Mairin shook her head and put the basket on the table. Blanche leapt to gather up the gray wool scraps and her scissors, thread, needles and pins. She swept them all into her workbasket and put it on the chair against the wall, to make room.
The sewing of Neil’s uniform had taken every spare minute of the last three days, and she had been grateful for the work. While she bent over the seams, sewing furiously, she could forget about the awful moment at the back door.
Even moving the basket now reminded her of her utter depravity. She had offered herself to a man who was not her husband. She still was not sure what had made her do it. She had not been thinking at all.
Neil had been wise to refuse her. Strong and wise.
Now, she was not sure how she could ever look him in the eye again. She had sewn the uniform so quickly in part so she could send it to him at the barracks and avoid speaking to him directly.
Mairin delved into her shopping basket. “There was a stall in the market, selling tea. He had the most delightful blend from Ceylon which I would like to try, right now. Here.” She held out an unmarked packaged tied with red string.
Blanche knew the stall Mairin spoke of. The man sold tea and other imports he acquired from ships which arrived in Newcastle. Only, his goods were well beyond Blanche’s means. “I have tea…” she began weakly, for she liked good quality China tea. Joshua insisted upon India tea, and it was all she could afford, anyway.
“I would like a plum, to go with it,” Iefan added, as he lowered himself carefully into the wing chair.
“If you insist,” Mairin said, and delved into the basket once more. She lifted a bag which bulged. “These are the first I’ve seen this summer,” she admitted. “Look, aren’t they lovely and dark?”
Blanche looked. Her mouth watered as she considered the dark purple fruit in the bag.
“One for each of us,” Mairin declared and put both the fruit and the tea into Blanche’s hands. “Can I help in the kitchen?”
“Of course not!” Blanche breathed, horrified.
“I do know my way around a kitchen,” Mairin said cheerfully. “Enough to boil a kettle. Usually to tend to Iefan’s wounds, as he keeps getting into scrapes, but water is water, is it not?”
Blanche blinked.
Mairin patted at her shoulder. “I do run on,” she added. “Possibly to make up for Iefan’s dourness. He still doesn’t like conversing, unless it’s someone he cares for, then he makes up for his ways with a vengeance. Is the kitchen through this door? Oh yes, look at that! Such a neat little room. Is the fire going? Can I add wood?”
Step by step, Mairin shepherded Blanche into the kitchen. While Blanche pulled the teapot from the top shelf, Mairin scooped water from the bucket, put the kettle on the stove and roused the fire beneath it, chatting all the while.
Her happy talk saved Blanche from having to come up with pleasant conversation. She hadn’t had to converse politely in nearly a year and she had not been good at it even when she was attending season affairs in London.
Mairin’s conversation was pleasant, yet it wasn’t in any way foolish. Mairin was not one of Blanche’s regular correspondents, so she didn’t know Mairin as well as she knew Mairin’s younger sister, Annalies. Mairin and her twin, Bridget, had always played with Sharla and Jenny and Bronwen and the older girls, while Blanche had played with Catrin and poor Alice, Emma and Annalies. Now, as Mairin spoke about the textile mills in Kirkaldy, and the businesses in London and Paris which supported them, Blanche came to appreciate that Mairin was a smart woman, following an unconventional path in life, one which Iefan silently and fully supported. Her twin, Bridget, was also carving a unique niche for herself in Kirkaldy. A woman running multiple businesses and succeeding at it was unusual.
As Mairin cut up plums and arranged the segments in a pleasing display on a platter, Blanche filled the teapot with boiling water and put it on the tray, along with cups, saucers, cream and sugar, and spoons.
“Napkins?” Mairin asked. Then she shook her head. “No, I would rather lick my fingers,” she decided and lifted the tray to carry out into the front room.
Blanche followed, feeling a little winded.
Iefan was still in the wing chair, although he had risen long enough to move to the fireplace, for he had her father’s daguerreotype in his hand, studying the image. He lifted the frame as they moved to the table. “Is this your father, Blanche?”
“Renee Bonnaire. Yes.”
