Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (19 page)

She examined his tattoo now with
unabashed curiosity. Giving in to her earlier desire, Kate reconstructed the
tiger slowly, a few lines with her fingernail, raking Matthew's skin. She
stroked a palm over his bandage, up the ridges of his abdomen to the tiger's
feet. It had been so long since she had looked at anyone, man or woman, as a
whole person; not just a disease to be treated or a collection of limbs. There
was something reassuring in the way her heart raced now.

He twitched, groaning something
unintelligible. Kate jerked her hand away, pulling their fingers apart,
noticing a line on the third finger of his left hand. His ring had been there,
only a week earlier.

Shooting to her feet, she gathered
the supplies and old bandages, tucking the pitcher in the crook of her arm.
What
kind of a woman was Lady Webb
? Kate imagined her as blond and lithe, tall
perhaps, with pretty lips and a slant of hauteur to her brow. She could just as
easily have been dark and frumpy.

And just as easily vilified.
The
general's remarks about his lady might have been interchangeable with her own
husband's five years earlier. Patrick had not hesitated to squarely pin his
disillusion with marriage on her, even to their friends.

Matthew was reserved,
unquestionably. It might have been a distance his wife was unable to bear. Kate
would not fall into the trap of hastily taking sides. In fact, if history had
taught her anything, it was better not to meddle at all.

A moment of weakness, she reasoned,
having touched him while he slept. She was alone, and lonely, and the strange
pitch of their relationship had created a murky spot. She had justified
something she'd had no right to entertain.

Matthew had been right. Porter was
entirely capable of caring for him properly.

Obviously, she was not.

Kate leaned over and blew out the
candle.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

He
had
told her to give him
Porter.

Matthew reminded himself that it was
his own fault that he hadn't seen Kate more than a handful of times in the week
since being wounded. Ty's report on the desk in front of him, the second one in
as many days, detailed brazen guerrilla attacks on the crossroads. There were
casualties, injured men who probably occupied Kate's every waking moment. She
had been so busy that his demand to be allowed light duty met with no protest,
just her written instruction against exertion and 'nonsense'. It stung a little
to be reminded he was not her only patient, a ridiculous feeling he could not
fight, no matter that it was irrational.

So far his invitation to the
officers' dinner had gone unanswered. If he did not know better, he would think
Kate was avoiding him.

Mister Hill's appearance in the tent
at the thought of dinner was so well-timed it could only be conjuration. The
pistons of his thin, short legs stomped up to the edge of the desk, his crossed
arms holding back the mutiny written on his perpetually sour face.

“Mister Hill.”

“Gen'ral,” ground out Hill.

He stared at Mister Hill, who stared
back, perplexing in his silence for a man with chest heaving and nostrils
flaring. “There is a matter to which only I can attend, I gather.”

“It's that bleedin' demon goat!”
Hill's spindly arms flailed, swirling papers atop the desk. “Knockin' over tents,
buttin' and bitin'. For a laugh some o' the men fed it grog. Now it's got into
the carrots, what little I could scrape up. Snortin' and pawin' with them mad,
red eyes!”

Kindred spirits
, chuckled
Matthew.

It was a universal truth: A British
soldier would feed grog to anything if there was a chance for amusement. He
stood guilty on more than one count as a young ensign of so abusing a local
pig. “And naturally you have brought your concerns to
me
.”

Mister Hill wagged a finger, openly
provoked by Matthew's droll response. “Bein' my employer, yes. I've already
spoke to Miss Foster, but she don't listen. Stubborn right at the bone.”

“Miss Foster.” Unease prickled at
the hairs on Matthew's neck.

Hill's outrage reached high tide.
“It's her damned goat, pardon my sayin'!”

He snapped up a hand. “Have peace,
Mister Hill. Where is the beast now?”

Creased brown eyes darted over each
shoulder, and he leaned over the desk, basting Matthew with a garlicky aroma to
his whisper. “Can't say. Lost 'im near the munitions store.”

“Very well.” He massaged away
tension at the bridge of his nose. “I will speak to Miss Foster.”

“When?”

“Now, I perceive.” The throbbing
vein in the steward's temple said no other answer would do.

Satisfied, Mister Hill shuffled to
the doorway, peeking left and right before darting from view.

Bracing palms on the desktop,
Matthew groaned his way onto his feet and gave the muscles in his side a moment
to unknit. It was a necessary visit, he argued. His desire to see Kate since
waking that morning was entirely coincidental. He was most certainly not
committing, as she had put it, 'nonsense'. It was nothing more than a stroll
across the camp.

A beneficial walk, too, he decided.
Repairs on the north wall looked nearly complete. Dark weathered timbers were
bridged almost to the top by fresh tan logs. Men hefted long sticks in time
with their work song, packing the chinks with a red clay slurry.

