Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (13 page)

“Here we are.” She stopped outside
her tent and grabbed at the cloak, but Matthew's hand grasped the collar,
gently clasping it shut. “It was brave, what you said at dinner. And necessary.
I believe the regiment is immeasurably fortunate to have you.” He let her shrug
free of the garment and cupped her shoulder. “Thank you, Miss Foster.”

The general had noticed her work. Of
course he did. But it was so rarely acknowledged that sometimes she wondered
just how much. She could feel herself glowing at his compliment. “I am so
grateful that you've allowed me to stay.”

His smile was cryptic as he slung
the cloak over his shoulder. It made her crazy that she could not read his
expression. Matthew backed away a few steps and bowed. “Goodnight, Miss
Foster.”

CHAPTER TEN

Matthew stared at the letter, afraid
to break the seal and open Pandora's box.

The sender was no mystery. '
Hon.
Louisa Aldridge - Personal'
was printed neatly in sternly pointed loops
along its face. She had been Lady Adelaide Webb's companion for almost half his
life, since he joined the army and left his mother alone in London. When his
brother Charles died, Louisa had been the closest thing to family for the aging
countess. A strange pair, his bear of a mother with such an aging magpie, but
the two got on famously.

He pinched the crease, tapping the
letter's edge against his desktop. There was not a single instance which he
could imagine Louisa's writing him directly. It was not to inform him something
had happened to his mother; her own letters were too unrelenting for such a
possibility. By Matthew's best guess, his mother had grown impatient with his
lack of visits and, getting no reply, was using Louisa to pester him. He
smiled, hardly surprised by her behavior, and tore the seal.

Webb,

By now you must have received
your mother's letters of the sixteenth, eighteenth, nineteenth and
twenty-second. With such volume, one at least must have reached you. It is not
just her eagerness to see you that prompts so much writing, but she will not
tell you the truth owing to her natural stubbornness. She has suffered an
ailment since the end of last year, and all through the spring now. Doctor
Eckman called on her twice in London, but she refused his attempts at
examination. I have reached the end of my wits to persuade her, and still she
is fixed. It pains me to trouble and distress you at such a time, but will you
come and reason with her? You are the only one who can.

I am frightened for our dear
Adelaide and have nowhere else to turn. Write before you will come, so that she
is prepared and will not suspect my hand in your visit. She forbade me to speak
of her illness to you, and I would avoid her wrath if possible.

Yr most humble and ob't svt,

L. Aldridge

He gripped the foolscap between
shaking fingers. How long would she have waited to tell him, if not for Louisa?
For all her denial, Adelaide must think herself sick, or she would not have
written five letters in seven days – probably more than she had written during
the rest of his campaign.

She
had
to be examined. Shame
on her for her stubbornness, and shame on Doctor Eckman for indulging it. The
man had cared for Adelaide long enough to know better.

Matthew tucked the letter in his
pocket, too winded for anything but staring at the top of his desk. He would
not write Louisa. His mother needed care immediately, well ahead of any letter.
He would take the blame if Louisa were found out. She likely had enough good
standing to weather the supposed betrayal.

He would go to Brussels. Tonight.
Matthew stood, but his feet were hesitant. Could he find a competent physician
in the city? Skill was not enough. The man would have to be persuasive and
tenacious enough to flank his mother's stubborn streak. What if the only doctor
available was an Astley? She could undoubtedly handle such conceit – his father
had given her a thorough education in that regard – but it chapped him to think
of his lovely mother being prey to ignorant smarm.

There
was
an alternative,
Matthew realized. Conventional wisdom would say he was making a mistake, but he
couldn't help noticing how much better he felt minutes later, crossing the camp
towards Kate's tent.

Outside in the dark he cleared his
throat, composing the words in his head.

“Come in, general.” There was an
amused lilt to the invitation.

Matthew ducked inside, something
scratching through his hair, smacking him in the forehead.  
Herbs
. She
had bundles and stems hung from the supports, front to back. Brown curls of
bark, pointed purple blossoms, clusters of wrinkled rust-orange rose hips. If
the variety was impressive, the smell was doubly so. Some he recognized: the
bite of clove and the spice of sandalwood, a soothing pungent oil that was
unmistakably lavender. Others were foreign, floral or evergreen in note, but
unrecognizable in the potpourri.

