Ashes of Pride

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “A bastard…” Emma breathed. Her throat hurt. Her head hurt. “How can you know that?” she whispered.

  “Because I am your mother,” Lilly replied.

  Emma dropped her hands from her temples. They fell lifelessly to the table. She stared at Lilly, at her pale face, and the clear jaw. Only now did Emma see that Lilly’s mouth was the same shape as hers. How had she not noticed it before?

  More facts coupled together with the odd mysteries which had circled her all her life. Elisa and Vaughn had informed Blanche, Jenny and Peter of their parentage years ago, and had refused when Emma demanded to know hers. The odd way Aunt Annalies and Aunt Natasha sometimes had of studying her, as if Emma was a specimen.

  Lilly’s eyes seemed to grow larger as Emma stared at her.

  Was that fear in them?

  Emma shook her head. “No…you cannot be,” she whispered. “You are my cousin. You are too young…” She pressed her fingertips back into her temples, squeezing.

  “I was barely fourteen when I learned I carried you.” Lilly’s voice was strained. “One day, I may have the strength to tell you how that came to be, but not today.”

  Emma put her hands over her face, shutting out the sight of Lilly. “You were my governess!”

  “The position let me stay close to you,” Lilly said, her voice calm and remote.

  Another thought struck her. Emma gripped the table, her heart stuttering. “Jasper…he…is he my father?”

  Lilly’s eyes filled and glittered. Her tears spilled unchecked. “I only wish he was, Emma. Then I would have been able to keep you with me, all this time.”

  Emma closed her eyes again. “I wish that, too,” she whispered. “Then I would be normal.” She lurched to her feet, her head thudding and not just with last night’s overindulgence of champagne. She stumbled out, to escape to her room.

  She wished she had never left there.

  Chapter Eleven

  Blanche did not leave the house for four days, not even to step outside into the yard to hang washing.

  For most of those days, when she did not need to push herself into taking care of Joshua’s needs, Blanche slept.

  The first day was the worst. Joshua did not return that night. Blanche barely noticed. She slept the night through, her head aching abominably. She remained in bed for most of the next day, her body bathed in perspiration and a single sheet across her. The little room at the top of the stairs baked in the late July heat beating down upon the roof.

  As the sun lowered, Blanche stirred enough to notice the lateness of the hour. Joshua would be home soon…if he returned at all. If he did return, then he would expect his supper. The stove had not been lit for two days.

  She pulled herself from the bed and donned her simple wrapper. She could not put up her hair. The clips hurt her head. She re-plaited it, so it was tidy, then crept down to the kitchen to put together a meal which Joshua may or may not eat. Then she sat at the table until he arrived.

  Joshua came into the house in exactly the same way he had done every night for the months they had been living here. His gaze flashed around the room, touching on her, the waiting supper plates and the tidy room. Then he smiled at her as he always did.

  “I will be eating at the mess,” he announced.

  Relief touched her. “Very well,” she said, her voice remote. She remained at the table while he ran upstairs to wash and change into the evening dress uniform. When he came back downstairs, he gave her another smile. “Your hair looks pretty, that way.”

  And he stepped out of the house.

  Blanche looked at the untouched beef pie. She was not remotely tempted to eat it.

  She carried the plate out to the kitchen, covered it with a towel, and went back to bed.

  The next morning, when the rising sun woke her through the window, she discovered Joshua lying on the other side of the bed, snoring softly.

  Blanche slowly made her way downstairs and prepared breakfast and the strongest tea she thought Joshua would withstand. She needed the fortification. Then she set about her day, returning to the mundane and repetitive tasks which kept the house running smoothly…except for washing clothes. Damp clothes required stepping out into the yard. She was reluctant to do that, although it was not until the third day, when she contemplated the growing pile of dirty linens on the end of the kitchen bench, that she realized why she was avoiding the yard.

  Neil could see the yard from his bedroom window.

