Ashes of Pride

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “Discussing money is crude,” she whispered. It was a pathetic effort to deny the conversation. In her heart, she knew Hunter was correct. It explained, oh, so much!

  “It is, indeed, ma’am,” Hunter said, his tone still delicately polite. “Although I have found that sometimes, a little frank conversation aids…many things.”

  Blanche was the one to look away, this time. How many men in the regiment knew of this? How many people were laughing behind her back, because Blanche had blindly believed her husband was such a wonderful soldier, he had earned every promotion he’d received?

  Was that why the military wives ignored her? Had their husbands whispered to them about Joshua’s vanity?

  “I’ll see to that cab for you,” Hunter said. His tone was kind.

  “When is Major Williams released from the wheel?”

  He shook his head. “It would not be wise for you to be here when he is released.”

  “Why not?”

  Hunter rubbed the back of his neck. “In this heat, two hours of field punishment takes the pith out of a man. Neil would not want you to see his state, when he is done.”

  Blanche started at the use of Neil’s first name. “You are a friend of his,” she breathed.

  “I am.” He gave her a small smile. “That is a fact you might forget to mention to your husband. He does not treat friends of Neil any better than he does Neil himself.”

  “Others suffer because of my husband?” Blanche said, appalled. “Who?”

  “I am looking at one of them,” Hunter said. His smile was warm. “Now I will arrange that cab. Let me escort you to the gates, Mrs. Seymour. Through the back door, so you do not have to step out upon the parade ground any more today.”

  She drained the glass of the last of the delicious iced tea and took his elbow.

  It wasn’t until she was back inside her house and removing her gloves that she realized, with a sickening drop of her stomach, that Neil must have known all along that Joshua bought his promotions…and he had said nothing.

  Chapter Twelve

  When Neil returned from Northallerton, he found the copy of Meditations in the original Greek tucked inside his valise.

  He laughed at the time, yet the very next day, after his two-hour punishment ripped away the peace he’d found in Northallerton, Neil found himself picking up the volume and reading it while he ate supper and drank a bucketful of water, and two pots of tea. Mrs. Callahan fell in with his requests for more without a murmur of complaint. Perhaps one of her other lodgers had told her about Neil’s field punishment. She had hosted military men for near a decade and knew exactly what field punishment did to a man.

  Reading while eating became a habit over the next few days. It stopped him thinking too much about other matters. It stopped him from peering through the tiny window at the house three up from this one.

  Tonight, though, he couldn’t settle to reading. He had no appetite. Hunter’s overly sweet iced tea sloshed in his belly. Her face stayed in his mind, the tears glistening in the sun.

  Neil pushed the plate aside and stood at the window, his body tense, his thoughts a chaotic swirl.

  The moment he had seen Blanche with the parcel under her arm, he’d known Seymour contrived to put her there, just to see him chained like a dog.

  The ache to act directly, to respond to Seymour’s manipulations was so strong, Neil gripped the window frame and groaned with the need to lash out. The Stoics would have him submit and let the moment go. So would Hunter.

  If Neil lifted a finger toward Seymour, if he showed a single inch of defiance, Seymour would slaughter him. Hunter had warned Neil that Seymour watched for anything he might use to bring Neil to a court martial. Criminal proceedings in the military most often ended in executions. Cardwell’s reforms were trying to change that, only those changes would not happen in time to save Neil if he was charged with anything more serious than Seymour had skewered him with so far.

  If it was just his own hide at risk, Neil might have considered the risk of a court martial worth the pleasure of bringing Seymour down. Only, anything he did, Seymour would use as an excuse to punish Blanche. The man was odious, but he was not a fool and would correctly identify any scheme against him as Neil’s, no matter how subtle it might be.

  Neil would not contain himself to subtle gambits. Not after today. Any retribution he handed out would be swift, direct, and at full strength.

  Therefore, he should do nothing.

  The rap on his door brought him away from the window. Perhaps Mrs. Callahan was bringing him another pot of tea, unasked. He pulled together the opening of his shirt as he moved to the door. There were no pins to hold it, but the thing would stay closed for the few moments Mrs. Callahan was in the room.

  When he saw it was not Mrs. Callahan at all, Neil took a step back in surprise. “Blanche!” He kept his voice low. His was the only room in the attic, although there were four gentlemen living on the floor below the stairs at Blanche’s back, all of them officers.

  She wore the same pretty white dress she had been wearing that afternoon, on the parade ground. The details were seared upon his brain. It was so fine and light he saw her arms through the fragile fabric, and the outline of her corset cover and camisole.

  Her face was pale. Whatever she had used to disguise her bruised eye was now removed. The fading purple was turning gray and green around the edges. The rest of her small face was clean and clear, including her flexing jaw.

  She was angry. Neil recognized her mood with a start of surprise.

  “You cannot be here,” he whispered. “How did you get past Mrs. Callahan? She ejects any woman who tries to step across her sill.”

  “I walked in. No one stopped me,” Blanche said, keeping her voice at the same low murmur. “How do you fare, Neil?” The question was sharply put. “Are you recovered?”

  “Recovered enough,” he said with a small shrug.

