“Williams, you know Mrs. Seymour?” Edmund Hunter asked.
“Blanche is my cousin.” Neil realized he was smiling, too. He didn’t bother with the convoluted explanations about adoptees and honorary cousins. He got to his feet as Seymour brought his wife over to the table, his gaze on Blanche.
He realized he was just as pleased to see her as she seemed to feel about seeing him.
“I had forgotten about that extended family of yours,” Captain Long said, on the other side of the table. “Everyone in William’s family is related to just about everyone who counts,” he added to Lieutenant Roberts, the last man at the table.
“Just about? Make that everyone,” Tom Penny said. “Didn’t you hear? Innesford married the Gainford heiress earlier this year.”
Neil ignored their gossip and watched Blanche, enjoying the sight of a beautiful woman moving. She had the grace and elegance of true European women, who seemed to be born with the knowledge.
“Neil! Oh, Neil!” she breathed, stepping ahead of her husband, her gloved hands coming up. She reached up on her toes and kissed the air by Neil’s cheeks, while Seymour’s eyes bulged. “I heard you were heading back home. I did not think you would arrive for weeks, yet!”
Neil caught at her elbows, steadying her. “Hello, Blanche. It is wonderful to see you. You are the first in the family I have seen since I got back.”
As he spoke, everyone scrambled to their feet to salute the senior officer.
Neil followed suit, while Blanche smiled up at him.
Seymour acknowledged the salute, letting everyone relax.
Blanche turned back to Neil. “You are the first in the family I have seen since before Christmas…oh, Neil!” Her smile trembled and her eyes glittered.
Neil’s chest tightened. Blanche looked as though she was about to cry. The Blanche he knew, the little he did know of her…that woman did not cry. She laughed. She raged. She pouted and stomped her foot. She never wept. She was too busy sailing through life and sampling all it had to offer to bewail her fate.
Blanche made a soft sound and put her arms around Neil’s neck and hugged him.
For a moment, shock froze his thoughts. He smelled her scent—something spicy which had nothing to do with flowers. Her hair brushed his chin. Heat registered through the slippery satin. Slenderness, too. And a soft roundness he had not enjoyed in far, far too long…
“Oh, dear!” Penny murmured, sounding shocked. Major Hunter smiled indulgently and didn’t bother looking away.
Seymour’s expression grew dark and thunderous.
Neil caught at Blanche’s arms, trying to draw her away from him, good sense returning with a crash.
She stepped back swiftly and put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, please forgive me,” she said to the table. “It has been so long since I saw Neil…I mean, Major Williams.” She gave a small grimace of apology and rested her fingers on Seymour’s arm. “Husband, may I introduce to you my cousin, Major Neil Williams, of Innesford.”
“Cornwall?” Major Hunter said softly. “That Williams?”
“The very one,” Captain Long replied.
Neil saluted. “Lieutenant Colonel.”
“At ease,” Seymour said. “I’ve heard a little about you, Williams.”
Neil let his posture relax. “Sir.” Now the man was closer, he could see he was very young. Possibly younger than Neil. His pale hair was baby-soft. So was his chin.
Seymour’s eyes narrowed. “You’re out of uniform, Williams.”
Neil glanced down at his out-of-date red coat. “I haven’t had time to—”
Seymour glanced at Edmund Hunter. “Major, as Provost Marshall, it is your duty to attend to such slovenliness. Dock the man two shillings a day until he represents the Regiment properly.”
Hunter straightened to attention. “Yes, sir.”
Blanche’s eyes grew larger, as she looked from Neil to her husband.
Two shillings! Neil gritted his teeth. It was an exorbitant sum, especially as the regimental commander was aware of the uniform breech and was willing to tolerate it. Only, Neil could not argue with a senior officer and he was out of uniform.
Seymour glanced around the table of officers, possibly taking note of who dared dine with the slovenly Major. He curled his hand around Blanche’s arm and pulled her away. “Gentlemen,” he said.
Everyone saluted.
