He shook his head. “Seymour is perfectly correct, Blanche. I should be in uniform.”
“But you are trying to be!”
“Soldiers don’t try, Blanche. They succeed, or they die.”
She didn’t stagger back in horror, or grow angry, as he half expected her to in response to such a blunt crudity. Instead, her gaze shifted inward. She said softly, her voice remote, “I had not thought of it that way, before. It is true, isn’t it? You cannot ask the enemy to spare you because you tried so hard. You must win, or else.”
It was Neil’s turn to be surprised. Those who had not served rarely understood the ruthless equation which controlled military life and the facts of war. Blanche had grasped it in one moment.
He shifted on his feet, suddenly uncomfortable. “I should return to the house before Mrs. Callahan throws my dinner to the chickens.”
Blanche lifted her hand. “Can you wait one moment more? Please? There is something I would ask of you.”
“Anything,” Neil said swiftly. “You have but to name it.”
Blanche glanced over her shoulder, toward the house. “I would ask you inside, only the house—” She halted, as if she realized she was about to confess there was no one in the house, not even servants.
“Only your husband is not at home,” Neil said, giving her a graceful way out of her dilemma.
Blanche’s gaze met his. For a heartbeat, he could read the awareness in her eyes. She knew what he was doing.
She gave a small smile. “Exactly my point.” She raised her finger. “I will return. Wait right there.” She picked up the hem of the white muslin and dashed into the house, her bare feet making no sound.
Neil sat on the low wall to wait. He studied the cobbles of the narrow alleyway and for the first time consciously noticed the slight, yet discernable, dip in the middle, running the length of the alley. It was a gutter.
“Damn…” he breathed, amused.
The light of the day faded as he sat. It was getting late.
Perhaps five slow minutes passed before the door opened once more. Blanche stepped down to the earth. She was wearing shoes, now. She carried a plate in one hand. Over the other arm was a dark mass of cloth.
She came over to the wall and held out the plate. “Here. I would not deprive you of your supper.”
Neil lifted the plate and examined the pie upon it. “Is that tourtière? I haven’t had it for years.” Eagerly, he lifted the slice and bit into it.
Blanche’s mouth lifted at the corner as she watched him eat.
“It’s very good,” he admitted. “My thanks to your cook.”
Her mouth pursed. It formed into a smile. Then she laughed. “I will tell her you said so.” She bent and placed the fabric she held on the wall beside him.
Neil saw the dark braid, which looked black in the failing light. He jerked to his feet, alarm spreading through him. “You cannot give me your husband’s uniform!”
Blanche shook her head. “I am not that foolish,” she assured him. “It seems to me that Joshua and you are nearly the same height and width across the shoulders. I want you to try on the jacket and hold the trousers against you, so I can see where the fit is different. Then you must turn around and go back to the overworked tailor. I am sure he will sell you a bolt of the wool. He must have acres of it.”
“He does,” Neil said. “Biddy, are you intending to make me a uniform?”
“Yes,” she said flatly. She put a sheet of stationary and a pencil on the wall, and shook out the trousers she still held. “Stand up. Let me see if the length is right.”
Neil got to his feet. “Did you make this uniform?” he asked curiously. Surely Seymour was not that cruel?
She held out the trousers for him to take. “I spent time in Kirkaldy last year before…before I met Joshua. I watched the women in Bridget’s mill making jackets every day. It was interesting. I am a good sewer, although this will be my first uniform.” Her smile had a touch of wickedness in it.
Neil laughed and held the trousers against his hip, while Blanche tugged at the hem and took notes. At her order, he unbuttoned his jacket and held the trousers spread flat, so she could judge the fit around the waist and the hips. The obscure measurements and the names she used were the same ones he’d heard tailors use, which let Neil relax. Blanche did seem to know what she was doing.
He took off his jacket and pushed his arms into the gray wool and pulled it closed. The buttons didn’t quite meet the braid loops on the left side. There was too much room in the waist. Neil’s arms were longer by an inch, too. His neck was wider. Blanche calmly took notes, using her thumb and fingers as a measure.
She folded the uniform and handed him the plate of tourtière once more. “Finish up, then go and buy the wool,” she told him, writing swiftly at the bottom of the sheet. “This is a list of items you will also need from him.” She tore the bottom of the sheet off and handed it to him.
Neil turned it so the light from the windows of the house behind him illuminated the sheet. He read the list. Twelve buttons, braid, lining, collar hook, thread… “The man has most likely shut shop for the night,” he pointed out.
“You said trying hard does not count, remember? Wake the man up. If he’s such a poor tailor, he will have quarters at the back of the shop because he cannot afford otherwise.” She put her hand on her hip, waiting for him to dispute her.
Neil realized he was grinning. “Yes, ma’am.”
She waved him away.
Neil devoured the last two mouthfuls of tourtière, then happily headed back toward Stanton Street and on to the tailor’s shop.
The tailor did live in the back of his shop. He opened the shop door after Neil pounded on it for three minutes, while wiping the remains of his supper from his mouth with a dirty handkerchief.
It took an extra two pounds to convince the man to part with the goods. He dumped the bolt of wool on the counter, plus everything on Blanche’s list on top of it and went back to his kitchen.
