Ashes of Pride

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Neil swallowed. “Thank you.”

  Hunter nodded and left, Harry following him.

  Jones shut the door behind them and leaned against it, as if his legs were shaking. “Sir, this is all my fault.”

  “You weren’t to know something as innocent as a foreign curiosity could be twisted that way,” Neil told him. He still wasn’t sure he could stand. “It might pay you to consider who you can properly trust to speak with freely, from now on.”

  “That one is clear, sir,” Jones said grimly, coming back to the desk. “More’s the pity,” he added. “I thought we were all in this together.”

  Neil didn’t try to counter his disillusion. Better the lad face reality sooner rather than later.

  “Sir, shouldn’t something be done about Lieutenant Colonel Seymour?”

  “Done, Jones?”

  “He…well, he was drunk, sir. And he keeps trying to charge you with…with anything he can think of it. It isn’t right, sir.”

  “Any man can demand justice, Jones.”

  “He isn’t demanding justice, sir. He’s trying to use military law against you for…well, I don’t rightly know why he’s doing it, although I’m guessing it has nothing to do with military matters. He just doesn’t like you, and that’s the part which isn’t right about it.”

  “It isn’t your place to disparage a senior officer, Jones,” Neil replied. “Nor is it mine, or Major Hunter’s. Only a more senior officer can dress down a lesser ranking officer.”

  “It means only Colonel Hill can do anything about it!”

  “The chain of command exists for a reason, Jones. It works.” Neil got to his feet and found he could stand. “I’m leaving the barracks. I have business in town.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jones didn’t ask him what that business was, which was just as well, because Neil wouldn’t have been able to tell him.

  He must hurry back to Blanche. He had presumed Seymour didn’t know where she was. He hadn’t anticipated Seymour knowing what was in his sea chest, either.

  Nothing was certain, anymore.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Blanche remained in her hotel room, watching the shadows cast by the lace curtain creep across the carpet. It grew shorter then slowly lengthened, while shifting around from one side of the window to the other.

  The day was passing, and she had nothing to do but think, which was a novelty.

  At first Blanche busied herself with washing and dressing, then fussing with her hair. She rang for tea to be brought to her room and later, a sandwich to both break her fast and for her noonday meal. She kept the room door locked, otherwise. No one came to the door other than the maid who bought her tea and sandwich, until shortly after midday.

  It was the same soft knock as this morning, and Blanche’s heart leapt. She unlocked the door.

  Neil stepped inside and shut the door again. “You didn’t check who it was,” he chided her, turning the lock.

  “I knew it was you,” Blanche said. Then, because he had encouraged her to, and because she couldn’t not do it, she wound her arms around him and reached up to kiss him.

  Neil returned the kiss with heated intensity. Then he drew her away from him. His eyes were grave. “This morning, when I spoke about London—”

  “About taking me there?”

  He nodded. “I was thinking that it is far from Northumberland, and that was all. Now I have reason to believe you should leave for London as soon as possible.”

  Invisible fingers stroked her neck, making her shiver. “What has happened?”

  “Nothing more than Seymour showing a hint of his true colors.” Neil’s gaze focused inward, on a memory. Then he looked at her properly. “It occurred to me that Ben and Stephen are in London. They could guide you on the dissolution of your marriage.”

  “Divorce?” Horror speared her. “No, Neil! I could not put the family through that. Not again.”

  He touched her lips. “Dissolution,” he said gently. “If the marriage has never been consummated, and I know it has not, then it can be legally dissolved…at least I believe it is so. It is why you must speak to Ben. He will know what recourse is available to you.”

  Blanche squeezed her hands together. “Oh, Neil, is it possible?” Hope was a glowing coal in the middle of her heart, warming her.

  “I do not know for sure. Then you will leave for London? There is a train this evening—you should be on it. I will take you to your house, so you may pack a trunk.” He held the door open for her.