“And that is a French army uniform, the one they wore before the Siege and the Commune was formed, is it not?”
Blanche’s chest swelled. She had forgotten about Iefan’s Foreign Legion association. Of course he recognized the French army uniform. “17th regiment de marche,” Blanche told him. “Papa Vaughn met Renee at Cambridge, when he was studying there. They were good friends, which is why my father asked Papa and Mama Elisa to take care of me.”
“You must be proud of your father,” Iefan said, his tone casual. He reached to return the frame to the mantelshelf and hissed and gripped his knee, instead.
Blanche winced as the frame bumped against the arm of the chair. She plucked it from Iefan’s fingers and returned it to the shelf. “My father was a hero of the Siege of Paris,” she told him.
“Tea!” Mairin called, drawing Blanche back to the table. “Iefan, come and sit here with us, so Blanche can relax.” She pushed a cake plate with two pieces of plum on it toward the third chair.
Iefan made his way over, moving carefully, and plopped into the chair, studying the plums. “You bought scones, too, didn’t you?”
“I nearly forgot about those!” Mairin dived into the basket once more and withdrew another package and unwrapped it and put it upon the table. “Scones go better with cream and jam, though.” She pulled a pot of cream and a jar of thick blackberry jam and added them to the table. “The refreshments on the train to London are never adequate,” she confessed, as Blanche looked at the food in amazement. “Do share with us, Blanche. There’s plenty.” As she spoke, she unwrapped the scones and put one on the plate before Blanche.
“Do you always travel this way?” Blanche asked curiously.
“Oh, we travel so much!” Mairin admitted, with a sigh. “We’ve learned ways to make jolting trains and swaying ships more comfortable. Carriages, though…well, one can’t do much about those. Here you are, husband.” She put a half scone piled with glistening black jam and fluffy whipped cream on Iefan’s plate. “I’ve yet to find a dour traveling companion who did not smile at me by the journey’s end, after sharing my basket with them.”
Blanche sipped the delicious, strong tea and ate a whole plum and two entire scones. While she ate, Mairin described their journey to China and other exotic locations, as well as their annual jaunts to the south of France, which was where they were heading now. Iefan sold tweed to fashion houses. The owners and buyers of those fashion houses relaxed in the French resorts during August and were easier to deal with when away from the pressures of commerce in Paris.
“No one lingers in Paris in August, anyway,” Mairin said airily.
Blanche thought longingly of the city where she had been born, which she had never seen. “You really spend all of September in Paris?”
“It is a delightful city in September,” Mairin said. “We have a house on the avenue des Gobelins, on the Left Bank. It is one of the new streets built by Haussmann. You should come and spend the month with us. She would be most welcome, yes, Iefan?”
Iefan nodded and pushed his empty plate from him and sat back. “You would be good company for Mairin. I spend my time in Paris concluding deals and signing contracts.”
Blanche’s heart leapt. Paris!
She sobered, only just remembering that it was impossible. “I couldn’t impose,” she said awkwardly.
“Oh, but you wouldn’t be!” Mairin cried.
Blanche shook her head. “Joshua would not agree to my leaving for a whole month.” And there was no spare money for ex
pensive journeys to the Continent, either.
Mairin’s expression sobered. “Ah, well. It was a thought. If you change your mind, you have only to write to me, and it will be arranged. Yes? Promise you will.”
A little dazed, Blanche agreed.
The two remained at the table for another forty minutes, sipping a second pot of tea. Mairin made the tea for herself, after sliding another plum in front of Blanche and insisting she remain seated to eat it.
When the second pot was empty, Iefan limped across the front room, testing his knee, while Mairin watched anxiously.
Blanche gnawed at her lip. It was plain Iefan’s leg was painful, even though he tested it with a thoughtful expression on his face. “Was it terrible in Oran?” she asked Mairin.
Mairin linked her arm with Blanche’s. “We thought we were about to die,” she said softly. “It changed everything. Every day is a gift, now.” She smiled at Blanche. “This weakness of his leg, the cane…it is all my fault. Yet Iefan has not once said so. Surely, that is a sign of how much he loves me, hmm?”
