Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (42 page)

He was grateful that she had sought
shelter in his arms as he spoke and could not see him blinking desperately at
burning eyes to regain his composure. When she pulled away, he dug out his
handkerchief, swiping down her cheeks, memorizing the shape of her face as he
went. She took the cloth from his hand, tucking it reverently into her sleeve.

“Take off your gloves,” he said.

She peeled them down with a curious
look, tossing them onto a nearby table. Raking knuckles over her bare arms, he
leaned in, kissing her neck and lacing their fingers together.

She stayed put when a knock rattled
the door, and even when McKinnon leaned into the room, not looking the least
surprised at finding them together. “Escort's ready, sir.”

Kate untangled from him. “I will be
waiting, at the rear. At the first moment, the very first
chance
, write
or come to me. Even just a glance, so my heart can rest.”

Matthew tried to answer, torn
between not knowing what to say and not wanting to lie, certain if he opened
his lips a sob was all he could manage. Finally, he nodded, staying silent,
knowing she would be too far away for him to promise either one.

*          *          *

Kate was jealous of Louisa, only
half a face beside her. She snored away from between her bonnet and her lacy
collar, lulled like a baby by the sickening roll and jostle of the carriage.
Louisa was not callous; her heart ached as much as any of them. Age and
infirmity made her too tired to suffer through it all.

Across from her, occupying most of
the cab's small space with her mere presence, Adelaide was a sculpture of
composure.
Stiff composure
, Kate amended. Small creases that normally
winged out from her brows and mouth carved themselves deeper now with
exhaustion. The rims of her eyelids were angry, swollen with perpetually unshed
tears. She continually dabbed at them with a cloth, muttering
'Consign all
this road-dust!'

It had taken considerable effort to
gather herself after Matthew left, at least enough to make the walk back to
their house. There were plenty of people in the Grand Place, and even on the
side streets, but it seemed they moved in amber, slowly and with their heads
down, lips mute even while they clung to a loved one.

I will hardly be parted from
Matthew at all
. Kate repeated the words to herself all along the route
across town, trying as hard to believe them now as she had at the outset. Four
hours to Ruisbroek and four hours back on muddy roads. The battle might not
even be underway when she returned. Doctor Hallick could make use of her, or
perhaps she could establish a second surgery to help lighten his burden.
Logistics had occupied the rest of her walk, and she had contented herself with
the thought that, in the thick of it, Matthew would be close should things go
badly.

Entering their house had doused what
little optimism she managed to kindle. It was dark and silent, driving home
Matthew's absence and how quickly the weather of their day had turned from fair
to foul. The furniture was shrouded with storage linens that made them look
like odd shaped caskets, the staff dismissed to evacuate or see to their
families. Had she not thrown a key in her reticule that afternoon, she would
have been locked out. Casting about, she noticed that Matthew must have
forgotten his evening shoes and a top hat. They waited patiently to be claimed
from the console table in the hall, their shadows running to the door and
reaching out for their owner as she lit a candle.

In her bed chamber, Hermine had
taken great care in packing her things, carefully tucking Fann's letter atop
the few articles of clothing in her small foot case. A pair of Matthew's gloves
was nestled beside the pages. Slamming the lid, she tried breathing against the
stabbing beat in her chest. She fled the room, but the tears came before she
had cleared the staircase. She stumbled to Adelaide's and collapsed in the
hall, out of breath and willing to pay an outrageous sum for a hot rag to clean
her face.

Adelaide, in similar shape,
contributed what she could in the way of sensible ideas. Together they almost
formed half a person and had managed to hire a converted post-coach, load it
with a few things, and clear the city walls at just past three in the morning.

There was enough pre-dawn glow in
the carriage now to see Adelaide clearly. Her eyes darted to Louisa again and
again, until she leaned over the foot well and gave her a sound jab in the hip
with her index finger. “Louisa!” Adelaide hissed, squinting and scowling
viciously. The only answer was a protracted snort, and Adelaide relaxed,
looking satisfied.

