Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (3 page)

Ty bent his long frame into a camp
chair with an easy grace that Matthew envied. It was the same masculine
disregard that brought every woman in the ballroom running, whenever they were
in London. His hat landed on Matthew's cot, and he immediately went to work
righting the damage it had done to his barber's fashionable efforts.

Matthew tipped the major an easy
nod. “Tyler.”

Ty grimaced. “You say it precisely
like my mother.”

“Someone has to. How was your time
in London?”

“Productive. In more ways than one.”

“Meaning?” It was never
just
an answer with Ty.

Ty swept disheveled blond hair into
place with a practiced hand. “Meaning it was productive and beyond that, you
would not be interested.”

The pieces began to fit. Matthew
raised his brows. “Meaning Georgiana Fitzgerald?”

He was forced to swallow his jest
when Ty shook his head. “Didn't see her, not once. My brother came down with
some of his children, and we had a lovely afternoon with my mother who did not
press me to make any of my own. Paid a call to my barber and my tailor.” His
grin was unapologetic. “A visit for all the most important people in my life.”

Matthew was not fooled. Ty might
cultivate a dandy's reputation, and it certainly stuck, but he knew how hard
the major had worked to earn his place in high society. The illegitimate child
of a man he loved but refused to discuss, there was no chance of Ty's ever
harvesting the bounty of a family estate.

Fortunately, Ty did not need the
family's help. Clever, with a good education and unaffected charm, he'd been
keen enough to use those three tools to the greatest advantage. He might have
come from relative obscurity, but when invitations went out for anything, Major
Burrell's arrived in the
first
batch.

They had bonded over a love of the
army, a duty to England, and the talent for making war. Ty was ruthless in the
field, an unmatched tactician when it came to artillery and beloved by the men.
When Matthew issued an order, Major Burrell was the only officer to whom he
granted complete autonomy in its execution.

Matthew tapped the desk for
emphasis, recapturing Ty's attention. “Nearly a month in town, and those were
your only activities? You did nothing else on the other twenty-odd days...”

“I'm thirty now, Webb. Put up on the
shelf.” Ty pantomimed dusting himself, then laughed. “How are you settling in?”
He kicked boots up onto the desk, defying ten years of Matthew's directives
against it.

“Ever seen a man-o-war run aground?
About like that.” Matthew raised a hand, ticking off one finger at a time.
“Half my baggage has not arrived. I'm certain Braddock sold off munition stores
for pocket money – not that he kept any sort of inventory to prove or disprove
my suspicion – and if the regiment's nurse is to be believed, my doctor is
effectively dead.”

Ty chuckled. “Truly you live by the
sword. At least the men can be counted on to make you welcome. They've done
nothing but belly-ache over your absence since Lisbon.”

“They may well belly-ache more over
my return.” He swept Braddock's documents to the edge of his desk. “Judging by
what little drivel he's left behind, I'm a heavier hand than Major Braddock.
Speaking of which...” He held up Private Taft's brief testimonial. “Tell me
about Miss Foster and Mister Astley.”

Miss Foster had been with the
regiment as long as Doctor Addison, and Major Burrell would have acquainted
himself with a woman so eye-catching at the first opportunity. If anyone had
useful insight, it was bound to be Ty, but judging by his sly grin he wasn't
apt to share it.

Ty shook his head, squinting at the
page. “Astley I do not particularly know. He's a recent addition to Addison's
menagerie. Some of the men get on with him, but I cannot say if that is owing
to superior care or male modesty. I find him a bit of eel-skin, personally.”
            Matthew grunted and said nothing. The major had practically
confirmed Miss Foster's concerns, and heightened some of his own.

“Miss Foster...I could entertain you
with three years of stories about her.” He wrestled up his shirt and waistcoat,
thumbing down the waistband of his gray trousers, exposing a shiny pink scar.
The length of Matthew's little finger, it slashed across Ty's flank. “This can
speak on my behalf. I survived my bayonet injury and a trailing infection at
her hands.”

Leaning forward, Matthew peered at
the old injury, more curious about the story than the wound. Science and medicine
piqued his interest nearly as much as the army. “How did she treat your wound?
What was her method?”