Neil picked up the smaller items and tucked them safely inside a fold of the wool. He latched the front door behind him and walked home in the utter dark, for Newcastle did not have street lamps on every corner the way London did. The warm stillness of the summer night was refreshing and seemed full of promise.
He realized he was happy, now he had found a way around Seymour’s fine. Thanks to Blanche, he could continue to sleep in his tiny, warm attic.
When he returned to the house on Stanton Street, he considered only for a short moment rapping upon the front door as one would normally. He passed through the alley (gutter, he corrected himself) and stepped over the wall and up to the back door. He knocked heavily.
If he had not already guessed the truth, then the speed at which Blanche answered his knock and that she came the door herself would have told him she was the sole occupant of the house.
Neil handed her the bolt of wool and touched his brow in a mock salute.
Blanche held the bolt between her hands. “I have been considering the making of it,” she said gravely. “Can you bear another three days of fines?”
Neil thought it through. “Three, I can manage,” he admitted. “Although a week would be the end of me, unless I borrow from Cian.”
Blanche winced. “You cannot borrow money! You could never hold your head up in society again.”
“I don’t know where Cian is, anyway,” Neil admitted. “Somewhere on the Continent. Perhaps even in Africa by now.”
“Three days it is. Return tomorrow night, Neil. I will need to check the fit once I have cut the pieces.” She tilted her head. “You are on day duty at the moment, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Which finishes at six o’clock. I will expect you shortly after that.” She grasped the edge of the door. “Good night, Major Williams.”
Neil touched his brow. “Good evening, Mrs. Seymour.”
He walked back to his boarding house, his spirits light. It was uncharitable to be so
pleased about defeating Seymour’s vindictive fines, especially when the source of his solution was Seymour’s own wife. Neil clung to the satisfaction, anyway. Better to be a cad who took pleasure in the downfall of others, than a man who looked forward to the company of another’s wife.
Chapter Six
Neil’s light-heartedness did not linger. The next day was warm even by his sensibilities. The heat set in just after sunrise and climbed throughout the day, until the mid-afternoon throbbed with it. Nothing stirred, not the leaves on the trees in the park Neil walked through to reach the barracks. No birds gave throat, no crickets chittered.
The beaten earth of the parade ground shimmered with heat waves as Neil peered through the open windows in his newly assigned office. With disgust, he saw the same four men were chained to their wagon wheels, even in this heat. They drooped, their heads down. One had contrived to sit, his arms above his head, his cheek resting against his arm. His perch upon the earth would be uncomfortable, for even the ground radiated heat.
It was just past four o’clock. Neil had spent the day with his jacket unbuttoned when out of sight, while hurrying to complete his daily duties so he might leave at six o’clock precisely. He was the only man working at speed, though. Everyone else moved in a stupor, their energy flagging.
Every window on every building was opened to their fullest extent, encouraging even the smallest of breezes. The wind failed to cooperate. Closer to the sea, a wind might be found. This far inland, the heat claimed mastery over the air itself.
Neil examined the far horizon. In Albany, gazing at the horizon would give him a view of trees and bushes, birds circling lazily in the air, and a washed-out blue sky, for the town laid amongst untamed lands. Here, civilization brought order and square lines to the horizon. Neil saw roofs and chimneys. Most of the chimneys did not belch smoke today, for even cooking stoves had been allowed to cool. No one had the constitution for hot meals. Even the enlisted men had been happy with cold beef sandwiches for their midday meal.
However, gazing at the horizon no matter where he stood upon the world still told Neil much, for he was peering to the east. The sky there was over the open ocean. On the edge, where the sky met land, Neil stared at what he thought might be black clouds. He watched for long minutes. If a storm was forming out to sea, then it would pull toward land. The dark smudge which he may or may not be imagining would grow thicker and more definite.
It did not take long for the band of black, angry cloud to become distinct and undeniable. A storm was on its way.
Neil went back to work, to complete the few tasks required before being dismissed for the day. If the storm arrived before he left the barracks, he would have to walk back to his lodgings through the rain. This was his only uniform jacket. It would be unwearable upon the morrow if he allowed it to be soaked tonight. It would be more sensible to stay here until the worst of the storm had passed.
Only, he had an appointment for shortly after six o’clock. He could arrive late, for they had not fixed upon a definite time. Only Neil suspected too many people in Blanche’s life arrived late or not at all.
He returned to the image of her in the yard, in her simple white muslin dress. She had dared to go barefoot because there was no chance whatsoever of meeting anyone. Neil could only conclude that Blanche had no social life here in Newcastle. She did not have at-homes, or afternoon teas to attend. No one was a close enough friend to call upon unannounced, or she would not have risked such an indecency.
He recalled her subdued bearing when in the company of her husband, as if all her character was suppressed and held back.
No, he would not fail to meet the appointment she had made with him. To be on time as promises did not only facilitate the making of his uniform.
He kept an eye upon the coming storm. Soon, he didn’t have to look out windows to measure its approach. The black, thick clouds blotted out the light of the day, so it was more twilight than daylight. In the midst of the clouds, the storm boiled and rolled, with lightning flashing inside them. Low, distant rumbling announced the coming of the storm.