Kate looked on as she tugged a small
tapestry traveling-bag from behind her knees. Adelaide snapped it open and
produced a stoppered brown glass bottle, its label printed with flowers, or
possibly tiny bows. Extracting the cork with some violence, she thrust it at
Kate.

Kate held up a hand and turned her
face away instinctively. She did not need to be steadied. There was nothing
wrong with her which could be cured by ammonia spirits. “I can't abide smelling
salts. I doubt their effectiveness, and the odor...” She shuddered.

One slender black brow arched in
reply. “Do you take me for the fainting sort? It's whiskey, girl.” Adelaide
tapped the label, whispering, “Louisa would fly into the boughs if she knew.”

A little ashamed at her eagerness,
she snatched the bottle from Adelaide's fingers and drew a long mouthful.
Adelaide raked her fingers, demanding its return. “That is all I brought. Pray
do not
drown the parson
until I've had a taste.”

Scrubbing her mouth with the back of
one hand, Kate welcomed the trail of fire burning down her throat, warming her
from the inside against the hour's chill and her own misery. They enjoyed two
more mouthfuls apiece before Adelaide jabbed the cork home, shaking the
depleted bottle with a sad wiggle of her wrist and tossing it back into the
bag.

Kate studied her, waiting and making
a wager with herself. Considering the woman in question, the result was quicker
than she had imagined. It did not take as long as she had expected, given
Adelaide's apparent practiced consumption. Her face softened, shoulders
unknitting, and she arched back over the squabs with suspicious elasticity. No
food in their bellies and exhaustion nipping their heels; Kate realized they
were on the lower end of crocked and climbing the ladder at speed. She did not
care. Even if she could not forget, she could at least not
feel
for a
moment.

They jostled along, and Kate tried
to absorb the countryside, boredom warring with a churning stomach that
revolted against the liquor. Out her window there was a glimmer between the low
rises to the east. Sun brushed the hilltops, shining off of the ribbon of a
canal flowing into the distance. “Look! Here it comes...” She poked Adelaide
with the toe of her boot, pointing to the fire burning atop the ridge. Adelaide
shifted, but her eyes stayed closed.

In moments, the sun crested,
spilling over the valley and bringing greens, blues, and golds to life.
Clustered fields of lavender transmuted from dusty gray to bold purple. Brown
grass glowed with a burnish, swaying as they rolled past. Light warmed her face
through the carriage window, and somehow the day chased away a small measure of
the fear which had followed her through the night.

She closed her eyes, relieved, aware
of nothing more until the carriage jerked to a halt a time later. They must
have arrived at the crossing in Ruisbroek. At least, she assumed it was
Ruisbroek. She had missed the outskirts, the main streets, and realized she
would not have recognized it even if she had been looking out the window.

The buildings around them were Dutch
from foundation to peak, red and gray brick, roofs tall and step-sided like
broad shoulders. She stretched to exit the carriage, eager for a glimpse of
anything besides the dim interior.

Not that she was left with a choice.
Though not traveling on with Louisa and Adelaide, fresh horses were needed for
the return trip. The driver communicated this is in broken English, by
demanding that she 'shoo'. Louisa now weighted down a lacy ironwork bench, head
hanging with the effort of staying awake, while Adelaide bickered with a sidewalk
peddler over the price of his boiled eggs.

The sharp eyes of allied guards dug
into the comings and goings along the canal. It was closely guarded because it
flowed uninterrupted to Brussels, allowing all sorts of mischief for the right
people. Sabotage, surveillance or covert movement was a constant threat.

“Miss Foster!” One of the soldiers
uprooted himself from his post at the foot of a wide stone bridge, and raised a
hand to her. Kate shaded her eyes, squinting, not recognizing him until he was
a step away.

“Lieutenant Allison!” She smiled in
earnest, grateful for a friendly face. “We're both far from home.”

