Ashes of Pride

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Over the top of the heads of everyone examining the picture, Peter could see Lisa Grace’s enormous rendition of the sand-colored house at Innesford, as one would see it if they stood upon the deck of a ship at sea. Peter knew Lisa Grace had dared exactly that. She had cajoled and coaxed the captain of a small boat stationed in the village at the end of the cliffs to take her out upon the dangerous waters, so she might sketch the view. Lisa Grace had returned from that venture with a stuffed sketchbook, glowing as she was today.

  A knot of people stood beneath the big landscape, their heads close together. Lisa Grace moved directly toward them with Peter in tow. As they drew closer, one of the taller men in the group lifted his head, his gaze swinging to Lisa Grace. He smiled.

  Lisa Grace circled around the group surrounding him. “Tobias! Peter is here, just as he promised. Now you can meet him.” She let go of Peter’s hand and gripped the man’s sleeve. “Peter, this is Tobias Gregory Blackwood, esquire. Tobias, my cousin, Peter Lovell Wardell.”

  Blackwood held out his hand. “Wardell. I’ve heard much about you from Lisa Grace. You are her most favorite kin. It is good to meet you at last.”

  The out-thrust hand triggered Peter into gripping it and shaking. He already knew who Blackwood was, of course. He had made discreet enquiries about the man when Lisa Grace first mentioned how he would forge her success.

  Blackwood was a commoner by birth but an uncommon man, all the same. He was the second son of the highly successful Roger Blackwood, who owned a dozen mills and weaving houses in the north. Tobias Blackwood, the son, had been educated at Eton and Oxford, with a second degree from the Sorbonne.

  Blackwood was not a painter. He was, instead, one of those people who loved art and everything to do with it, including the artists themselves. Blackwood, though, was in a position to indulge his appreciation for art and embroil himself permanently in the world of paintings and sculptures. Lisa Grace was not the first artist he had taken under his wing and guided to greater success.

  Peter had not expected the man to be so…well, young. He was around Peter’s age, with dark, direct-looking eyes, thick black hair and fine flesh, which made Peter think of the dark good looks Lisa Grace’s adored brothers shared.

  “I have heard equal compliments about you, Blackwood,” Peter said, as he adjusted to the man’s appearance. It was possible Blackwood was taller than Peter, who was the second tallest man in the great family. “I suppose I should thank you for the assistance you have provided my cousin. Lady Williams would not be enjoying this day if not for you, or so I understand it.”

  Blackwood’s smile was easy, showing white, even teeth. He wore the latest in male fashion, a dark gray suit with a lighter gray waistcoat. The collar of his jacket was velvet, an unexpected touch, while his tie was a sober and very artistic black. His collar and cuffs were as fine, white and stiff as any gentleman’s. “In the natural progression of things, Lisa would have become a great success all by herself,” he told Peter. “She has talent which would be discovered sooner or later. I merely hurried the process along.”

  Lisa Grace smiled up at Blackwood, while Peter adjusted to Blackwood’s rendition of her name. Lisa. No one in the family shortened the name they used for her to differentiate her from Princess Annalies. It seemed…crude.

  It is an intimate name, his mind whispered.

  Something stirred in his chest. Tightened.

  “Waiter! Waiter! For goodness’ sake!” The peremptory demand was loud, jerking Peter’s attention to the room behind him. Everyone surrounding Blackwood also looked around.

  Peter turned, for the young woman’s voice was familiar.

  His youngest sister, Emma, beckoned to a waiter carrying a silver tray bearing glasses of champagne. Peter had not noticed the refreshments until this moment. Lisa Grace had stolen his attention the moment he stepped into the room.

  Emma wore a pink and cream striped dress every bit as smart as Lisa Grace’s gown. The color suited her dark brown hair and eyes. Her full lips pouted as she watched a waiter make his way over to her. She held out her empty glass with an impatient gesture.

  The waiter nodded and took the glass, then handed her another, full one.

  As he turned away, Emma drank more than half the glass.