“I love you despite your propensity for stirring trouble, not because of it,” Iefan said, as if she had spoken loudly.
“You are the worst liar, my love. You like that I stir trouble.”
“Do you?” Blanche asked curiously. “Stir trouble?”
“Quite without meaning to, yes,” Mairin said. “We Williams ladies have a way of plowing our own rows and it ruffles feathers.” She squeezed Blanche’s arm. “It’s a common trait in the great family. Mama Elisa ruffled more than a few feathers herself, when she met Papa Vaughn. You know that story, do you not?”
“I do,” Blanche said, for she had heard it many times. She had grown up wishing she could find a man as courageous and forthright as Papa Vaughn. Then she had learned about her father, and discovered he was a hero of a different sort altogether. A true hero in every sense of the word. He had given up his life, to protect his country.
Iefan straightened and held out his arm. “Back to the hotel, I think. By the shortest route.”
“Should I arrange a cab for you?” Mairin asked him, sliding under his arm.
“Let us see how I last walking, first,” he told her. “We are to be confined upon a train all day tomorrow. I would walk while I can.”
“Blanche, the door…would you mind?” Mairin asked, glancing at the front door.
Blanche hurried to the door and opened it, as Mairin helped Iefan through. Mairin bid her farewell and repeated that she must write, and she must consider visiting in September.
Iefan raised his hand in farewell, as he limped with a rolling gait down the street. Blanche watched them hobble to the end of the street and turn into Stanhope Street, heading back toward the market and the high street where their hotel was located.
She put her hand on her belly, as it panged sharply. She hadn’t eaten so much food in one sitting for months and months.
It wasn’t until she shut the door and turned back to the table, that she remembered what Mairin had also forgotten. Mairin’s basket still sat upon the table, beside the bag of plums, the scones, the pot of cream and the jam. There were more goods in the basket, and one of them was an aged cheese, for the aroma was distinct.
Blanche had the basket nearly packed once more before she realized what else Mairin had forgotten to mention. Blanche had no idea which hotel the couple was using.
There was no way to return the basket.
WHEN THEY ROUNDED THE CORNER and were completely out of sight of the houses on Stanton Street, Iefan pulled Mairin closer to him, kissed her temple, then released her shoulders. He straightened and walked evenly, the cane swinging in the usual way.
“How did you guess?” Mairin asked him. “Oh, poor Blanche!”
“I guessed because I know Will so well. He would rather cut off his hand than confess to a mistake. He nearly lost Bridget and his children because he could not admit to having fallen in love with her. Then there’s Jack and Sharla and their strained relationships…” He shrugged.
“The whole family are too proud for their own good,” Mairin surmised. “Yes, you are right. Peter is just as bad as the rest of them.”
“So Neil’s warning was enough to guess the rest,” Iefan finished.
“A hasty marriage turned sour. She was so thin, Iefan! Her cheeks were sunken. How can a man do that to anyone, let alone his wife?”
“Any man who truly cares could not do it,” Iefan said heavily. “Not even the most brutal, poorest man in England would let those he cares about suffer. Therefore, the answer is, I’m afraid, that Seymour does not care for her or about her.”
Mairin’s eyes stung. She sniffed unhappily. “We cannot leave her there, Iefan. We would be just as cruel as Seymour, if we do nothing.”
Iefan didn’t speak for many steps. He frowned, peering at the cobbles before him. “There is nothing we can do,” he said at last. “We cannot interfere.” He shook his head. “Besides, there is something…”
“I knew it! You have a plan.”
“It is a suspicion, that is all.” He glanced at her. “Would you mind terribly spending an extra day or two in Paris, on the way south?”
“If it will help Blanche, then yes, of course,” Mairin said. “Must we leave her here?”
“Neil is to hand. If anything can be done, he must be the one to do it.” Iefan gave her a small smile. “He’s a soldier, Mairin.”
“You like him.”
“More than I did, growing up. He is a man I would trust to come through, no matter what. There are damn few men of that caliber around.”
