A bucket of ashes

by P. B. Ryan

  He turned, paused, and came back, removing the hat as he climbed the steps of the front porch, bathed in amber lamplight from a large open window into the great hall. “I’m sorry to have left without saying goodbye,” he said “but I have some early-morning—”

  “I know. Martin told me. I just... I wanted to talk to you about what Cecilia said, about Will and I having been engaged.”

  He dragged a hand through his hair. “Is Duncan... Did he die in prison?” he asked.

  “No. No, he’s still alive. In fact, I’m petitioning for a divorce. That’s what Mr. Mead and Mrs. Hewitt and I were talking about just now. If I can get Duncan to agree to it, which I hope to God I can, Mr. Mead says the divorce might come through in just a few weeks.”

  Cyril, looking baffled, said, “If you’ve been married all this time, how could you and William Hewitt have been engaged?”

  “There was no engagement,” she said. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. It was all pretense, to provide a rationale for... the closeness of our friendship. Otherwise, we were afraid people would have thought I was his mistress.”

  “You aren’t?”

  The question took Nell aback for a moment, until she realized it wasn’t disrespect that had prompted it, but the natural curiosity of a man for whom she had once served in that very capacity. “No, I’m not, but people were starting to suspect that I was. It was generally assumed that I was the only reason he spent so much time with Gracie and me. I was part of the reason, but he also wanted to see Gracie.”

  Cyril pondered that about for a second, and then a look of revelation came over his face. “Of course. Of course. I’d always wondered why a Brahmin matron would be so eager to adopt the child of a chambermaid.”

  “Viola Hewitt is no ordinary Brahmin matron. She’s a born iconoclast. I’ve often thought she might have adopted Gracie even if Will hadn’t fathered her.”

  Leaning on the stone balustrade, arms crossed, Cyril said, “Does Gracie know he’s her father?”

  Nell shook her head. “He won’t let us tell her. He thinks it would just bring her misery.”

  “Because she’s illegitimate? She’s too young to understand the concept, and by the time she’s old enough, she’ll almost certainly have figured it out herself. Most adopted children were born out of wedlock.”

  “It’s not that. He thinks she’ll be ashamed that her father is...” Oh blast, why had she allowed the conversation veer down this particular path?

  “A gambler and an opium smoker?”

  “He doesn’t smoke it anymore,” she said quickly, hating the notion of Cyril viewing Will that way. “He hasn’t in two and a half years. Well, except for once, when he was... he’d just found out I was married, and that I’d kept it from him. He... he was upset.” I thought you trusted me. I thought you knew me. I thought we were friends. “And, um, he did it once in Shanghai a few months ago, but he was in a very melancholic frame of—”

  “Shanghai?”

  Nell just sighed. How could one rationalize Shanghai? There was no greater haven of sin in the world. “He really is through with opium,” she said, declining to mention that he’d weaned himself off it by injecting morphine, on which he’d been dependent for another half year.

  “Nell, I wish I could share your confidence, but from what you’ve just told me, he doesn’t seem to be able to resist the lure of Morpheus for very long. Whenever he’s feeling out of sorts, he goes right back to it.”

  “It doesn’t have its talons in him the way it used to,” she said. “When I first met Will, he was... ravaged. He’d had a miserable upbringing in England, after having been torn away from his mother a young age because Mr. Hewitt couldn’t deal with him. Andersonville was a nightmare. He saw his brother murdered, for which he blamed himself, and then he escaped after taking a bullet in the leg—but his parents were told he’d died of dysentery. He spent nine months making his way back North through enemy territory, using opium just so he could stay on his feet. After the war, he was alienated from his family, haunted by his memories, and still in constant pain. He literally didn’t care whether he lived or died. But that’s all changing. He’s a different man now. I can’t imagine him ever using opiates again.”

  “I have no doubt he must be a good man at heart, to have earned your esteem, but from what I’ve been able to gather, he doesn’t seem to have changed as much as you would like to think. Men don’t go to Shanghai for cultural fulfillment, Nell, they go there to steep themselves in depravity. He won’t commit to Harvard, won’t commit to being a real father to Gracie...”

