Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1)

by Baird Wells

  Ty planted a boot on the corner of the desk. Matthew wondered that it had taken so long tonight. “Are you in agreement with Astley? I mean about Miss Foster's role here.”

  The major had his own opinion, but he was not sharing. Ty's usual approach was not to influence his general, letting Matthew work through a problem on his own. In his experience, that was sometimes the best form of advice.

  So far Matthew hadn't answered the question for himself. “She has a great many ideas, Ty. Far-fetched but –” He struggled for a word. “Sound, somehow. In her patient records she writes of germs and 'microbes', disease passing man to man. No regard for humors and miasmas. It reads like madness, but the way she says it...” He rubbed his palms together a moment, “I feel what she says is true.”

  Draining his glass, Ty hooked the decanter with a finger, dragging it close. “You're a man of science, Matthew. If anyone can interpret such ideas, it's you.”

  It sounded like a dubious honor. “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning,” Ty nodded with a mouthful of Port, “that the world was flat once. The wisest men knew it was so. And now we've sailed around it countless times, confident that it's round as a marble. Someone has to be the first to believe a mad theory. And someone else –” Ty jabbed a finger in his direction, “has the unenviable position of being the second.”

  He tried a black look, but Ty had made a very rational argument. Matthew wondered if he and Miss Foster were not as at odds as it seemed.

  Ty's boots landed against the rug, a sign that he had gotten serious, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I saw your mother in town. And Caroline.”

  Matthew kept his eyes fixed on the desk, pretending to skim one of the dispatches he'd read earlier. “Oh?”

  “Oh. She asked after you.”

  “My mother?”

  “Caroline,” Ty bit back.

  “And?” Why was he asking? There was nothing Ty could say on the matter which he wanted to hear.

  Ty's words had a clipped edge. “And, your own wife has no idea where you are from one month to the next.”

  Matthew intentionally misunderstood Ty's point. “That would be true at any point over the last ten years, Tyler. The army hardly sits still.”

  He and Ty had been separated in the field for almost four years, long enough that the major could have no idea how divided his marriage had become. Caroline, of course, played the sympathetic role of forgotten wife with stage-quality skill. “Anyway, I imagine she has a good notion of how to find me.”

  “She has had no news of you,” Ty argued.

  “That cannot be.” Matthew refilled Ty's glass, slamming the stopper home. “I'm confident that Major Pitt keeps her informed. After all, he's practically living in my house.”

  The last word was louder than he had intended, probably owing to the wine. If Ty truly had not known about Caroline and Mercier Pitt, he must be the last person in Europe ignorant of the affair, but his surprise looked genuine. Ty slumped back in his chair, took his glass and let the matter rest.

  Caroline. She had taken a lover, not he. So why was he was always defending himself when it came to the state of their marriage?

  She claimed it was his coldness that drove her away. That was probably accurate. Displays of emotion had never come naturally. If her affection had ever felt anything besides artificial, he might have had an easier time of it. Matthew shook his head. None of that mattered now. They both belonged too much to someone else, to ever belong to each other again. He to the army, and she to Major Pitt.

  So be it. She was happy to remain viscountess, and he was happy to remain five hundred miles from London.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  16 April, 1815 – Quatre Bras

  Fann,

  He's up to something, I can feel it. Astley has run the spectrum of boorishness. He harassed me directly for a few weeks, then tried throwing me to the general repeatedly (I admit to giving him some ammunition there). I see little of him as it is, managing my nursing duties from my own quarters and avoiding the hospital unless absolutely necessary, but for days now I've not seen hide nor hair of the weasel. I am not naive enough to think he has given up. Oh well. I could spend the whole day in knots, but the product of his idiotic scheme will come when it comes. I simply have to be vigilant.

  The men have been idle too long. I know because two things always happen. They drink more, evidenced by the rise in facial injuries and bite wounds. And, I provide care for an excessive number of pregnant women, because there is truly only one thing left for a crocked soldier to do, once he's finished pummeling his companion. The population of Belgium will have increased by a third when next we move.

