Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (26 page)

“I have trouble imagining you as
gentle
,”
he scoffed. “Or too meek to put the boy in his place.”

“Trouble yourself no further. Sunday
before Christmas, Patrick had been especially awful. Kicking my heel beneath
the pew, snatching out my pins, and generally inflicting every sort of
indignity a young lady should not have to bear. But I didn't cry.” Kate smiled
proudly. “I walked out of the vestibule with mother, head up high, and when
that rat-faced hell spawn jumped before me and asked how I had 'enjoyed the
service', I punched him right in the eye!” She smacked hands together. “Off the
steps and onto his backside in the snow.”

She winced, as if still smarting.
“Oh, my knuckles ached, and my flesh stung like frostbite! But I refused to let
him see how much it hurt. As mother dragged me off to my doom, I balled my
bloody fist inside my cloak and stuck out my tongue for all I was worth!”

He clapped gently. “Show no
weakness.”

“None.” Her head shook vehemently.
“My mother insisted I go apologize, but I would have died of humiliation. I
stayed in my room for two days, refusing to cooperate. Father intervened for
me, conceding that I had grounds, and declaring that my purple, swollen hand
was punishment enough.”

Nothing she had shared so far
countered his original impression of her as a child. Why did that not surprise
him? “Soundly thrashed by a girl.”

Kate's eyes narrowed. “Knowing him,
I'm absolutely certain he had a more masculine explanation for it.” She relaxed
against the wall. “After our row, I hardly remember setting eyes on him for the
longest time, though I'm sure we must have been around each other as often as
before. Then, one afternoon, Father called me into the parlor, and there was
Patrick in a spotless new navy uniform. He didn't tease or pick on me. In fact,
we sat there in the most uncomfortable silence, with just my poor father
interjecting some unoffending comment from time to time. When the clock in the
hall struck four, Patrick jumped up as if bit and left, barely saying goodbye.”

An involuntary grin pulled at his
lips. “He was courting you.”

“I had no idea,” she groaned. “I was
on the cusp of fifteen, and there was a spring ball sponsored by the aldermen.
All I cared about was debating with Lizzie Fletcher how many flounces our
skirts should have. The masculine sex ran a very distant second.”

He widened his eyes for Kate's
benefit. “The mysteries of female discourse, revealed.”

She chuckled. “Now you know.” Kate
drew up her knees and smiled, shifting nervously, looking exactly the part of
the girl in her story. “It was after Patrick's third visit, or perhaps the
fourth, that mother sat beside me, took both my hands, and told me to answer
her truthfully. She asked if I would like father to tell Patrick not to call
anymore.” She raised a fist, making him laugh. “I was astounded!
Why
would we ask Patrick to stop visiting?” Kate shook her head, settling closer
against his shoulder.

“She smiled, realizing of course
that I had not the slightest idea what Patrick was about. So she explained it
to me.” Hands flew to her cheeks. “My face nearly caught on fire, and then I
did
not
want him to come back! I dreaded his next visit, expecting the worst,
but my father had come to his aid and suggested Patrick stick to
medically-related subjects.”

“And life was easier for everyone,”
he teased.

“Much. Patrick asked for permission
to marry when I was seventeen, but father made him wait. It was under the
pretense of allowing me to finish my schooling and my father's apprenticeship,
but I was very close to my father, and I think he was just putting off the day
I left the nest.” Her smile faded into the far-away depth of her eyes. “Patrick
was at sea by then, and maybe father was already seeing the first hints of
trouble.”

“I find it hard to imagine. Nothing
you've shared so far sounds like the man to come. It seems he cared for you.”
Deeply, if he were a gambling man. It sounded as though Kate had entranced her
future husband in much the same way he had been tripped up by her. Matthew
realized he had resorted to his own bouts of braid-pulling where she was
concerned.

“While we were courting, I'm certain
he did care for me. Patrick was always,
always
charming, gregarious,
thrilled at being in company. When we became engaged, I was prepared to settle
in, make our home, and have our children. Isn't that what I was
supposed
to do?” Her beautiful face drew up, pained with confusion. “I was giving up
medicine for him! I'm ashamed to think of it now.” Kate hung her head.