Seymour acknowledged the salutes with a nod. He took Blanche back across the room to a small table at the far side, by the tall windows. The butler hurried over to seat them.
The other officers settled back on their chairs with soft exhalations and rolling eyes.
Troubled, Neil returned to his seat. The chicken pie he had been enjoying held no appeal, now. He was at the wrong angle to easily watch the other table by the window and found himself trying to twist to see her. When he realized what he was doing, he made himself sit straight and finish the meal, including a large portion of the blancmange provided for dessert. Then cheese and tea.
The butlers and waiters naturally served the senior officers first, so Seymour and Blanche arrived at the end of their meal sooner than Neil’s table, for neither of them ate dessert or took tea.
Neil realized he was monitoring the little table after all, when he saw Seymour rise and stride from the room and turn left. The man was heading for the mess, where the cigars and brandy were plentiful.
The butler helped Blanche to her feet and escorted her in the direction of the ladies’ lounge.
As Long and Penny and the very pleasant Major Hunter got to their feet, Neil tugged his old tunic into place and nodded at them. “I’ll see you in the mess, gentlemen. Have a glass of brandy poured for me.”
Hunter’s eyes narrowed. His gaze shifted toward the archway which gave access to the ladies’ lounge. “Don’t be too long about it, hmm?”
Penny frowned, puzzled by the comment.
Long slapped Penny’s shoulder. “Come along, then. Let’s see if there are any empty card tables.”
Neil watched them go, then turned to face the archway and the lounge beyond.
AS EVERY WIFE IN THE Regiment was dining with Mrs. Hill tonight, the ladies’ lounge was empty.
While the butler arranged for a pot of tea and a glass of madeira, Blanche moved over to a high, hard chair by a round table and settled on it with a sigh. At least in here she would not be tempted to look up and across the dining room every few seconds, to gaze at Neil.
What had she been thinking, to embrace him in that way? Seymour had said nothing afterwards, although he might merely be biding his time until they were home where he could raise his voice with impunity.
Why had she done it?
Blanche was still not certain what had prompted her to cling to Neil as she had. Only, she had been so very pleased to see him. As soon as she realized who sat at the table in one of the older uniforms, her heart had leapt and…and warm, knee-weakening relief had touched her.
The first thought, the very first thought to occur to her, before she shoved it from her mind with horror at her ingratitude, was a whisper that now, at least, she would not be alone.
Blanche let herself consider that awful, betraying thought. She stirred her tea, turning the idea over and over.
Why would she think she was alone? She had Joshua.
True, the military wives had decided they did not like her. Yet there was an entire large town of people here she could meet. Only, she was so busy from day to day, cleaning and learning to cook, that she never had time to call upon neighbors. When she walked to the markets each week, it was to purchase food and return with the heavy basket as quickly as possible so her daily chores were not put too far behind. She didn’t linger to chat with stall owners, or other shoppers.
But really, why did she need anyone’s company other than Joshua’s? He was everything she desired in a husband. He was a senior officer and a military man as her father had been. And he was of French blood.
At the t
hought of Joshua, the dark cloud of unsettling worries formed in her mind, ready to plunge her into confusion.
“Biddy,” Neil said softly.
Blanche looked up from her tea cup. Neil stood only a few feet away, frowning just as she was.
“How many times have I told you not to use that horrible English contraction?” Blanche demanded. Neil had insisted upon using it since she was fifteen, when he had learned her middle name was Bridgette, the same as his little sister. “Biddy” ensured no one was confused about who Neil was referring to, he had said. Blanche had been asking him not to use the name since then.
Neil’s frown smoothed out. “Clearly, you haven’t told me enough times to make it set.”
“This is a ladies’ lounge,” Blanche pointed out.
“It will keep Seymour away,” Neil growled. He didn’t move closer. As they were the only two people in the big room, he could speak as loudly or softly as he chose to and no one would overhear them.
Blanche’s chest grew tighter. “You are being uncharitable toward my husband.”
