by Baird Wells
“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.”
A chuckle. “So, you are going to have to find a way to make your problems, his problems.”
Major Burrell, trading secrets with the enemy. Traitor. Perhaps he should keep Ty's confidence with Miss Foster in mind the next time they discussed anything of import.
Kate sighed. “He benefits just as much as I. Every man in my hospital is a body not on the field, and a wounded soldier earns no pay. I wish I could make him understand that I care about his men just as much as he does.”
Dammit all. He had done a sound job all morning of fortifying his annoyance with her, and here it was, entirely ruined.
Ty's uniform rustled, against a table or a chair, and he could hear in the major's voice the arrogant grin for which Ty was famous. “Then do so.”
Matthew was willing to do everything in his power to improve conditions for the men. If that meant something as simple as shoveling the lanes or clearing latrines, all the better. Some tasks could begin immediately, but she had yet to nicely ask anything of him. He would accept her proposals, but for now, she was going to earn that acceptance.
CHAPTER THREE
8 April, 1815 – Quatre Bras
Nearly a month since General Webb arrived, and I see in re-reading this that I have not told you about him!
He frustrates me more than Braddock ever did. Webb is a competent commander; improvement in morale and organization since he returned bear that out. But I cannot reason with him, not a bit. Our discourse has all the civility of two stray dogs fighting. Braddock was always too occupied chasing someone else's wife to interfere with my wishes. Perhaps I've gotten too used to having my own way, but my recommendations do have merit, and Webb could at least pretend to entertain them.
I believe his men like him in the same way we all enjoy white pudding at Christmas-time: it's necessary to complete the table, but no one actually wants to eat it.
That is unfair. The men like him plenty. It's I who find his consistency unpalatable.
Admittedly he is the handsomest man I have seen since the Portuguese captain who asked to paint me nude. Don't think I was not tempted, even once I became suspicious that he could not really paint. He was charming and persistent, God bless him. He took my refusal graciously.
The general wears a ring so I keep my thoughts away from him as much as possible, but Fann, I confess that when I see him crossing the camp in his uniform he is everything I find attractive in a man. So long as he is not speaking.
Though she might care about his men, Kate clearly did not give a fig for his sanity. Heart softened, he had allowed her to bring forward concerns about the garrison. Foolishly, he had believed it might take some of the venom from her relationship with Mister Astley. Regret, Matthew was certain, had never been more greatly personified.
“...and the latrine pits, which according to my journal we have discussed on no less than four occasions.” She was holding fingers up, ticking items off one by one in a gesture he had grown to loathe. “Syphilis, which the men would suffer less if they were a little more discriminating in their choice of bed mate. And lice, with which you should concern yourself more than Bonaparte just now, because they are decimating your men in much greater numbers. Head sores open the way for all sorts of infection.” She took a breath. “Sound hygiene, daily washing from the basin, and proper airing of uniforms and bed cloths must be a priority.”
“Anything else, Miss Foster?”
There was always something else. To his credit, Gregory Astley made a nuisance of himself a fraction of the time, and he was the acting physician.
Kate smacked hands together. “Yes. The cooks and camp women are dumping refuse inside the cantonment. They are inviting rats and flies, with all their various threats.”
“Anything else?”
“No sir.”
“Are you certain? This is the last time I wish to see you, particularly for this long, in front of my desk until next week.”
Kate raked him with narrowed eyes; he was being reconnoitered. “What time next week?” she asked.
Lord and saints preserve him. “Let us agree that the new week begins after services on Sunday. So, any time after that which is convenient for you.”
Her eyes widened. “But it's only Tuesday.”
“So it is.” He leaned back, fighting a smile.
“Fine.”
'Fine' clearly had a different definition to Kate, judging by the set of her hands on her hips.
He straightened in the chair, searching her over for any hint of what she was plotting. “Fine? What do you mean by 'fine'?”
Kate shrugged. “I agree to your terms.”
He had been a soldier for a long time and ambushed once or twice, enough to recognize it when he saw it coming. “I have your word: you will not appear before me with complaints for the next five days.”
Her expression was entirely flat. “You have my word, general.”
Matthew narrowed his eyes, trying to penetrate her thoughts, read behind those guarded eyes. There was something deep inside them, and in the very slight lift of her brows. It wasn't dishonesty exactly, but Matthew knew he was being cheated as sure as if she were a dockside card sharp.
