Ashes of Pride Read online

  Hill sighed and stacked the pages back together again. He stuffed them into the portfolio, crumpling them. “Very well.” His tone was gruff. “I’ll have your severance processed. Be warned, Williams, it will not happen overnight. There’s more than a few of you taking the option to leave. London is awash in red tape. It will take weeks, possibly months, for the release orders to come through.”

  Hill would delay Neil’s release in any small way he could. Neil nodded. “I expected that, sir. Thank you.”

  Hill laced his fingers together. “Get yourself settled for today. Come and see me tomorrow. I’ll have an assignment for you by then.”

  Neil saluted him once more. “Colonel.” He wheeled toward the door and paused, his gaze on the window once more. “I saw the men tied to the wagons, sir. Why is that?”

  Hill glanced at the glass and frowned. “They call it Field Punishment Number One, now—part of the reforms and all that. Lieutenant Colonel Seymour runs a tight ship. Dismissed, Williams.”

  Neil left, trying to fit a Captain Seymour into the officers of the regiment he had known before being reassigned to the 72nd Regiment of Foot, and leaving for Albany. The name was familiar, yet he could not put a face to the name or any military history, either.

  He had done nothing but recall old facts, names and faces, dusty with disuse, since he had arrived in London two days ago. He’d remember who Seymour was, eventually.

  WHEN BLANCHE HEARD THE CLOP of hooves and the creak of a carriage coming to a halt in front of the little house, her heart pattered, even as something sank in her middle. She ignored the sensation, put her sewing aside and moved to the front door. There was no front hall. The door opened upon the one public room of the house, which was both a dining room and a drawing room, and also her morning room. The single short shelf of books over the fireplace made it a library, too.

  She heard Joshua’s voice, speaking to the cab driver. Then the click of a tongue, and the clop of the horses as the cab pulled away.

  Blanche opened the door as Joshua approached the house. No garden separated the house from the street. Broad cobblestones spread from the front door, across the road to the houses on the other side. In the late afternoon sunlight, the cobbles were bleached, heated stones. Blanche had put two large pots on either side of the doorway and planted petunias. They had grown and flowered but were ailing in the heat of this torrid summer.

  Joshua looked very fine in his dark gray Undressed uniform. Blanche preferred the formal uniform with the red coat and the high boots, although the dark braid running across the front of this uniform in horizontal bars did give it an elegant touch. His sword slapped his leg as he came to a stop in front of her.

  “You’re home.” He sounded surprised.

  “Come in. Dinner is waiting for you. Did you have a good day, my husband?” She reached for his arm, while holding her skirts out of the way so he could step through the door.

  Joshua moved around her, causing her fingers to slide away from the serge and drop. “It was a foul day from start to finish,” he growled, unbuckling his sword.

  She closed the door behind him. “Here, let me take that.” She held her hand out for the belt.

  He dropped his cap onto her palm, then looped the belt over the top and ruffled his white blond hair, which was damp with perspiration. “Please tell me there is some of that lemonade you made yesterday? I am absolutely parched.”

  Blanche frowned as she hung the cap on a hook by the door and the sword belt over the secondary hook beneath. “There is no ice left,” she said carefully. It was too hot for ice to last long, even in the straw-lined box in the floor of the kitchen. “I could make a pot of tea, if you like?” She was at least good at making tea. It was one of the first skills she had acquired after the wedding. It had not been the last she had learned, by a large score.

  “God, no,” Joshua said. “Don’t be stupid. It is far too hot for that. What is for dinner?” He turned to the table expectantly.

  Her heart hurrying, Blanche moved over to the table and uncovered the plates. She had made the tourtière and simple salad by herself. Not even one edge of the pie was burned. A simple thing, yet she was inordinately pleased about it, and had gushed about her accomplishment in her daily letter to her sister, Emma.

  Joshua scowled down at the plates and the pretty petunia petals floating in a bowl of water, between them. “Cold pie?” His tone was withering.

