to the servant’s hand and gritted her teeth while Hatti encouraged her.

“The head is about to come, Miss Heather. It won’t be long now. Push down. That’s it. Scream if you want. You been silent too long, child.”

A whimper escaped Heather as her body was consumed in pain. She fought the urge to cry out, but as the child’s head emerged, a scream did come, and down below in the study Brandon slid weakly into a chair as he heard it. He stared unseeing across the room, and George caught his glass as it tipped. Both the servant and the younger brother glanced at each other in nervous indecision, realizing that Heather’s cry had affected them too.

Some time later, with a broad grin upon her black face, Hatti opened the door of the study, holding the wee Birmingham close. She went to Brandon first as the two other men stared at the bundle, drawing back the blanket for him to see his child.

“It’s a boy, Master. A strong, fine, healthy boy. He was asqualling before he left the hatch.”

“My God,” Brandon uttered as he came from his daze to see the wrinkled, red face of his son before him. He grabbed up his drink and tossed it down and looked around as if he needed another badly.

Jeff and George sidled closer to view the child and beamed proudly as if they were the ones responsible for his being there, forgetting Brandon entirely. Jeff poked a gentle finger at the small hand.

“He doesn’t look much like Brandon,” he commented.

George quickly glanced from father to son, but Hatti spoke up in disagreement.

“Master Brandon looked just like this when he was born. He was just about as long too. This baby’s gonna be as tall as his pa, that’s for sure. He’s already got a good start.”

Brandon stood up and peeked leerily over George’s shoulder at his son again. He moved from the group as they continued to admire the baby and hurried out of the room and up the stairs to the master bedroom. Heather smiled drowsily as he came to the bedside and took her hand.

“Have you seen him?” she questioned as he sat beside her. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

He nodded to the first inquiry and reserved opinion on the second. “How do you feel?” he asked softly.

“Sleepy,” she sighed. “But wonderful.”

He pressed his lips to her brow. “Thank you for the son,” he murmured.

She smiled and closed her eyes, holding his hand clutched to her breast.

“We’ll have your daughter next time,” he whispered.

But Heather had already drifted to sleep.

Brandon gently eased his hand from her grasp and tiptoed out of the room to the sitting room, leaving Mary to sit with his wife. He paused by a window and saw that dawn was breaking. He smiled to himself, feeling fit enough to wrestle a bear and quite good despite the fact that he had been up all night. He brought a chair to the window which he opened and sat down, propping his feet on the sill. A moment later when Hatti came through the room she found his head slumped on his chest and his eyes closed in sleep.

She shook her head slowly and smiled, “Poor Master, he sure had a hard night.”

The sun was streaming down in bright rays over Harthaven when Brandon woke to the sound of angry squalls and realized his son was making his demands. He rose and washed the foul taste from his mouth left from the night of drinking, then pushed open the door to the nursery to find Hatti bending over the wee one. She was clucking to him and cooing and talking in a soothing tone, but he raged on.

“We gonna have you fed in just a minute, lil’ Birmingham. It ain’t the end of the world.”

Feeling now a fatherly interest and pride in his son, Brandon drew closer and stood with hands behind his back as he watched the old Negress struggling to remove the wet clothes. The baby drew up his knees and wailed the louder, turning red with his anger.

“Whooee, that boy sure is mad. He’s a wanting something to eat and he’s letting everybody know it.”

As soon as he was dry, the young Birmingham’s manner calmed some. He smacked his lips, opening his mouth like a little bird everytime his fist brushed his cheek, and released whimpering little gurgles, now and then letting out a disgruntled yelp.

Hatti chuckled at him. “Look there, master, he’s trying to sweet talk me into giving him something to eat.”

Brandon smiled and the baby gurgled pleadingly.

“You sure is an impatient lil’ fella,” Hatti cooed, picking him up and cuddling him to her big bosom. “But your mammy is awake, and we’re gonna take you in there right now.”

Running his fingers through his tousled hair, Brandon followed the servant into the master bedroom. There he saw Heather sitting up in bed, hair combed and ribboned, fresh and frilly gown donned, and looking irresistibly beautiful. When she saw him she hurriedly motioned Mary away, giving her a hand mirror, and then turned to give him a radiant smile and hold eager arms out for her son. He followed Hatti to the bed, sitting beside Heather as she took the babe gently into her arms. He saw a light blush spread across her features when she undid her gown and pushed it aside, and sensed her unease with this new, unfamiliar task of motherhood, yet she cooed to the baby softly and tried to direct him as he rooted about eagerly. The nipple brushed his cheek and he turned his head hurriedly in that direction and latched onto it with the ferocity of a starving pig, causing Heather to jump in painful surprise as his mouth clamped down on her. Brandon smiled, and Hatti chuckled as she viewed the babe sucking at his mother’s breast.

“Lordy me. The young master is hollow from the feet up. Most likely, we’ll be having to fix that boy a sugar tit to tide him over until his mammy gets milk.”

The tiny, tugging mouth sent strange rivers of delight pulsating through Heather’s body as she gazed lovingly at her son. Already she thought he looked a great deal like his father. Soft, black hair covered the small head and magnificent little brows were already shaped with his sire’s curve and not his mother’s slant. With a maternal pride, she thought him a most handsome baby.