  Peter moved over to her. “Emma, what are you doing here?” He kept his voice down. He could tolerate the bohemian attitudes of these people, although his little sister should not be exposed to their excesses.

  “Lisa Grace invited me,” Emma said, her tone sulky. She looked up at him and blinked. “Where else should I be? No one can invite me to anything.” She lifted the glass and swallowed the last of the champagne, then raised her hand to beckon another waiter to her side.

  Peter sighed. Emma was already nineteen years old. She should have been presented at court years ago. For reasons she refused to disclose, his mother Elisa had not allowed Emma to come out.

  Until she was presented to Queen Victoria, Emma could not be acknowledged by society or included in the social affairs of the Season. For three years Emma had been begging to come out. The lack of explanations and refusal to allow her to emerge had made her bitter.

  God knew as thoroughly as Peter that his siblings were a rebellious lot. Will and Jack had resisted matrimony until near-disaster sobered them. Sharla’s life, behind closed doors, was more extreme than the art world could ever imagine. Blanche had eloped and was now a military wife, somewhere in the north. Peter was aware of what everyone thought of his choices in life, too. Emma, the youngest in the family, was following that fine tradition of stubborn mutiny.

  Peter caught Emma’s elbow and felt slippery satin beneath his fingers. “How many glasses does that make?” he asked in an undertone.

  “She took her first glass before the exhibition opened,” Lisa Grace said softly, by his side. Peter glanced at her. She watched her cousin, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, worry showing in her eyes.

  Blackwood stood behind her, frowning.

  Emma laughed. It was a strained expression. “I have not drunk nearly enough.” Her voice had a pleasant burr to it. It was that note which had alerted Peter before he turned to see her.

  Lisa Grace stroked Emma’s arm. “Oh, it’s so unfair!” she murmured.

  Blackwood caught her shoulders and drew her away from Emma. “You are upsetting yourself and you should not,” he said gently. “Not today.” He turned her and drew her against him.

  Then he kissed her cheek.

  Peter felt as though a heavy fist had struck him, right in the center of his chest. His heart creaked. It actually hurt.

  Blackwood met Peter’s gaze. “Could I impose upon your friendship with Lisa and ask you to escort Miss Wardell home?”

  Emma gave a sour laugh as she peered into the fresh glass of champagne in her hand. “Because I am in the way, of course.”

  Lisa Grace’s eyes glittered. The beatific glow which had brightened her face when Peter arrived had faded. Her hand rested against Blackwood’s chest.

  Peter made himself stir. “Yes, I will see to it.” His voice sounded natural, for which he was pathetically grateful.

  Blackwood grimaced. “Thank you. I appreciate it, Wardell. We should arrange to meet another time, when the pressures of public appearances are absent. I would like to get to know you better. For now, let me take care of Lisa, and let her have her day.”

  He held out his hand.

  Emma rolled her eyes and gave a great sigh.

  Peter realized with another secondary jolt that Blackwood was sincere. He was protecting Lisa Grace, preserving her special day for her.

  It was the recognition of the man’s good intentions which allowed Peter to take his hand once more. “I would welcome another more private occasion to speak to you,” he said and realized only as he said it that it was the truth. He liked the man.

  Damn it.

  Peter let his hand go, whirled and scooped Emma up against him. He plucked the glass from her han
d and hurried her out of the room. He had been anxious to attend and now he was just as anxious to leave. Emma was merely an excuse.

  Chapter Five

  Tamworth Road, Newcastle-Upon-Tyne. July 1872.

  Neil had spent time in most of the houses on Tamworth Road, for fellow officers and men who chose not to live at the barracks usually took rooms here. Over the years, he had delivered drunken men to their beds, or got drunk with them in their rooms. He had also called upon fellow officers more than once. Sometimes, it was to check why they had failed to report for duty, ease them into their uniforms and to the barracks before anyone noticed their absence.

  Because of his familiarity with the area, Neil knew of the narrow alley three houses down from his, which ran between Tamworth Road and Stanton Street. Traversing the alleyway allowed him to step onto Stanton Street, which ran directly to the walk through the park, then to the barracks front gates. It cut several minutes off his journey.