  “It’s complicated,” she said. “He’s complicated.”

  “So was Duncan.”

  Appalled that he would make such a comparison, Nell said, “Will is nothing like Duncan—nothing.” Her hard tone of voice surprised her; she’d never once spoken in anger to Cyril Greaves.

  Cyril looked surprised, too—and chastened. Pushing off the balustrade to take a step in her direction, he said, “Of course he isn’t. I had no business saying that. Please put it out of your mind.”

  Nell nodded pensively.

  She thought he would bid her goodnight then, but instead he said, a little hesitantly, “Viola... She took me aside before dinner. She’s worried about you, Nell. She said you became violently ill a few days ago, and she heard you being sick again yesterday. I told her I’d seen you growing faint. She has, too. She wants me to examine you.”

  “I don’t need to be examined,” Nell said. “I’m not ill.”

  “Just the heat, eh?”

  “I’m fine, really. I’m sorry Viola has been fretting over me. The next time you’re here, please tell her there’s nothing wrong with me.”

  “The next time? Does that mean you want me to come back?”

  “Of course I do. I do, Cyril. I’m enjoying getting to know you again.”

  “And I you. Well.” He put his hat back on. “I suppose I should be going. Goodnight, Nell.”

  “Goodnight.”

  He set out again for the carriage house, his shoes crunching on the gravel drive. A bit too shaky to go inside and face everyone quite yet, Nell sat on the stone bench beneath the window, hugged a little needlepoint pillow to her chest, and closed her eyes, listening to his footsteps retreat into the night.

  When they were almost inaudible, they abruptly ceased. There was no sound at all for about a full minute, and then the crunching started again, growing louder this time as Cyril retraced his steps. He climbed back up onto the porch, took his hat off, and came to stand before her.

  “I’d like you to marry me,” he said.

  She stared at him.

  “If and when your divorce comes through, of course,” he added.

  She could not find her tongue.

  “May I?” He asked, gesturing toward the bench.

  She nodded.

  He sat next to her. “Nell, I know when a woman is suffering from the heat, and I know when she’s with child.”

  Shaken, Nell scrambled for a response. Realizing in short order that she was blushing and flustered, she strove to school her features, but it was, of course, too late.

  “It’s true, then,” he said. “I thought so. The nausea and dizziness, the loss of appetite. Your eagerness to be divorced as soon as possible...”

  “Do... Oh, dear God. Do you think Viola suspects?”

  “If she does, she’s keeping it to herself. Does Will know?” He didn’t even question who the baby’s father was.

  She shook her head. Looking up at him, she said, “I wasn’t lying when I told you I’m not his mistress. It wasn’t like that. It was... just once, before he took ship.”

  “Yes, well, he should have taken precautions.”

  “I didn’t think it was necessary. I thought I was... You told me I was probably barren after the miscarriage, so...”

  “Probably, not definitely.” With a wry smile, he said, “Of course, you never conceived, so I suppose we both assumed... But it would a
ppear that I was the infertile one, eh?”

  This was the first time since the renewal of their acquaintance that either of them had made reference, even obliquely, to the physical intimacy they had once shared. It was as if they’d had an unspoken agreement to pretend that part of their past hadn’t existed—until now.

  Cyril propped his elbows on his knees and rubbed the brim of his hat between his fingers. “I’ve always felt a genuine affection for you, Nell, and a great deal of respect. You have a giving heart, or you never would have... indulged me as you once did. It was a gesture of kindness on your part, but one which I should never have asked of you.”

  “Cyril...”

  “Please let me say this, Nell,” he said without looking up. “I’ve wanted to say this for a long time. When I met you, you’d been savagely abused, you had no place to go. I offered you the protection of my home, and then I...” He shook his head.