  “It is meant to be eaten cold,” Blanche said. “It is tourtière.”

  “Frog food?” He pushed the plate away. “Warm it up. I won’t eat it, otherwise.”

  Blanche picked up his plate, the roiling in her belly increasing. No fire had burned in the stove since early that morning. It would take time to bring it to a heat which would warm the pie. She said nothing, though. If she had thought this through properly, she would have anticipated he would want his food warm. Why had she thought tourtière would be welcomed?

  “Some of the fruitcake my mother sent me remains. Cream, too,” Blanche said, instead. “Would you like to eat it while this is warming?”

  He scowled and sat at the empty place. “I am hungry,” he muttered.

  She pushed the kitchen door open with her foot and put the plate on the old, scratched wooden counter, then got the fire going beneath the oven. When the slice of pie sat upon the metal dish in the oven to warm, she put the last slice of fruitcake on a dinner plate, instead of a dessert plate, poured the cream into a serving pitcher and took both out to the table.

  A nearly empty glass of brandy sat in front of Joshua. He smoked a cigarette moodily, even though Blanche had asked him not to smoke in the house, for the smoke irritated her lungs and made her cough.

  She held her tongue and smiled at him as she placed the fruitcake in front of him. She settled on the chair beside his and stroked his hand, where it laid on the tablecloth. “Why was your day so foul, dearest?”

  He snorted, as he pulled his hand away from her fingers. “Because there is not one man in the regiment who understands what discipline means.” He crushed the cigarette on the bread plate by his elbow and reached for the brandy, ignoring the cake. “Why are you here, anyway?”

  Blanche did not understand the question. “There is somewhere else I should be, instead of here with you?”

  His scowl grew even deeper. “Colonel Hill’s wife is having one of those afternoon tea dinners of hers. Every blasted officer was talking about eating at the officers’ mess tonight.”

  Except for Joshua.

  Blanche’s heart squeezed. This was her fault. Mrs. Mary Hill, Colonel Hill’s wife, held her famous and eagerly anticipated afternoon tea dinners every month. All the wives were invited to arrive for afternoon tea, then linger to eat an early dinner, while gossiping and passing time with other ladies who understood what it was like to be married to a military man.

  Blanche had attended precisely one of those occasions.

  No one had said anything to her directly. In that regard, the social circle of Newcastle was just as subtle as those in London. Nothing was ever said aloud or directly to the subject of the gossip, while wholesale cattiness and plotting took place while their back was turned.

  Somehow, in some way which Blanche could not begin to guess, she had become a pariah among the military wives. True, on the first occasion, one of the women had heard Blanche’s name and sniffed and drawled, “French?”

  “Certainement,” Blanche had replied with a smile. “My father died fighting the Prussians during the Siege of Paris.”

  Had that fact condemned her? She had thought the wives of military officers would welcome the daughter of another military hero, no matter who he fought for. Blanche would never know, for she had not received a single other invitation from any of the wives, not in the many months they had been here in Newcastle.

  Had Joshua only just noticed that?

  To be fair, he was preoccupied with his troublesome work. The battalion he commanded had been lax and undiscipl
ined when he first took charge. The men still resisted his efforts to inculcate in them a sense of cohesion and fighting spirit.

  Blanche understood his desire to make his battalion the best in the regiment. She applauded his efforts. It was Joshua’s determination to be the best officer possible which had first drawn her admiration. That, and his French mother, of course. Their French lineage had brought them together.

  Blanche reached to brush the fine hair from Joshua’s forehead. “My poor husband,” she murmured.

  Joshua jerked back from her fingers. “Don’t do that.”

  Blanche dropped her hand.

  “How much longer will the pie take?” He drained the brandy.

  “A while,” she admitted.

  Joshua scowled, the fine mustache over his lip working. She had never seen Joshua without the pale mustache. Despite him not shaving it, the mustache never seemed to grow into the luxurious affair other officers cultivated.

