Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (15 page)

In an uncharacteristic attempt to be
circumspect, Ty had
not
mentioned it. Not in any great detail. Most of
what he had uncovered had come from Captains Westcott and Boyd.

The story, as it was related to him,
was a disturbing one. Braddock had taken to cornering Miss Foster from time to
time, pressing unwanted advances. When he failed to woo her, the major put
about that Kate had shared his bed. She confronted Braddock, and he beat her,
resulting in Kate pinning his right hand to a table-top with a fish knife. She
was promptly banished to the stockade, and not even Doctor Addison could
successfully intervene. Ensuing mutiny over the course of a week led to Captain
Westcott and then Major Burrell relieving Braddock of his post. A good deal of
Ty's information was supported mainly by his regard for Miss Foster. Matthew
wondered how accurate an account it was.

Matthew cleared his throat. “I
understand your letter to the Field Marshal was very eloquent, and instrumental
in Braddock's being permanently removed.”

Absently, he realized that he owed
his return to the division almost entirely to Kate's exposing Braddock and his
mismanagement.

“Only Major Burrell knows of my
correspondence. I would appreciate you keeping my confidence. I'm not a fool.
The major still has allies here.” Kate shrugged. “Anyhow, that incident was
just a small part of Braddock's greater unfitness.”

“What you do here is valuable. I'm
sorry he gave you a hard time of it.”

Her voice was full of resolve. “He
did, in a way not even the most rough-edged private ever has. But he has a scar
on the back of his hand that will mark him as long as he lives, and that is something.”

He admired Kate's grit, wondering if
there was anything capable of testing her bravery.

They passed under the watchtower,
almost shadowless with the moon nearly overhead.

“Halt!” The order barked at them
from the darkness. He had expected it, but too late he realized that Kate had
not. She started, looking ready to fight and drawing Nelson up in a ready
half-circle. Matthew set a hand on her arm. “Calm now. They are ours. We're in
no danger.”

Rifles took aim from behind the
bulwark, blued barrels making ghostly lines in the dark. Five locks clicked
into place, snapping to the ready. One Highlander drew up from the barricade,
wild black plumes of his shako waving like hair, giving him a barbarian's
silhouette.

He raised an arm, and barked back.
“Sergeant Campbell! Your men at ease, if you would.”

“General! Your note is only now in
my hand. Did ya' hide behind the wall an' toss it over?” Thomas Campbell strode
out of the shadows, saluting. He was easily the biggest man Matthew had ever
seen, with black hair and blacker eyes and the hands and legs of a bear. It was
almost hilarious to see how his gaiters strained to wrap tree-trunk calves. A
clans-worth of green and blue tartan made up the tent of his kilt. He reached
out to clasp their hands, without any noticeable angle to their heights despite
Matthew's still being mounted.

“I'm sorry you did not have more
warning. My visit was urgent and unexpected,” Matthew answered warmly.

Campbell cast a look over Matthew's
shoulder. “And who's this snap of a lad ye've brought?”

“He found me on the road,” Kate
teased, “And despite all my protests, here I am.” He voice was a silken thread,
vibrating between them despite her jest. He felt a hidden meaning to her words,
but he was missing it.

Campbell tossed his rifle up a
little, slinging it over a meaty shoulder. “A lass then? Hmph. My men must be
foragin' in the wrong parts.”

“Don't be too hasty, Sergeant
Campbell. I took Miss Foster, but I have repented the whole way for not putting
her right back.” He tightened his jaw against a grin, ignoring Kate's eyes
burning his face. “Anything I should be aware of up ahead?”

Campbell shook his head, shaking his
feathered hat like a bull about to charge. “All's clear. Folk were restless a
fortnight ago, but time enough's passed. Hardly know there's war brewin' now.
They ken the danger well enough, but ain't to be bothered about it.”

“Very good. You will hear from me
again, before I return to the field.”

Campbell saluted. “General. Miss
Foster.”

Matthew tucked heels into Bremen's
side, urging him around the bulwark and into the city.

Kate matched him, shaking her head.
“Your Highlanders are truly a breed apart.”

“And you approve, or disapprove?”

He could hear the smirk dripping
over her words. “I approve of anyone who gives you trouble.”

Matthew hooked a thumb over his
right shoulder. “I personally relieved him of duty, Sergeant Campbell, on
campaign in Denmark.”

“That Sergeant Campbell?” She
glanced behind them.

“Mmhmm. The man was incapable of
avoiding friction with his superiors. Much like someone
else
I could
mention.”

