Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1)

by Baird Wells

  She was angry; he could see it in the measured way she rose from her chair. “Are you being serious? What in my character has ever made me out to be soft-hearted in these matters, general? You are giving him more quarter than he deserves. That man,” she said, jabbing a finger at Astley as he was goaded outside, “poisoned Private Miller. Murdered him. He was poisoning me too, and Porter and God knows who else. And he believes he is justified by the greater good!”

  They were chest to chest now, and if her tiptoes had any height left she would have been in his face. “You should have sent him into the fields with one man, put a bullet through him, and forgotten where he was. Dinner for the crows is all he deserves.”

  Then she was gone, nothing more than a gust from the closing flap before he could explain or set her straight.

  Alone in the tent, he fell back into his chair, rested elbows on the desk and cradled his face in his palms. He could win no ground with her. Whatever tack he took, it was wrong. It didn't help that she was the hardest person to read, and the stubbornest woman he had ever met.

  The moment he thought he had a bead on Kate, she pulled the rug out from under him.

  * * *

  Dipping her rag for the last time, Kate wrapped it around each of Private Miller's feet in turn, wiping them clean. While the tent's cool night air chased the damp from his body, she scrubbed the tail of her apron at eyes too burning and swollen to allow any more tears. Collecting herself, she got up and went to her shirt chest. Every buried soldier deserved at least the dignity of a clean shirt, and she maintained a small foot locker for just that occasion. Extra shirts bequeathed by the dead to no one, cast-offs requiring mending; she took them all, making them fit to honor the dignity of the men who had died bravely, without even the comfort of spending eternity in the soil of their homeland.

  “Present!” The general's voice rumbled like far-off thunder from the small yard beside the brig. Usually it was too far to hear anything, but the camp was almost completely still, despite it being the dinner hour.

  Astley began to scream. She clenched her jaw, willing her ears not to hear. No one should remember his final moments.

  “Make...ready!”

  Her hands trembled, working against rigor to fit Private Miller's arms into a tangle of sleeves.

  Do not flinch. Do not flinch.

  Kate stood rigid, refusing to show any more acknowledgment for the moment of Astley's passing than he had shown for John Miller.

  “Fire!”

  She did not so much as blink at the sharp report, not until its echo disappeared out over the hills. Only then did she sink to her knees, face pressed to the cold dirt, sobbing with relief.

  It was over.

  CHAPTER NINE

  21 April, 1815 – Quatre Bras

  Fann,

  I can hardly form these words. Three days have not made it easier to recall, not even to you. Private Miller has died, murdered by Gregory Astley.

  Astley poisoned Miller, myself and Porter. In the journal under his mattress there were notes about poisoning or fatally harming half the officers and General Webb. Lunatic.

  The only thing I can count as resembling justice is that the men used an old hole from a relocated latrine to bury his carcass. John Miller was their brother, and they took his loss very hard. Revenge, even against a corpse, has sated them a little. The firing squad was too kind for Astley. He should have been left to the men of the regiment, to be punished as he deserved.

  In all the years I wished him gone, this is not how I would have chosen to be rid of Gregory Astley. Not at the cost of Private Miller. I have had a terrible row with the general about it. My nerves were raw – his too, I imagine – and I lost nearly every scrap of reason and Christian decency when I realized what Astley had done.

  It was not fair to take out my frustrations on General Webb. He sent a note this afternoon to make sure I was well. Once I finish my letter to Private Miller's family, I will go apologize.

  I cannot put enough days between myself and this one.

  Matthew crumpled the paper, tossing it with two others on the floor by his foot. How many letters of condolence had he written? Ten years, and ten times that many assurances of sympathy. Everyone was as difficult as the last, which was strange, because they were all exactly the same. Regret for your loss, an asset to the army, comfort in their valor. He cared. He just could not care too much. There was no amount of human sanity that could bear the magnitude of how many men were fed to the war machine.

  He tapped the quill, scratching it over a new sheet of foolscap.

