Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (20 page)

“It's a girl, Martha! You've broken your
curse.” Smiling ear to ear, Kate plopped the slick, blood-streaked baby onto
Martha's belly, draping it with a gray flannel cloth.

He stared, waiting for something to
happen. Martha stared, too. It took a moment for Kate's snapping fingers to
grab his attention. She poked a finger at their newcomer. “Rub her back,
firmly.”

Once, in Spain, he had held part of
a soldier's face on after shrapnel tore through their line. That was almost
preferable to following Kate's instruction. He laid a hand on the baby's narrow
back, feeling moist heat through the thin blanket, and rubbed.

“Harder,” ordered Kate. “You have to
encourage her to breathe. It doesn't always come naturally at first.”

He increased the friction. There was
a twitch, a hacking little cough, then a cry. Something shifted in his chest at
the plaintive sound. Matthew swallowed hard twice. He did not recognize the
sensation, but he wished it would pass.

Kate leaned in, lifting the blanket.
She pulled at tight little arms and legs, peered into a howling mouth and, to
his uncomfortable surprise, pried tiny knees apart to examine parts he would
prefer not to acknowledge. She replaced the thin blanket and winked at Martha.
“Looks fit as can be.”

“Oh, thank Jesus.” Martha craned her
neck, smiling through tears at her baby. There was a palpable relief between
the women he didn't understand.

Kate moved past him, pulling a sad
face that only he could see. “Last one was still birth,” she whispered, cocking
her head.

The information tugged at a memory
buried deep in his heart, a sympathetic ache that flared as he studied mother
and child.

Kate rubbed her hands with a damp
cloth and turned back to her patients. “I'm going to let the general hold her
while I treat the cord, since he did such a good job.” Kate shot him an
unreadable glance, still speaking to Martha. “Then she belongs entirely to
you.”

How could he decline without
offending the new mother? He cringed at the way Kate rolled and bundled the
flailing, protesting little thing on the bed. She was too rough in his
estimation with something so small and fragile. The baby seemed not to mind,
tiny fist jammed between her lips.

“Crook your arm. Be sure to support
her head.” Before he could protest, Kate deposited the baby against his chest.
He folded slowly onto a stool behind him. The feeling from earlier returned
tenfold. “I have never held a baby. Not once.” He ached at the realization.

“I wouldn't have guessed,” said
Kate, with a quick glance.

Martha nodded her agreement,
beaming. “Comes natural for you.”

Kate was leaned over her small
charge now, face just inches away from his. He found it impossible not to trace
the curve of her cheek with his eyes, studying the way her brows furrowed in
concentration and teeth worried a full lower lip. She looked up, feeling his
stare, then her eyes darted away. She stroked a knuckle up the baby's cheek.
“Look how content she is with you,” Kate breathed softly. Her eyes rose to his
again, and Matthew would have paid any sum to understand the mystery there.

His face burned, and he swallowed
against a collar suddenly too tight, shifting the bundle in his arms for
distraction. Pink and blotchy, nose squished and eyes lolling unfocused over
new surroundings, the baby was beautiful in her awkward composition. He brushed
a finger over her wrinkled brow, wiping away the white film and marveling at
the thinness of her new skin. Relaxing his shoulders, he moved the tiny body
deeper into the bend of his elbow. She rolled closer to his chest, and suddenly
it seemed they both fit together. He glanced to Martha. “What will you call
her?'

Grinning, she shrugged, brown eyes
half-closed. “Don't rightly know. We reckoned on another boy.”

Kate slid her arms inside his,
working the baby into her grip. Warmth faded from his chest and sleeves, and he
shook off the disappointment at giving her up.

Kate turned and lifted, swaddling
the baby like it was second nature. “Any suggestions, general?”

Nerves kept the words in his throat.
He felt self-conscious under the eyes of both women. “Sarah,” he managed. “It
was my grandmother's name.”