He raked his fingers through wiry
brown chops hugging his face, smiling so his eyes nearly shut. “Not me. I'm
right at home. Done my fighting, now I'm here. Guest o' the town while I wait
to fight a little more.”

She had not seen the lieutenant
since Spain, where he had been an indispensable source of trade goods and a
consummate cheat at cards. Kate took it as a good omen, finding him here. “Any
word from the south?”

His thin face narrowed even further
at his lifted brows. “I was hoping to ask the same of you.”

Kate tempered her disappointment.
She had not wanted to appear eager, but secretly hoped Allison might have heard
something. “Fighting is expected today, at Quatre Bras. I can send word and let
you know, once I return.”

Allison's lean frame stiffened, thin
lips pursing. “My apologies, Miss. We're under orders not to allow civilians
back south of the river. You'll have to stay on here in Ruisbroek, or continue
to Antwerp.”

That was not possible. Of course she
could go south. She had told Matthew her plan, and he had not questioned. Not a
single warning that she would be trapped –

Anger surged in her chest, scorching
her cheeks.
Go with my mother, to Antwerp
. He had known all along that
she could not come back.

Adelaide swept up beside her like
the incoming tide, wagging a finger in her direction. To Allison she snapped,
“She is not a civilian. Miss Foster has served as the doctor for General Webb's
regiment for months. She is
still
more qualified than whatever
plague-masked know-nothing they've sent –”

Kate squeezed her arm, choking off
the tirade, and Allison bowed apologetically. “Pardon, your ladyship. It was
not my intention to offend. Miss Foster saved my foot in Spain. I'm have no
doubts as to her skill.” He stared at her for a long time, daring a few
cautious glances over his shoulder. Finally, he leaned close, voice hushed. “If
you're needed back with the regiment, miss, I can't help you. I could, however,
look the other way, so long as you don't finger me if you're pinched.”

Adelaide gave her a gentle push,
hand at the small of Kate's back. “Now's the time, girl. Horses are changed and
Louisa has somehow got herself back aboard.”

Glancing from Adelaide to Allison,
Kate stood mute, crippling indecision striking without warning. Why was there a
question? She was going south, back to the regiment and her patients. To
Matthew, damn him and his scheming. Licking her lips, she fought and failed to
untangle the warring arguments in her heart.

Adelaide raised her brows. “Miss
Foster?”

“What is the date?” It was all she
could think to ask, feeling somehow it made a difference.

“The sixteenth of June,” said
Allison.

Something in her lost, and something
else triumphed, but she could not understand any of it, awash in confusion even
as she spoke. Matthew had only wanted to protect her, and his mother. Where did
her need end and his begin? It would be the selfless thing, to do as he had
pleaded and leave Belgium.

Kate was not certain she was ready,
but she could give herself a little more time to decide. “I appreciate your
offer, lieutenant. I will go on to Antwerp with Lady Adelaide.”

He sketched a little bow. “It was
gratifying to see you again. I wish you well, Miss Foster.”

“You as well,” she tossed back,
still wondering at her decision. Adelaide was clearly curious too, moving to
occupy the spot in front of her that Allison had just vacated. “Ruisbroek, and
straight back. Is that not what you said to me?” Adelaide planted hands on her
hips. “Lady Louisa and I need no escort. We are in no danger now.”

Kate glanced over her shoulder, eyes
traveling down the lane and beyond the town, out to the dusty brown line
weaving through the hills and snaking back toward Brussels. If she turned and
took a step right now, it would be the hardest one. Every one after would be
simple, moving her south faster and faster – if she did it
now
. Her feet
stayed still, and her head swam, threatening her knees for a moment. She had a
chosen a fork in the road, a choice she did not understand but which felt right
somewhere deep inside. Though she had left herself the option of changing her
mind, of returning once she reached Antwerp, a faint but resolute voice said
that would not happen.