  Blanche had neither hat nor gloves, not even a reticule to carry. She stepped through, willing to follow Neil wherever he went. She almost floated along the corridor.

  To be free! To escape her disastrous marriage! Oh, please let it come to pass!

  THE CAB DRIVER DELIVERED THEM right outside the front door of the little house. Blanche studied the faded and dirty façade. She had lived there, yet it felt as though she was staring at a stranger’s house.

  Neil handed her down to the cobbles, and glanced at the house, too. “The day duty doesn’t end for four hours. Take your time. Make sure you pack everything you might need for a long stay. After London, you should go to Marblethorpe.”

  Blanche understood what he had not said. She should take everything with her which she valued, for she would not be coming back here.

  For the first time, her heart gave a little thud as she realized Neil had spoken only of her plans. She wanted to shake him and demand he assure her he would be by her side.

  Only, how could he be? He was a commissioned officer of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers Regiment of Foot and must fulfill his duties.

  Coldness touched her as a silent voice provided the answer she sought. Neil must stay here.

  She would travel alone.

  Neil moved over to the front door. She followed, struggling with the realization that all the hope which Neil had handed her, the newly bright future which might lay ahead of her…it meant less than nothing if Neil was not with her.

  Blanche did not raise her head as she stepped through the door into the house she now hated with a passion. She did not notice Seymour sprawled in the wing chair until Neil’s hand gripped her arm, halting her. He pulled her behind him and she peered around his shoulder, her heart jolting.

  Seymour’s boot was thrust out, the heel pushing careless furrows into the rug. His hand hung over the arm of the chair, the fingers loose. In the other hand, he held a glass of what appeared to be brandy, judging by the color of the liquid which half-filled it.

  The brandy bottle sat on the table, close to hand.

  Seymour had removed his jacket and his kerchief. His face was sweaty, as if he suffered a fever.

  He looked up at them, blinking. His jaw worked. “I was right then. You are a philandering whoremaster, Williams.”

  Neil bent to murmur to Blanche. “Straight up the stairs. Pack your trunk. Go.”

  She stepped around him, intending to obey. Then she saw Seymour had set a fire going in the fireplace. Startled, she looked at the leaping flames. The day was as hot as any day this month. Why would he start a fire?

  Then she saw what the fire fed upon.

  Gray wool.

  “My coat!” she breathed, moving toward the fire. Surely he had not burned the coat she had nearly finished making?

  “Blanche, no, stay behind me,” Neil said quickly.

  She hesitated. The alarm in his voice was warning enough. Then she realize something else was in the fireplace. Her attention was rivetted by it. A silver frame, scorched black…

  Her heart froze and her thoughts, too. Emotion was all she felt, a swirling mix of horror and disbelief. He had not burned her father’s picture, had he? She had to inspect it, to establish that yes, he really had burned it. She must see it with her own eyes.

  The flames had done their work. They could not consume the frame itself, although the material inside the frame was food for the fire. All that was left was flaking black ashes.

  �
�Poof!” Seymour said, beside her. “Father’s gone.”

  The cruel pleasure in his voice stirred her fury. She shook with the rage, as it seemed to build from her toes, gathering power and intensity, as it rose within her, stealing thought and breath and sense.

  It wasn’t simply the hard life he had forced her to live which drove it. Flashing through her mind, barely noticed, yet adding to the heat and power building in her middle were snatches of images. The way Seymour always wrenched his hand away from hers. His snarled commands that she not touch him. His utter lack of warmth and gentleness. The bacon she had placed on his breakfast plate each morning, while she ate plain toast.

  The agony in her head after he had hit her. Her eye, which still ached.

  And last, but not least, the sight of Neil chained to a wagon wheel, exposed to the blazing sun of a torrid July day.

  The fury exploded from her in a high-pitched scream which tore at her throat and made her eyes ache. She whirled and snatched up the candlestick on the mantelshelf—because this old house did not even run to gas lamps—and kept spinning on her feet.