  “Damn it, I’m hungry.” He got to his feet. “I’ll eat at the officer’s mess.”

  Disappointment touched her, along with a swell of frustration. “I thought we could spend the evening together. Lisa Grace sent me a new book—”

  “A book?” He laughed. “You intend to read to me?”

  Blanche held herself still, adjusting to the idea that her plans were in ruins. The book Lisa Grace had sent her was a salacious one, full of lusty descriptions and wickedness. Blanche had intended to let Joshua read the book for himself while she sewed, and let his natural response to the story take care of matters after that. Blanche wasn’t sure she could actually read the bawdy passages aloud, although if she needed to do so in order to bring the evening to the conclusion she desperately sought, then she would.

  Now she could do neither. She let none of her disappointment show, for Joshua resented any display of strong emotions. They were, in his opinion, weak and non-military.

  So many things were non-military, in his mind. The expectation that servants cook and clean for them, instead of turning her own perfectly capable hands to the work, was one. Ostentatious housing. Lace at windows. Cushions on chairs. Embellishments on dresses. The latest fashions. Novels. Cab fares.

  “I’ll get your cap and sword,” Blanche said, keeping her voice even. She moved toward the door.

  As she passed him, Blanche caught the tiny widening of Joshua’s eyes. She had surprised him with her meekness.

  “Why don’t you come with me?”

  Blanche whirled, her heart leaping. “To the mess?”

  He shrugged. “The dining room is open to civilians and there is a ladies’ lounge beside the mess where you can wait, afterwards.”

  Blanche barely hesitated. It would help Joshua’s career to mingle with the other officers. She never discouraged him from doing so and she would not now. Only…to spend even the hour the meal would take in his company!

  Blanche smiled. “That would be lovely! Oh, how sweet of you to offer!” She grabbed the cap and sword and thrust them toward him. “Let me just run upstairs and get my things. Oh, a night out! How wonderful!”

  Joshua smiled indulgently, as she ran to change her gown and collect her reticule. She took the pie out of the oven and spread the embers, all while chattering about the evening ahead. Her gratitude seemed to please him, for Joshua waited patiently.

  Blanche didn’t care what Joshua might be feeling. Not at that moment. She was going out!

  Chapter Two

  The moment Neil laid eyes upon Lieutenant Colonel Joshua Seymour, he remembered why the man’s name was familiar to him. It wasn’t Seymour’s face which jogged his recall, but the woman beside him.

  Major Hunter cleared his throat. “That’s Seymour,” he murmured in warning.

  Neil had heard several off-hand references to Lieutenant Colonel Seymour in the two hours he had been in the mess, greeting old friends and meeting new ones such as Major Hunter, the regimental Provost Marshall. The first time Seymour had been discussed had been when Neil mentioned the men on the parade ground, chained to the wagons.

  “Those would be Seymour’s battalion.” Tom Penny rolled his eyes in his corpulent face.

  “Getting his licks in before Cardwell’s reforms bind his hand,” another added, generating laughter.

  There had been other comments, referring indirectly to the back-breaking expectations of the battalion’s commander and the lack of morale and discipline as a result. In the unspoken code of the military, no one directly criticized Seymour. They didn’t have to. Neil was adept at unscrambling the implications.

  Seymour was a tyrant and no one liked him.

  When Edmund Hunter, the Provost Marshall, warned his table of officers of Seymour’s presence, Neil understood why the warning was necessary. He turned on his chair to examine the man, his curiosity roused. He watched Seymour pause at the entrance to the dining room, his wife on his arm.

  Lieutenant Colonel Seymour was far younger than Neil expected such a senior officer to be. Was he a gifted military man beneath the tyranny? More than one officer used discipline as a training tool to make the most of their units, who grew to understand and appreciate the iron rod leadership. If Seymour was of that ilk, Neil would soon find out. The man was tall and wide in the shoulders, although his wrists looked weak, even from the other side of the dining room. Physical weakness did not make a man a poor officer, though.