“How did you know it was me?”

She was folded onto a quilt, back
against her small cot wall and knees drawn to her chest. Her chemise ended
mid-calf, met by a comically huge pair of gray knit socks. The socks and a long
blue and white check shawl conspired to make her seem tiny inside their
embrace, and under a pile of chestnut hair she resembled a doll clad in
borrowed clothes. With the toes of her right foot, Kate braced an inkwell, and
her quill hung idly from her hand. In the dim light, he swore there was a hint
of amusement in her blue eyes. “You bark before you bite.”

Not certain how he should take her
remark, Matthew craned his head, glancing all around the space. “I expected you
to be entrenched in Doctor Addison's quarters by now.”

Kate shook her head. “Not enough
spare moments. I take a few things whenever I'm already headed that way, but
it's slow going.”

He raised onto his toes, peering
past her coat and shaking his head at the sheer amount of things Kate had
stashed away in every corner. “I daresay your quarters are bigger than mine.”

“Shame on you for not demanding
something a little nicer from his Majesty. I purchased mine out-of-pocket.”

“How very American of you,” he
teased.

Kate pursed her lips, trying and
failing to fold a smile in between her teeth.

He shook his head. “This is your
leisure time. I apologize for interrupting your evening.” He struggled with
preamble, not wanting to simply blurt out his reason. He did not want her to
think he had come to her as a last resort.

She thumbed a stack of papers
resting on a wide book across her lap. “Just writing home. Every time I think
it's long enough, I put the pages aside to be mailed. Then something else of
note happens and I think, I'll just keep it a little longer.” She sighed. “It
will be a book, if it ever does get sent.”

“Your family must be very curious
about what you do here.” He hoped she would elaborate on 'family': parents,
siblings, husband.

Her brows raised into a wry arch. “I
doubt they wonder. By now I imagine them sick to death of hearing it. But what
is the definition of family, if not making a burden of yourself to others?”

Impossible as it seemed, he felt
better already. And she had offered him a perfect opening “Along that subject,
Miss Foster, I have come to ask –” He reconsidered his intentions, “– to
impose
upon you. By no means are you obligated. I cannot and would not order you. But
I would fall willingly in your debt...” Matthew swallowed against the quaver in
his words, too self-conscious to continue.

Kate set aside her small tome and
sat forward. The worry clouding her eyes said he had made the right decision.
“You do not have to
order
me. If there is something needs done that will
benefit the men of this regiment, you have only to ask.”

Feeling suddenly weighed down by his
news, Matthew cast about for a place to sit. The only chair doubled as a book
shelf. He hunched down, settling on the floor across from her. “My mother is in
Brussels. I would like you to come with me, this moment, to see her.”

It had come out all wrong, and Kate
was obviously confused. Her head shook, auburn wisps brushing her cheek. “Very
late tea, or...”

The laugh felt thin in his throat,
stretched with worry. “She is ill. Seriously, I fear. Our family physician has
been unable to examine her, and my heart tells me if the matter is postponed
until she returns to London, it will be too late.”

Kate stood up, scooping her letter
onto the cot. “When can we leave?”

He had been hopeful, but Matthew
felt there was a chance she would rebuff him. He could not believe she was
agreeing. “You understand this is three hours by horse, through territory that
is questionably held at best?”

“Isn't that any territory in this
part of the world?”, she quipped.

Matthew groaned, nodded, and
stretched back onto his feet. He met her eyes in earnest. “You are doing me a
great favor. This is beyond repayment.”

Kate rubbed her hands together.
“It's you who are doing me the favor. An unfettered opportunity to tell your
mother how badly behaved you are.”

“I'm serious.” He grabbed her sleeve
as she passed by, pulling her up short beside him. “All jests aside, you cannot
conceive how much it means to me, knowing that my mother will be in your care.”

She rested fingers atop his coat
sleeve. “This is not easy for you, I know. I certainly do not mean to make
light of your worry. I don't want you to think for a moment that you are
beholden.” She squeezed harder. “I'm humbled that you came to me.”

The heat of Kate's touch chased away
some of the tension in his chest. He let it escape in a slow breath. “Thank
you.”

She was already across the tent,
stuffing something into her signature red bag. “Have you got horses already?”