“Hmm.” Kate's face was too
thoughtful to find the humor in his jest. “He's a Scotsman.”

“And a soldier. What of it?”

“Are you surprised that a Scot
objects to being subservient to an Englishman?”

“Surprise or no, that has a name:
insubordination.”

“National feeling,” she retorted.

His hackles raised immediately. “A
treaty crafted by wiser men than I settled that question before we were born.”

“A paper creating a meaningless
title. Fear that Scotland might realize it doesn't need England after all.” Her
tone was challenging, but he knew she didn't intend to antagonize. Even so,
Kate had a way of jabbing her splinters right under the skin, working him up
like no one else. Matthew realized he had been unprepared for such
well-informed resistance.

“Scotland cannot be left outside the
protection of Great Britain,” he bit back. “It would be irresponsible and
dangerous.”

Kate snorted. “Outside of her
protection or her
treasury
? You are perilously close to a cargo hold of
tea in the harbor, general.”

“Let us agree that the British army
has
no
nationalities and leave it at that, shall we? We are
soldiers
,
nothing more.”

“Perfectly agreeable,” Kate snapped.

Matthew bristled at the sarcasm. He
was infuriated by her willingness to argue and slightly more so that she did it
well
.

She had offended him. Matthew
realized it, in the silence filling between them as they emerged onto the main
street.

Not offended.
Wounded
. Stung
that she would presume he acted even slightly on prejudice. Matthew refused to
let the matter rest, needing to defend himself.

“I sent Campbell home because
Copenhagen was not the place, not the proper time, for a man of his colors.”
The words came out forcefully, and he saw her stiffen. Matthew took a deep breath
and tried to drop his voice. “It was a gentleman's convention of white gloves
and good form. Not the field for a true soldier.”

Kate was quiet beside him, face
turned a fraction to the right and out of easy view. It was impossible to tell
whether she was thinking about what he had said or ignoring him.

“Almost as quickly as I sent him
away, I brought him back onto the peninsula where he could do some good.” He
held up a finger. “Not
once
have I regretted it. His grenadiers do the
army infinite credit, and Campbell's thorny edges are perfectly suited to the
challenges here. He inspires loyalty and bravery in his men and a healthy
measure of hesitation in our allies, who give other officers no end of
trouble.”

Kate was quiet for a long time, and
he began to worry that he was being ignored. “I'm no bigot.”

She exhaled. “I'm sorry if I made
you believe I feel that way. I don't.” Her words were rounded, soft with
apology. It surprised him, how quickly she went from challenging to
conciliatory.

Matthew shrugged. “In the future, I
hope you have cause to think well of me.”

She jerked to a halt, staring
wide-eyed in confusion. “I already think well of you.”

He nodded and kept quiet. 'Thank
you' was too trite and nothing else manifested to defuse the moment.

They passed between the spaces in
the amber lamplight, under the gray stone facades of the buildings standing
shoulder to shoulder. Somewhere deep in the city covenants there must lie a
rule that every structure boast at least one striking piece of statuary or elaborately
molded wrought iron fencing.

Hoping to repair the distance
between them, he rested a hand on Kate's wool coat. “Remember when I told you
to be prepared for the city? Here we are.”

They trotted from the high street,
into the wide cobblestone expanse of the main square, and Kate gasped in pure
delight at what lay before them. It was a striking sight, never losing its
charm no matter how many times he visited. Guildhalls, hotels and civic offices
towered impossibly high in closed ranks on all four sides. Six and seven floors
were not uncommon, whole fronts made of windows abutting one another, most
spilling light out into the grand square, even at the late hour. Gold gilt and
stonework ornamented every building, with their bell-shaped baroque roofs like
fancy eight-bell mantle clocks. Gaslight warmed the stones and doorways,
softened by a mist of late-night dew. Above them lilacs formed a white and
purple canopy at the mouth of the lane. The streets and square were empty of
people, and despite muted laughter or conversation through an open door or
window, he could almost imagine they were the only two people on earth.

“I've never seen anything so
beautiful. Not even Albany has this much charm. It is home but...” Kate
shrugged into a shiver of joy, “There is so much flavor to a place like this.
Such history.”

“Not
this
place so much. The
French shelled it to the ground just over a century ago, and it seems they mean
to do again.” Matthew realized he was militarizing her appreciation, and caught
himself, smiling. “But I take your meaning.”