  Blanche could not bear the thought of him seeing her in this pathetic, weak state. If he did, he would feel compelled to act. Any act he made would risk bringing Joshua’s wrath upon him…or worse.

  She spent much time thinking about Neil. It occurred to her that contemplating a man’s kiss when she was married to another was the epitome of wickedness, yet it did not feel immoral. With his single kiss, Neil had been more intimate with her than Joshua had been their entire marriage.

  Just thinking about the kiss made her body ache, in a way which had nothing to do with the painful mark on the back of her head, or the throbbing side of her face. Blanche found herself at a standstill, when thinking about that moment, while each second of it played out in her mind. Her heart would strum and her breath would grow faster. Her breasts ached and so did the juncture of her thighs.

  Joshua had never generated those sweet sensations in her.

  Then there were the last few words Neil had spoken, before leaving her as she had insisted he do.

  “You,” he had breathed, and the expression in his eyes had spoken far more.

  Blanche shivered as she recalled that little moment. She recalled it many times over the next few days.

  That simple word had forged a connection between them. An intimate bond. It bore no resemblance to the frantic, tragic love the poets and novelists insisted was how illicit lovers behaved. Indeed, it felt strong and good and…well, right.

  Neil would not return to the house. She knew it instinctively. To return would put her at risk of Joshua’s wrath once more. Even though she could not see him, Neil lingered in her mind, closer to her heart and soul than Joshua had ever managed.

  If that was the way a married woman fell into ruin, then Blanche embraced it. She was married to Joshua, yet she belonged to Neil and always would, even if she never saw him again. It didn’t matter what the future would bring. Nothing would change her heart. Not now.

  So Blanche moved slowly about the house, taking twice or three times as long to complete simple work…although it did get done. Joshua made no complaints. In fact, he was the happiest Blanche had ever seen him, particularly when he arrived home.

  By the fourth day, Blanche’s energy returned. She managed to smile at Joshua over the breakfast table and nibble upon toast and drink tea. Joshua studied her as he ate his fried tomatoes and spread the last of the blackberry jam upon his toast. He wished her a good day as he left for the barracks.

  Blanche moved about the house, for the first time in days tackling the heavier chores, including the hauling and beating and wringing of wet washing, as well as the hanging of it.

  Her plans were disrupted shortly before midday, though, when a note arrived, delivered by an unshaved enlisted man.

  I require my dress uniform. Please bring it to my office at once.

  Seymour.

  Blanche did not for a moment consider disobeying the short summons. She had been inside the barracks a handful of times and knew where Joshua’s office was located in the main building. It was, he had told her proudly, on the same floor as Colonel Hill’s office. It was even on the same corridor.

  Besides, any man in uniform could point Blanche toward the right room.

  Blanche went upstairs and brushed off the red serge, and ensured the buttons were all present and gleaming. She folded the garments and accessories and wrapped everything in brown paper, which would make it easier to carry.

  She experimented with a mix of talcum powder, a few drops of water and the tiniest dot of roug
e, to make a paste she could dab around her eye to hide the worst of the bruising. Then a light layer of powder all over her face, to blend the paste in with the rest of her skin.

  It made her appear made-up, the way the prostitutes were said to color themselves in lurid colors and powder, although it was better than revealing her black eye to the world.

  Then she put on her one afternoon dress, her lightest straw hat, the one with the big brim which would shade her face and eyes. Lace gloves and her parasol, and her light slippers, for boots were simply unthinkable on a day like today.

  It was rare for her to step out of the house by herself, except for weekly ventures to the markets and back. This expedition was almost an adventure. Blanche walked to the north end of Stanton Street and into the park across the road, her heart light despite the heat. She kept the parasol over her, shading her face and shoulders, and was glad of the shade.

  Joshua had sent word to the sentries at the gate. When she approached, the lieutenant touched his forehead, opened the gate and stepped aside politely. “Do you require an escort to the office, ma’am?”

  “I know where the office is, thank you, lieutenant. It is too hot to stir some poor enlisted man into walking across the barracks when I know the way.”