“It was so agonizing. That seemed to
be what Patrick wanted from me, but I obviously bored him. He teased me
unkindly about my interest in medicine. He had his own ship by then but never
took me aboard, even though it is the captain's privilege. He was celebrated
during the war, and rightly so. Whatever else he might have been, Patrick was a
skilled sailor and a fine captain. But that meant he attended more dinners,
more balls.” Her voice trembled. “He attended, and I did not.”

“This when you were newlywed?” He
could understand a marriage cooling over time. He had experienced it
first-hand. But even with Caroline, there had been a fire in the beginning that
made it impossible to stay apart, or clothed, for long.

“We were, not that it mattered to
Patrick. Forgive my bluntness, but I took pleasure in sharing my husband's bed.
After a time, though, he would return from weeks at sea, roll to the edge of
the mattress and nod off as if I weren't there. It took me an embarrassingly
long time to puzzle out why.”

Kate took a deep breath, as though
she were prepared to dive. “I went into town, while Patrick was deployed to
break up a blockade, and crossed paths with the wife of his friend Timothy. She
innocently let slip that the men had returned to port the day before. Patrick
had spent the night drinking at the Old Crow and stayed in the upstairs rooms.”

Ugly anticipation prickled at the
hairs along his neck. There was no wondering what Patrick had been up to. His
heart ached for Kate. Matthew wrapped his arm around hers. “You do not have to
speak of it.”

“No, I want to.” Kate clutched her
stomach, leaning forward. “Though, it makes me sick to think of it, even now. I
told myself not to go, that my nerves were up for no reason. But the tavern was
only two streets over. A short walk to put my mind at ease.” She was quiet a
moment. “At ease with the truth, really. Inside, I already suspected.

“I knew, when the landlady gave me a
hard time of it, that I shouldn't go upstairs. I suppose I just needed to see
for myself.” Kate squeezed his arm tight, voice sounding small. He closed his
eyes, steeling himself for what came next.

“I would have known she had been
there, had the place been empty. The whole chamber stunk like stale sweat and
spiced rum. Patrick, sprawled on the coverlet with his trousers not quite up or
down. And there she was, tucked up beside him as though she had every right to
be: Lizzie Fletcher, my dearest friend in the world.” Kate might as well have
punched him in the gut. At least Mercier Pitt had not been his friend.

“She sat with me at church, consoled
me when my parents died, kept me company when Patrick was at sea,” She sniffed,
wiping at her eyes, “And kept him company when he returned.” Kate lay against
his side, and he could feel the tremble in her muscles. Not tears, but pent-up
rage.

“I wanted to scream at them, throw
something at them, claw her face till it bled. Instead, I laid my shawl across
them, so they would both know I had been there, and went home. Not to our home;
to White Oaks. I lay on my mother's bed and cried until I slept. When I woke
up, I cried some more.”

He knew precisely what she meant.
The day was fresh in his mind, dredged up by Kate's memories. He'd dug through
Caroline's reticule, looking for a missing key. The handkerchief had been
carelessly tossed aside, until it was time to stuff the contents back into the
purse. He had mistaken the
M
on the corner for a
W
, until his
brain had protested that the other two initials stretched in the wrong
direction. He had unfolded the cloth, rotated it.
MEP
. His eyes had
traced the black stitches, and he
knew
.

He pulled Kate's arm tighter.

She pressed her face to her
shoulder, using it to dry her eyes. “There was nowhere to turn. My sister was
too young, and my parents were dead. The two people I would've sought it from
otherwise were the two I wished to forget.”

He wanted to offer some comfort, but
he was well aware there was nothing to say that would ease the sting, not even
in the space of years.

“Once they knew that
I
knew,
they were unrepentant for roughly a fortnight. They lived together,
unofficially, in our house. They were seen together everywhere, just as husband
and wife. Lizzie's brother begged her to stop her outrageous behavior, and he visited
me once or twice, to apologize on behalf of her family.”

Kate slumped against him, and some
of the fire went out of her voice. “Nothing put those two to shame until Lizzie
realized she was pregnant. Patrick was happy to continue in their fashion, but
he was never going to marry her. Finally, Lizzie went home. After a few weeks
she wrote to me, and every day for days on end. I believe she was truly sorry,
but I was too hurt and too proud to forgive her.”