  I miss you today, more than usual. There are some spindly yellow flowers blooming along the wall, reminding me of when we were girls and would pluck the petals from mother's roses, listing off the names of our beaus. I am glad mother put a stop to it. Those hateful flowers predicted I would marry Patrick nearly every time, and see where that got me?

  If she had not loved that plant so much, I'd root it up and burn it.

  You will be proud of me for reaching an uneasy truce with General Webb. I employ a method called avoidance. It solves nothing, delays all problems for later, and gives a wonderful if false impression of being diplomatic when I am really just tired.

  Tell William I am sorry to hear that age is already affecting his memory. He owes me for our last game of cards, but I am so sad at his confusion that he should consider the debt forgiven. As far as I am concerned, that puts us even.

  Henry's tortoise is tacked to the post near my bed. His skill with pencil and paper at four years old surpasses the twenty years I have on him. I appreciate his detail, and the tortoise's anatomical correctness, but I wonder if it's wise allowing him to use my books for reference.

  Hug him and kiss him a thousand times...

  Matthew set down his quill. The stacks of dispatches, organized with supernatural efficiency by McKinnon, all required his equal attention. He had gotten through more than he expected, but it wasn't a heartening accomplishment. The Prussians were suddenly cool, not willing to combine forces for anything besides battle. The Dutch government was doing a poor job with provisions for the reinforcements, leaving everyone baring teeth over scraps. He would have had enough trouble keeping a thousand British soldiers well-behaved as it was. His four-thousand allied bodies were barely controlled chaos. The German cavalry had gotten salty with the Prussian infantry, filling the brigs more than once in recent weeks, and the Portuguese regiments showed stern discontent with the misbehavior of everyone else.

  Sliding one more envelope from the stack, he tried to remain optimistic. If he had learned anything during the war, it was that nothing united a fractious, malcontent bunch soldiers like the impending charge of several thousand French.

  He turned the letter over, then turned it back. He examined the free-franc stamp, and the funny way in which Lord Bathurst never completely closed his b's and a's.

  She was going to barge in, any moment.

  He should just wait. Beginning any work now was futile, and he would just have to start over when she finally left. He'd barely set eyes on Miss Foster in a record three days. She was bound to appear at any time now.

  Nothing.

  Matthew picked up his quill and tapped it on the desk, spattering a few dots of ink. He should stretch his legs, clear his mind.

  He paced the tent, five steps down and four back. She would come, and today he would be prepared.

  Was it clouding up outside? Rain would affect the artillery. Probably wise to take a look. He poked his head through the slit, glancing skyward, and then left and right more than once, just to be certain. Bodies went about their work up and down the camp, but blessedly not one was moving toward him with any purpose. Nodding at a perplexed sentry, he ducked back inside.

  Safe, for now. Matthew slid back into his chair, crossed ankles together and reclined, beginning to read the war minister's letter. />
  His concentration had sent a message out in the cosmos that now was the moment to interrupt. Matthew was sure of it, when the angry murmur outside erupted into a disagreement.

  “...so we're not goin' away, and that's just that. We're stayin' put right here until the gen'ral hears what we got to say.”

  “Come in here,” he bellowed.

  It was not Kate, but Matthew felt in his heart that somehow, she was involved.

  Six men shuffled in, heads bowed and hats to chests, hair and ears wet in a rushed attempt at presentability.

  “Hadley, Flanagan, Boyd.” He acknowledged the ones he recognized, and all the men saluted.

  “What's all this, then?”

  Captain Boyd stepped forward, stout frame proudly wrapped in his Highlander tartan, a sign to any man that if Boyd had something to say, he was damn well going to say it blunt. “It's Mister Astley, general.”

  Boyd would speak plainly, but not until he'd been given leave to do so. Matthew leaned back, waving Boyd closer. “At your ease, captain. What is your rub with him?”

  “He's a double-yolked quim, sir.” The sergeant bit off the accusation, practically spitting it across the desk.