He searched the doorways one by one.
“Number twenty-seven. Here we are.” He pointed for Kate's benefit to a house
kitty corner across the square. White plaster smoothed over the stones and a
column of bay windows climbed up one side opposite a wide Palladian graystone
entry at the ground floor. “My mother has let the house of the Swedish
ambassador for her stay.”

“I can't say she might have done
better
or
worse. There is not one unattractive building in the lot.” Her
voice still held a touch of awe.

A boy came running from the alley,
baggy linen shirt moving in direct opposition to his awkward loping gate. He
might have been fifteen or sixteen, vain enough to feel proud of the thin
whiskers atop his lip, and too much ego to cut them.

Matthew slid from the saddle as the
stable hand reached for Bremen's reins and waved for Kate to do the same. She
bounced to the cobblestone with a decidedly feminine grunt, giving the boy
pause and making him look twice. Matthew chuckled, unslinging his pack as Kate
did the same.

The boy led the horses away to the
mews behind the house, leaving them alone. Kate wiggled her brows at him, and
Matthew took another glance at her outfit, steeling himself to grasp the brass
knocker.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Sergeant Campbell had not
exaggerated about the tardiness of Matthew's note. The household had obviously
been told they were coming, but Kate deduced by the haphazard pattern of lit
and unlit candles, and the staff's rumpled appearance, that they'd had little
warning.

Matthew stood beside her in the
entry hall, smacking his gloves against his thigh impatiently while the parlor
fire was lit. There was little to distract as they waited. The sweeping curve
of the staircase was accented with a gilded iron rail that might have been a
salvaged cemetery gate. White wainscoting cut every wall in two, dividing paint
that was a pretty shade of robin's egg, if her eyes could be trusted in the
dark. Blank spaces alluded to the art that had once decorated the hall, but
nothing remained there now. The ambassador had either left with the idea of
being away a long time, or perhaps – if Napoleon had his way – of never
returning at all.

A thin specter of a woman appeared
at the top of the stairs, enveloped by the frilled white muslin of a morning
gown. It was a cut and style that Kate thought her grandmother would have
owned. The cap on the woman's head was starched and neat, pinned just so at her
crown, as though she never slept or lay down, perpetually ready and waiting for
visitors. Her snow white braid was nearly lost against the color of her dress,
but as she came closer, Kate could see it was thick and soft, probably a
beautiful tow or gold in her younger years. She darted over Matthew with kind
blue eyes as he made her a small bow.

“Lady Louisa.”

“My lord. I thought to have a letter
from you.” Louisa's voice warbled birdlike with age and nerves as she flitted
to Matthew with hands outstretched. Kate recalled that Louisa had been
forbidden from mentioning Lady Adelaide's illness and realized the woman must
be quaking in her stockings at their sudden arrival.

Matthew clasped her hands, planting
a light kiss on her cheek. “It would not do, to write and wait. I must see her
at once.”

“Mmm. Mmhhm.” Obviously distracted,
she craned her neck at Kate, considering her from boots to bonnet over
Matthew's shoulder.

Fighting a smile, Kate curtsied.
“Lady Louisa.”

Matthew stepped back, resting a hand
on her shoulder. Kate stared at the gesture, wondering if he was ever going to
notice Louisa's wide-eyed attention, or let her go before the servants caught
wind.

“This is Miss Foster. She has been
with the regiment some time, as our surgeon's assistant. I thought perhaps
mother would be more agreeable to a woman's – Miss Foster's – examination,”
said Matthew.

Louisa's inspection of her produced
the same expression as discovering a clump of seaweed in the hall. It was not
exactly disgust; more disapproval and a little confusion. She tugged Matthew's
hands, pulling him to a convenient height for her diminutive frame. The
diminished hearing of age had clearly made her unaware that her whisper was not
a whisper at all, and Kate heard every word of the effusive protest. “Lord
Webb! This will send your poor mother right over the edge. You should not bring
a...
lady of the camp
into her house.”

“If Miss Foster is anything of the
camp, it is more an officer than a lady.”

Matthew caught her eye, saw her
fight a smile at the awkward compliment, and shook his head. He straightened,
gently pulling Louisa's hand from his coat. “Leave me worry about mother.” Her
continued, furtive glances said she would keep silent, but that her fretting
was far from over. Kate bit her tongue to kill a laugh at Louisa's kind-hearted
snobbery.

She reached for her pack, but
Matthew pressed himself into the space, snatching it up before she could claim
the strap. He was trying to be chivalrous, but Matthew had taken the only thing
with which she could fiddle away her nerves. Or defend herself with, if the
time came.