  The corporal standing at ease beside the lieutenant gave her a grateful smile.

  Blanche found herself smiling back. She tucked the parcel firmly under her arm once more, and strolled down the narrow road which ran between the enlisted men’s quarters and the single accommodations for those officers lucky enough to be assigned them.

  The road turned sharply to the right a little way up from the gates, running between the larger buildings which lined the parade ground. Then it opened upon the parade ground itself. The regimental headquarters office was on the far side. It towered over the other buildings. The British flag and the regimental flag hung lifeless from poles on the front corners.

  Nothing moved on the parade ground. It was too hot for marching. Blanche suspected that any work which could be taken indoors or under shade had been so transferred. On fine, cooler days, the parade ground was often full of activity, so much so that traversing it took the navigational skills of a ship’s captain. Today, Blanche could take the most direct route across the ground. The heat baked her feet through the soles of her slippers.

  On the right, edging the quadrangle of beaten earth, were a row of empty wagons. The one in the middle had something resting up against the wheel.

  When the man moved, lifting his head from his arm, which was raised over his head, Blanche slithered to a halt in shock.

  The man was chained to the wheel.

  Her heart hurt, so fast did it beat, for she knew the man. She knew his size, his coloring. She could not see his face, for he had it pressed against his shirt sleeve, to protect it from the sun.

  Blanche had heard about field punishments. Joshua had spoken about issuing them, as if they were the equivalent of a wrist-slap, and as ineffective as one, too.

  This was no wrist-slap. The man slumped to the earth, all the strength gone from his normally upright and strong body. He was at least sitting. His sprawl had yanked his arms hard above his head, though.

  It was Neil. In her heart she knew it was him.

  Blanche brought her hand to her mouth. “Neil…!” The word escaped despite her fingers, in a bodiless whisper.

  He heard, anyway. Neil lifted his head and looked around, alerted. His gaze met hers. For a moment, horror flashed in his eyes. Then concern.

  He sat up, pressing back against the wheel as if he would back away from her if it had not been there. He shook his head. The tiniest of movements. His lips formed a single word.

  No.

  Blanche dropped her hand. Her eyes swam. She blinked, so she might see Neil clearly. It just made her tears spill.

  Neil’s brow furrowed. He swallowed and looked away.

  “Mrs. Seymour, I believe?” came the enquiry, from beside her.

  Blanche made herself turn. To play her role. “Yes, I am.” Her voice was strained.

  The major was tall and solid across the shoulders. He had wheat colored hair, brushed back neatly in waves, and pale brown eyes which seemed kind. He gave her a stiff smile. “Major Hunter, ma’am. You seem upset and I would have you step out of the sun to recover. I have some iced tea. Please come with me.” He stepped to one side, and lifted his hand to wave toward a building on the far side of the square from the regimental building.

  Blanche did not dare wipe her face. It would dislodge the powder and reveal the true state of her eye. She must let the tears lie where they fell. Instead, she lifted the parcel. “My husband…” she said helplessly.

  “That is for Lieutenant Colonel Seymour?” Hunter asked. He waved with his far hand toward the building he had indicated. A man came running from it, heading toward them. “I can have the parcel delivered for you,” Hunter said. As the corporal halted in front of him, Hunter added, “Royce, take this to the Lieutenant Colonel’s office, would you?” He plucked the parcel from Blanche’s arms and gave it to the corporal, who threw a salute and dashed off toward the headquarters building, as if it was a mild spring day.

  Hunter held out his arm. “Iced tea, ma’am?”

  Blanche swallowed. She realized she was turning her chin to look at Neil once more. The turn of her head would tell Hunter far too much about her state of mind. She made herself peer at Hunter, instead. How could she go with him and drink a civilized glass of iced tea while Neil sat out here in the broiling sun, chained to a wheel?

  She simply couldn’t, that was all.