Everyone in the barracks scurried to bring windows closer to closed, although they did not close them altogether, for now the wind was stirring. It was the gentlest of movements at first. As the sky darkened, the wind increased. Dust which had accumulated over days of torpid heat picked up and blew across the parade ground.
The men chained to the wheels were released and hurried back to their barracks.
Horses were stabled and the stable doors shut firmly.
Neil glanced at the carriage clock on the fireplace mantle in the outer office, as he passed through from his own to drop the last report of the day onto Corporal Jones’ desk. The boy plucked his stained jacket from his chest. “Rain will be nice,” he said, glancing through the open door of Neil’s office, to the view through the windows.
“Fancy a soaking, Jones?” Neil asked.
“Would I ever, sir,” Jones admitted.
Neil nodded. “Then I’ll have you deliver a message for me. A moment.” He returned to his desk and scratched out a quick note to Blanche, to move their appointment to somewhere between eight and nine o’clock, depending upon the cessation of rain.
He sealed the note, for he had once been an inquisitive junior officer delivering messages, too. Even though the message was innocent, he didn’t care to have the enlisted men knowing his business.
He took the sealed note out to Jones. “Deliver this to my cousin, please, Jones.”
“Your cousin, sir?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Seymour’s wife. The house on Stanton Street. Hop to it, lad. If you leave right now, I guarantee you’ll have the soaking you wish for.”
Jones nodded enthusiastically and stuffed the note in his inner pocket and left.
Neil returned to his desk. He had no units of men reporting to him. Colonel Hill would not give him an active assignment now he had made it clear he wished to leave the Army. Neil would wait out his time in this back office, sorting supplies and inventories, and unsnarling paperwork until his formal severance was processed. It meant he didn’t need to do a last inspection of the day, or attend to discipline and morale problems, training and the myriad responsibilities which came with an active command.
It also left his mind to wander, for his tasks were tedious. It was a good opportunity to consider his future and try to reach a decision about how he would occupy himself once his final orders came through.
The storm took away that peace and quiet, though.
It announced its arrival with a crack of thunder so loud Neil winced and jumped, his pen scratching across the sheet beneath and leaving a slash mark.
Instantly, the rain fell. It was a torrent, pummeling upon the roof and windows, turning the parade ground into a shallow pool and taxing the gutters. Muffled exclamations sounded inside the building and from without, too, as men were caught in the open.
While the rain hissed, thunder bellowed and lightning flashed, making Neil’s vision dance.
The storm spent itself shortly before half-past seven and by then, the world was dark and shadowy. The rain slackened, became a gentle shower, then ceased altogether, leaving the drip and run of water and many puddles to show it had fallen. The air which wafted through the window was damp, but warm. The day’s heat had not made way for the storm. It lingered, still.
Neil buttoned his jacket and moved through the building and onto the parade ground. He was not the only man out there. They emerged from the stuffy buildings to take in the still, moist air. Neil moved through them, heading for the gates. He had an appointment to make. He would be early. Better to be early than chance disappointing her by failing to arrive at the time he’d promised.
When he reached the little alley between the houses, he paused to take in the stream of water tearing along its length, bringing leaves and dirt with it. The gutter was tending its work.
His boots would survive a soaking, at least. Neil shrugged and
moved along the edge of the gutter to reach the back yard of Blanche’s house. As he had last night, he came to an astonished halt tonight, too.
Blanche was expecting him to arrive later than this. It still lacked fifteen minutes before eight o’clock, which was the earliest he had said he would arrive.
Like most of the buildings in Newcastle, this house’s gutters could not cope with the amount of water flung upon them in the last two hours. They brimmed and where the edges were lowest, spilled their contents upon the ground.
This gutter had a crease in it, lowering the corner enough to spill most of the water in a heavy cascade…and Blanche stood beneath it.
The two washing lines were full of sodden clothing and sheets, linens and pillow cases, hiding her from the view of any neighbors who might peer from their upper windows.
She wore the same white muslin as yesterday. Her hair was down, plastered to her back in damp curls as Blanche turned herself this way and that to let the water cover her. Her eyes were closed, her chin up. The water splashed upon her chest, while the muslin clung to her.
Neil’s breath halted as he recognized that she wore little—perhaps nothing—beneath the muslin. The flesh of her knees and thighs showed pink through the soaked white fabric. Her arms were pale and slender, as she reached to play her fingers in the cascade.
Neil’s body tightened and thrummed with raw wanting. There had been women in his life—of course there had been. Bedroom play was one of the easiest ways to dispel the loneliness which gripped men in the colonies. No one had ever come close to replacing Alice in his heart, though. He had not looked for a replacement. A military career was hard upon a wife, while less permanent associations came with entanglements and risks he was not interested in dealing with.
So now he could easily recognize his response to Blanche’s sensual, earthy display. He could even understand it. She was a pretty woman, after all. Plus, a tiny bond existed between them which came from being part of the great family.
Blanche turned her chin, to let the water play upon her neck and temples. Her gaze fell upon him.
Ashes of Pride Page 6