Neil shook his head. “I’m concerned about my cousin. What is wrong with you, Blanche?”
Her innards jumped. “I had forgotten how direct you are…”
“You’re not the way I remember you being.”
“And what way was that?” She chided herself. Why was she letting Neil draw her into a discussion about personal matters? It was none of his business. And it was too dangerous a topic to discuss.
In the far back of her mind, uneasiness grew. She didn’t have time to sort it out. She only knew she didn’t want Neil, with his observant gaze, to see any further into her life than he already had.
Neil rubbed at his jaw. He had a square, strong jaw and now, at the end of the day, he had stubble darkening it. Like his brothers—except for Daniel—Neil had the black Celtic features of his family. Thick black hair with waves which made it look unruly. Strong black brows over black eyes, high cheekbones, and fine lines between his brows which often creased in puzzlement or anger, or concern…just as they were now. “You used to show everything you were feeling,” he told her. “Your face would grow pink when you lost your temper, or when you were happy.” He dropped his hand. “You’re not any of those things anymore. You’re…white.”
He was uncouth, raw, and far too direct for her comfort. Blanche raised her brow, as she picked up the tea cup and sipped. “It appears I am living up to my name, does it not?”
Neil glanced over his shoulder. He was looking for observers, she realized. He wasn’t so ill-mannered he didn’t know he was risking her reputation by approaching her in here.
He stepped closer and dropped his voice. “Is he treating you well, Biddy?”
The gentle question, softly put, seemed to reach into her chest and pluck her heart. Despair welled in her, a scalding fountain of it, making even her vision swim. Until this moment she had not suspected this overwhelming, bitter feeling existed in her.
She felt faint with the power of it.
“Blanche…” Neil breathed, pain in his voice. “Tell me what is wrong. Let me help.”
Blanche beat back the feelings, thrusting them back from where they came. She blinked, as her eyes ached with betraying tears. When she thought she could speak, she lifted her chin and looked Neil in the eye. “There is nothing wrong, Major Williams. My husband is a wonderful man. I am as contented as a wife could be.”
The fine lines reappeared between his brows. Neil’s jaw worked. He shook his head. It was a tiny movement. “I don’t believe you.” His voice was harsh.
Alarmed, Blanche opened her mouth to speak.
Neil overrode her. “We are both alone up here. The closest family are Jasper and Lilly in Northallerton, four hours away. Or Will and Bridget in Kirkaldy, five hours away. If you need…” His frown deepened. “Anything,” he said, his voice growing harsh. “Anything at all, Biddy. You have only to ask.”
The wave of hot despair washed over her once more. The temptation to speak, to tell him everything, to pour it all upon him so she did not have to carry it any more, was so strong she fought to hold her jaw closed. She curled her hand into a fist and shook her head. It was safer than speaking.
Neil nodded. “Aye, well, I’ve said it. Now, you must remember it.” He straightened and gave her a short bow which was mocking in its elegance. “Mrs. Seymour.”
“Major Williams.” Her voice was strained.
Neil turned on one heel and strode from the room. Even worn and out of date, the red coat looked rather fine. In the distracted corner of her mind she wondered what Neil would look like in the Undress uniform currently being worn. Would he look as fine as Joshua did?
Blanche closed her eyes, letting the last of the black feelings stirring her middle dissipate and her trembling subside.
Neil was rough, plain-speaking and far too casual for her tastes. He seemed to consider his military career a lark, something to keep him occupied while he passed through life with as little trouble as possible. At least, he often seemed to be on the verge of laughing…except when he spoke to her.
Only, he had been decorated and promoted twice while in the colonies and the reports sent back to the family spoke of valor and honor and courage. Despite Neil’s commendations, his behavior didn’t fit with her vision of what a brave military officer should be.
She pulled her reticule across the table, opened it and retrieved the miniature daguerreotype she carried with her everywhere. She cradled it in her hand.
The man in the picture stood upright, gripping the open front of his braided jacket, the brass buttons gleaming, as he stared from the picture. His full, small mouth, which was identical to her own, was held in a straight line.