There was no turning back.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

June the 17
^th
, Evening – Waterloo

Matthew scrawled the information
across the top of his dispatch as an afterthought, passed it off to McKinnon's
waiting hand, and hung himself over his cot with all the effort of wet laundry.
He tried to rub an aching neck, sucking in a sharp breath when flaps of skin
over his knuckles tore open. Every dandy taking lessons at Gentleman Jack's
should have to pummel the face of a bent-for-hell French soldier bare-knuckled
at least once before he was allowed to brag.

Even the cot's cradling pressure
made bruised tendons and twisted joints bark like a hound. A swollen left eye
throbbed at being open and burned when closed, and it was easier to count the
places where he was
not
cut up. External wounds were nothing to the
weight of the butcher's bill on his heart. They had spent the whole day moving
north, leaving him plenty of time to dissect his every order, every command. No
day, he mused, was so detrimental to a general's confidence as 'yesterday'. The
losses were acceptable, even expected, but losses all the same. At the close of
the day, they all plucked at his soul.

His only satisfaction had come at
hearing that Napoleon, on reaching the crossroads that afternoon and finding it
empty, had sworn and thrown his hat into the dirt. If they both survived the
war, Matthew resolved to gift the emperor a watch that kept better time than
his generals.

They now enjoyed an uneasy respite,
south of the village of Waterloo at the edge of the frontier. Napoleon was an
arm's-length behind and by morning the fight would be handed back, this time in
earnest. Nearly two-hundred thousand men in the bulls-eye around Waterloo, more
than had ever in history taken the field at once, he guessed.

Blucher had been beaten back at
Ligny to the east but had mysteriously been allowed to retreat unmolested.
Matthew wondered at the good fortune, but would not question it. Wise old hawk
that he was, Blucher had forgone his own lines of safe movement to push his
retreat parallel with Wellington. They were still in communication and still
set to crush
Le Grand Armee
between their left and right hands.

He tried to quiet his mind, to rest
while he could, and to be ready at a moment's notice, but it was nearly
impossible to do both. He envied the Field Marshal, who had no such struggle.
Dispatches came and went all night, and he roused, then slept again with ease.
Wellington would call up an officer in the dead of night who would toss and
turn over his orders well after his Field Marshal was back to snoring.

Matthew had decided hours ago to let
his own orders rest. There was no point conjecturing how he would manage his
three brigades. His division would be the largest battalion on the field, but
what he did with them was beholden to the enemy's position at sunrise. No
amount of supposition would give him answers. He wriggled under his blanket,
groaning with every twist, muscles stiff from exertion and the bone-deep chill
of the afternoon's torrential downpour, which had slowed now to an insistent
pattering against the canvas overhead.

For the first time all day, he truly
longed for Kate. She had crossed his thoughts, and on the march north, he had
missed her company beside him in the saddle, but he had been too preoccupied to
think on it much. Now, her absence stung equal to any wound on his body.

A week perhaps, maybe two. After
their victory, when a tenuous arrangement had been made in Paris, he had no
doubt of being granted at least a short leave. The idea of it was a beacon,
helping him to navigate the day ahead.

By now she would be gone from
Antwerp aboard ship, probably cursing his name with every breath.
Gone where
?
Because of his machinations to get her to safety, they had never formed a plan
about where she would go or where to meet.

She is with mother
, he
thought, and felt reassured. If she had traveled the whole way to Antwerp, Kate
would not escape Adelaide's single-minded dictatorship at the end. She would be
waiting for him in England.

He just had to make it there.

*          *          *

Kate sat herself atop a low stone
wall along the jetty, salt spray whipping her face, too tired even to cry. It
was her own fault. She had decided not to leave with Adelaide and Louisa, and
then only an hour later, lost her nerve and booked passage to England. The sum
was exorbitant, of course. A score of ships in sight but perhaps only three
which did not boast navy colors. Civilian captains were in a very enviable
position when it came to generating revenue during wartime.