He stared uncomfortably long, to see if his suspicion could shake anything loose. She did not so much as flinch under the scrutiny. He sighed. “Very well. You may go, Miss Foster.”
She curtsied. “Enjoy the afternoon, general.”
“You also, Miss Foster.”
She turned her back, so he had no proof, but Matthew swore he could feel mischievous delight bending her words. “Oh, I shall.”
* * *
Five days.
Kate shook her head, stuffing the last of
the rope into her high wooden bucket.
If the general thought banishing her for five days would paralyze her ability to accomplish things, he was in for a surprise. Besides, begging forgiveness once something was done couldn't undo the task. Neither could punishing her. Working a wide-brimmed straw hat over her bun, she chuckled.
The hardest part was getting the first soldier to follow her, and even that wasn't much of a challenge. The quartermaster's yard resembled docklands, stacked with crates or congregations of barrels, stands of rifles and piles of boots, uniform coats and trousers lying around as though a whole infantry company had suddenly evaporated on its way through. Plentiful supplies meant requisitions, and that meant men were always coming and going. She just had to wait for someone she recognized. “Corporal Allen.” Kate greeted the man in passing, and made as though she meant to keep walking. As she had hoped, the corporal threw up an arm, eager to talk. “Miss Foster!”
“How is your leg?”
“It's good, real good. Aches when the weather turns, but no complaints. Where are you off to with all that?” He tipped his chin at her supplies.
“Drumming up help. Time to clean out the latrines before the hot season.” It was true, she reasoned, and she had kept the general's name out of it.
Corporal Allen mopped at a receding blond hairline, looking around them. “I was set delivering those sacks, but now that's done I could spare my hands for a bit.”
“I would be grateful, and it would do a great deal for the garrison.” That part was true. It was a disgusting job calling for an iron stomach, and she felt humbled that anyone was willing to volunteer.
“Davy! Davy Pate!” Allen waved an arm at someone up the hill by the stables. “Come on, then. Give us a hand.”
Triumphant, she smiled and handed Corporal Allen her bucket.
Five days, indeed.
* * *
He preferred to avoid Gregory Astley at all costs. It was difficult because the man complained as much about Miss Foster as she did about everything else.
Matthew sighed. Beyond his capacity as acting garrison doctor, Astley did have one added value: If Kate Foster was engaged in any activity that could be considered even slightly controversial, Astley was sure to make him aware at the earliest possible moment.
That was how Matthew found himself standing behind her now, arms crossed to keep from wringing her neck. His jaw ached, and he realized he had taken to grinding his teeth again, a habit he had broken years ago.
She had gotten the better of him. He knew it as soon as Astley had begun sputtering his intelligence. Miss Foster had employed a basic military tactic, flanking her enemy in place of a direct assault. Watching her, he admitted grudgingly that she barked orders better than he did.
“No, you mustn't – what are you up to? You cannot go into the hole. The branch goes across – yes, just that way, and wrap the bucket's line around it.” She clapped hands together. “Perfect. Now you can use the shovel.”
“Miss Foster, what in blazes do you imagine yourself about here?”
If he had startled her, she did not show it. Maybe she had known he would come all along. She pointed to her small band of pressed laborers. “Latrine pits. We are cleaning them out.”
He took out his handkerchief, thought of covering his mouth and nose, and then looked at Kate's bare face. Refusing to be outdone by her, he stuffed it back into his pocket.
“On whose authority?” He was not asking. Matthew already knew the answer, and now so did his men, tossing nervous looks between Miss Foster and their general.
“My own.” She tossed the words over her shoulder, as though he barely merited an answer.
He counted slowly to three, waiting until his anger had crested before speaking. “Miss Foster, this cannot stand. You cannot self-direct in any fashion which circumvents my command.”
She turned, pulling down at the brim of her straw hat as if preparing to do battle. “General, did you not say to me, not even two hours past, 'I do not wish to see you before me with concerns for five days'?”
Checkmate. “That... it was not my intention...” He sputtered out the words, flustered. “Semantics, Miss Foster.”
Her smile was impish and defiant. “I understand that a battle is won or lost by the tiniest detail.”
Clearly his diplomacy had led Miss Foster to believe they were on equal footing. Matthew's patience snapped. “This battle is won by a single, significant detail: I am the commander of this garrison. You do not so much as blink an eye from this point on without my say-so. Understood?”
Her chin raised a fraction. “Perfectly.”