  “You’re making it sound as if you took advantage of me,” she said. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “In hindsight, I’m not so sure.” Turning his head to look at her, he said quietly, “Let me do this for you, Nell. I’ll acknowledge your baby as mine, and I’ll take good care of both of you. We can live in Boston, if you like, so that you can be close to Gracie.” Looking down again, he said, “If, um, if you prefer, we can have separate bedrooms, and I promise I won’t expect... anything of that nature. And if, after the baby comes, you choose to divorce me, I won’t contest it or make things difficult for you. All I want is to take care of you, and to legitimize your baby. If you give birth of out of wedlock, your life will be ruined. I can’t let that happen, not after all that’s transpired between us.”

  Bombarded by conflicting emotions, Nell said, “I don’t know what to say, Cyril. What you’re offering is incredibly generous, but I... I...”

  “Has he ever mentioned marriage? Did he offer you any kind of commitment or promise at all before he...”

  “As far as he knew at the time, as far as we both knew, marriage was impossible because Duncan was threatening to ruin me if I divorced him. That’s all changed, but at the time...”

  “Has he told you he loves you?”

  He hadn’t, even that night. “You have to understand, our relationship had been so... so careful for so long. We never talked about how we felt. He was always guarded in what he said and did—for my sake, because I had so much at stake. He only went to France to put some distance between us, because it was so excruciating, our being together but... not being together. The night we... It wasn’t supposed to happen, but it did. For him to declare himself when he couldn’t offer me any kind of commitment would have just made the situation more painful for both of us.”

  “That is a great deal of explanation for a very simple question, Nell.” Before she could summon a response to that, he said, “Do you love him?”

  Nell closed her eyes and nodded.

  “Nell, you told me the other day that you have no way of knowing when he might be back from the war, that it could be months or years.”

  She nodded morosely.

  “You understand that by the time he comes back, your life will be utterly destroyed—if you’ve remained unwed.”

  “I know.” She took his hand. It was a kind offer, and a tempting one. Cyril Greaves was a good man, she’d always been fond of him. “If I could have some time to think about it...”

  “Of course. I’ll stay away till you’ve made your decision. When you know what you want to do, just send me a message, and I’ll meet you anywhere you’d like. And I meant it when I said I’d moved to Boston. I’ll do whatever it takes to make you happy.”

  “You’re a remarkable man, Cyril.” She hugged him and kissed his cheek, noticing, as drew away, a movement through the window. Martin was pushing his mother’s wheelchair into the great hall, both of them turning to look in Nell’s direction as she looked in theirs. Nell recoiled, seeing, from Martin and Viola’s perspective, the intimate little tête-á-tête on the darkened porch, the embrace, the kiss.

  Martin turned and wheeled his mother out of the room with impressive nonchalance, as if it had nothing to do with what he’d just seen. The window was raised; had they heard anything? If I could have some time to think about it... I’ll stay away till you’ve made your decision.

  She groaned as Cyril gathered her in his arms and patted her back. “Why,” she muttered into his chest, “does everything always have to get so... so damned complicated?”

  He chuckled, no doubt because of the awkward and self-conscious way in which she swore; he used to tease her about that. “The world is complicated, Nell. People are complicated. If that weren’t so, life would get pretty damned boring.”

  Chapter 5

  “Late afternoon is my favorite time of day,” said Viola as she on the front porch at the top of the steps, gazing across acres of rolling lawn terminating in the majestic wrought iron gate at the edge of the road. Were it not for the fingers of her right hand, tapping incessantly on the arm of her wheelchair, she would have seemed completely at ease. “I love it when the sun is low in the sky and the shadows are long. Have you ever noticed how vibrant colors look at this hour?”

  Nell, sitting on the stone bench with the sleeping Gracie’s head on her lap and Clancy reclining at her feet, looked up from yesterday’s New York Herald, rumpled from numerous readings and re-readings. The grass was richly green, the sky an unearthly blue streaked with gold-rimmed clouds. “It’s exquisite. I’d like to paint a landscape with that kind of light.”