It had not been until
after
she had nearly emptied her purse that doubt had struck. Had any of her reasons
for not leaving changed? There had been no word, no hint that anything was
amiss except a dull sense of dread gripping her belly, pounding in her temples.
It was the very feeling which had worn through her resolve in the first place,
sending her tail between her legs for the first ship to England. She was
ashamed to admit her weakness, and more ashamed at allowing the crag-faced
captain to cheat her out of so much coin. What stung most was that she knew
better. War, and battle specifically, were moments for the opportunist. She was
no stranger to that fact, having once paid three times the going rate for
flannel because the army was cut off from nearby towns. Never mind that it was
for the very soldiers the greedy merchant claimed to support.

Her only consolation was that she
had made the right decision, disembarking, choosing to stay in Antwerp. The
question was settled in her mind for good and all. She would be just hours away
when the battle was over. Returning to Matthew would be a small matter of a
congested road, rather than an ocean voyage.

She sucked a long breath of cold sea
air in through her nose, steeling herself. A sharp odor of pitch, the mellow
scent of weathered oak and the dank, primordial musk of the tide filled her.
They were all smells she associated with Patrick, waiting at the shoreline for
his departure or his return. Always waiting for him.

Suddenly, Kate needed to be
somewhere else.

She stood up from the wall, wincing
at a damp backside. The city was beautiful, but she had no desire to see it. As
far as she could see, the wide streets were close to empty. Small parties
gathered along the sidewalks at odd intervals to speak in hushed tones, and
some of the alleyways visible from her place at the docks were entirely
abandoned. It caused what few sounds she could detect to rattle hollowly around
her, magnifying how alone she now felt.

While she struggled with where to
go, a rumble overhead made the decision for her. Wisps of gray cloud that had
teased at leaving all morning had regrouped over the ocean. They roiled,
expanding quickly and bearing down on the city.

The first fat raindrops struck her
hands and face. Wherever she chose to mope, it would have to be indoors.

*          *          *

Matthew arched, raising up in
Bremen's stirrups to relieve a rapidly stiffening back. They had turned out on
the field 'at dawn' in accordance with the Field Marshal's unofficial standing
order, courage drummed to a fever pitch. The passing of six, then seven in the
morning had tempered the men. Enthusiasm had cooled so that now, two minutes
before ten, they stood silent, tired and resigned. The reason for Napoleon's
hesitation was no mystery. Matthew had guessed it the first time Bremen
shuffled eagerly and his hooves squished a sandy clump of grass. It had been
raining off and on for days, the violent downpours of mid-summer saturating
everything. A boon for crops, but a death knell for the French artillery who
counted on the damage from their heavy guns to pave their path. Spongy ground
would absorb the shells, preventing them from bouncing a devastating swath
through Matthew's lines. Napoleon was obviously hoping that the blistering
morning sun would parch the terrain and return his advantage. Bringing up the
French artillery was not an option for him, as it would put him in range of
Matthew's own guns and rifles, a loss the emperor could not afford to incur.

For now, his enemy remained only
threads embroidering the horizon in colored lines. The sun glinted off the
metal breastplate of a cuirassier now and then, obliging Matthew to squint.

As he ran a final glance across his
own lines, a hat rose up, suspended a moment by a straight arm. There was no
making out the man without his glass, but Matthew did not need it. He and Ty
had said their goodbyes the same way countless times before. He raised his own
into the air in final salute, praying they were not parting for the last time.

He pulled out his watch, checking it
again. Ten thirty-one. He sighed and ground his teeth.

A sound drifted to him, one he had
both dreaded and craved all morning. Mechanisms and thunder, the rumble of
horses and heavy gun carriages claiming their place.

It was time.

There was a stomp and a whimper over
his shoulder. “What, are you frightened?”