Matthew did not hear the quantity of atonement in her voice he had hoped for. With a glance at the curious soldiers around them, he stepped into her, assuring that Kate had to unhinge her neck to meet his eyes. He spoke low enough to save her pride, but sharp enough to be understood. “The moment is approaching, very quickly of late, Miss Foster, when you will cost me enough face with my men to leave me no choice.
Her face never changed, but he saw her swallow quickly. “No choice but what?”
“Let's have no need of that answer.”
* * *
12 April, 1815 – Quatre Bras
My Sweet Fann,
Enclosed is a ten-pound note. It is blood money, so I beg you to keep it rather than adding it to my accounts. When Major Burrell insisted that I could not go a whole day and night without a cross word regarding General Webb, I practically laughed him off. Pride is my only excuse for taking a wager which I had no hope of winning.
If I were not so concerned about leaving the men to Astley's care, and if Ty had not insisted that I persevere a little longer, I would have contemplated quitting Belgium before the end of the week.
Astley withholds work and smacks me with his sarcasm, practically treating Porter as if he were a slave again. When I raise concerns about the garrison to General Webb, they are met with sighs, bolstered by the most heated exchanges. The passion of our disagreements has convinced me that the general is not a man given to violence against a lady.
What am I to do? He does not seem to grasp that it is not simply henpecking. Refuse, excrement, parasites – these are circumstances tailor-made to breed infection and disease.
Occasionally Astley has a meeting with the general, and I can only imagine them discussing me, jostling one another with their elbows as they guffaw, crying out 'Female hysteria!'
Webb is no Braddock, though, and I have been reminded that we endured much worse under his thumb.
Besides, Tyler has an abundance of money and idleness, and a natural talent for making a bet out of anything. It is a situation I feel bound by my purse to exploit a while longer...
For the first time in a month, Matthew felt satisfied with the state of his division. They were well fortified, something resembling supplied, and the men were back to drilling like seasoned veterans. He had just one true source of frustration lately, small but continually nagging, like a blister.
Ty had joined him for company after dinner. Once he had finished airing his grievances though, Matthew wondered if the major would regret his decision. “She'll drive me to take up the bottle again, Ty.”
Lounging across from him, Ty swigged deep on his Port and held up a finger. “She's one woman, Matthew.”
“And she unravels me with more ease than an entire insubordinate battalion. What does that tell you, Burrell?” He was only half-joking.
Ty raked fingers through disheveled blond hair. “What is your objection, really?”
Where should he begin? “She questions everything. Even my questions cause her to question. She never does a damn thing I say when I say it. Always demanding an explanation. And that tongue of hers...How have you put up with her for three years?” He felt somewhat shell-shocked at the memory of their last verbal sparring match. “Madame Guillotine is not as sharp.”
Finger making lazy circles atop the desk, Ty grinned from ear to ear. “So, she's an Amer
ican. Is that what you're trying to say?”
Matthew launched his quill onto the desk. “There's no talking to you when you're in these moods.”
Ty stiffened, making a wounded frown. “She's a redhead. What do you expect?”
The information gave him pause, forcing him to dwell longer than he would have liked on some of Miss Foster's best qualities. Matthew shook his head, rattling loose the unbidden thoughts. “Red? I would have called it brown. Truly, I think her hair is brown.”
Ty's head shook. “There's a lot of red in that brown. I have had ample time to notice.”
“Isn't that auburn?”
“That's still a kind of red,” countered Ty.
It was an absurd argument. He smacked a hand against the desk. “That's not even the point!”
“Isn't it?” Ty winked.
Matthew knew he was red-faced, and it was not entirely frustration.
Refilling his glass, Ty shrugged. “Convince her to marry some officer. She's handsome enough. He can send her back to wherever home is, and you'll have peace again.”
It sounded more like torture than peace, at least for the poor nameless officer. “I cannot successfully transact anything that requires Miss Foster's cooperation. That is what started this conversation, if you recall.” He sighed, flicking his quill. “The men get on with her just fine. I do not understand why I cannot.”
“Truly?” Raised eyebrows punctuated Ty's question. “She does not single you out, Matthew.”
“I am not the aggressor, Tyler.” Why did he sound so defensive? Ty was right. She was not the villain, but neither was he. He could not understand their inherent friction. “I've not heard one reproach on her character,” he conceded. “Except from Mister Astley. He has whole volumes.”
“Unrequited love,” Ty joked.
He laughed in earnest. “Possibly. Have you seen him? You have seen her. If there are romantic sensibilities there, they are all on his side.”