  Her anger seemed to gather and leap at his answer. “Then, if you are sufficiently recovered, explain to me why you did not tell me Joshua bought every single one of his promotions?”

  Ah… The sigh whispered through his mind. Hunter must have said something that afternoon. He was not a fool, either. He would have put together what Seymour arranged for his wife’s edification. Clearly, he liked it no more than Neil. His retribution was indirect, subtle and swift.

  Neil looked over her shoulder. No one was on the landing below to see them, yet it was still far too risky to have her standing at his door in this way. He drew her inside far enough to close the door and stood with his hand upon the handle.

  Blanche faced him and raised the brow of her uninjured eye, waiting for her answer.

  “I did not disclose the information because he is your husband,” he told Blanche. “More than that,” he began, as she opened her mouth to speak, “I did not say anything because one does not speak ill of fellow officers, to anyone. It’s not the done thing. You know that.”

  “You did not believe I should be aware of this aspect of Joshua’s character?”

  Joshua. Neil referred to Seymour as her husband. She used “Joshua,” instead.

  Neil shook his head. “You are married to the man, Blanche. You would prefer I stain his character and make you think less of him?”

  “People are laughing at me!” Blanche hissed, her fury leaping again. “I have been so ignorant…!” Her hands curled into tight little fists. “The officers’ wives—I believed they hated me, only it wasn’t that at all. They don’t respect me and dislike me because they know about Seymour, too! Everyone but me knows, don’t they?”

  Neil hesitated. Blanche’s pride was in shatters. She felt embarrassed because of her ignorance, not because of the way Seymour’s character reflected upon her. In her mind, she and Seymour were separate and distinct. Was she aware of the change in her attitude?

  “Everyone knows,” Neil said softly, answering her question directly and truthfully. He held up his hand. “Purchasing c
ommissions has been the way of it for generations, Blanche. You cannot judge Seymour too harshly for using the traditions which have held the army together.”

  “Why should I not? Everyone else does. You do.”

  “Because you are married to him and we are not,” Neil said. “You must share your life with him. It would be better to think as charitably about him as you can.”

  Blanche dropped her chin. “I did believe the best about him. I thought he was the most wonderful…” She shivered and raised her chin to spear Neil with a direct look. “I feel sick when I think about how great a fool I have been. I could not see what everyone else knew, and no one disabused me of my ignorance.”

  Neil sighed and let his hand drop from the door handle. “If it is truly how you feel, then you’d had best sit down for a moment, Blanche. There is something else I must tell you.” He pulled the chair away from the little table and settled it on the rug for her.

  Blanche sat on the edge, her eyes large as she looked up at him. She looked nervous.

  Neil hesitated one last time. Only, if he did not tell her about her father, then someone else would impart the news and in a fashion which would hurt her. He, at least, would break the news gently.

  There was no other seat in the room and he would not sit on the bed, for it already lingered in his mind, a lusty whisper he thrust away. Neil crouched down in front of her so she did not have to crane her neck. “It is about your father,” he told her. “Renee Bonnaire.”

  She swallowed. “What about him?” It was a whisper.

  Reluctantly, picking his words with care, Neil told her what Iefan discovered about Bonnaire’s last days in Paris, and his status as a prisoner. Blanche sat motionless as he gave her all the facts. There were few of them, but they were damning.

  Blanche sat motionless for a long moment after he was done. “I feel as though every single person I have ever cared about has lied to me.”

  “I did not lie,” Neil said quickly, stung.

  Her gaze met his. “You omitted to tell me many truths I would have preferred to know. You made decisions for me which I should have got to make.”

  Neil hung his head. “Yes,” he admitted. “Now you put it like that, I can see it is exactly what I did.”

  Her fingers touched his face. They slid beneath his chin and raised it. “Until just now,” she added with a small smile. “Thank you for telling me about my father, Neil.” She got to her feet and brushed down the muslin.

  Neil rose, too.

  “I must…I will go back to the house and consider this,” Blanche said. “It is overwhelming.” She moved toward the door.

  Neil caught her arm, halting her momentarily. “Remember what I said,” he told her, his voice low. “Think well of Seymour, if you can. He has done nothing thousands of men before him have not done. He is following their example.”

  “Then their example and tradition are wrong,” Blanche said.

  Neil dropped his hand, surprised. She echoed the thought he had not spoken. “Yes, it is wrong.”

  He opened the door and checked the landing below was clear, then let her through and shut the door behind her.

  It wasn’t until then he realized that she had said she would return to “the house”. Not “home”.

  BLANCHE WAITED UP UNTIL SEYMOUR came home from the officer’s mess that night.

  She had left him a cold supper upon the table before she visited Neil, even though Seymour had his dress uniform at the barracks and therefore no need to return home. When she returned to the house, she found the plate untouched as expected.

  After days of excessive sleep, Blanche could stay alert as she stitched. She did not touch the basket of shirts missing buttons or needing mending. Instead, she worked upon a redingote jacket for herself, which she cut from the largest remnants of the gray wool left over from the making of Neil’s uniform.

  As she whipped seams together, she considered all she had learned this momentous day.

