Barbara Denvil - The Flame Eater

Emma sat alone and regarded her husband’s ruined body. The smooth swelling of muscles at the top of both arms was striped red raw, and his forearms where the veins stood in grazed prominence, were bloody. His legs were long, the thighs well-muscled and the calves well shaped, but it was at the top of his legs she preferred not to look. Indeed, she pondered, immediately perplexed, why a man needed such complicated and unexpected appendages, and why the good Lord had decided to fashion man so differently to woman. For a moment she even wondered if, during the undoubted exhaustion of creation, God had experienced a sudden moment of juvenile hilarity and in a fit of humour had decided to make mankind a figure of fun, before returning to the sane and sensible creation of the woman. With a small hiccup, Emeline silently asked forgiveness for such unholy ignorance, and wondered instead if Nicholas was simply malformed, and entirely different to other men. Peter had told her many times that his younger brother was misshapen and ugly, explaining that his sins were apparent in the meanness of his appearance. But Emeline, having finally met her groom, had presumed this described the terrible scar that marred his face, and nothing more. Besides, attempting to be honest with herself in spite of her shock, Emeline had to admit that a gentleman’s codpiece, often ostentatiously prominent, certainly suggested that all men were equally oddly endowed. Now she trusted, although without much conviction, that once this man demanded she consummate their marriage, she would become gradually accustomed to such strange and unpleasant necessities.

Resting a bowl of water on her lap, she laid the washcloths on the edge of the mattress and proceeded to use each one to cleanse her husband’s burns, discarding them once befouled. She washed across his torso, around the dark flat nipples and down to the hard plain of his stomach. As the ashes and the blood slipped away beneath her frightened fingers, she realised his skin was not all over burned, but where the blisters were worse across his arms and chest, the damage to his flesh was severe. When she touched there he sighed, as if even in his sleep he felt the pain. Her fingertips travelled light, not only for his sake but for her own, feeling the hard muscled strength of him strange. At least she knew her blushes were known only to herself. So, with nothing else for a poultice or even a bandage, she quickly laid the remaining strips of cloth over him, all soaked in the remaining clean water. She carefully covered the parts of him she found most hard to contemplate, and finally called for more water, pouring this across the ravaged arms and chest. The palms of his hands, being raw, she held for some time in the water before resting his hands, now wet and cold, by his side. Then she prayed, hoping that God would still listen to her in spite of her previous amazement and criticism concerning His clearly mischievous design of masculine anatomy.

Several times she poured more water, keeping the linen coverings soaked and cool, and trickled streams across his hair and forehead where his skin still seemed aflame. In all that time Nicholas lay motionless except for the patient rise and fall of his breathing, and Emeline was not sure whether he slept, remained deeply unconscious, or whether, perhaps, he simply chose not to return to a world of pain.

It was some considerable time later when the barber returned with the apothecary, though she still slumped at the bedside, hands clasped and eyes closed. The new man exclaimed loudly, “My lady! That water is shockingly cold. His lordship could catch the pneumonia, or a chill might threaten his weakened state. He must be kept safely warm.”

Emeline sat up with a start. “But he is so horribly burned,” she explained, “and has been heated to extremes. A little coolness on that poor weeping skin would surely be a relief?”

Mister Potts shook his head, appalled. “Sadly you have no medical training, my lady. But in the doctor’s absence, I will do what I can. I have discovered cream and butter in the cow shed, and have already been treating his lordship the earl with both. But some remains. And once these rags are dried in front of the fire, I shall use them as bandages.”

“So much sodden linen,” scolded the barber surgeon, “has leaked onto the mattress below, and the bed is quite soaked. I do not know where a new mattress might be found.”

“This one can be turned,” said Mister Potts, “and I shall instruct the pages accordingly. But in the meantime we must build up the fire and warm the sheets.”

“Poor Nicholas,” sighed Emeline, relinquishing her seat. “I was only guessing I’m afraid – seeing the heat of burns and thinking cold water would counteract the pain. I see I was wrong. I hope I’ve done him no harm. Now I shall go and see to my parents. But I shall, I suppose, be back.”

It was late that evening when she finally returned to her husband’s temporary chamber. She had spent some uncomfortable hours with her family, and they had insisted she receive some treatment herself, with the singed tangles combed from her hair and the florid grazes on her face and hands smothered in pork fat. The steward had organised collections from the local farms and provisions had quickly been brought in, yet dinner had been a sad affair, taken in the Western solar and without the presence of any member of the earl’s household. Emeline had then thankfully accepted her mother’s advice, and had rested in her sister’s bedchamber for the afternoon. Avice immediately felt tired too and had then taken advantage and asked a number of questions which Emeline had no intention of answering with any honesty, and tried to avoid answering at all.

“So what exactly,” Avice snuggled up under the bedcovers, peering through the shadows at her sister’s tired expression, “was it like?”

“The fire? It was terrifying and hotter than anything I could ever have imagined, and it roared like a beast. Now I need to sleep.”

“I didn’t mean the fire.” Avice wriggled closer. “Go on. I’m not that much younger than you. You can tell me.”

Emeline had sighed. “You mean – being married? Well – that is – it’s exactly how you might imagine.”

“But that’s the problem,” complained Avice. “I can’t imagine it. What happens?”

Emeline made a wild assumption. “Kissing,” she said.

“Is that all?” demanded Avice. “But some women say it’s sublime and ecstatic. And some say it’s horrid and it hurts. Then they just refuse to explain what it’s really all about. But kissing is just drab and ordinary.”

Emeline sat up suddenly shocked. “Avice! Do you mean to tell me you’ve already kissed a man?”

She giggled. “Well – a boy. In fact, two boys. One was the swineherd’s son when I was six and it took me ages to catch him. The other was Papa’s secretary two years ago, and he caught me. Not that I ran very fast.”

“I shall inform Papa, and have the wretch dismissed.”

“Don’t you dare,” objected Avice. “Poor little Edmund Harris. He’s never done it again. Though I keep smiling at him.”

“Well, if you want me to keep your secrets,” warned Emeline, “then you must also let me keep my own. Now go to sleep.”

More to escape her family than with any desire to do her marital duty, Emeline entered her husband’s sweat infused bedchamber again late that afternoon and slowly approached the bed. It was already dusk, though the shutters had closed in the windows all day and neither draught nor light entered. Only one candle had been lit at the bedside, but the hearth was splashed with flame and a fiery brilliance illuminated the room. Two pages tended the blaze and another was sweeping the tumbled soot while the barber surgeon concocted a cup of simmering milk sops on a trivet over the fire.