“And my David's mum! Maybe it's
meant to be.” Martha smiled and worked the tiny body down into her loosened
bodice with practiced ease, wriggling the baby to her breast. Matthew ducked
his head, then fixed his gaze to Kate.

“I'll go find David. Rest up,” she
instructed Martha, “and Porter will fetch the tub as soon as he returns.” Kate
jerked her head toward the entrance.

He followed her out with a stone in
his gut, daring one last glance to Martha and the baby, and little Mathilda
sleeping forgotten in the corner.

Kate settled on a small patch of
grass beside the tent, probably the last one in existence inside the
fortifications. Arms braced behind her, she arched her back and groaned. There
was blood on her shapeless apron running all the way down her gray skirt to the
dirt ringing her hem. That was what he tried to notice, instead of the way her
breasts pressed at the yoke of her neckline.

Staring up at the sky oblivious, she
stifled a yawn. “These first moments are for mother and child. Davy and Thomas
will be back – they're too ornery to be defeated by the goat, and Martha's
hands will be full. We'll let her catch her breath.”

He shifted his weight to the left
leg, side beginning to smart, and watched the movements of the camp without
really seeing. The baby's smell drifted off his clothes, and he struggled to
make sense of the war raging in his chest.

“Look at you. So impassive.” Kate,
who had been staring up at him, cocked her head and smiled.

“Hmm.” He wasn't prone to moodiness
and fits of pique. Matthew couldn't understand what had taken hold of him.

“Have you truly never held a baby?
I've held so many. I delivered little Henry,” she said gently.

His throat tightened. “Truly. Not
once.”

“No children, then?”

“No. I have never particularly
regretted it.” That wasn't true. He had simply
stopped
regretting it.

She shrugged, smile filled with
something he could not place. “Perhaps you should reconsider.”

He searched for the words to explain
to her, to say that it was not his choice alone, and to convey what he had
lost. His mouth opened, ready to spill all the misery held in check for so many
years.

“General!” A courier loped up the
path, snapping a salute with the stack of letters in his hand.

“Dispatches, sir. Urgently.” He
exhaled under Kate's curious stare, closed his mouth and snatched at the
letters.

Two from Major Connaught. He tucked
them in his coat for later. The third bore a bold slanting signature. He would
know it as Wellington's even if he could not read the name. He glanced at Kate,
still staring up expectantly. “It is from the field marshal. You may yet expect
some work, tonight or the next.” He skimmed the few efficient lines and decided
he would prefer news of battle. Poking the summons in next to the others, he
summarized it for Kate. “Wellington moves his division north. He's come ahead
of them. His command staff are requested at dinner tomorrow evening.”

“Meaning you.”

“Precisely,” he groaned.

Kate stood, dusting at her backside.
“That must be an important opportunity for him to get the lay of the land,
prepare. The skirmishes around the crossroads are increasing. It cannot be long
now.”

He was impressed that she had
noticed. “If it were simply Wellington, I would not be so bothered. But he will
bring a few hats from London, who inevitably bring their ladies. Not one
understands a bit of what's done here. They will want to hear if Bonaparte is
really so short, and the best vantage point to observe a battle. Maddening.”

“Fortunate that you have such
pleasing, attentive manners.”

He scowled, more at the grin than
her barb, earning a laugh.

Ty strode up the path, waving his
invitation with a lazy hand. Matthew braced himself for whatever mischief would
surely ensue.

“Miss Foster, I had thought to come
and invite you to be my partner at dinner tomorrow, but I see the general has
beaten me to it.”

Kate looked to him, brows raised in
what Matthew swore was a challenge. “He has done no such thing.”

Ty personified absolute smugness,
grinning ear to ear. “Then he has missed his chance.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It must have been nearly eight miles
to Nivelles, a beautiful ride through green and gold fields rolling out ahead,
divided by orchards of trees crowned with blossoms. The British controlled the
roads all the way to Tournay, but Kate couldn't fight off the tension she felt
any time they ventured outside the garrison's fortifications. Memories of the
farmhouse still haunted her. Better to make peace with it now, she reasoned.
When they returned, it would be dark.