  Hunter’s eyes narrowed. “I am sure Major Williams would prefer you take your ease, too, ma’am,” he said softly.

  Blanche licked her lips.

  Hunter’s mouth shifted into a small grimace. “I believe your husband is watching from his office as we speak, ma’am. Would you prefer I escort you to him, instead?”

  Of course Joshua watched.

  Blanche sighed as understanding came to her. Joshua had orchestrated this moment. He had sent for the uniform to bring her to the parade ground so she would see Neil chained there. Now he watched to see how effective his lesson was.

  Blanche slid her fingers under Hunter’s elbow. “Iced tea sounds wonderful, Major. Lead on.” She put energy into her voice.

  Hunter led her back across the parade ground to the big building where the corporal had emerged from. They stepped inside, onto bare cement. There was only the single floor in the building, which she had assumed contained several floors. The interior of the cavernous room was cool and shady.

  As soon as the dimness enveloped her, Blanche whirled back to the door and to one side of it, to peer at Neil. “Is he…will he be alright?”

  Hunter showed no surprise at her sudden shift in attention. He stood behind her and spoke quietly. “If he rests afterward and drinks as much water as he can, he will be. The iced tea is actually for Williams, for two o’clock, when I can unchain him.”

  Blanche turned to him. “You’re the Provost Marshall?”

  “I am,” Hunter said.

  “You are not what I expected the Provost Marshall to be like.”

  “I’m not?” He seemed amused. He waved at a man crossing the wide, empty floor. “Bring the pitcher and a glass, Harry.”

  The man nodded and moved back behind the counter at that end of the building and disappeared through a doorway.

  “My husband speaks so highly of you,” Blanche said, doubt in her tone. “Only, you were dining with Major Williams, last week…” She bit her lip as she realized what she had implied about her husband’s judgment of character. “I’m afraid that came out all wrong,” she added.

  Hunter gave a soft laugh. “On the contrary, ma’am, it was perfectly clear to me.” He took the glass which Harry, another corporal, handed him and held it while Harry filled it with tea which tinkled with ice and made Blanche’s throat tighten with thirst. “There is plenty of sugar in it al
ready,” Hunter said, holding the full glass out to her.

  “I will not be depriving Major Williams?”

  “Lordy, there’s a barrel of the stuff out the back,” Harry said. “We’re floating in lemons at the moment.”

  “Thank you, Harry,” Hunter said.

  Harry cleared his throat and hurried away again.

  “A Marshall’s post afloat in lemons?” Blanche asked, then sipped. The tea was cool, and very refreshing. There was even a sprig of mint floating in it. “I haven’t had iced tea in simply ages,” she confessed.

  “No, I’m sure you haven’t,” Hunter said. He shifted, his gaze moving away from her, as if he had said something he should not. “Finish the glass, ma’am, then I will arrange a carriage to take you home. It is too hot to walk—”

  “Or be chained to a wheel,” Blanche inserted crisply.

  Hunter’s gaze swung back to her. Surprise showed in his eyes.

  “What did you mean about being sure I haven’t had iced tea lately, Major?” Blanche asked.

  Caution filled his face. His shoulders straightened. “I’ll see to that cab,” he murmured, turning away.

  “Major, I asked you a question,” Blanche said. “Please tell me what you meant.”

  Hunter turned back to face her. Reluctance slowed his movements. His gaze settled on her face…no, on her eye. The bruised one. Could he see the damage beneath the powder?

  Then he met her gaze directly. “I meant only that the purchase of as many promotions as your husband has acquired must have drained him of every resource. Lemons—among other things—would be luxuries beyond the few pennies he must have left.”

  Blanche’s stomach cramped. Iced tea swirled in it. Her throat tightened. “My husband purchased his first commission,” she said stiffly.

  “As did we all. That is how it is done, ma’am,” Hunter replied, his tone polite. “Only most officers earn their promotions after that. I did. So did Major Williams.” His gaze was unwavering, as if he was trying to convince her of his integrity with the steadiness of it.