Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (2 page)

Whoever had designed the most recent
iteration of the English officer's uniform had probably never envisioned a
specimen in existence who could do the cut such justice. Dust-caked black
riding boots hinted he had just arrived. Tan thigh-hugging buckskin breeches
were practically a scandal in the making, stretched over legs acquainted with
physical activity. The wide breast of his red wool coat looked like a lady's
pincushion, medals of every shape lined across, leaving her no doubt she was
facing the legendary General Webb.

Flustered, Kate realized she had
been staring.

He should be old
, her mind
protested.
Shouldn't he be old?
Generals were seasoned veterans,
tempered by years of conflict, claiming enough decades to still don powdered
wigs and knee breeches. General Webb was young by comparison, in his middling
thirties if the gentle creases winging his eyes were to be believed. He was not
at all what she had imagined. For the first time in a long time, Kate felt
unbalanced.

The grim line of General Webb's
mouth turned down a little more at seeing her there, while Astley planted both
hands stupidly on his hips. “Foster. What are you doing? Why are you in here?”

Just the sound of his voice grated
at her. Though she realized her irritation was disproportionate, there was no
checking it when Astley bit at her. “He sent for
me,”
she retorted.
“What are
you
doing here?”

“Caring for him.” The words were
hollow and syrupy, and she swore he batted his eyes at the general.

She would choke his weasel neck if
given the slightest opportunity. Astley was oily, self-important and forever
lifting at some skirt-hem or another. All character flaws she could ignore,
except that he was
negligent
. Steeped in his own ego, she had watched
him make decisions about a patient, life and death decisions, without regard
for necessity. If she were ever in need of aid with only Astley available, she
prayed fervently for a quick death.

General Webb stepped out from behind
Astley, leaning forward to peer down at Addison as though the doctor were an
unidentified species. “What ails him?”

“He has fits,” Astley cut in, eager
to trump her. “It's nothing. They pass. Just a matter of age.”

She began to sigh, then caught
herself. It was intolerable, listening to him speak with authority while
completely ignorant. Straightening, she took over. “It is hardly 'nothing'.
He's lost movement on his right side, and his faculties have suddenly
diminished. This is more than a fit.” Kate pointed to the drool running from
Addison's drooping mouth. “He's in a dire state.”

“Female hysteria. What have you
given him?” Astley snatched up the glass and sniffed it. “Laudanum? There's no
examining him properly now.”

“He's been properly examined,” she
shot back.

The general wagged a finger between
her and Addison. “Miss Foster, you are the doctor's...?”    She might recognize
him
, but General Webb had no clue who she was. How unsurprising that Astley
had forgotten to mention her. At least he had not taken the opportunity of a
walk across camp to raze her credibility. That did not mean that whatever he
had shared was not damning by omission. She took a breath, squared her
shoulders a little and looked Webb in the eye. “
I
am his nurse, Kate
Foster.”

“You're his
assistant
,
“sneered Astley.

Thin decorum torn to shreds, and
Kate rolled her eyes. “No,
you
are his assistant.”

He puffed up. “I am a physician in
training.”

“I'm a
fully trained
nurse,”
she hissed.

“Enough!” General Webb bit off the
command with practiced force, startling her and causing Astley to flail. Even
during the worst of their bickering Doctor Addison had never been as quick with
discipline as the general was now.

Webb swept a hand at the doorway.
“Miss Foster, step outside with me.”

She didn't want to leave the doctor,
but any chance to speak without Astley was a welcomed one. She followed him out
past Gregory, who smirked. “Enjoy packing,” he hissed.

Worm.
“Shut up.”

General Webb paced outside the tent,
hands clasped behind his back, only a silhouette with the moon behind him. They
stood in silence for so long, the general striding away and back that she
wondered if she had missed a question.

He stopped, an arm's-length away.
“What do you think ails the doctor?”

“A brain bleed, sir.” The symptoms
were unquestionable.

“Hmm.”