  The candlestick smashed against Seymour’s temple, driving him up against the other side of the wing chair, his head thudding against the padded wing. He made a grunting sound and his eyes rolled up.

  Blanche dropped the candlestick. Horror expelled all her fury in one heartbeat. As Seymour slid off the chair and crumpled onto the floor, she covered her mouth, trembling. “Oh, God…!” she whispered.

  Neil stared at Seymour, his eyes narrowed.

  Seymour gave a soft murmur, drool running from the corner of his mouth.

  “Major Williams, what is happening here?”

  Blanche gasped, looking up from Seymour’s still body. Major Hunter stood a pace inside the front door. Behind him, spreading out into the little room, were three soldiers, carrying rifles.

  Neil whirled to face Hunter. “Edmund!”

  Hunter didn’t acknowledge him. He stared at Seymour. “It occurred to me I should look in on Mrs. Seymour, after what happened in your office…” he said slowly. “Who struck him?”

  Blanche opened her mouth to speak.

  “I did.” Neil’s voice was low, but firm.

  Blanche stepped around Seymour and caught Neil’s arm. “No! Neil, no!”

  He looked at her and shook his head. “Do not speak,” he urged her. He looked back at Seymour. “I hit him with the candlestick.”

  Smither didn’t believe him. Blanche could see it in the man’s eyes. His gaze darted around the room, sizing up every detail. His gaze settled back on Neil. “Consider carefully,” he breathed. “I will give you one more opportunity to state what happened. It is my responsibility to report to the civil authorities any crimes I come across that do not fall within military codes. In which case, if it was Mrs. Seymour who may have struck out, perhaps to defend herself, then the Newcastle upon Tyne City Police at the station on Pilgrim Street would consider whether they should bring any civil charges against her. If it was you who hit him, Williams, then it is a military matter. In that case, I must charge you with striking a superior officer and let the proper processes take place.” His gaze glittered as he stared into Neil’s eyes, as if he was willing him to give the right answer. “I ask again,” he said softly. “What happened here?”

  The three armed men behind him stood as silent and still as Hunter, waiting for Neil’s answer.

  “Neil…!” Blanche whispered, pleading silently that he reconsider his answer.

  Neil picked up her hand and kissed the back of it. “You deserve a life of peace and plenty,” he told her, his dark eyes steady.

  “No, Neil…I beg you!”

  He shook his head, let go of her hand and faced Hunter. “I struck Seymour,” he said. “He was menacing Mrs. Seymour.”

  Hunter sighed. He shook his head and looked at the men behind him. “Put Williams in irons. Take him back to the barracks.”

  The soldiers grabbed Neil’s arms and wrapped manacles around his wrists and locked them in place, while Blanche stood trembling. She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t think of anything which might stop this nightmare from continuing.

  As the three soldiers marched Neil out of the house, Hunter’s gaze met hers.

  “What will happen to Neil?” Blanche whispered. She didn’t have the strength to speak louder than that.

  “Striking an officer is a serious offense,” Hunter said. His voice was just as quiet. “It is likely he will be court martialed.”

  Blanche wrapped her arms around her middle. “Is there anything which can stop it?” she asked.

  Hunter shook his head. “Not now he has confessed to it,” he said gently. He stepped over to Seymour and looked down at him. “Neil brought you back here?”

  Blanche closed her eyes. “To pack my trunk…”

  “Go and do that, Mrs. Seymour,” Hunter told her. “You were staying elsewhere?”

  Blanche had think hard to recall the name of the hotel. She gave it to Hunter.

  “I will escort you back there when you have finished with your trunk. I will see to having the trunk delivered, too.” He looked down at Seymour.

  “Should we move him?” Blanche asked doubtfully.

  Hunter’s mouth curled down at the corners. “He has descended as far as he can go. Leave him there.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Blanche did not travel to London that night. She had no intention of leaving Neil alone to face the fate which should be hers. For the next two days she stayed in the hotel room, too nervous to do more than walk in circles about the carpet laid at the foot of the bed. She sent a note to Hunter on the first day, asking that she be informed of any changes in Neil’s circumstances. Hunter’s reply arrived before noon, assuring her he would keep her abreast of the matter.