He moved to the doorway. “No, I
wanted to speak with you first. I'll secure our mounts while you finish
preparing.”

Her nod was distracted, hands
shoving vials and pouches into the sack. “I'll be ready by the time you
return.”

*          *          *

The camp was a very different place
at night. Matthew realized how little he appreciated it. Glowing tongues of the
campfires attracted everyone in the evening, when the work was done. Two little
girls huddled in a threadbare quilt, narrating the adventures of their wooden
dolls. A few men sat up against the walls or lay on the bare earth, heads
hanging drunkenly as they snored. In the wide makeshift bailey inside the main
gate, couples took advantage of the space, weaving a country dance to the
lively wail of a fiddle. A small crowd at the fire passed an earthenware jug,
faces red from the heat and the ale. A leathery, white-haired crone handed
boiled eggs from inside her cloak into the waiting palms of three or four
knobby-kneed children.

The men saluted at his passing,
wives and camp ladies bobbing small curtsies. The gestures were no less
respectful than usual, but there was an ease about them at this hour of the
night. The very same activities, with smarter uniforms, were probably taking
place inside the officers' mess. The garrison availed themselves of leisure in
the moment; it was impossible to know, with fighting on the horizon, if the
opportunity would come again.

Matthew climbed the hill past the
supply depot, stopping at the stable master's haphazard tent shored up against
the wall of a paddock.

He shook Smythe's cracked leather
boot, bringing the groom awake with piercing snort. “General! What's
happened...what are we about!” Bony elbows hooked left and right, almost
catching Matthew's shin.

He darted back a step, out of range.
“Calm yourself, man. I need Bremen and Nelson.”

Bracing a hand on Smythe's forearm,
Matthew helped hoist the man to his feet. For someone who spent his days
working with horses, Smythe was paper-like, almost prohibitively thin. His
unimposing shape belied the wiry net of muscles holding his skeleton together,
preparing him to scrap with even the most spirited animal.

Fingers raked the brush of brown
curls wreathing his head, eyes still moving with a bit of wild confusion.
“Coulda' just sent your aide,” he grumbled, thumbs hitching up his breeches.

Not everyone was sharp when woken
from a dead sleep, especially when getting precious little of it at any one
time. Even so, he was in no mood to placate the taciturn stable master. He
crossed arms, planting himself stonily on the spot.

Smythe nodded, scrubbing his eyes,
and shuffled away toward Bremen's paddock.

“I'm ready, whenever you are.”
Kate's voice surprised him from only a few paces behind, spinning him around.

First he was silent with confusion.
It took a moment to realize what he was seeing. Then he paused a guilty stretch
to appreciate the sight. When Kate dropped her left hip impatiently, Matthew
caught himself and recovered. “Miss Foster, what are you wearing?” he snapped.

She was dressed like Colonel
McKinnon, his aide-de-camp, with a black coat buttoned from chest to hips, its
skirt hanging wide to brush her thighs. She was also clad in buff linen riding
breeches and boots that were an amusing miniature of his own pair.

She laughed at him, shaking her head
and walking past up the small slope towards the paddock. “Did you believe for a
moment I would ride side-saddle for three hours over rough terrain?”

He had, Matthew realized foolishly.
“So you will be riding...astride?”

The sly, low-lidded glance she
tossed him over her shoulder would have flustered the stoniest resolve. “It's
that, or ruin my favorite riding habit, and you know what a peacock I am.”

Matthew groaned, his body
determining that three hours was already beginning to feel more like six. He
followed behind, staring fixedly at the plaits of her braid to ignore the way
tight buff breeches exactly resembled nude flesh in the dim light.

Securing his baggage while Smythe
handed Kate up onto Nelson, Matthew wondered how they could get through camp,
passing as few people as possible. Someone was bound to see her, and he was
going to get complaints.

Despite her unorthodox approach to
riding, when Kate gathered the reins and gave Nelson a measured nudge, it was
obvious she was an experienced rider.

He flanked her astride Bremen as
they passed through the gate. “I'm sure I do not have to acquaint you with the
dangers roaming the countryside. We should be well north of where Major Burrell
believes the French now sit, but intelligence is slow. Battalions take up new
positions, patrols range out, and deserters have no borders.”