Ty's answered with a cryptic
head-shake and a maddening grin. “Medical anecdotes cannot do the lady justice.
I would not even attempt it.” Ty stuffed his shirt tail into his waistband.
“You've a keen eye, Webb. See for yourself.”

Matthew sighed, letting a smile
escape for the first time in days. “How have I managed all this time without
you, Major? I was in danger of becoming a sane man.”

Ty rubbed his hands together. “I
will be pleased to deprive you of your sanity, along with your wagers and good
gin.”

“I haven't got any gin. Not for
you.”

Gasping, Ty clutched at his chest.
“Red-blooded Englishman and no gin. They ought to drum you right out!”

“
Good night
, major.”

“You had better get some,” warned
Ty.

He hesitated at something in the
major's tone. “What?”

“Gin.” Hammering a finger into the
letter about Miss Foster, Ty wiggled his brows. “You're going to need it.”

CHAPTER TWO

20 March – Quatre Bras

Fann,

Doctor Addison, God rest him, is
gone. It feels so much like losing Father again. I know you will be just as sad
as I at the news. Rest your head on William's shoulder and let his comfort
double for mine.

How many men besides our father
would have offered me the opportunities which Doctor Addison joyfully shared? I
should not be surprised. Francis treated everyone with the same dignity and
compassion. It was his gift to this harsh world, and we are all the worse off
without him.

I feel more, but I cannot write
it now. Grief comes over me in unrelenting waves, and when I am not crying for
the doctor's loss I am overcome with the unfairness of such a callous maggot
replacing him.

Napoleon has reached Paris, with
ten times the men as when he set out.

God has a plan, but today I
cannot see it.

-K

“I am the resurrection and the life,
saith the lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he
live.” General Webb paused, head bowed over the tattered brown leather bible.

Kate stood on the open hilltop
outside the garrison's western wall, under a silver-dome sky, unsheltered from
a biting spring wind that slapped her cheeks, cutting through every layer of
clothing. A last gasp of morning rain sprinkled her face, mingling with her
tears.

Porter tossed a scoop of dirt into
the hole, the sandy soil skittering over the battered canvas wagon cover in
which they had wrapped Doctor Addison that morning. He didn't show it, but she
knew he shared her grief. A fugitive slave from the Carolinas, Porter had been
scooped up by the doctor in New York, just as they were about to set sail. A
person was a person in Addison's estimation, and both she and Porter had been
treated accordingly for the last three years. In the middle of a war, they had
found real freedom.

She had sat up with the doctor for
two nights after the illness overtook him, a painful, drawn-out conclusion,
knowing he would never recover. His suffering was over now, and for that she
was grateful. Still, she failed to fight back selfish tears at the loss of her
friend and mentor, and for the men of the regiment. They were all in Astley's
hands now.

Dabbing the heel of her hand against
swollen eyes, she leaned to Ty on her left, whispering with barely-moving lips.
“Why is the general giving the service? We're not on a ship.” At sea a captain
might give last rites, but they were on dry land, with several towns nearby.

“He sent to the village, but the
only holy man there is Catholic. Some of the officers objected strongly.” Ty
grimaced an apology, knowing her religion was a sensitive topic. Most of the
men did not concern themselves with how she worshiped on Sunday, but the ones
who did were always eager to find fault with her, asserting that her every flaw
stemmed from following the church of Rome.

Snorting, Kate crossed her arms
inside her shawl, staring out toward the stormy gray wisps along the horizon,
glad that the service was nearly done.

General Webb tucked the bible under
his arm, removed his hat and cradled it against his chest. The regiment's
nearly eight-hundred men followed suit, pressing hands to hearts. “Let us
commend Francis Addison to the mercy of God, our maker and redeemer. Amen.”

Amen.

Colonel McAuley dismissed the men,
who filed past in two lines thumbing a salute at the hole. In minutes she and
Porter stood alone beside the ragged grave. She took up a shovel, impaled in
the thin mound of soil at the foot of the hole. Palming the splintered wooden
handle, along with Porter she began to yard the dirt. It was a task usually assigned
to privates on light duty or under minor discipline, but she had asked Major
Burrell to leave it to her and Porter.

Addison had been a close
acquaintance of her father, and the two exchanged ideas constantly, even
controversial ones, like women practicing medicine. He encouraged her father to
indulge her interest, to plant knowledge wherever he found a fertile mind. That
had been her reason for seeking Addison out, three years earlier.

