Ashes of Pride

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  With a rare contentment, Blanche set to work, tackling the endless tasks which running a household by herself presented. She had energy to spare that afternoon, and set about scrubbing the kitchen floor with the sleeves of her old, workaday muslin dress rolled up, and the skirt folded into a pad beneath her knees.

  It wasn’t strictly necessary to clean the kitchen floor, for Joshua never stepped beyond the front room. She had learned to pare down her work to that which affected Joshua directly, and which he might notice. It took all her time to take care of the minimal list. Scrubbing the kitchen floor was a purely selfish task, for working in a clean kitchen was pleasant.

  Once the floor was scoured and drying, Blanche changed into a more presentable gown and set about preparing Joshua’s supper. She could never presume he would dine at the officer’s mess, even though he did eat there more nights than he ate at home. Sometimes, though, he would decide to eat here. If she did not have a supper prepared for him, he would rail at her.

  Blanche had never let herself think too closely about Joshua’s temper. It was a chancy thing and always caught her by surprise. She might have tolerated his moods better, only in the far back of her mind, unarticulated but certain, was the knowledge that simple anger was not all of which Joshua was capable. The instinctive understanding made her wary every time Joshua flared into unexpected irritation. She would cringe inside, bracing herself should he do more than shout at her this time.

  Yet she would not allow herself to consider the problem directly. To acknowledge even to herself that she was afraid of him…well, it would mean he wasn’t the man she thought she had married. That he wasn’t…heroic.

  And it would mean Papa Vaughn had been right about the man all along, and Blanche was woefully and abysmally wrong. It would mean she had, in fact, been fooled by a handsome visage and French antecedents. She would never admit she had been such a fool, not even to herself. Even contemplating the possibility in an abstract, unfocused way, made her feel sick and her temples to prickle with sweat. For anyone else to learn the depth of her stupidity…no, she could not bear it.

  As Blanche worked in her now-pristine kitchen, the uncomfortable thoughts brushed through her mind. Before they settled and formed completely, to nag her, she dismissed them and focused upon what her hands were doing.

  She was practiced at dismissing unwanted thoughts. There were a great many of them locked away in the midnight black corners of her mind and not all of them concerned Joshua. Barely noticed, the sensation of cold rainwater splashing across her skin skimmed through her thoughts. Cold rainwater and hot black eyes assessing her with fervent speculation…

  Even though the dark cloud of thoughts concerning her marriage grew more persistent every day, Blanche instead worked and planned and arranged the house so Joshua had no reason to be angry. If he was never angry, then she would never have to properly consider the unpleasant questions his anger prompted.

  Perhaps tonight, with a belly full of good food, Joshua would be relaxed enough to let her keep company with him. Perhaps they could talk and perhaps talk might lead to other things…

  Blanche shook her head as she laid out the single meal. She only ever made the one meal, for if Joshua decided to dine at the mess, she could eat the single meal herself and not waste the food. If he did eat at home, she would snatch handfuls of food in the kitchen, later, while making his after-dinner tea.

  When she heard the cab at the front of the house and the front door opening, Blanche was pleased she had managed to have everything ready for Joshua’s return despite spending the time cleaning the kitchen. He would have no reason to be irritated with her today.

  She hurried into the front room, painting a smile upon her face, as Joshua removed his cap and sword. She hung them on the pegs and waited as he unbuttoned his jacket and took it off, too. His face was red and sweaty, for it had been another hot day. The fine mustache over his lip flexed as he lifted his chin and tackled the neck kerchief and the collar pins beneath it.

  “Here, let me help…” Blanche murmured.

  He slapped her hands away with a hiss. “Don’t touch me.”

  Blanche’s heart gave a hard knock. “I’m sorry,” she breathed, and waited.

  Finally, he tore the black kerchief away and yanked out the pins. With a sigh of relief, he dropped everything into her waiting hands. His gaze settled upon her face. “It has been a disappointing day,” he admitted.