  'Mrs. Edward Miller,

  With heavy heart I write to inform you'

  “Miss Foster, sir.”

  He waved a hand at the sentry, concentrating on his letter.

  “General.” Her voice was soft, a welcome change after days of orders and commands.

  He glanced up. It was only a glance, and he was obliged to look again.

  Auburn. Ty had been right. The rich color caught lamplight from his desk in its waves, framing her blue eyes. Matthew wondered absently why he was only noticing it now. “Miss Foster. How are you faring?”

  She nodded. “My hands are improving. Your note was very kind, and I appreciate the concern.”

  He had taken Ty's chastising to heart after the farm, making certain to check on Kate. “You didn't cross the camp just to tell me that.”

  Her face stiffened. “As a matter of fact, it was my original aim in coming here.” Reaching inside her cloak, she held out a letter. “I thought you would be writing Private Miller's family. I would appreciate it if you included this.”

  He set down the quill, hoping to God he could find the correct words to be delicate. “Your concern is admirable. Respectfully, however, I do not think the family will be comforted by an accounting of Miller's end, or his ill-use by Gregory Astley. He died a hero, regardless of the circumstances. That is all they need hear.”

  Kate crossed her arms, dropping a hip. “It would not make you weak, to acquaint yourself with your men. Or to truly mourn them.”

  Her words were a branding iron, prodding his temper without warning. She had no idea the anguish he felt, reading the rolls of his dead for days after a battle. He came halfway out of his chair. “I do mourn them, every single one. I ride the battlefield – not in the afternoon mind you, not even the night of a battle, from a terror that I'll lose my composure. I ride out the morning after, near dawn, when the men pile the bodies to be moved. I know every shovel-song of the undertaker, Miss Foster.” He fell back into his seat and gave his heart a few beats to calm down. “Do not assume, just because I do not show weakness to my men, that I feel nothing.”

  Kate dropped her eyes to the floor, cheeks flushed. “I shouldn't have assumed,” she mumbled. “I'm sorry.” She tossed her envelope atop his own letter.

  Her back, walking away from him, was an all-too familiar sight. He snapped up her message, skimming the lines of small, neat letters.

  John Miller played his tin whistle at the garrison's make-shift Sunday service. He did not drink or gamble, discharged his duties with enthusiasm, and wrote letters home for the men who could not read and write. He kept a collection of different wildflowers pressed between the pages of his bible, a gift for his sister.

  Matthew put the letter down. He didn't know half that much about any of his men. Kate, he realized, probably knew that much about all of them. There was not a single mention of Astley or of Miller's last moments. Just a promise to send the bible home when she could be assured it would arrive safely. Matthew groaned and got up.

  He owed her an apology.

  Crossing the camp took a good deal longer when humbled. At least, his pride thought so. He called from outside the tent, expecting to be turned away, but she mumbled something from inside that sounded like an invitation.

  Bent halfway into a trunk, Kate tossed clothes behind her, looking for something. Petticoats, judging by the blatant curve of her backside, were not for e
veryday wear. He looked upward, considering the roof-supports and cleared his throat. “I apologize for my earlier remarks. It was not my intention to offend, and it was imprudent of me to make assumptions.” Nerves made a lump in his throat, turning his words stiff and formal. Matthew swallowed hard to work it down.

  She turned around, the curve of her lips gentled with kindness. “I carry my own share of the blame. We're both raw nerves today. Do not apologize. I'm sure this will not be the last time you and I disagree.”

  “So, you mean to stay then? After what happened with Astley...” There was something more he had meant to say, an end to his sentence. She perched on the edge of her cot, small foot held up, wriggling it into a gray wool stocking. Surely she didn't intend –

  She did. Grasping the fabric, Kate slid it up a calf barely concealed by the hem of her dress. He'd been on campaign for ninety-six days, and he was beginning to feel every one of them.

  Some days more than others.

  Kate went about her business, obviously unaware she was giving him the sensation of being flayed alive. “I intend to stay as long as there's a place for me.”