  The widow Callahan who ran the boarding house was a good cook. Neil had fallen into the habit of taking his supper in his room, instead of the officers’ mess. It was peaceful under the eaves.

  When she had shown him the room, Mrs. Callahan had apologized for the accommodations, regretting that the heat of summer was so much worse up here than in the lower rooms.

  Neil felt the explosive heat soak into his bones and told her the warmth was perfect. While he was in his room, he never felt cold the way he did anywhere else. He had also learned that Seymour spent most of his evenings at the mess. It was another reason to stay in his room.

  Seymour had continued to insist upon a daily fine for every day Neil failed to appear in the proper uniform. Two shillings a day was exorbitant, and pressured Neil to act swiftly to end the matter.

  His intention, though, was thwarted as Tom Penny had warned it would be. There was not a single tailor in the town who could accommodate his urgent need, not for weeks yet.

  Which was why he was returning back to his rooms close to sunset, his mood foul. The barely adequate tailoring establishment on Clayton Street had refused his custom, just as another five tailors had done. The tailor, a Mr. Beecham, had been harried, his shop stuffed full of bolts of gray flannel and dark gray braid. His work table held piles of unfinished uniforms, telling Neil the man was not lying when he said he couldn’t possibly accommodate Neil’s request.

  Neil had walked home at a fast clip, his frustration roiling. He slipped into the narrow walkway between the houses, hunger making his stomach growl. He was late for supper and longed to reach the warmth of his room and the silence which would greet him.

  As he moved beyond the back corner of the house on his left, the narrow yard behind it came into view. Neil halted, astonishment anchoring him to the cobbles.

  Like most of the houses along these streets, the yard was a bare patch of dirt, featuring a washing line or two, usually full of damp linens. The yard itself was separated from the alley by a knee-high brick wall.

  The woman of this house had hung a bedsheet upon the line, then anchored the bottom of the sheet to the high wall running between the houses, using loose rocks from the top of the wall. It had created a small area of shade beneath.

  She reclined upon an old, scratched rocking chair with a cane seat and back, her hems up to allow air to circulate around her bare ankles and feet. Her collar was open. The dress was the lightest of muslins, pure white and delicate. She fanned herself with a fine white silk fan—the luxurious silk gleaming oddly in the filtered light. Her eyes were closed and her face was damp with perspiration.

  It was Blanche.

  Finding Blanche here, among the scratching chickens and squabbling children and families of enlisted men and single officers was so unexpected that for a moment, Neil could only stare at her.

  He must have made a sound, or perhaps the halting of his boots alerted her. Blanche opened her eyes and sat up, quickly tugging her hems back over her toes. Her face tinged red. She scowled, angry that she had been embarrassed.

  That’s the Biddy I remember. The whisper barely registered, while the pleasure of seeing a hint of the Blanche he knew made him smile. “This is your house?” he asked, waving to the building he stood beside.

  Blanche glanced at the houses all around them, picked up her dragging hems and moved swiftly over the earth to where he stood. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “I have rooms here.” He pointed at the correct house behind the wall she had been beside. “Two down from here. Mrs. Callaghan’s house.”

  “The big one with all the officers…” Blanche nodded as she put it together. Stray, damp curls brushed her jaw. “Of course, only you would dare use a gutter as a shortcut.”

  “This is a gutter?” he said, looking down at the stones under his feet. “I thought it was…well, a shortcut.”

  Blanche’s cheeks drew in. She was trying not to smile. “When it rains, you will see it is nothing of the kind.”

  “Until then, I will save myself long minutes of walking…that is, if you do not mind?”

  Blanche’s eyes narrowed. She gave a small shrug. “It is of no account to me. I am rarely out here.”

  Neil glanced at the damp garments hanging from the washing line and knew she was lying. That one lie and her presence here behind the tiny house told him much about her circumstances. She was both wife and scullery maid. Seymour did not spend a penny upon domestic help for her.