  “I am so sorry, husband. You try so hard to make your units the best in the regiment. No one appreciates your mastery nearly enough.”

  Joshua’s mouth turned up at the corners. “No, they do not,” he agreed, his tone more reasonable.

  “Let me take care of you tonight,” Blanche said, encouraged by the tiny smile. “I have supper for you and scones with jam and cream for dessert.” Joshua was particularly fond of jam, although she could rarely afford to buy it, and no brambles grew in the backyard which she might harvest to make the jam.

  “Blackberry jam?” Joshua asked, his tone hopeful.

  “Yes, blackberry jam,” she confirmed, her heart hurrying. “Come and sit down and I’ll bring it to you. You should relax, my husband. You have had a hard day of it. Come.”

  He walked toward the table, his mood improving with each step. Blanche moved ahead of him, to pull the chair out from the table and hold the back of it for him.

  Joshua slid into the chair and picked up the napkin she had laid for him and flapped it open with a snap. He dropped the napkin over his lap and pointed. “What is that on the chair?”

  He was pointing to the chair against the wall.

  Blanche froze, as her heart worked like a piston. Her workbasket. She had forgotten about it. Only, her motionlessness would be a signal, too. She made herself step around the back of his chair and pluck the workbasket off the other. “It is my sewing basket, that is all.” She kept her voice light and unconcerned, and turned away from the table. “I’ll bring your supper,” she added. “Would you like your scone at the same time?”

  “Yes, please,” he said, his tone distant.

  Blanche had her hand on the kitchen door when Joshua said in a flat voice, “Wait.”

  Her throat closed up tight, stealing her breath. Blanche made herself turn. “Yes?” It was a bodiless whisper.

  “Your basket. I just glimpsed… Bring it here.”

  Her mind gibbered, as she tried to think of a way to disobey him and hide the basket. Only, the longer she hesitated, the greater her guilt would seem.

  There was nothing she could do but bring him the basket. He had turned in his chair to wait for her to give it to him.

  Blanche made herself step forward. Two steps. Then she held the basket out toward him.

  Joshua considered her for a moment more, his eyes narrowed. Then he dropped his gaze to the basket.

  Blanche waited. Her heart ran so fast, the beats blended into one long aching note.

  Joshua picked up the scraps of gray wool and held them up between them. “What is this?”

  “It is wool cloth, husband.”

  “From an Undress uniform, yes?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He dropped the remnants back into the basket and got to his feet. “You did not make me a uniform, did you?”

  Blanche fought the need to step away from him. To do so would anger him even more. She raised her chin. “My cousin was unable to find a tailor to make him a uniform quickly, so I…” She swallowed, as Joshua’s face turned deep red. The lines on either side of his mouth were sickly gray white.

  “You made Williams’ uniform,” he said. His voice was strained. “You. My wife.”

  “Neil is my cousin—”

  Joshua raised his hand. She cringed. Yet he was merely holding it up to demand silence.

  She held her teeth together and locked her knees, too.

  Joshua’s fingers straightened. He gave them a little shake, as if he were admonishing her. “Do you know what you have done?” he breathed.

 
Blanche could not think of a single thing to say. Her mind was blank. The only thought in it was the need to turn and run. She trembled, fighting the temptation.

  Joshua pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, screwing them in tight, hard circles. “My God!” he cried. “The man laughed at me the whole time.”

  Blanche pressed her hand to her chest. It ached with tension. This was so much worse than any time before. She didn’t know what had happened today, but clearly, Neil had worn the new uniform. For some reason it infuriated Joshua, which didn’t make any sense. Wasn’t he pleased that a fellow officer was now correctly dressed? Wasn’t it what he wanted?

  Why would Neil laugh at Joshua? That didn’t make sense, either. Neil wouldn’t be that callous and unfeeling. She knew that with as much certainty as she knew Joshua would deeply resent anyone laughing at him.

  Did Joshua, then, merely suspect Neil had been, perhaps, silently laughing at him? Even that was unfathomable.