  He shook his head, trying to rattle free his reason for coming. “That is agreeable to me in every way. Without Doctor Addison or –”

  Matthew caught himself, but Kate was already on her feet, smiling. “You're offering me his post?”

  “No. The post is for a doctor and clearly you are... As a woman...” He waved a hand over her. “If you stay on, it will be to act in that capacity, but not officially...”

  He was certain of offending her again, but she grinned. “You're making me garrison doctor.”

  “No, I'm not.”

  “Yes, you are.” She stalked him, coming closer.

  He held a hand up. “Just –”

  She grabbed his hands, pulling at them.

  “Just until a replacement arrives. I am submitting a requisition tonight.”

  Kate frowned. “Can we talk about camp sanitation?”

  “At this moment? No.”

  Her laugh was throaty, and he realized too late she was teasing him. The tent was hot, too small. He pulled at his cravat for relief. “You have my leave to move your things into Doctor Addison's quarters.”

  “Thank you.” Kate's smile stopped his heart.

  The warmth of her hands on his was suddenly too much. Matthew pulled his arms away. “The doctor has a standing invitation to dine with the officers. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow evening.”

  “I prefer to dine in my quarters,” Kate protested.

  Her first mistake was assuming that he was asking. “Tomorrow night you will dine with the officers,” he corrected.

  Kate smiled, but it was all in her eyes, looking up at him through her hair. “I thought it was an invitation.”

  Charmed in spite of himself, he smiled back. “This time, it's an order.”

  Kate crossed her arms, and there was no ignoring the way it encouraged the swell of her breasts at the neckline of her dress. “I tremble and obey.”

  His throat was dry, too dry for any response. She had claimed the high ground, and his only avenue was retreat.

  * * *

  Seated with the other officers, Matthew pulled the watch from his pocket again, positive that Kate was not coming. She had not forgotten. She never forgot anything. She was known to ignore things on occasion, such as orders and instructions. He chuckled, glancing at the watch again. If she thought he was above sending the provost to bring her there, he would prove her wrong.

  Raised halfway from his chair, he was ready to call the guard to track her down when she quietly stepped in. Kate ducked her face, looking shy for the first time he could remember. “Excuse my tardiness. It's been so long since I wore proper clothes, I'd forgotten where my trunk went.”

  The pale green muslin of her gown gave an accounting of her figure that was markedly different from the stained apron and drab linen work-dress she usually wore. Her sweep of auburn hair, impossibly arranged atop her head, begged his fingers to take it down. One look at her neckline, teasing in its modestly, was enough to assure Matthew that they were in agreement on their definition of 'proper clothes'.

  He swallowed hard, wondering why he hadn't sat her closer. The officers had taken their usual places down each side, and the foot of the table was suddenly much too far to avail himself of Kate. His tent could have accommodated ten women, and still he would have been fascinated by her alone, by the hint of mischief in her blue eyes sizing him up from the end of the table.

  When he didn't acknowledge, Kate continued her explanation. “I would have sent Porter with word, but he's not back from the village.”

  Not recovered enough to speak, Matthew nodded.

  Ty, on his feet with the other officers, moved to her side. “The company of a lady is always worth the wait.”

  Compared to Ty's silver tongue, his own felt like lead. “Miss Foster, you are acquainted with majors Burrell and Forth. And here are Captain Thomas Westcott and Captain Nat Greene. Colonel McAuley is not able to join us.”

  Kate, who was greeting the men with a gracefully extended arm, raised eyebrows at the news. “Was he not ordered to attend?”

  Her smile teased at him, freezing a retort on his lips.

  Ty leaned forward, poking the closest silver tray with a finger. “What treat have you prepared for us tonight, Webb?”

  “Care to hazard a guess?” Matthew looked to each man in turn, settling on Kate. “Miss Foster?”

  Squinting, she leaned in against the table to get a better look. She shook her head, meeting his eyes.

  “Fowl in piquante sauce.” Matthew held his breath.