“He is beautiful, isn’t he, Brandon?” she murmured, lifting warm eyes to his, and Hatti prodded Mary out the door, closing it behind them as Brandon replied.

“He is indeed, madam.” He reached and thrust a gentle finger into the tiny fist that pressed against her breast. It was readily accepted and firmly held, and Brandon smiled in pleasure.

He returned his gaze to his wife’s face and lost himself in the soft liquid eyes that beheld him. He was barely conscious of his actions as he leaned forward, almost mesmerized by the deep pools of blue. His free hand slipped through her hair to the nape of her neck and still she stared, and then his mouth found hers and eyelids lowered. He felt her lips slacken and begin to tremble and then open as his mouth moved upon hers. He tasted response, sweet, warm and clinging and was aware of the rapid beat of her heart beneath the fingers resting on her breast.

Heather struggled for breath under his flaming kiss, all too aware of his hands upon her, of his searing mouth taking hers. Feeling faint, she tore free and laughed shakily.

“You make me forget the baby.” She sighed as his lips slid to her throat and tried to stop the spinning of her head. “What shall we name him?”

He drew back and looked at her. After a moment he murmured, “If you have no objections, I’d like to name him after a friend of mine, now dead. He was killed a few years back fighting a fire that burned his church. I admired the man very much, but you might be warned that he was a Frenchman—a French Huguenot. I will understand if your English ancestry disapproves of naming our son after him.”

“You forget, m’lord,” she smiled, “that in all actuality, you are more English than I. What was your friend’s name?”

“Beauregard—Beauregard Grant,” he answered readily.

She tested the name on her tongue, then nodded her head. “It’s a nice name. I like it. Beauregard Grant Birmingham is what he shall be called.”

Freeing his finger from his son’s grip, Brandon opened a drawer in the bedside commode and removed a long box which he presented to her.

“With gratitude, madam, for giving me a son.”

He lifted the lid for her and she stared at the necklace within. Two long strands of large, carefully matched pearls were clasped together by a generous ruby set in gold filagree.

“Oh, Brandon, it’s lovely,” she breathed.

His eyes fell to her throat and bosom and his voice was hoarse when he spoke. “Somehow I thought pearls would compliment the beauty of your skin better than diamonds.”

She could almost feel his stare caressing her. A warm feeling again swept her, and her pulse throbbed in her throat, then he glanced away.

“I’ll get dressed,” he said huskily as he rose from the bed. “I imagine Abegail is anxious to see the baby.”

He selected clothes from his wardrobe and turning again, gave her a long appraisal before he went into the sitting room to dress.

Some time later, Abegail came in with Jeff to view the baby who now lay asleep on the bed beside his mother. She lifted a lorgnette and peered at the new born, then raised an eyebrow as she smiled at Brandon.

“Well, I see there’ll be another generation of girls set upon by a Birmingham. But I do hope you plan to have enough to make a lot of those frilly-skirted things happy. They shan’t like it if there’s only himself there.”

Jeff smiled slowly. “They’ll probably have at least a dozen, but I doubt if their children will be all boys.”

The old woman looked in obvious glee to Brandon. “Well, now that would be justice indeed, to have one of you two defending a maiden’s honor.” She chuckled merrily at the thought. “It would stir your blood more than a mite if you had to force a gay bachelor to wed your daughter.”

Heather cast a quick glance to Brandon and was amazed to see for the first time a dark blush on his face. Jeff smiled to himself, seeing his brother’s discomfort, but Mrs. Clark was gazing again at the babe and missed the exchange, having no idea how close she had brought everything home to him.

“You have given the world a most magnificent child, my dear,” she commented to Heather. “You must be quite proud of him.”

Heather smiled at the woman and raised warm eyes to her husband. “Thank you, Mrs. Clark. I am.”

With the birth of his son past, Brandon once more devoted his time and energies to readying the mill for operation. Heather remained in the large bedroom and had set her mind to the fact that she would stay there. It would take physical force to move her out again, and each day her presence was more firmly established. Brandon first noticed her brush and comb upon the dressing table, then her powder and perfumes resided there. More and more of her clothes hung beside his in the wardrobe as her lingerie found its way into the bureau with his items of apparel. It became so he had to search through her soft and lacy chemises and nightgowns to locate his stockings and stocks, and more than once pulled out one of her dainty handkerchiefs when he thought he had one of his.

In deference to her tender condition, he had taken up what he hoped was a temporary residence in the sitting room, but many a longing glance he cast at the huge bed, for the small one in the sitting room was not made for a tall frame. Either he banged his head or his feet stuck out, and he cursed the damned thing often and heartily. Yet he could never quite find the right moment to tactfully assert his rights and take a place there in his bed beside his wife, and watching her slow movements about the house, he knew it would be some time yet before he could find relief for his baser needs with her, though he found her newly regained slimness most distracting. But she made no offer either to move out of his bed nor for him to join her. So with many a long sigh, he doubled up his knees and made the best of the small comfort he had.

Though most of his time was consumed at the mill what spare moments he had he spent with his wife and son. He rose early in the mornings, yet found Heather up and tending the babe, either bathing him or giving him his morning nourishment. Enjoying both sights it became part of the rote for him to join her there before his day’s work began. A new, stronger yet unspoken bond began to build between them in those quite morning moments they spent together with their son.