“Not much past, Patrick showed his
hateful face at my door. Our housekeeper Liddy was fit to club him with a
rolling pin directly in the throat, but I told her to let him in. I think it
was morbid curiosity; I could not imagine what he thought he could say at that
point. He wanted to apologize, of course. I told him if that was why he’d come,
he could leave immediately. There was no apologizing. Then he asked if we could
simply talk with one another. It was late in the evening, and I told him I was
tired and upset, but that we could speak at our house the next morning. I would
hear whatever he had to say. He was pathetically grateful and said that would
do. He was set to ship out the next night.”

She sat, completely still, staring
at the toe of her boot or something just past it. Matthew waited, shifting
against the ground, but Kate seemed to have forgotten he was there. He cleared
his throat, wondering what explanation the man could give that would even
slightly absolve him.

Silence stretched out, Matthew dimly
aware of a rifle company calling down the line. Kate looking worse by the
moment. Her face broke, tears spilling down her cheeks, and for minutes she
could only shake her head. Matthew dug in his pocket, finding a handkerchief
and pressing it into her palm.

Kate gathered herself enough to
speak. “I have no idea what he wanted to tell me.” She looked to her lap,
fiddling with a thread on her apron. “I didn't go. In fact, I never intended
to. I wanted him to make the journey, hopeful and encouraged,” she paused, “And
then to sit there in our damned house and realize I was
never
coming.
There was an ugly pleasure in it that I will never stop regretting.”

A trickle of cold realization ran
down Matthew's spine, knowing her story must be near its end.

Kate's voice was coarse, barely
forced from her chest. “Patrick was shot from the deck during an engagement two
days later. He was likely incapacitated, and then drowned. It was
not
a
quick death.”

He reached out to gently grasp her
fingers.

With her other hand, Kate reached
into the neckline of her gown, tugging free a wide silver band threaded with a
length of brown jute. “When they pulled him from the water, he was wearing his
wedding ring again. I want to believe that he was truly sorry. I most certainly
was. But I also still hurt at what he had done.” She tucked away the ring. “It
has taken me years to realize there is no shame in that.”

“Certainly not.” Matthew took her
other hand, thumbs gently rubbing across Kate's knuckles. “You are entitled to
all the bitterness you feel.”

“I am, I know that now. I also offer
myself up as a caution against vindictiveness. Perhaps he was truly, absolutely
sorry, or maybe he simply wanted an opportunity to offer excuses for what he
had done. Because of my pride, I will always wonder and I will
never
know. My hubris tasted sweet as any sin, until it was inside me. Now, it's a
poison I have to live with.”

“That is not you, Kate. I have seen
too much to believe it for a moment,” said Matthew.

She nodded weakly. He was not
convinced she believed his reassurance. “And what of Lizzie? Did you make peace
with her?”

Kate nodded. “In a letter. I could
hardly bear to say anything to her face, and we will never be friends again. I
saw her on our way through town to dine with William's family, the last time I
was home. She is married to the parson of a small village north of Albany, and
her boy looks exactly like Patrick in miniature.”

She stopped there, slumping a little
farther as though she were empty, and Matthew decided after a few beats that
nothing else was coming. In the silence, he realized how much he ached – for
Kate having to suffer her memories, and for himself too. There was a pulped
sensation behind his ribs, at recalling his own misery. “I am sorry I pressed
the story from you.”

For the first time, Kate returned
the pressure of his hands. “You were wise, when you said time does not heal all
wounds equally. I still hurt, much more than I have admitted across the years,
but I'm better for having shared it with you.”

He opened his mouth to comfort her,
and froze. The scream of a shell arcing overhead prickled the hair at the back
of his neck. Grabbing Kate by the apron strap, Matthew jerked her to the dirt
and lay half over her. There was pressure, air snapped from his lungs. His
spine seared at the concussion, teeth jarring. Dust billowed into his nose,
ears buzzing so that the orders shouted around them were just deep noises
against one another. Splinters bit deep into his cheek and jaw. A collective
roar rolled over the men like a wave, a primitive battle cry unique to British
soldiers that never failed to make him shiver. It was the sound of men hungry
for blood. Kate wriggled beneath him, pressing him back with an elbow.