The town was a cross-section of
history that did not exist at home, as though someone had gone through a
medieval beam-and-plaster town, adding bricks and columns to the buildings
every century.

Arms of brown-mortared shops and
townhouses reached out ahead, toward the high gray spires of the town's
cathedral. The last of the market stalls was closing up for the day. A
kind-faced man with impossibly long trousers and shirt sleeves gartered up
tight pulled fan-leafed cabbages from the depths of his brown burlap sack,
holding them up for inspection. The gathered women, like the buildings, were
constructed alike: Stout and stern-faced, apron-clad, with soft knots of hair
swept up to bonnet their heads.

The field marshal's hotel, at the
far end of the main street, fell on the more recent end of architecture. High
and boxy, it was made of earthy bricks, tall casements along its face. A
handful of little gabled attic windows along the roof peered down, guarding the
chimneys. They spilled light out into the dooryard, already shadowed by
approaching dusk, silhouetting the movement of people inside.

Ty handed her down, and she tucked
her fingers into the crook of his elbow. His popularity with the ladies was no
mystery. Even knowing him as well as she did, Kate felt a little skip to her
heart at his chivalry and his easy grin. “Keep your hand just so. Otherwise
someone is bound to steal you away.”

She glanced around them and shook
her head. “I would hate to deprive you of more...enthusiastic company.”

Ty did not look the least bit
apologetic, not that she had expected him to. “There are any number of such
opportunities. But to have you on my arm? That is an opportunity I'm not
willing to risk.”

He was too clever, and she was out
of her depth. Kate threw up her hands. “This is exhausting. I don't know how
you manage being so charming for a whole evening. Five minutes with you and I'm
already spent.”

He lowered his voice and winked.
“It's a common enough complaint.”

“Incorrigible.” She turned her face
away to hide a smile, absorbed in studying the shrubbery.             Matthew
had arrived just behind them. He passed by, face set at grim angles, with a
sharp nod and nothing more. Ty said something, but she didn't hear it.
Matthew's broad shoulders spreading the red wool of his uniform dress jacket,
his height magnified by calf-high, mirror polished Hessians, pulled her
attention with him into the building. So much for her promise to keep her
thoughts someplace else.

Ty's fist chucked her gently under
the chin, turning her face back to him. “Kate, you know that the general is
married.”

She practiced total nonchalance. “He
has mentioned it. Why?”

“I could not bear for you, of all
people, to be wounded by his circumstances.”

If only Ty's good intentions had the
power to prevent it. She had passed the line of disappointed hope some time
ago. The best she could do now was devote herself to anything but Matthew until
she had healed. “I am unscathed.” She forced a smile for Ty's benefit. “But
it's very kind of you to worry.”

They had known each other too long
for Ty to be fooled, but he took pity on her pride. “Let's go in. I traveled
this far with the aim of showing you off, and it can't be reasonably done from
the yard.”

Kate guessed by her knowledge of
shifting battle lines that the building did not welcome many travelers. The
town did not exactly sit in friendly territory for anyone. If the hotel had
seen a decline, though, its interior certainly didn't betray that fact. Wood
gleamed with polish, and if the sofa and chairs were dated, their blue damask
was clean and in good repair just the same.

Ty led them through the entry hall
to the foot of the stairs where an imposing man stood talking in animated
gestures with Captain Greene. In all her time with the army, Kate had never
seen the Duke of Wellington, but he cut a figure unmistakable for anyone else.
The only man present equal to Matthew in height, his blue eyes darted as he
spoke, gathering every detail of the activity around him. His jacket collar and
cuffs were embroidered with enough gold thread to fill a treasury. His features
were bold, with a hooked nose and firm lips, and he radiated an authority that
bordered on brusque. It was not hard to see what made him popular with both men
and women.

He snapped a nod at their approach.
“Major Burrell.”