From out in the fields he caught the
thunder of artillery drills. Ty was putting his gunnies through their paces,
and judging by six reports rather than five, had got his last nine-pounder in
working order.

Companies marched high-legged up and
down the main camp road in perfect unison, gray trousers and smart red coats
orderly to a man. Everywhere he looked his men were into some useful
employment: ramming out musket barrels, reinforcing the breastwork, or
repairing their gear. Matthew drew in a satisfied breath, peaceful at the
industry all around him.

The hospital tent was an island of
chaos, even without the goat's influence. He was warned by sound before his
eyes had adjusted from the midday sun.

“Bam! Bam! I've shot you!”

“You haven't. I got you first!” Two
boys, no more than eight, sniped one another with mismatched crutches converted
to rifles, banging against everything in the left corner of the tent in order
to fortify against each other. A round, red-faced young woman huffed and puffed
in Kate's chair, rubbing at a belly that should have yielded its cargo weeks
ago, judging by its girth.

By military regulations, they were
supposed to have no more than twelve camp followers. The regiment carried over
fifty. A quarter of them must have exited as he entered, and just as many still
congregated inside. Corporal Eggars saluted from his seat on the exam table,
cradling a whole foot of bandaged toes. Two privates he did not recognize
stopped laughing and elbowing one another. Healed by his presence, Matthew
guessed, they got up mumbling and filed out.

Kate performed an awkward dance
between all of them, pirouetting to pick up an instrument or set down a glass.
When she turned to greet him, Matthew saw why. A baby was bound to her chest
with what he could only guess was a long strip of old wagon cover. A girl,
judging by the pink flowers embroidered along the bunched hem of her little
yellow gown. The brown whorl of hair at her crown turned to one side, then the
other, absorbing the mayhem all around. The width of her blue eyes said she
wasn't yet sure what to make of it.

“Miss Foster –”

“You have to fall down, Davy!”

Matthew raised his voice and tried
again. “Miss Foster, what –”

“Ow, that hurts!” Davy connected the
butt of his 'rifle' with the other boy's hip.

“No hitting!” The order was sound
but was contradicted when the injured party returned Davy's fire. Crutches were
hurled in two directions, and four small fists pummeled with abandon.
            Matthew's patience sagged in the middle. “Hold!” He stomped a boot
for emphasis, snapping two pairs of wild eyes to him. “At attention, soldiers
all!”

The boys jerked up, shoulder to
shoulder, stock-still in the corner. Now that relative peace had been restored
– save the huffing and puffing of progressing labor – he turned back to Kate.

She stroked the baby's head, smiling
with open gratitude and relief. She looked impossibly young and very beautiful.
Her hand came up before he could speak again. “You're here about the goat.
Mister Hill foretold your coming.” She hung her head and smiled. “I tremble at
your wrath.”

“I am. He did?” He could not listen,
only stare at her chest. “Why, Miss Foster do you have a baby tied to you?”

With a quick glance to her patients,
Kate moved as close as her cargo would allow. “Captain Trafford's wife
succumbed to a fever early this morning. He does not want to, nor can he care
for Mathilda in his present state.” Her voice hushed lower. “He left here under
threats of doing himself harm, and Captain Westcott has gone to reason with
him. I don't think he'll follow through, but he is in no condition to be
trusted with her care.”

He stared at Mathilda's little head,
bobbing now and then on an uncertain neck, unaware of her sad and precarious
place in the world. “What will you do with her? This cannot be your state of
affairs indefinitely.”

“I have no plan,” she admitted,
craning a look at the boys, who whispered but were otherwise still. “During a
brief moment of sanity I sent Porter to the village to inquire for a wet nurse,
but there was no one. None of the camp women will take her, owing to some
superstitious nonsense.”

He nodded, putting together the
pieces. “Hence the goat.”

Kate slammed fists to her hips,
jarring poor Mathilda who chewed harder on her fist. “I traded good scotch and
a silver ring for that hateful creature! I will milk her or die trying.” The
woman over Kate's shoulder arched in her chair, doubled over and moaned. Kate
sighed. “But not right now, apparently.”

He braced a hand on her shoulder,
guiding her backward a few steps. Childbirth might fall well beyond his realm,
but Matthew decided he boasted a few useful skills. “You tend to your charges.
Leave the rest to me.”

“Thank you.” She bent over Mathilda
and rested her head a moment against his chest. It was a small gesture, the barest
contact, but it made him feel capable of taking on anything.

Eggers was watching their exchange
without any attempt at being inconspicuous. Cautious in front of one of his men
after Kate's warning, Matthew patted her shoulder and stepped back. “Boys!”