  Of all soldiers, the Scots were authors of the most colorful expressions. 'Double yolked' was their delightful euphemism for 'pompous windbag'.

  Matthew sighed. “He is what we have at hand. Not one of the lord's humbler instruments, but for the benefit of decent care, we must overlook his faults.”

  “Thas' just it, gen'ral. He don't ken healing like Miss Foster. Some of us have no got better with Astley, and there's times his cure's blacker than the ailment.” Boyd hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “He's done somethin' to Brady's wee Will that's left him sore affected.”

  Matthew winced reflexively, sympathetic at the alleged state of Brady's genitals.

  Astley, Matthew reminded himself, wasn't entirely incompetent. He had read Doctor Addison's reports, and observed the man a time or two. Poor bedside manner was hardly a crime, and there were few supplies with which to work. Soldiers were not always gracious when they could not quickly be made fit for duty.

  “The six of you have had similar experiences, I gather? You would like me to speak to Astley on your behalf?”

  Flanagan waved a hand. “Half the camp, sir.”

  “What?”

  “Half the camp don't like 'im. They're refusin' to go.”

  Matthew jerked up out of his chair and began to pace. They were on the edge of battle, a few weeks perhaps, if Napoleon decided to move. He could not tolerate even the hint of insurrection. “I do not understand. If Astley's manner chafes, simply go to his nurse. Miss Foster can treat you.”

  Hadley stomped forward. “Apologies sir, but he don't allow her to use her practices. Miss Foster can't treat us the way we're used to.”

  Sergeant Boyd's ruddy cheeks went a shade redder. “She can no' treat us at all. He's forbid it.”

  Flanagan's lanky frame straightened to an indignant line. “She's gone to the follower's camp. Astley says she'll not be back, and he's put the chill on us goin' to her.”

  Of all the instances where Miss Foster had complained about something inconsequential, and this time he had heard not a word of her dissatisfaction? Matthew was certain of never understanding the inner workings of her brain.

  As for Astley, he had overstepped himself by an infantry mile.

  Matthew laced fingers behind his back. “I will speak with Miss Foster, and Mister Astley. As Miss Foster cannot under the law act as physician, she will continue on as camp nurse, but –” He raised a hand, squelching dissatisfied shuffling, “You men will have a choice in who attends you. Unless French guns hit, in which instance I think you'll be grateful for any pair of hands. Satisfied?”

  Nods all around, and Boyd saluted. “Thank ye, sir.”

  “Very good. Dismissed.”

  Matthew sat again and stared at small sun-spot on the tent wall, mulling over what to do. Careful diplomacy was needed. Astley's overuse of authority had to be dealt with, but he would have to be careful to not to drive the man away. With something like a doctor on hand, he could justify giving Miss Foster some autonomy. If Astley left, there would be no allowing her to practice without putting them both in an untenable position. If a patient died under her care, if one of the men lodged a complaint with the field marshal and he had knowingly allowed the arrangement, both their heads would be in a noose.

  Not entirely settled on the matter, he sent for Astley and Miss Foster, deciding to let the conversation dictate his response.

  Naturally, Astley arrived first. If there was any matter that needed addressing, he could be counted upon to acquit himself long and loudly before the opposition arrived.

  Matthew nipped it in the bud by finishing Bathurst's letter, refusing to look at Astley no matter how many times he muttered and shifted in his seat.

  Kate, on the other hand, was long in coming. Matthew assumed it was because she knew it provoked him to wait and made him less reasonable. She seemed the sort to enjoy a challenge.

  He had to swallow that bitterness back when she stepped in a moment later. Her face was flushed, pink from sun and fresh air. Unruly chestnut waves, egged on by the wind, tumbled over her right eye. She dropped her red pack to the floor, so full up with leaves and flowers it was as if she had robbed a hothouse. He suddenly wished they were alone, so he could take her in without Astley's scrutiny, speak to her about some topic that would guarantee him a smile, and not one tailor-made to incite their usual hostilities. Just when he imagined it could not get worse, she smiled.