“Your grace.” Ty made a little bow
beside her, and Kate slid her leg back into a curtsy she had been practicing
all afternoon. “Field marshal, may I present to you Miss Foster, of Albany.”

“Captain Greene was speaking of you
earlier, Miss Foster.” He took her hand, but the hesitant consideration in his
eyes left her wondering just what Captain Greene had thought to say. “You are a
nurse with one of General Webb's regiments, I understand.”

“I am, your grace.” It was an
over-simplification, but she saw no need to argue the finer points, especially
not with Matthew's head on the block.

Wellington smiled, but Kate
perceived some struggle in the slow way his mouth curved. “Hmm. I'm glad you
are able to tolerate the major long enough to join our party.”

She dug her elbow into Ty's side.
“By the end of this evening, our positions may be reversed.”

The hard line of Wellington's mouth
relaxed. “Major Burrell, take Miss Foster in and acquaint her with everyone.
The Ridgeworth-Asters have come down, so I hope you are wearing comfortable
shoes. No sitting down this evening.”

Groaning, Ty gave her a miserable
glance. “They are curious, and worse, boring. And a talkative pair, but God
bless their patriotic spirit.” Fingers pinched to his thumb, he discreetly pantomimed
the Aster's enjoyment of conversation.

“Is that all?” She nudged him toward
the parlor. “You underestimate my talent for making myself disagreeable.”

He chuckled. “You haven't met the
Asters. Not disagreeable enough.”

The parlor was smallish and simple
like the hall, with a modest pianoforte and high mantle its only attractive
features. The civilians present were over-quaffed and over-dressed, as though
transported directly from a glittering London drawing room. Kate glanced down
at her brown silk gown, the gift from Adelaide at least a year out of style to
anyone in Nivelles. It may as well be a decade behind, to the fashionable
ladies present now. She tugged a cuff down over the back of her hand, fiddling
while she took her companions' measure.

She was disappointed to see that
Matthew was not at hand, until something drew her eyes back, where two couples
conversed fire-side. The first pair was unremarkable, a man and woman in their
upper years. They were a matched-set of plump peacocks, over-feathered and
over-rouged. Ty groaned beside her, and Kate guessed she had caught first sight
of the dreaded Asters.

The couple at their mercy could not
have been cut from more opposite cloth. The woman was tall, gently animated
arms swaying with willowy grace. Black silk draped every swell and curve,
leaving Kate feeling plain and dumpy by comparison. Curls with the shine and
ink of a raven's wing crowned her head, tumbling over her shoulder. Her neck,
fingers and wrists resembled an inside-out jewelry box, roped with precious
stones. Beside her towered Matthew, cradling her arm and looking for all the
world as though he had never been more miserable. Kate caught his gaze. His
head jerked and he looked away. She swore there was shame on his face.

Caroline
. Kate's thoughts
were in competition, trying to grasp that Lady Webb was
here
, and
reconciling that the viscountess looked almost nothing like she had imagined.
Why did her chest ache? Her hands went clammy against Ty's sleeve, and her
appetite receded. The night seemed too long to bear. She wanted to return to
the garrison. She wanted to turn and run.

Ty leaned close to share his
sympathetic whisper. “I had no notion she would be here, Kate. I would have
prepared you.”

“I have no idea what you mean.” Her
protest was genuine, a jumble of emotions too tangled up to identify. She
wouldn't look at Ty, but felt his eyes on her for a long moment, probing for
the truth. Then he shrugged and was silent.

The dining room was miserable. Aside
from beautiful plaster work on the walls and ceiling, there was nothing to look
at. Everything was white; the walls, the mantle, the tablecloth. It was a
dizzying degree of blank spaces, and combined with the heat of a fireplace
directly at her back, it conspired against her stomach. Kate wanted to be sick.

At dinner she sat suspended between
Ty and Sir Jonathan Cole. Both vied unflaggingly for her attention, Ty because
he was positioned as prey for Mrs. Ridgeworth-Aster and Sir Jonathan, Kate
guessed, because she took a genuine interest in his stories.