He lifted brows in an invitation.
“Let's see her, shall we? She's stalling coming down, thinking I'll just go to
bed.” He flashed a heart-stopping grin. “So we'll go
up
. Lady Louisa, if
you would...”

Made up of small, nervous movements,
Louisa jerked a tiny hand at a hovering footman, indicating he should bring a
candle. He obliged, leading their ragtag procession up the staircase into the
dark hallway.

Louisa paused at the first entrance,
fist suspended just short of the door, vibrating like a hummingbird. Kate shifted
weight from one boot to another, leaning to see around Matthew in the candle
light, wondering if they would ever go in.

Finally, Louisa glanced at her
party, looking resigned, and knocked.

If a voice called out, Kate never
heard it, but after a few seconds' pause something reanimated Louisa, who
opened the door.

“Matthew is arrived, my lady. With
a...
companion
.” Her tone of voice crafted the word delicately as though
it were a bad omen, the weight of which she did not yet want to impress upon
her ladyship.

Matthew turned quickly, pausing at
the threshold and grasped one of her hands. “Truly, Louisa worries for nothing.
My mother can be a force of nature, but you are just the person to do battle
with her.”

Kate admitted it was rather lovely,
being the center of so much fuss and attention. It must have been years since
the last time anyone took so much notice. There was a jest about it, resting on
the tip of her tongue, but suddenly Matthew looked tired and exposed. She kept
quiet and nodded.

They moved single file behind
Louisa, through a darkened anteroom. She was a paradox of regal carriage and
hunched tension with each halting step toward the doorway. Inside the bed
chamber, she darted immediately to a wide four-post bed, flitting from side to
corner, tugging and smoothing ineffectually at the white lacework bed cover. If
the rest of the house were a little spartan, efforts had clearly been
concentrated to make the private rooms just the opposite. There was no color,
just white textures of silk, muslin or lace. The bed, occupying the center of
the room, was guarded by two spindly legged wooden tables. An overstuffed chair
wedged into the corner between a side table and the fireplace looked to Kate
like the perfect place to fall asleep reading a book.

Lady Adelaide was exactly as she had
pictured. Propped against a stack of pillows, she commanded the bed as though
it were a throne. Matthew was her exact copy, except that her nose rounded at
the tip where his was full, and her chin completed the doll-like oval of her
face in opposition to his square jaw. They even shared the same black locks.
Adelaide's tumbled in thick rings down her shoulders, and, despite a few silver
threads, hers stubbornly refused to turn gray.

“Mama, how are you?” Matthew leaned
over, wrapping his mother tightly and planting a kiss at her temple. Kate
ignored a small pang of jealousy at their embrace, reminded of how much she
missed her own mother.

“Matthew. It's absurd, you coming
here in the middle of the night. I was afraid Caroline Lamb had come calling,
or one of those dreadful bohemians.” Adelaide smoothed the deep ruffle at the
yoke of her dressing gown. “Her mother is a lovely creature, but the girl makes
me exceedingly tired with her antics.”

Kate didn't understand the reference,
but Matthew laughed, settling on the edge of the mattress. “If Byron has not
come down, then neither will Caro. You are quite safe, mama.”

Adelaide sat forward a bit, leaning
past him, and Kate felt the woman’s' scrutiny fall across her with physical
weight, it was so intense. “And who is this...
person
you've brought
with you?”

Kate admitted her surprise. There
was no snobbery in the question. Adelaide sounded genuinely curious, if a
little abrupt.

Matthew straightened. She knew the
pose well. He was preparing to argue a point. “Miss Foster is our surgeon's
aide for the regiment. Her father was a physician and her mentor. I would like
you to speak with her about what's wrong.”

Adelaide's head snapped to Louisa,
who was suddenly engrossed in poking the embers in the firebox. “What
is
wrong
?”

Still bent over the hearth, Louisa
froze with awkward pretense, seemingly hopeful that if she didn't move, no one
could see her. Kate stepped forward before the poor woman's nerves gave way.

“I agree with your ladyship
entirely. Our visit is an imposition. If I could quickly check you over, the
general will be satisfied, and we can be off.”

Lady Webb folded her arms and raised
her chin, in a pose her son had inherited. “Do not attempt to manipulate me,
Miss Foster. I am fifty-six years old and have lived far too long to be treated
like a child.”

The field suddenly leveled, Kate
jumped to take a new tack.