In his letter inviting her to Spain,
he had confessed that he could not offer her comfort or safety, just plenty of
patients. Maybe he had meant to scare her off. Kate laughed, tossing more soil.
If so, his plan had backfired.

She had never regretted taking the
leap and coming to Europe, and hoped he had not regretted sponsoring her. They
were happy together even in the worst of times, at odds only once, when Addison
had taken on Gregory Astley as his apprentice.

He had believed Astley's ambition
synonymous with loyalty. Prideful errors by Astley were attributed to a lack of
knowledge rather than a lack of caring. Doctor Addison had believed it
impossible that someone could devote himself to the practice medicine for
selfish reasons.

Addison had defended her to Astley
as often as he defended his apprentice, believing discord was unhealthy for the
patients. Kate raked in the last bit of dirt she could scrape from the grass,
rolling her eyes. Astley was already working hard to test that theory.

She threw her shovel down beside the
mound, meeting Porter's eyes for the first time since they started. “You're
still a freeman. You don't have to stay.”

He nodded slowly. “You know this is
as close to home as anywhere. I can't remember Trinidad. Don't want to remember
Carolina.”

Kate watched the fog lifting,
mulling over something in his words. “You're right. We have a lot of good
memories with the army. I suppose that makes home wherever we're camped.”

He smiled, picking up her shovel. “I
suppose it does.”

Kate picked her way along the wall,
heading for the hospital. Syphilis and gangrene gave no quarter for grief, and
the patients would keep coming no matter what. Mourning would have to wait
until she was under her quilt, whenever that might be. That did not mean she
had to run headlong into the fray. She turned east at the main camp road,
taking the long way back.

A chill at her core deepened when
she reached sight of the doctor's old tent. Stacks of his books sat in the dirt
out front, some tossed onto a path muddy from the night's rain.

She went from cold to hot in two
steps, boiling by the time she cornered Astley ransacking a trunk of clothes.
The whole tent resembled a shipwreck.

“What are you doing?” She grabbed up
a few wadded letters and a single boot, beginning to put them away.

“Cleaning out my quarters.” Astley
threw the mate to her boot, knocking a jar off of the tabletop.

“Your – since when are these
your
quarters?” The general would hear about this.

“Since Francis went to the worms
last night.”

The toe of her boot was thicker than
she had guessed. Kate hardly felt her foot connect with his shin.

Astley launched an armload of shirts
and trousers, catching her in the face. He followed with a finger shaking under
her nose. “I am in charge now. You assault me again or run contrary to my
instructions, and I will have the general horsewhip you in front of the whole
bleeding regiment.”

She laughed. He would try, she had
no doubt. Only once though, and his regret for it would be eternal. “
Your
instructions? Save yourself the trouble. I can manage my own course.”

Kate spun to leave, but Astley's
grip on her wrist snapped her painfully around. “General Webb has given his
direction. You may take it or leave it. Preferably the latter.”

She jerked an elbow, catching him in
the ribs and breaking his grip. “I'm not a timid village girl. Lay hands on me
again and I will dress you like a Christmas goose.” There had been so many
things to learn during the years her father had spent treating the Indian
tribes around their home. Some practical and some spiritual, and some just
plain ruthless. She was more than eager to give him an education.

He jerked a finger towards the flap.
“Get out of my quarters. There must be something in the hospital for you to
clean.”

She snatched the last remaining
stack of books from the bed, occupying her hands before she did Astley more
harm. “I will take these. You must be daunted by all the long words.”

Kate spun on her heel, not able to
get clear of Astley quickly enough. She certainly was not going to the
hospital, or cleaning one damned thing. She was going to have words with the
man responsible for the situation.

Red
. She had heard people use
the expression, but Kate was not certain of ever having felt it till now. It
was a fog over the camp, staining the people, the tents and structures into an
indistinct haze. She nearly tripped on two men sitting and cleaning rifles near
the quartermaster's. Her feet knew the path to General Webb's tent, and they
followed it without help while her mind raged.

He groaned through the canvas at her
name, telling the sentry to make her wait. He certainly was new. That was the
fastest way to guarantee she did
not
wait. Yanking back the flap from a
surprised guard, she stomped in.