  The speculation, the worried thoughts, ricocheted in her mind, moving faster and faster, as Blanche sought to find words which would diffuse Joshua’s anger.

  Before she could respond, Joshua gave a roar and swung his arm. The back of his hand struck her cheek and shoved her backward, to slam up against the frame of the kitchen door. Her head cracked against the corner of the frame. Sparks flared in her mind.

  She didn’t notice falling. She didn’t hear Joshua stomp to the front door and tear it open. She didn’t hear him leave.

  THANKS TO THE NEW UNIFORM, Neil was no longer out of pocket by two shillings a day. He spent money on a cab back to Stanton Street, the worry which had been building in him all day driving him to act as soon as he was officially off duty.

  While turning over in his mind the puzzle of Seymour’s real, genuine anger in reaction to his new uniform, it occurred to Neil that Seymour would be more than annoyed that his wife had made the uniform.

  Neil’s worry over the possibility grew as the day lengthened. He was supposed to report to the armory for gun-cleaning that night. Instead he dashed to the gates and took the first cab to come by to Blanche’s little house. He would warn her to be discrete about the making of the uniform. There was no need for Blanche to bear any consequences because she had helped Neil.

  After paying off the cab driver, Neil intended to move down the narrow alley to the yard and knock on the back door, only the front door was ajar. As the driver pulled away, Neil contemplated the open door. It had not been opened to invite cooler air inside, for there was none in this narrow street. Nor was the door pulled open as far as it could go, as one did when letting in fresh air.

  It hung half-way open, a narrow foot of room visible between it and the frame, as if someone had not bothered to close it behind them.

  Warily, Neil approached the door. Silence hung beyond it. He pushed the door wider, tensed to react quickly if needed.

  The door creaked. It was the only response.

  Neil let his gaze skitter around the tiny room quickly, absorbing the important details—that there was no one in it, and the table had been laid for a single diner.

  Then, the first sign of violence—a chair overturned behind the table.

  Neil shifted to his right, so he could see the far corner of the room which the open door hid. He glimpsed white muslin and dark curls, on the floor.

  He didn’t remember crossing the room, or rounding the table, or throwing the overturned chair out of the way. He was suddenly there, beside her. Neil picked Blanche up gently and propped her with her back against the wall. White muslin trailed across the floor to tangle with his boots.

  She groaned and raised her hand to the back of her head and winced, then hissed in pain as the wince irritated her swollen eye.

  Fury ripped his chest open. Neil growled. “I will kill him…”

  Blanche’s one good eye focused upon him. “I fell, Neil. That is all. I slipped and fell and hit my head on the doorway.”

  He laughed, disbelief pushing it from him. “You fell? Do you take me for such a fool, Biddy?”

  She tried to shake her head. Instead, she winced. The wince made her hiss again. She bought her fingers to her cheek and touched it gingerly, exploring.

  With another growl, this one pure frustration, Neil surged to his feet and stalked into the kitchen. He found a cloth and the water in the bucket—there was not even a working pump in this place. The water was cool. It could not have been drawn from the well too long ago. He soaked the cloth and went back to her.

  “Let me see the back of your head,” Neil told her, making his voice soft and gentle. “Did you cut it when you…fell?”

  Blanche leaned forward, moving slowly, and gave a soft groan at the movement.

  Neil gently parted her silky hair. There was no blood. No open wound. Yet he spotted a narrow red line scored in the skin. He glanced at the sharp corner of the doorframe and scowled, then let her rest back against the wall. He pressed the damp cloth to her cheek.

  She hissed at the touch and tried to turn her head away.

  “It will help,” Neil assured her. “I’ve had more than one black eye in my time. I know how to deal with them.”

  Blanche held still as he pressed the cloth gently against the swelling. He picked up her hand and pressed her fingers against the cloth. “Hold it there.”

  She held it in place while Neil sat back on his heels. The fury was building once more. “Tell me what happened,” he coaxed her.