  “I apologize, general. I was out gathering.”

  Astley, taking on the role of black cloud, jabbed her haul with his toe. “Gathering what?”

  “Thistle, dogwood, horse mint. Whatever is useful. Indian healers rely on all sorts of plants.”

  “You're going to rely on something the savages taught you?” Astley sneered.

  Kate shrugged, belying the volley Matthew knew was coming. “They taught us scalping. That has proved reasonably effective.”

  Matthew knocked on the desk, stifling a groan. “That will do. Mister Astley, I will be brief. You are not the regiment's doctor, but the same basic rules apply. If there is dissatisfaction with Miss Foster or the discharge of her duties, direct them to me. There is no reason, or precedent, for you to trouble with discipline when I should address it.” Astley's thin lips were already working, but Matthew plowed ahead. “Sending Miss Foster away and denying the men access to her is beyond your scope. We have never established such boundaries. I am taking the opportunity to correct that error now.”

  It was the most diplomatic language he could manage, making his point without inflaming Astley and stirring the two against one another yet again. Miss Foster, in an unforeseen turn of events, looked satisfied. Astley did not, and things were only about to get worse for him. Matthew tried not to take pleasure in the idea.

  “The men have shown a preference, and while it is the exception for me to indulge the whim of every common johnny, if I can grant a small thing to improve morale, I will. Some of the men wish to be treated by you,” he nodded to Astley, “and others prefer Miss Foster's approach. Without laying down a lot of guidelines or rewriting military code, we will adopt an informal arrangement. The two of you will continue on in the garrison, running separate institutions. I will not provide additional direction, interference or,” he met them both with a hard gaze, “supplies.” The last part was not meant to be punitive; there were simply no more supplies to be had.

  Kate was the first to pipe up. “That is hardly an obstacle. Someone has already drunk the medicinal scotch and replaced it with tea-stained river water.”

  He held up a hand before Astley's glower could transmute to an insult. “Two hospitals, cooperative provisions, and a wide berth. Understood?”

  “Hmph.” Astley crossed his arms, and Kate stayed silent.

  “Excellent. Mister Astley, you may ta
ke your leave.”

  He could see that it galled Astley, not to be part of whatever conversation was about to take place. That much was evident in the fussy, hesitating gait which moved him glacially to the door. Matthew waited a breath to speak, too long for the man to reasonably still be standing outside, and turned his attention to Kate, who stood waiting with uncharacteristic patience.

  “Why did you not tell me? You are a banshee about the cook not using soap and water, but it did not answer for you to tell me Astley had dismissed you?” He searched her face in earnest, realizing he was genuinely annoyed that she had not come to him.

  Hands went to her hips beneath the folds of her brown cloak. “I dismissed me. I do not consider wrinkled shirts and holey socks to be a medical problem. Or my problem. Mister Astley can send those to the camp women for mending, like everyone else.”

  “You take my meaning, Miss Foster.”

  Her shoulders slumped in a rare show of defeat. “I know very well you do not enjoy our encounters any more than I. And you seem content enough with Astley. Why make trouble?”

  Actually, he did enjoy their exchanges. Her arguments were unselfish and well-reasoned, even if they were never-ending. There was a fine line between dissent and mutiny, and Kate straddled it with skill. Matthew suddenly realized he'd been so preoccupied by annoyance that he'd missed something else buried underneath.

  Picking up a chair from beside the desk, he planted it in front of her. “Sit down, Miss Foster.” He dragged his own chair over, settling across from Kate, who hung with suspicion off the edge of her seat. Then he did something dangerous.

  “I do not care for Astley. It's impolitic and inappropriate for me to admit it to you, but there it is. How much do my feelings matter, given our present circumstances?” Matthew shook his head. “Not at all. I have majors and colonels under my command that I would challenge with a brace of pistols, were we back home.”

  She laughed in her infectious way, and he responded in kind. “All of parliament would be dismissed, were I permitted to act according to my own will. Sadly, I do not have that convenience.”