  Neil held his jaw together and hid his reaction. She had lied to save herself embarrassment. He would not expose the lie in return.

  Yet something must have shown in his face, for Blanche dropped her gaze. She fussed with her hair, pushing the damp curls back into the mass of hair on the top of her head. “It is so hot,” she said. “The air is so still. How does one breathe when it is like this? I did not know the north could be this way.”

  “This is not hot,” Neil assured her, his laugh escaping in a wheeze.

  Blanche’s gaze met his. It moved over him. “Not even a single button loosened. How is it you feel nothing?”

  Neil shrugged. “This is a pleasant day. After the heat of the days in Albany, when you can cook an egg by laying it upon a sword blade left out in the sun…well, this fine day is truly nothing to me.”

  “Cook an egg?” she breathed, her eyes widening. She shook her head. “I cannot imagine such heat.”

  “You may not have to imagine it,” Neil pointed out. “The army is still sending battalions to India. With your husband’s experience in action, it is likely his would be one of the first selected.”

  Blanche frowned.

  Neil considered her. “Where, exactly, did he see battle?” he asked, keeping his voice as casual and indifferent as he could manage. “Or did he purchase his rank?”

  Blanche squared her shoulders, her pointed chin lifting. “My husband’s promotion was meritorious,” she said firmly. Proudly.

  Neil stared through her, while his mind raced. Meritorious promotions happened on the field of war. Peace time promotions were purchased. As England had not been at war for sixteen years, Seymour would have first purchased a commission as a lieutenant, as Neil had done. However, all of Neil’s promotions had come about as a result of his actions during battles and skirmishes. His promotion to Major had been awarded for his three-day ride across the wild lands surrounding Albany, chasing a bush ranger who had raped a woman and killed her husband when he interrupted.

  If Seymour had seen no action at all, the only way he could have possibly risen to Lieutenant Colonel was to purchase the promotions.

  Neil had assumed that a man as young as Seymour, holding such a high rank, must be a superior soldier. The cost of commissions in the higher ranks was staggering. The cost explained why Blanche stood at the back of a mean little house with washing lines for a garden.

  Blanche narrowed her eyes. “Why do you look that way?” she demanded, her tone suspicious.

  Neil shook his head. “I was reflecting upon my frustrating
evening,” he lied.

  Her suspicious expression didn’t shift. She was not a fool. So Neil elaborated the lie with the truth—which was always the best way to lie. “I cannot find a single tailor who will make me a uniform in anything less than weeks. The last one—one I wouldn’t use unless completely desperate—would not for a moment consider the work, not even if I put a premium upon his fee.”

  Blanche’s gaze shifted, dropping to take in the red serge of his jacket. “I don’t understand,” she confessed. “Surely Colonel Hill is aware of the difficulties of outfitting oneself properly with so many officers returning from abroad right now? You are at least in a uniform, even if it isn’t the newest one.”

  “Hill is aware of the problem.” Neil realized he must finish the explanation, now he had begun it. “My purse is not endless. If I go even a few days longer without a new uniform, I will have to give up my room in Mrs. Callaghan’s house. As there is not a single officers’ quarters available at the barracks, I would be out upon the street, after that.”

  Blanche drew back. “The loss of two shillings is enough to put you in such dire straits?”

  Neil scratched at the back of his head, discomfort prodding him. He didn’t want to impugn her husband, no matter how much the bastard lied to her.

  Then Blanche’s eyes widened and her lips parted. “I forgot! It is two shillings a day!” she breathed, horror dawning in her eyes. “Oh, Neil…that is dreadful! Is that…is it normal for officers to fine other officers in such amounts?”

  “Withholding wages is perfectly normal,” Neil said, side-stepping that the amount was egregious, and that he’d never been fined before. “It’s preferable to flogging, which was the usual discipline, twenty years ago.” He kept his tone light and made himself smile.

  Blanche cleared her throat. His dismissal had not fooled her, either. “Joshua is forcing you from your accommodations. It isn’t right, Neil.”