“I meant no offense, ladyship. My
aim was to appease your son, since neither you nor I will have sleep until he
is satisfied. My backside smarts as though I were stoned fleeing town, and I
imagine we would both appreciate settling into bed before dawn.”

Kate had given the proud woman an
out, earning an appreciative sideways glance from Matthew.

“You have the right of it. I know
better than to think Matthew will be persuaded from
anything
when he's
set his mind.” There was an exchange between mother and son, for only a breath,
but Kate swore a sad tension radiated between the pair. She turned, unthreading
the strap on her bag.

“Louisa, have Mrs. Acre send up tea,
and Matthew, you may take one of these chairs out into the hall, to be more
comfortable.”

Matthew drew up at the foot of the
bed. “What do you mean,
hall
?”

Adelaide waved a hand at her. “While
you wait for Miss Foster to do whatever it is she's about.” She turned her head
pointedly away from her son in a calculated attempt to shoo him off. “What is
it Miss Foster? Cupping? I tell Doctor Eckman constantly that I do not enjoy
the sight of blood. What is that vial in your hand...is that a powder?”

“I am
not
waiting in the
hall.” Fists balled instantly at Matthew's hips in almost childlike defiance.

“You cannot stay in
here
.”
Her warning was thick as steel.

“I damned well will.” Matthew's boot
struck the floor, but its impact was stolen, muted by the wool rug.

By now Kate was cutting teeth into
her lip, to fight a wave of laughter.

Lady Webb clucked her tongue gently.
“Do not swear, Matthew. Such a nasty habit.”

“By God, if I see fit –”

Kate tossed the medicine pouch back
into her sack and slapped her hands together. “Really, you two! Civility or
silence.” It had been her mother's favorite admonishment when she and Fann went
through a spat of name calling and braid pulling. Sad that the first time she
thought to use it was on two grown adults.

Matthew's eyes fell desperately to
her, and Kate knew what he was about to ask. She also knew, after five minutes
in Lady Webb's presence, that he asked the impossible. There was no way, if he
could not get his mother's cooperation, that she could. She was down to
employing stealth, or at least an oblique attack, with both of them. First, she
needed Matthew
out
. “General, why don't you go down and manage tea. We
can give Lady Louisa some rest, and I can get better acquainted with my
patient.”

He did not like what she was saying.
It was evident in the way Matthew stared, not making the slightest move to
follow her direction. Kate widened her eyes. Likely faced with the realization
that he was outnumbered by stubborn women, Matthew deflated with a sigh and
stalked from the room.

Adelaide relaxed against the
headboard, smiling. “You manage him well, girl.”

Kate smiled and nodded, opening her
bag. “He's worried. And the best thing to do with a worrier is to keep him
busy.” She dug a hand around, under the shawl she had hastily thrown into her
bag, finding her small brown leather journal and the nub of her pencil. She
grabbed the ladder-back chair propped against a rail by the door and dragged it
near the head of the bed.

She settled in, folding open the
journal and moving to a clean page. “The general says your doctor has had a
difficult time treating you.”

“Cupping is his usual method, but I
have refused his efforts since February. He tells me the process must be
repeated until it is effective, but in truth I've felt better since it
stopped.”
            Cupping was one of the stupidest, most universal treatments ever
conceived of by medical knowledge. Anything and everything could be resolved by
cutting a patient repeatedly and sucking blood to the surface. It was applied
liberally, even when the patient began to decline.
That
, a cupping sort
of doctor would reason, was the fault of the illness and not his method.
Stupid
,
she added again, shaking her head.

Kate noted the date and treatment
history on her small sheet of vellum. “Your body needs blood. It will replace
what you've lost, so it seems silly to believe we are taking away an excess
when someone is bled.”

Adelaide's shoulders relaxed at the
information. Kate closed her pencil into the book. “Do you have questions,
before we begin?”

Her patient picked at the lacework,
shifting under her scrutiny. “I do not know what to say, truthfully. Is there
something you can do that a physician cannot? I mean you no offense, Miss
Foster, but that seems impossible to me.”

“I am not the least offended.”
Skepticism was the easiest form of resistance as far as she was concerned. She
picked up Adelaide's hand, studying the palm and flipping it over to examine
the nails of her slender fingers. “I believe there are many capable physicians
and surgeons, some of whom I could never hope to surpass. But I challenge your
ladyship to think about the care you've received during the whole of your life.
I would feel confident saying you were offered leeches or laudanum, and it was
just as likely they failed as succeeded. Hardly the fault of your doctors; they
are only prepared by what the college of medicine teaches them.”