  Blanche would have preferred to walk to the barracks and learn what was happening first hand, only she was too afraid of coming face to face with Seymour. She did not leave the hotel room for the same reason. There were too few hotels in Newcastle respectable enough for a lone woman. If Seymour was determined to find her, he would be able to without too much effort.

  However, when she peered from her window down onto Clayton Street, she saw a flash of dark gray and a white plume with a blue tip, close to the hotel entrance. She watched the entrance for the glimpse to repeat itself. A few seconds later, a soldier stepped away from the building, stretched his back and neck, resettled the rifle over his shoulder, and returned to his post in front of the door.

  Blanche lowered the curtain thoughtfully. She recognized the soldier’s face. He was one of the three who had been with Hunter when Neil was arrested. Hunter had posted a guard at the front of the hotel, to protect her.

  Blanche’s sleep that night, though fitful, was at least not shot through with fear that she might wake to find Seymour standing over her. Her only concern now was Neil’s fate.

  COLONEL HILL SETTLED HIS SPECTACLES back in place, and glared mildly at Seymour. “Why am I only just hearing of this matter, now it has moved into the realm of the incredulous, Major?”

  Hunter was technically at ease, although his shoulders didn’t relax by an inch. “Sir, I prefer to not take up your time with trivial matters.”

  “This is not a trivial matter,” Hill pointed out.

  “Until Thursday, it had all the appearance of being merely one of Lieutenant Colonel’s…excesses.”

  Hill looked down at the page once more. “He really insisted upon ninety days’ field punishment?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Hill sighed and rubbed his temples. “And now he’s insisting upon a court martial…”

  “The case is clear enough,” Hunter replied.

  “On paper, yes,” Hill said thoughtfully. “It was Mrs. Seymour who hit him?”

  “I was standing outside the front door. I heard the sound she made as she took the blow.” Hunter’s eyes narrowed. “She was driven beyond endurance. It is not a sound I hope to he
ar again in the future.”

  “Yet Seymour is insisting Williams did the deed?”

  Hunter nodded.

  “How do you explain that, Hunter?”

  “Sir?”

  Hill put down his glasses. “Relax, Major. If I am to try and execute a good man, I want to know why. Not the facts. The reasons behind them. Grubby feelings, Major. Exactly what a jury at a court martial will not get to hear. Explain to me how this happened.”

  Hunter drew a breath. Let it out in hard exhalation. Then another. “Sir, if it is grubby feelings you seek to understand, then I must start at the beginning and include some details which are mere speculation, not established fact.”

  Hill sat back. “Then start, Major. Do not leave anything out.”

  IT WAS NOT A NOTE from Major Hunter which brought Blanche to Fenham Barracks on the third day. It was a flourish-filled letter from Colonel Hill himself, requesting she attend him in his office at ten o’clock the next day.

  Unlike the first night, Blanche did not sleep at all that night. She dressed with care the next day and considered her bruised face in the mirror. It shamed her to step through the barracks gates with such visible signs of ravage. It felt as though she was revealing to the world the true depths of her ignorance and foolishness.

  The woman who had been so entranced with Seymour, with his military career, high rank, and French connections…that poor, deluded woman no longer existed.

  These bruises, then, were all which remained of that ignorant girl. Perhaps they might yet help Neil in some way. She wasn’t sure how, only they would demonstrate Seymour’s character for the world to see.

  She left early for the barracks. For the first time in many days, it was a cool morning. The air felt fresh against her face, when Blanche was able to notice. Her heart, though, jogged in time with her hurried steps. The closer she drew to the barracks, the tighter her chest became.

  The lieutenant at the gate touched his forehead politely and opened the gate for her without asking her business. His gaze shifted to her eye, then away again.