Wellington commanded the head of the
table, with Lady Frances Shelley to his left playing hostess, checking on
everyone's comfort with her striking blue eyes. Lady Shelley was the only
agreeable woman Kate had encountered thus far, and she was too far away to be
of help.

Sir Jonathan, to her right, was
taking up the cause. He was one of the few guests who seemed to have taken an
immediate liking to her on their introduction in the parlor. His plain-spoken
cheer put her at ease just when she desperately needed it.

For some reason he seemed to think
she would take delight in hearing about his time serving in America during the
revolution. He did not assume for a moment that she might be offended at his
victories as a captain or their opposing loyalties on the matter. She wasn't,
and adored him for thinking of it all as water under the bridge. His tales,
which seemed to grow taller as the telling went on and the brandy went down,
had the added benefit of keeping her turned fixedly away from Matthew, seated
kitty-corner from her across the table, a hunted man between his wife and
Captain Greene.

“Just imagine it, Miss Foster!” Sir
Jonathan plucked at the neat angle of one silvery mutton chop cutting across
his weathered cheek. “A thousand men against us.”

It was difficult to imagine, when a
moment before the opposing force had been comprised of just four hundred. There
was a time when Kate guessed it might have been a great honor to be noticed by
the man. His glory had faded over four decades, and she was touched by the
pleasure he took in the attention of an unknown American girl. There was not a
hint of the haughtiness which radiated from other corners of the table. Kate
smiled. “You managed your men credibly, Sir Jonathan. With more officers such as
you, I believe our two nations would still be united.” He preened, taking an
enthusiastic spoonful of soup.

She ventured a look at Matthew. His
bowl sat untouched, spoon cradled on his napkin. He had been watching her
exchange with Sir Jonathan, and his eyes spoke to her now with resignation. No
longer absorbed in her new friend's nostalgia, Kate realized why. Caroline
discouraged Matthew's conversation, turning her body almost completely away.
She directed most of her remarks to Major Mercier Pitt, a short, darkly
handsome fox near the end of the table.

When Caroline was not speaking to
him, Pitt invented reasons to seek her input. Observing Caroline arch her chest
forward, and Pitt's eyes predatory, darting at her movements, Kate would wager
everything she owned that the pair were lovers. A silken thread of thinly
veiled lust strung them together, generating palpable anticipation. She glanced
back to Matthew, still watching her sadly, and she wanted to convey something
with her look but had no idea what.

“Miss Foster.” Captain Greene
drawled her name with a bite of acid.

She tensed, apprehension tiptoeing
along her spine. Narrowed eyes darted from her, to Matthew, and back again. The
corners of his mouth twitched, tasting blood. He had obviously witnessed her
silent exchange with Matthew, but Greene would never take pleasure from simply
calling it to attention. Greene's pleasure came from prolonging the hunt more
than striking his prey. She should have known, from their first exchange at the
officers' dinner, that he was not to be trusted.

She straightened in her chair,
tossing back the last dry mouthful of wine in her glass.
Let him come
.
She might not emerge victorious, but she could leave him a scar or two as a
souvenir. “Captain Greene.”

His tone was sly, matching his
sidelong look. “I was telling his Grace just earlier of your work in the
field.”

“Were you?” That was a tale she
would dearly love to hear. He would not have mentioned Doctor Addison's death.
That would risk putting his general, and himself, in a bad spot. All other
morsels were undoubtedly fair game.

“Perhaps you could relate to us some
of your experiences. You did say you were present at Vitoria...” He tapped a
finger to his left shoulder, referencing her scar.

He was a bastard, down to the
marrow in his bones
. She stole a glance a Ty, strangling his napkin, and
then at Wellington leaning forward in his seat. “I am a poor story teller,
Captain. A party of such discerning taste could not be entertained by my
boorish anecdotes.”

Wellington, taking a well-meaning
interest, pounced on Greene's information. “Vitoria was fought under my
command, as you may be aware, Miss Foster. What were your duties there?”