  Neil glanced at the wife, who stood meekly a half pace behind Seymour, while they waited for the butler to seat them.

  It was Blanche. Cousin Blanche of the big eyes and clear, satin skin.

  The sight of her triggered an avalanche of memories. Neil drew in a calming breath as memories he hadn’t recalled in years cascaded through his mind. Chief among them were the family gatherings at the great house in Cornwall, where he had grown up.

  He had loved the family gatherings. They had been a highlight of his contented younger years and also when he was older, before military life beckoned.

  Before Alice had caught his attention.

  Alice. Neil let out his breath. He had not thought of Alice in…far too long. He deliberately recalled her face, now. The big blue eyes. The pale golden hair. Her pert nose.

  Only the image wouldn’t form properly. Only fragments would settle into focus, to shift once more as soon as he grasped for the rest of the memory.

  Sadness touched him. Alice had been sweet and gentle and had soothed his soul. The breathless way she had of listening to him…

  Alice had shied away from the louder, older cousins and siblings. She had spent her time with Emma and Blanche, Lisa Grace, and with Catrin, her younger sister. The five of them played together as children and lingered in each other’s company as they grew older.

  Blanche was only a year younger than Alice. She had become a fine woman…and the complete opposite of Alice in every way.

  The lack of any similarities to Alice allowed Neil to examine Blanche without emotion. He was curious, for Blanche was the first of the great family he had seen since arriving back in England. Cian was on his honeymoon, still, and Lisa Grace wrapped up in her paints, as usual. Everyone else in the Williams family was scattered across the country or beyond it, in Mairin’s case. Neil’s mother was in Sussex, with Raymond.

  The letters Neil had received over the years hinted that most of the great family had stopped attending the London Season. The men still took care of their parliamentary duties, yet they lingered in London no more than was necessary before departing for estates and families and domestic concerns.

  For all those reasons, Neil had not lingered to find who might still be in hot, humid Mayfair. His orders had stressed speed, so he had hopped upon the next available train heading north.

  Now he had found one of the family here in the last place he expected to see them. Blanche’s presence told him why Seymour’s name was familiar despite never having met the man before. Lisa Grace’s letter about Blanche’s marriage to another military officer had reached Neil in Albany, l
ast year. In her usual distracted fashion, Lisa Grace had given him the man’s name, but nothing about his rank or regiment. Instead, she chattered about Seymour’s French connection and how it had snared Blanche’s interest, even though Seymour spoke deplorable French…

  Neil considered Blanche as she stood beside her husband.

  The purple satin evening gown was low across the shoulders, with the enormous bustle women were wearing now. Neil didn’t know what to make of the bustle, although he did enjoy the way dresses nowadays fell flat across a woman’s abdomen, outlining their hips and emphasizing their waist.

  The color was a deep, rich one, which Alice would never have considered wearing. Pale blues and pinks had been Alice’s favorites.

  Blanche’s chin was pointed. Her eyes were black, like her hair, which was piled upon the top and back of her head, hinting at great length and thickness. Her brows lifted sharply over her eyes.

  Full lips, which turned down at the corners when she was not smiling, as she was not now. Even in repose, Blanche looked emotional. She had been the fiery one of the five. Her temper roused at the drop of a hat, only to evaporate a moment later, as she laughed or sighed, while little Emma tried valiantly to ape her adored bigger sister.

  Oh, the memories…!

  Neil shifted on his chair, sitting back, drawing attention with his movement. Blanche’s gaze swung to him. Her lips parted. Her eyes widened. Joy spread across her face.

  Neil felt a jolt at the pure pleasure in her eyes. Why could she possibly be so glad to see him? Of the five, Neil knew Blanche the least. Her company had always irritated him, for she ran hot and cold in fits and starts, which made her uncomfortable and unpredictable. She was not like Alice, who could be counted upon to be sunny and happy, no matter what.

  Yet Blanche was tugging at her husband’s sleeve now with firm insistence. She murmured in his ear.