Matthew glanced back to find
Sergeant-major Cleary glaring down at his pretty, silk-clad wife who clung to a
nervous, spirited little pony. Outrage welled up, mingling with his irritation.
What in the hell was the man thinking? “Cleary, do you mean your lady to march
with us to the front?”

“No, sir.” He had the decency to
drop his gaze and look a little ashamed at his bravado.

Matthew swept an arm, jabbing a
finger toward the camp. “Then by God man, send her to the rear. If you're
lucky, she'll still be waiting when you return.”

A stomp-stomp-stomp echoing over the
valley pulled his attention back to the field. French lines appeared like a
spine along the hill-tops, earning a robust cry from his men.

“Ready!” He swept his hat toward the
ground ahead. “Form up men, and steady now! Hard pounding and no retreat!”

They roared like wild animals,
raising muskets to cheer him on.

Blood rushed hot through his veins,
pounding back the temperance he had imposed all morning. He raised his saber
and cried, “Faugh a ballagh!”

His Irishmen all through the ranks
went wild at his entreaty to 'clear the way'.

With fearsome, ground-devouring
steps forward, they began to do just that.

*          *          *

She stood in the front window of the
public house, absently noting how clean the tiny panes were. Indeed, how clean
the whole place was for an inexpensive inn so near the waterfront. Anything to
keep her mind from agonizing, wild imaginings at what must surely be taking
place by now to the south.

Taking up the post with her back to
everyone, Kate hoped to discourage her hostess from pressing her yet again with
entreaties of food or conversation, two things she wanted least in the world at
that moment. What she longed for was news, some word carried north. A courier
had been due early that morning, but the day slipped willingly into
midafternoon with no sign of a rider.

Ships came and went at long
intervals, but she hardly noticed. The last time she had cared was yesterday,
seeing Adelaide and Louisa onto the
Lion
, waving them along until they
were a speck tumbling off the edge of the horizon. She had been made to promise
a visit to Highgate, and a letter every week, which she had made in bad faith
considering Fann's never-ending tome.

Wind caught the sails of a ship
directly out from the window, whipping the furled canvas in an invitation,
ushering in charcoal rain clouds from the south. Kate refused to let it be an
omen. Suddenly the men and women passing the inn glanced back, some
turning
with hurried strides. Hoof beats stirred up a murmur outside the door.
Hopefully the forbidding wind had finally blown in her wayward courier.

Townspeople were already abuzz when
she reached the wide spot along the wharf where the high street came to its
conclusion. The governor-general had been there all day, wandering, waiting in
case word came of an allied retreat. She had seen him each time she scoured the
road, looking for horse and rider. His back was to her now, slumped shoulders
already shuffling away. There were no cheers, no shouts. The milling folk
turned wide, incredulous eyes on one another.

“What is it? What did he say?” she
asked again and again. Some townspeople clearly did not understand her, and
some were deafened, thoughts as far away as the look in their eyes.

“They say it's over.” A weathered
captain leaned against a lamp post near his slip, buried in the shadow of his
wide hat. His arms hardly bothered to cross, as nonchalant about the news as he
might be about the time of day.

She turned to him, surprised that
someone had taken notice. “Pardon?”

“It's over.” He chewed his
thumbnail, then spit. “Bony's broken clean through the middle. Already torn
most of 'em up. Now all's left is to sweep up the bits.”

She stood rooted to the spot. The
world closed in, going dark around the edges.
Don't breathe too fast. Don't
hold your breath
. Kate coached herself against the buzz swirling between
her temples, treating herself as she might a patient. She forgot about the
town, the captain, until he spoke again. “You waitin' for something, miss?”

Her chest constricted, diaphragm too
tight to help the words out. As she spoke, they seemed to come from far away.
“Just an answer, whether I should stay or go.” She was asking
herself
,
not him, but the captain did not seem to grasp that.

He straightened, leathery face grim,
and hooked a thumb at the ship behind him. “I'd suppose it's time to go.”