Rene Bonnaire, of the 17th regiment de marche. Deceased.
The image was only shades of gray and white. Blanche had long ago decided that the coat he wore was a pleasing blue, the braid gold and the buttons polished brass. She could tell from the shading in the image that her father’s hair was pale. Maybe a pleasant gold color, like Lisa Grace’s, or ash white like Joshua’s, perhaps. But certainly, it was not pitch black and unruly.
Blanche put the frame back in her purse and drew in a calming breath. Joshua was a fine officer and a good husband. He had foibles—what man did not? It would be disloyal of her to speak of those weaknesses to anyone. She had married Joshua of her own free will. Now she must live with the consequences of her decision.
Chapter Three
Most civilians believed an officers’ mess was distinguished from the common rooms of the rank and file by civility and politeness, that they were a replica of the drawing rooms of London.
Civilians would be sadly disillusioned if they were ever exposed to the truth.
Neil gave the guard the day’s password and passed into the big, smoke-filled room, already unbuttoning his jacket with a touch of relief. He looked around for Edmund Hunter and Phillip Long and took in the loud, relaxed men taking their libations.
There were several large round tables in the room. Fully half of them were laid with green baize cloths and set up for whist, with cards and markers, ashtrays and decanters.
Most of the tables were already in use.
The other tables were not laid with cloth. Instead, the varnished wood was stained with cigar burns and bleached rings, decorations marking years of extreme relaxation in response to the pressures of war.
The three waiters who ran themselves ragged keeping up with the demand for drink, cigars and ashtrays, more cards, more of everything, were the three most discrete men in England. What they saw in this room would shock the ton and scandalize the world.
Soldiers risked everything for their country. It was right for them to play as earnestly as they worked.
Rank meant nothing, here. It was rare for a superior officer to give a direct order. Neil had out-drunk more than his share of senior officers and afterward, helped them to bed.
After the stresses and pressures of the od
d day, Neil could feel the tension easing in his shoulders and neck. He spotted Hunter when the man raised his hand to catch Neil’s eye. Neil moved over to the dark corner where they sat at a card table.
Tom Penny shuffled the cards badly with his thick fingers, while a waiter deftly filled the last empty glass on the table. The waiter nodded as Neil took the remaining seat.
Captain Long reached into his tunic. “By the way, I found you a room. A small boarding house just a few minutes’ walk from the front gates.” He held out a folded slip of paper. “I had your trunk sent there.”
Neil glanced at the address written on the slip. He knew Tamworth Road quite well. Most of the houses there were used by military people. He pushed the paper into his jacket and nodded his thanks.
Major Hunter passed the humidor to Neil. “I thought I might forget about the two shillings,” he said, his voice low. “Only, Seymour reminded me of it the moment we stepped in here. Sorry, old chap.”
Neil frowned. “I hope the tailors work swiftly in this town, then.”
Penny blew out his breath. “They’re swamped, Williams. Every man and his dog is returning to Newcastle and everyone needs the new uniform. Seymour was out of line.”
“No, he wasn’t,” Neil replied. “I should have found a tailor the moment I arrived in London. It’s our responsibility to properly represent the regiment.”
Hunter nodded.
Phillip Long stirred and reached for the pack of cards Penny tapped into a deck. “Let’s play.”
They settled into the game. Neil fought to keep his focus upon the turn of the cards as the brandy and conversation relaxed him.
On the far side of the room, a shout arose. Tables scraped across the floorboards, as space was cleared. The circle of men which formed told Neil the boxing had begun. He shook his head, wondering who would end up with the black eye tonight, and who would get the bloody nose.
“Is Myers still undefeated?” he asked the table.
Penny snorted.
Neil sat up. “He’s not? Who bested him? I thought he’d never be toppled.” For Myers was a giant of a man with massive shoulders, a forehead which shadowed his eyes and fists the size of a Sunday roast.
Ashes of Pride Page 3