  Four days had passed since Viola saw Nell and Cyril embracing on the porch. Ever the circumspect Brit, Viola hadn’t mentioned the incident or whether she’d overheard anything of the tail end their conversation. Nell hoped she’d been too far away to hear, if for no other reason than Viola’s explicit desire that Nell remain unwed while Gracie was young. Nell had, after all, told Cyril that she would consider his proposal.

  She had considered it. She’d lain awake considering it. She’d spent hours sorting through her dilemma, but every time she came to the conclusion that marrying Cyril was her only prudent option, she would think about Will and what they’d shared and feel a terrible sense of wrongness at the notion of standing at the altar with Cyril.

  “Doesn’t it seem as if he should be back already?” Viola snapped open her little diamond-encrusted pocket watch and held it close to her eyes, squinting; it amused Nell that she refused to get reading spectacles.

  “Don’t forget, he had to go to the Western Union office as well as to the depot. He’ll be back soon.”

  Nell scanned the front page one more time, looking for some detail she might not have noticed before, some clue as to how Will may have fared during last Thursday’s crushing defeat of Napoleon’s forces at Wissembourg.

  THE WAR.

  Highly Important News From the Field.

  Marshal MacMahon Defeated by the Prussians.

  The French Vigorously Assailed and Driven Back.

  Napoleon’s Despatches Acknowledging His Defeat.

  The German Army Said to Be Marching on Paris.

  The article itself was frustratingly sketchy, providing no details of the battle or its aftermath, just that it had occurred at Wissembourg. The reason for this dearth of information was explained by a statement toward the bottom of the page: The strictest surveillance is exercised by the French government over telegraphs and telegraphic communication on all sides. With any luck, there would be better coverage in today’s edition of the Herald, which Brady would be bringing back from the Falmouth train depot. Hopefully he would also have an overseas cable from Mr. Carlisle, an old college friend of August Hewitt’s who was with the diplomatic service in London.

  Yesterday evening, a Western Union boy had come by with a telegram for Viola from Mr. Hewitt in Boston: As reports of Wissembourg must worry you, and cannot communicate with Paris, have cabled Reggie Carlisle to make enquiries at our embassy in London. Perhaps Americans fleeing Paris wil
l have news of William. Carlisle will reply to you as well as to me. August. Given the enmity between Viola’s husband and her firstborn son, Nell was surprised that Mr. Hewitt had gone to such trouble. She might think his concern was solely for his wife, had he not asked his old friend to cable his reply to both of them.

  “You’re positive Will was there?” Viola asked.

  “In his cable, he said he was to ‘join Marshal MacMahon’s I Corps near Wissembourg on the German border.’”

  Viola propped her elbow on the arm of her wheelchair and rubbed her temple. “I still don’t understand why he went over there. It’s not our fight. I realize it’s hard to deny a request of the president, but when one is talking about risking one’s...”

  She sat upright, staring across the lawn. “He’s back.”

  Gently lifting Gracie’s head from her lap, Nell laid it on the needlepoint pillow; the child grunted softly, but never awoke. Nell stood and crossed to the edge of the stairs accompanied by Clancy. She shielded her eyes as she peered at the gatehouse in the distance, from which Michael and Liam emerged to haul open the gate for the Hewitts’ family brougham. The gleaming black coach crawled toward them with agonizing slowness, veering off toward the carriage house when the path forked, instead of coming directly to the house.

  With a groan of exasperation, Nell bounded down the stairs and across the lawn with the poodle tearing along beside her, yipping excitedly. “Brady!” He reined in the horses and lifted an envelope and a folded-up newspaper from the seat next to him, handing them down to Nell when she approached. “Sorry, dear. I shoulda known you wouldn’t want to wait for these.”

  She brought them back to the porch, handing Viola the envelope, which was imprinted Western Union and addressed to her. And then she opened the Herald to the front page.

  Details of the Battle of Wissembourg.

  King William Anxious for Action—The Assault

  on the French Outpost and Its Results.

  LONDON, August 8, 1870.