  “That is my favorite dish!” Her exclamation was pure delight, just the reaction he'd hoped for. “The last time I had it was ages ago. Talavera, perhaps.” She smiled, clapping gently. “Bravo, general. How did you know?”

  In one gesture she had made two days of contorting himself into awkward discussions of food with Porter entirely worthwhile. He grinned at her raised brows. “You have spies in your camp, Miss Foster.”

  She relaxed in her chair, looking amused at the information.

  When he glanced down the table, it was immediately evident by the purpose of Wescott's grip on the tongs, that he was readying to provoke their guest. It was the same way he fiddled with the hilt of his sword in battle. He had expected some of the officers to give Kate a hard time, just not so early in the meal.

  “Miss Foster. I hope you'll forgive my curiosity at your presence here with his majesty's army,” said Westcott. “Some – less delicate persons than our present company, might perceive your work here as unpatriotic.” The bony angles of his face, an extension of his general construction, tightened in a challenging smile.

  They'd got down to business faster than he had anticipated. Matthew straightened in his chair at the head of the table, ready to run interference against Kate's tongue. Her serene expression wasn't reassuring. “That is only their perception, captain. There is no place for or tolerance of my skills at home. Your army has a true need for exemplary care. Napoleon maintains a finer hospital system and you cannot deny the advantage that gives him.”

  Captain Westcott twisted a lock of wiry brown hair in a slow spiral, examining his prey. “You say nothing of loyalty.”

  Kate waved a hand, brushing away the challenge. “My loyalty is to the patient. If it were to an establishment, I wouldn't be serving your men's best interests.”

  She was so quick and so clever. It was hard to appreciate Kate's wit when he was on the receiving end, but while she engaged his officers he could admire her intellect. His intention for the evening was to let Kate prove herself to his command staff without his interference. So far she was putting them all to shame.

  “I must question,” Forth stuffed a bite of chicken into his cheek, “– and again Miss Foster, not the slightest offense is meant – the propriety of a woman in such a role. A female doctor? It's not permitted, and
for sound reason. Which of us feels comfortable burdening a delicate creature with our afflictions?”

  Kate ducked her head to hide a smile. Ty, whom Matthew knew to be her biggest supporter, came to her rescue. But even he allowed Kate to acquit herself. “Miss Foster has already been thrust into the role. The greater concern is, what passes for 'exemplary care' in her book?” Ty fixed Kate with intensity in his blue eyes. “As with any physician, I believe we should demand a resume.”

  She sat like a queen in her chair, commanding her place with a straight back, blue eyes that challenged every pair at the table.

  “I was trained by my father George Foster, a lieutenant colonel in the Continental Army. He was the primary physician and surgeon for three towns until his death.” She aimed a glance at Forth. “I was given the same education as any man. But no credentials, being a delicate creature.” Matthew grimaced, but her smile took some of the sting from her barb.

  “I served with Doctor Addison from the time of his departure in 1811. Most notably with Lieutenant-General Rowland Hill at Vitoria.” She nodded to Ty. “You were there I believe, Major Burrell.”

  “I was.” Ty dipped his head. “And thanks to you I have an expertly repaired bayonet wound to show for it.”

  Kate, looking satisfied with her patient, continued. “We spent the siege of Rodrigo with Howard's first, and again with Hill at Nive and through the Pyrenees.”

  Green, quiet until now, was the last man with some conflict on his face. “Functioning as an army physician is a very different matter than dressing wounds or poking in a few stitches.”

  She was angry. Matthew knew her well enough to recognize the stiff set of her lips, almost revealing a dimple in her left cheek. She kept it from her voice, setting knife and fork across her plate in a gesture that told him plainly she was entrenching.

  Sliding a finger beneath the left shoulder of her dress, Kate tugged the fabric down an inch and raked the pale pink welt with her thumb. Forth and Westcott murmured protests, Greene turning his head away. Matthew stared at the scar, recognizing it for what it was but hardly trusting his eyes.