Two knobby-kneed little figures
snapped to attention. “A shilling to the first one of you who brings me Miss
Foster's goat. A shilling apiece if you manage it together.”

Their hesitation lasted only as long
as a glance of unbridled excitement, and they were off at a dead run. The
corporal was next. Matthew could see no reason, if the man had been tended,
that he should take up any more of Kate's precious time. “Eggers, you are
dismissed. Miss Foster will come 'round to check your progress later.” Eggars shimmied
from the table, simultaneously wincing and saluting, and limped away with
impressive haste.

Kate froze, half bent over the
table, and tossed him a sly smile. “Goodness. It's as though you've done this
before.”

He exaggerated a nod, playing along.
“The whole of my military career has consisted of getting other people's boys
to do as I say.”

“It's serving you well now.” There
was a softness in her words he'd never felt before, spring creeping in after a
long winter. Something in her eyes, a warm intensity, made it impossible to
look away. Matthew forgot himself and stared.

He could swear the rise and fall of
her chest quickened; his certainly did. Thoughts and feelings waged a war
inside, but Matthew could not turn a single one into words. Kate cast a glance
up at him that sent his heart two beats ahead. “How is your side?”

She was asking him something.
Matthew shook his head. “Pardon? Oh. Well enough. Damnable itching, but that's
to be expected.” He omitted that it had been torn open, ever so slightly, in a
scuffle with Ty over the last of the marmalade.

An animal wail cut between them, and
Kate darted to the expectant mother, who was now out of the chair and doubled
up on the ground. Kate peeked at something under the woman's hem and stood up.
“All right Martha, it's time. Let's get you up on the bed.”

Kate crooked their arms together,
getting poor Martha as upright as her belly would allow.

He should help her
. Matthew
stepped forward, while Kate's head snapped instinctively around. “Don't you
dare!” She poked at him with a finger on her free hand. “Stay put or come back
later. You're of no use to anyone with your flank torn open.”

Kate had missed her calling. Matthew
wondered if he were fit for command with her about.

She jerked at the knots in the
make-shift sling, jostling little Mathilda, who was now too asleep to be aware
of the commotion. Depositing the baby on a low stack of folded blankets, she
waved him in. “If you want to be useful, grab her hand. And stuff those pillows
down beneath her shoulders.”

He jumped, moving to the table and
resting a knee atop the stool. Nothing, personally or professionally, left him
any frame of reference for what was happening now. Matthew understood the
mechanics, however, precisely the reason he now protested his role as aide.
“Perhaps I should go?”

Kate scoffed, swishing her hands in
a wobbling basin. “What are you worried about? Martha has to do all the work.”

“I did not mean –” Her wink cut his
protest in half.

“Uhh!”
Martha arched,
bringing her knees impressively close to her belly.

He tried a different argument. “It
doesn't seem proper for me to be here.”

“Uuhhh!”

Every groan ratcheted his heartbeat
up a tempo.

Kate did not answer. Laying
something out on her instrument table, she flipped Martha's skirts clear up to
the knees. He looked to the ceiling.

“If we're going to split hairs,” she
muttered, “then it's not proper for me either. This is the responsibility of
the regiment's doctor. Yet here we are.” Her voice rose muffled from between
Martha's knees.

“Are you not, for all intents, the
regiment's doctor?” he demanded. Had he not given her that very position after
disposing of Astley?

“I never said I was.” She shot him a
terse look. “Neither did you.”

If they went one whole day without
bickering or chaffing one another, he would drop dead from shock. Martha's tiny
hand crushing his fingers erased whatever biting retort had been about to slide
off his tongue.

“Breathe now, Martha. Push!” Kate
laid a hand on Martha's belly, hanging over her, frozen with concentration.
“Ready now. Give us a good push. Push, Martha!”

The smell struck him first, a mix of
sweet and something like the mouth of the Thames at low tide, briny and
pungent. Fluid cascaded from the edge of the mattress, gushes coming too fast
to soak the drape under Martha's backside. Science warred with propriety, and
his curiosity won. Stealing a glance through cracked eyes at Martha's belly, he
was amazed to behold the baby's progress, how the bump moved lower each time
she arched, shuddering through a contraction. Martha wrenched his hand,
straining his arm for the duration of a primal moan that transformed somewhere
into a low shriek.

“Once more, push!” shouted Kate.
Martha drew up, knees to shoulders, teeth bared.

A wet pop, like a cork sliding free,
punctuated Kate's rallying cry. She wrestled between Martha's legs, then raised
a waxy, purple bundle of limbs. “Here we are!” There was a groan of relief, and
Martha fell back against the table panting and released his hand.