He walked five or six paces away
again, seeming to stew over her words, and turned back. A scent tickled her
nose on the breeze, foreign against the familiar odors of camp. Cedar and
saddle-leather, and something a little sweet. She realized it was coming from
the general. Kate immediately wished she had not noticed.

“How long will he need to
convalesce?”

His question doused her, bringing
her back to attention. “He won't. Slack mouth, paralysis of his right side; he
will never recover the movement.” She tried ignoring an ache over her heart.
“I'm not confident he'll last the night.”

He was stalking away again, but her
dire prediction turned him around. “It cannot be so severe as that. The doctor
was awake when Mister Astley presented himself at my quarters.”

She nodded, understanding his
confusion. “He knew me when he sent for me, but by the time I was at his side,
he thought I was his daughter. We're both auburn-haired, but Louisa has been
dead for years now. I believe he's suffering a very significant bleed. It will
damage his brain beyond recovery, and he will die.” Her chest throbbed at the
idea. It felt as though she had unleashed a bad omen, speaking the words aloud.

General Webb drew up stiff, limbs
set at tense angles. “We are on the verge of battle, and you are telling me
that I have no doctor, save Mister Astley?”

He
was
new. “You have no
doctor at all.”

General Webb crossed his arms, voice
and body both clearly rejecting her news. “For now, he must do. We're a bit in
the wild, and Commander Braddock has not left me the budget to get anyone on
Dr. Addison's wages.”

She could not in good conscience let
the general's answer stand. He had walked in mid-act, and what he did now would
affect the fate of the entire regiment. “Respectfully sir, Mister Astley is
wanting at his
current
post. Elevating him would only perpetuate the
belief that mediocrity is a requirement if one wishes to be promoted.”

“He's all I can afford.” His narrow
tone said that her advice was not welcomed and that the conversation was over.

Kate crossed her arms, defiance
bubbling over inside. “I do not believe your
men
can afford him.”

He closed the distance between them
in one swift stride, close enough that she had to lean her head back, bowing
her shoulders to meet his eyes. The smell that had teased her before was
magnified when the general leaned in, bringing them face to face. “Are you
questioning my decision?”

He was not going to intimidate her,
not after the reign of Commander Braddock. Kate raised herself up as much as
hard-soled boots allowed. “I am.”

He might as well get used to it.

Somehow, he was closer now. “I would
advise against it. My command is comprised of military order and military
discipline.
I will have both.”

She exhaled as he stepped away,
resentful that she had shown even a small measure of being intimidated.

“Doctor Addison kept the two of you
on for a reason. I expect you and Mister Astley to behave civilly, and to treat
the men of this camp until another doctor can be found. Is that clear?”

He would not
order
her to
endure Astley's abuse. She spun away with every intention of going back inside
the tent.

The general's arm shot up, catching
her square in the belly. “Is that
clear?
”

She hated the frustrated tears
stinging her eyes, how they caused her voice to tremble.

“Perfectly clear. S
ir
.”

Shoving past, she left him there in
the dark.

*          *          *

Matthew slumped behind his desk in a
rare state of confusion. Where should he begin? In a single day, his
aide-de-camp
Colonel McKinnon had worked administrative magic over the command tent. Still
it was a tangle. Matthew was angry at having been pulled away from the division
and guilty at staying gone so long.

His predecessor, Major Braddock, had
not been much for administration, one flaw on a growing list. It was clear by
the poor state of his record keeping that everything the major accomplished was
a gift from his benefactor, the Prince Regent. It certainly was not because
Braddock completed requisitions and documented matters like everyone else.

Even with the supposed help of his
aides, Braddock's
meaningful
documents were thin in number and organized
under a system lost to mankind about the same time as the fall of Rome. It had come
as a surprise then, that where Miss Foster was concerned, Braddock maintained
an uncomfortable amount of information.