  Blanche’s gaze did not meet his. After a moment, she said quietly, “I think I must have spilled oil on the floor. I was hurrying to…to get Joshua’s supper, for he will be home soon—” Her gaze shifted to meet his, to assess his reaction to her lie, then skittered away again. “I slipped and fell against the door.”

  “And which part of the door hit you in the eye?” Neil asked, his voice tight. He glanced at the gleaming floorboards, which were innocent of oil drops.

  “I suppose…the floor must have,” Blanche replied.

  Neil slapped the floor. “Tell me the truth! He struck you, did he not?”

  Blanche moved her head from side to side. “I fell.” Her tone was wooden.

  Neil stared at her, his anger fighting with his astonishment. “I know you are lying. I know why he did it. This cannot go without consequences—”

  “No, Neil!” Her hand gripped his sleeve, halting him from rising to his feet. Blanche dropped the cloth and met his gaze. “You will do nothing.”

  “Then tell me I am right,” he shot back.

  “I fell—”

  “Damn it, Blanche!” He squeezed his fists tightly.

  She had no trouble looking him in the eye now. Only, as her gaze held his, her eyes welled. Tears slid down her cheeks. “You must do nothing,” she whispered. “Striking a superior officer is still a capital offense and he will insist upon the old standards being upheld. You know he will. Promise me you will not speak of this, that you will not challenge him on it. Promise me, Neil.”

  He shook his head. He could not possibly make such a promise. “He struck you…” He quivered with outrage.

  “He is my husband and your superior officer,” Blanche replied. “I fell.” Her voice was stronger. “I spilled oil and slipped in it. That is all.”

  Neil closed his eyes, marshaling his control. It had been many years since his temper had brought him this close to the need for violence. The infamous Seth Williams temper ran pure in him, while Cian and Daniel had merely a touch of it.

  “Promise me, Neil,” Blanche urged him.

  She was protecting him. Neil’s admiration surged, dispelling his fury. She was the injured one, yet she was shielding him, directing him away from the consequences of acting first, without thought.

  Neil kissed her, to speak in that way of the inexpressible feelings her quiet insistence had stirred in him.

  She did not draw away, or recoil. Perhaps she sensed why he did it. Instead, her soft, small lips parted and she sighed into his mouth.

>   The kiss changed, shifted into one with less noble motives. His body tightened as the kiss lingered, as he tasted the depths of her mouth. His fingers shifted against her flesh, feeling softness and warmth. For the first time since returning to Britain, he felt hot. Every inch of him crackled with potential. The fever which had kept him awake for days, which he thought he’d put behind him at last, he now realized had been merely biding its time. It had driven him to take this kiss.

  Neil groaned and made himself let her go. He trembled with the power of the lust throbbing in him and couldn’t quite make his hand drop from her jaw. He touched his head to hers. Blanche breathed as heavily as him.

  “I should not have done that,” he whispered.

  “No,” she returned, her voice just as weak.

  Neil got to his feet and picked her up. As she protested, he said quickly, “Just to the chair, that is all. It would be reasonable to expect that you could get yourself into the chair by yourself.”

  He knew the statement committed him to the silence she had requested of him. So did Blanche. She put her arms around his neck and Neil braced himself against the small pleasure it created in him. He carried her to the chair and placed her in it with slow, gentle movements. She still gasped softly at the shifting.

  Before he straightened, Neil pressed his lips to her cheek. “Come to me, if ever you need help. You must promise me that in return.”

  Her small hand pressed against his jaw, her fingers brushing through his hair. “I will,” she whispered.

  Neil stood and straightened his new jacket. “I have guns to clean,” he told her. “I should be there when Seymour comes to check on me after his supper.”

  “Whatever did you do now, Neil?” Blanche asked, her tone light. Yet her voice was weak.

  “Seymour would give you a vast list of offenses,” Neil said, as he moved to the still open door. “All of them boil down to a single reason.”

  Blanche’s gaze met his as Neil stepped out and brought the door nearly closed. “Me,” she breathed.