Matthew stood over a tall oak
basin-stand, straight razor in one hand and a small mirror in the other. Irritation
was written all over a face covered in tiny soap bubbles. His jacket lay
carelessly over the desk, shirt wide open at the throat. She looked while
pretending not to.

“Miss Foster. Had you waited
outside
for an answer, it would have been communicated to you that I am indisposed. No
intrusion necessary.”

“Are you shaving?” She hardly
absorbed his jab, still perplexed by his doing it in the middle of the day,
when she could swear he had been bare-faced at Doctor Addison's service.

He splashed water over his cheeks
with cupped palms, no longer seeming to care that she was present. It was
impossible to miss the square of his jaw, the blunt cut of his chin drawing her
eye to his wry lips. “Twice daily, in keeping with my
private
routine.”

Private routine
. She did not
miss the barb, but if Webb was going to put Astley in charge, then the general
would have to learn a new routine. Kate moved her eyes to a spot past his
shoulder, irritated that he had distracted her from her reason for coming.
“I've just had the unfortunate experience of seeing Astley. He is ransacking
Doctor Addison's quarters.”

General Webb set down the towel,
looking her straight in the eyes for the first time. “I am sorry Miss Foster,
truly.”

It surprised her, but she believed
he
truly
was. His condolences sounded genuine, if curt. Acknowledging it
made her uncomfortable.

“Doctor Addison was very dear to
you, I understand.” He shrugged. “The efficiency of the army in moving forward,
though necessary, is not always kind.”

She hated that he was being
reasonable. It was undermining her outrage. “You've given Astley leave to use
the tent?”

“As the closest thing to a doctor we
currently enjoy, yes.”

She held up a wrist, still red but
deepening into a raspberry bruise where Astley had grabbed her. “Did you give
him leave to lord himself over me?”

The general's jaw twitched at the
sight of her injury. “Certainly not. Though, you are his nurse. Fulfilling his
orders is naturally a part of your duties, and I imagine you'd wish to satisfy
them.”

“I am not his nurse. I wasn't even
Addison's nurse!” She was yelling now, but she did not care. “I have more
experience and in-hand qualifications than Gregory Astley.”

“Unfortunately, those are not the
most important qualifications.” He shot a blunt glance below the waist of her
dress.

She snorted, shaking her head,
understanding perfectly. A person's ability to practice medicine was not
predicated on knowledge or skill, only sex organs. Her father had explained
that early on. Female hysteria, women's complaints, pregnancy, inherent
unfaithfulness and Eve's sin. Those objections and more were passed from man to
man with a knowing nod, sealing a gentleman's agreement to never allow such a
fragile, moon-mad creature dominion over the lives of others. Except their own
children. No harm there, apparently.

It took a lot of slow, deep breaths
to manage her next words. “I hope my willingness, and that word is applied
very
loosely, to work with Mister Astley proves my dedication to the men of this
regiment.” She pivoted toward the doorway. “If I had my way, I'd leave him
hogtied in a roadside ditch.”

*          *          *

Matthew was the last to leave the
officers' mess, embarrassingly having nodded off at the first moment he was
alone inside. The regiment was beginning to resemble her old self, but it had
taken more than a week, with only a few hours of sleep each night. On campaign,
battle
was supposed to deprive a man of rest, not a missing crate of
boots.

Drifting half-asleep back to his
quarters, the sound of Ty's laughter gave Matthew pause as he passed an
unfamiliar tent.

“You are people of opposing tempers,
Miss Foster. Somehow you have to reconcile that detail.”

Kate made a noise. Perhaps a balled
fist smacking her palm, audible through the canvas. “He makes me want to strike
something. Repeatedly.”

Another laugh. “That is his duty.
You know how things work, Kate. General Webb answers to the Field Marshal for
everything, from how uniforms are distributed to how the infantry is joined or
separated. You are not exempt from his scrutiny, no matter
how
capable.”

Matthew felt smug enjoyment at
Kate's long silence, until she spoke again. “I wish...I just wish that I could
make him see the camp the way I do. These men weather the absence of their
families. The discomfort and
indignity
of camp illnesses and
always
the terror of being cut down.” Her voice dropped, losing steam. “We could
relieve so much of it by just addressing sanitation. Reprimanding the camp
women for turning the common areas into a midden pile.”