Every request and complaint she
submitted, for herself or on Addison's behalf, seemed to be present. Her
replies to Braddock's seemingly inconsequential questions were preserved
separately from any other paperwork. There were journal pages in Braddock's
log, loosely referencing Doctor Addison but mostly detailing Miss Foster's
routine and methods.

There was no doubt in his mind why
Braddock, famous as an unabashed libertine, had been so thorough where the lady
was concerned. Miss Foster was young and comely enough to tempt lust in a
minister. Her temper would have spurred Braddock on with the thrill of the
chase.

Matthew decided she had certainly
raised his hackles during their brief exchange. He was used to pouting and
stalemates, but a woman who could battle with wits? That was an unaccustomed
challenge. When Astley had mentioned her during his long winded oratory across
the garrison, he had imagined...

What had he imagined?
Matthew
paused mid-shuffle through a stack of letters. He had expected a portly,
middle-aged woman in a rag turban, with leather hands and a half-bottle of
liver salt in her apron. Such a woman would be a fair composite of all his
experiences with field nurses. Kate Foster had decidedly skewed the average.

She was not exotic, not in the way
most people used the term. She
was
unique. It had struck him the moment
he entered the tent. She was a collection of subtle differences whose sum was
disarming. Tall for a woman. He had not appreciated it until they were
nose-to-nose outside the tent. And what was that smell she had enveloped him
with? Earthy and crisp, a little familiar. The question had nagged at him from
time to time all day. Her eyes were a pale shade of blue framed by an ocean of
chestnut hair. Eyes that should have felt cold, he reasoned, but that had
blazed when she glared at him. Defiance, confidence, anything but coldness.
Proud nose, full lips that concealed an ambush of barbs –

Matthew stopped himself there.

He had no time or business devoting
so much thought to any aspect of Miss Foster except her obedience. It was easy
to grasp how Braddock, a man who imposed less self-discipline, had become
fixated.

In one entry the major referred to
her ideas of medicine as
'fantastic, uninformed notions; she is endearing in
her attempts to play at doctoring the way small boys play at soldiering...'

The opinion gave him pause, and
Matthew wondered over last night's exchange in the tent. Was Astley truly as
splintery as Miss Foster claimed, or was the man fed up with her overstepping
her role? Between Braddock's indulgence and Addison's absent-mindedness, he
imagined neither man ever checked her willfulness.

Her
temper
supported the
theory, but
fantastic
,
uninformed
? So far every prediction she
had made about Doctor Addison had come to pass. She had spoken with too much
confidence to be guessing. Unable to reconcile any two accounts of Kate Foster,
he sighed and moved on.

Thumbing a few more pages, Matthew
came across a letter. It was five or six haphazard lines absent punctuation,
childlike in its construction. He read it over twice, still not certain of some
of the words, but picking out enough to gather the sentiment. Private Taft of
the 52
^nd
had expressed his thanks to Miss Foster for curing a bout
of fatigue by forbidding bleeding and imposing a diet of fish.

Bleeding was the cure-all for any
illness, draining excess blood and balancing the body's humors. Why had she
opposed an accepted practice? Eating fish was a curious recommendation, but to
Miss Foster's credit, it seemed to have worked. Private Taft made a full
recovery and was returned to duty.

A post-script at the bottom by
Doctor Addison to Major Braddock asked that the commander make note of Taft's
kind words and physical improvement when deciding 'the matter at hand'. Nothing
else in the packet indicated what that matter had been.

Rapid boot steps hammered to a stop
outside his quarters, drawing him from his reading. There was a tell-tale slap
of hands against wood, a sentry's musket being presented and shouldered to let
the visitor pass.

“Webb!” Major Burrell ducked in without
waiting for an answer, not that he ever did. Tonight Matthew refused to be
bothered by it. They had been apart since Portugal, and he was relieved to have
Tyler under his command again. Ty's presence with the regiment had been one of
the few bits of glue keeping Braddock from ripping it apart. Chief among only
two or three people in whom he could truly confide, or call a friend, Matthew
was grateful to have the major at hand.