  It was as though for the first time, she could think properly. Until now, she had been half-asleep, caught in fanciful dreams which blinded her. Now she was able to see clearly. The truth was painful and unpleasant, yet knowing it gave her a measure of control. She could make decisions and find a way forward.

  Neil was right, of course. She was married to Seymour and nothing removed that fact. She recognized that she had married badly. Like all those other women who found themselves in unfortunate marriages, she must make the best of it. It began with thinking charitably about Seymour and trying to find the best in him. It was that, or be miserable the rest of her life.

  Her heart belonged to Neil, but her body belonged to Seymour, bound by unbreakable marriage bonds.

  Acknowledging that unpleasant truth gave her a measure of calm. What cannot be changed must be borne. She would find a way.

  Seymour did not return until very late, long after cabs and horses stopped clopping along the street. There were no gas lamps to be extinguished, which would give her the exact hour, although the dropping of stillness and silence upon the street outside gave her a measure of the time.

  He pushed open the door and came to a halt just inside it, staring at her with red-rimmed eyes. “You are still up?”

  Blanche put her sewing aside and got to her feet. “I wanted to speak to you,” she told him, moving around the table. “About today,” she added.

  He put his tall, feathered cap on the shelf below the coat hooks. She saw a smirk form on his lips as he turned away.

  “Yes, I am aware you brought me there to see you punishing Neil,” she added.

  He grew still, his back to her. Then he turned, his eyes narrowed. “What on earth are you talking about, woman?”

  Blanche raised her hand in a calming gesture. “Please just listen to me for a moment, Seymour. It is important.”

  His lips parted. “I beg your pardon?”

  Blanche made herself smile. “I wanted you to know that I know about the promotions. You spent your inheritance buying them. I wanted you to know it doesn’t matter—”

  He roared. It was a frightful sound and Blanche cringed backward. She couldn’t help it.

  Her head throbbed in reaction.

  Seymour stalked toward her. “You will never, ever, speak of that again!”

  Only now he was closer to her did she detect the smell of brandy upon him. Only now did she realize he was far from sober. It was too late—she had spoken and must push through. She held up her hand and wasn’t surprised to see it trembled. “Only, I am saying we can speak of such things! I will not wilt or think less of you. If you had only shared this with me from the start, then it would have made things much easier. I would have understood—”

  He didn’t raise his arm as he had before, or she might have dodged the blow. He gave no sign at all. His fist pistoned, as solid as iron, and buried itself deep in her stomach.

  Blanche dropped to the floor, her legs powerless. She couldn’t breathe. Nothing in her middle had any feeling. Nothing moved, not even her lungs.

  Gray and white dots danced in her vision.

  “You think less of me?” he breathed, his voice close to her hanging head. “What makes you believe you have any right to judge me at all?”

  The second blow speared into her thigh, rolling her onto her back. She would have cried out, but lacked the air to do so. Instead, her pain exploded from her in a breathless moan.

  Seymour bent over her again. “I wish you were dead.” The hatred warped his voice, twisting it so it was ugly and strange.

  Blanche cringed away, trying to cover her head in case he struck out once more.

  Instead, he turned and left the house.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When Blanche had recovered her breathing and could move without pain spearing her leg, she rose to her feet. Her thoughts were hazy, except for a strong need to leave the house.

  She had changed into her wrapper when she came home. Had Seymour calculated that the lack of a corset wo
uld make his blow more effective? Was he that callous?

  Blanche contemplated pulling herself upstairs and donning her corset and petticoats. Only, she could not stand the idea of anything pressing against her belly. Instead, she slipped out of the house as she was, in slippers and wrapper. The wrapper was formal enough to pass as a gown, and no one was out this late, anyway.

  The air in the wee hours of the night was as cool as it would get. It was nearly August, the hottest month, although this year’s July would be difficult to surpass.

  Her slippers were silent on the road, as she moved through the gutter to Tamworth Road and flitted along the cobbles to Mrs. Callahan’s house. The houses were all dark, shuttered in sleep, unaware of her passing.

  Mrs. Callahan’s house was old and was possibly the first house upon the street. Perhaps it had been built before the street was laid, for the front of the house did not line up with the side of the road, as the other houses did. It was set off from the other houses, with a substantial yard around it.

  Blanche slipped through the side gate around to the yard. This yard, unlike hers, was neat and tidy, with dozens of washing lines at the back, and a park bench against the wall of the house, for the lodgers to take their ease in the sun.

  She bent carefully and patted the earth at her feet, collecting pebbles by touch alone. The movement hurt, but not enough to halt. When she had a good handful, Blanche moved back to the washing lines and peered up at the top of the house.

  She had watched the men playing cricket at the family gathers for years. They didn’t toss the ball with their wrists. They used their whole arm. Blanche hitched up her dress, to give her arm a greater range of movement, and studied the tiny window under the eaves.

  Her first pebble thudded against the window frame, which delighted her. It was not the window itself, yet it was far closer than she imagined she would reach with her first try.

  She adjusted her aim and threw again.

  The clink, this time, told her she had aimed correctly. However, Neil would be asleep at this hour. She patiently tossed another pebble and then another, pausing between each to see if any response came.