“The few I know are all in the family,” Mairin observed.
Iefan considered it. “You’re right,” he said, sounding surprised. He smiled at her. “My brilliant wife.”
“Who now must buy a second supper,” she pointed out. “Blanche didn’t notice a thing, with all your fuss about your leg.”
“Let’s buy more of those scones,” Iefan said, picking up his pace eagerly.
Chapter Eight
Neil heard the fuss in the outer room and put down his pen.
“I will speak to Williams now,” Seymour said, lifting his voice.
“Yes, sir,” Jones said quickly, also increasing his volume. “Let me just announce you, sir—”
The door to Neil’s office thrust open and Seymour strode in. Clearly, he didn’t want to be announced.
Neil shot to his feet and saluted.
Seymour acknowledged the salute with an absent flick of his fingers. His gaze was upon Neil’s uniform. “I did not believe Digby when he said there would be no fine today. I had to come and see for myself.”
Neil lowered his arm. He said nothing, for Seymour’s jaw worked and his eyes were narrowed.
Jones peered in through the crack between the door and the frame, a grin on his face. He was enjoying the moment because he could not see Seymour’s face.
Neil stepped around the desk and into the clear space in front. He stood and let Seymour circle around him.
The new Undress uniform fitted nearly perfectly. It was somewhat loose in the collar, although not enough to be noticeable. The sleeves hung correctly, the braid was perfect. Neil was content to let Seymour inspect all he wanted. He would find nothing to which he could reasonably object.
When Seymour returned to the spot in front of Neil, his face was flushed. His eyes glittered. He gripped the hilt of his sword, squeezing and releasing. “This is impossible,” he muttered. “Men have been waiting weeks for uniforms…”
Neil kept his expression immobile, revealing nothing of the dollop of satisfaction the soft complaint gave him.
Seymour pointed to Neil’s head. “Your hair is too long, Williams.”
The satisfaction faded. Neil remained still, as irritation stirred. His hair? He had paid no attention to his hair since he had stepped off the ship. All his attention had been taken up with acquiring a uniform to halt the ridiculous daily fines.
“A man’s
hair cannot touch his collar, Williams,” Seymour added. His eyes gleamed. “You are a disgrace to the uniform.” He did not quite smile as he said it. “You will find a barber at once. Tonight, when your duty ends, you will clean the guns in the armory.”
Neil kept his tone servile. “Which guns, sir?” The armory stored everything from the smallest of hand pistols all the way up to a pair of cannons used for state occasions.
Seymour shrugged. “All of them, of course.”
Jones’ mouth dropped open. Indignation grew in his face. Neil silently urged the lad to stay mute. When Neil thought he could speak civilly, he said, “Of course, sir. Yes, sir.”
Seymour did smile, then. The expression was sleek and happy. “While you are cleaning the guns, you will reflect upon your slovenly ways and the message it sends to the enlisted men. I will inspect your work upon the guns tomorrow after Reveille.” He turned on his heel and strode to the door, as Jones leapt away from the other side.
“Williams,” Seymour said, without looking back.
“Thank you, sir,” Neil returned. His voice was strained, although it was even and bereft of any emotion.
Jones hurried in as the outer door slammed shut. His face was red. “Cleaning guns! All of them! Can he do that to you, sir?”
“He can,” Neil said. “He is not incorrect, Jones. My hair is too long right now.” He reached over the desk and picked up the report he was half-way through. “Finish this for me, will you? I’ll sign it later.”
Jones took the pages. “Where are you going, sir?”
“Where else?” Neil said. “To find a barber.”
IT TOOK MOST OF A day for Blanche to dare use any of the goods in the basket which Mairin had left behind. As the front room drew warmer, though, the redolent scent of rich cheese grew stronger. It made the decision for her. It would be wasteful to let the food sour in this heat.
Blanche emptied the basket and stored the food as best she could. She found at the bottom of the basket slices of lamb, salted and sprinkled with rosemary, and well wrapped. Added to the rest of the contents, it made her midday meal a feast.
Ashes of Pride Page 8
