A bucket of ashes (10 page)

“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.”

“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 will 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.

A special correspondent writes from Mayence on Thursday:—

This evening came a despatch from Wissembourg, announcing a Prussian victory and the occupation of Wissembourg. I have seen the official despatch and obtained the following additional details:—

The King, on his arrival at Mayence, called a Council of war and urged that the sooner the existing infiltration ceased the better, and pressed an advance. His opinion was adopted and orders telegraphed to attack the French outposts in the neighborhood of Landau and Wissembourg.

A Prussian force composed of two line regiments, one regiment of Bavarian troops and some artillery, together about 9,000 strong, drove the French before them into Wissembourg.

The artillery was then brought up and opened on the fortifications of the town. The town soon caught fire. Seeing this and some confusion among the French troops, the Prussians could no longer be restrained by their officers, who were anxious to reduce the town by cannonade.

The soldiers rushed forward with bayonets and surprised the French, who, not expecting an infantry attack for hours to come, were barricading and entrenching. The Prussians lost heavily, but took 800 prisoners and the town. The greatest enthusiasm prevails here, and there is an Immense crowd about the Palace waiting to cheer the King.

The same correspondent wires from Mayence, Friday midnight:—Half the prisoners taken at Wissembourg were first marched from the citadel to the railway. The French had lost 2,300 killed, wounded and prisoners.

“Dear God, please protect him,” Nell whispered. Perhaps, she thought, he hadn’t left for Wissembourg after all. Or perhaps he’d gotten away before the Prussians ravaged the town. But then she recalled what Jack Thorpe had told her of Will’s valor during the War Between the States, particularly at the Battle of Olustee in Florida.
He was fearless, took insane risks, exposed himself to enemy fire time and again to retrieve wounded men. He saved a great many lives before he was captured.

He would never have been taken prisoner at all had he not insisted on remaining behind when his unit retreated from Olustee.
The battle was ending,
Jack had said.
Robbie was injured—badly, he couldn’t be moved. Will wouldn’t leave him. There were some other wounded men, too, but I knew it was Robbie he didn’t want to leave. He stayed with them and let himself be captured.

Chances were slim that Will would have left the town of Wissembourg while there were still men there who needed him. If he
had
managed to get away, where would he have gone? Back to Paris? According to the
Herald,
the city was in a state of bedlam.

The Situation in Paris Most Critical for

Napoleon—Shame and Humiliation at the

Army Defeats—At the Point of Revolution.

LONDON, August 8, 1870.

The news from Paris grows hourly more serious. None but official accounts can come by telegraph. It is from letters and Paris journals that all intelligence must be gathered. The declaration of the state of siege does not repress popular demonstrations, and it is very doubtful whether the government has force to keep order or to put down any considerable demonstrations. The Republicans believe that their hour approaches, and Paris at the moment is as likely to rise against Napoleon as to arm against Prussia.

Skimming the rest of that article, Nell said, “It doesn’t look good, Mrs. Hewitt. The situation in Paris is getting worse. And at Wissembourg, eight hundred French soldiers were taken prisoner, and fifteen hundred others were killed and wounded.”

Nell looked up from the paper to find Viola sitting with the telegram open on her lap, gazing vacantly into the distance; she looked strangely old and drawn. “Mrs. Hewitt? Is that cable from Mr. Carlisle?”

Viola nodded and handed it to Nell. Written in a slapdash hand on the lined Western Union form was the message:
Spoke to clerk from Paris Embassy now in London who was told I Corps lost their surgeon, Dr. Hewitt, at Wissembourg. Not sure whether captured or killed, hopefully former. Am so terribly sorry. Will pray for him. R. Carlisle.

“Oh, my God.” Nell sat on the bench and read the cable a second time, and a third, as if the words written there might re-form themselves into a more benign meaning if only she only scrutinized them long enough. “Oh, my God.”

“What was he doing there?” Viola demanded in a quavering voice. “I
cannot
comprehend it. He had no business being there. Why did he go?”

He went there because of me,
thought Nell as she buried her head in her hands.
It was all because of me.

“Isn’t that your Dr. Greaves?” asked Eileen, looking toward the house as she sat at the edge of the bay with Gracie, building a sand castle.

Nell, standing at her easel nearby, turned to find Cyril crossing the lawn, his hand raised in greeting. Eileen and Gracie waved back, as did Nell, wondering what he was doing here. The last time she’d seen him, just over two weeks ago, he’d told her he would stay away until she’d decided whether to accept his offer of marriage.

Gracie, her damp bathing dress frosted with sand, got up and ran over to him as he strode across the beach. “Come look at my sand castle, Dr. Gweaves!”

“Greaves,” Nell corrected.

“Can I call you Cywil instead?” she asked him. “I mean,
Cyril?
”

Nell said, “No, you
may
not. It wouldn’t be respectful.”