by Baird Wells
“This was only a glancing blow. I suffered a graver injury to my right flank. A through-and-through wound during an amputation at Vitoria. I'd been nearly twelve hours in the hospital tent severing every conceivable part – a second tent, because there were too many wounded for Addison and the local doctor.” Kate stared at her plate as though seeing into the past. “The orderlies couldn't keep up with the limb piles. The flies it attracted were so severe that it was almost impossible to see my work at times.”
She leaned forward, resting a hand on Forth's coat sleeve, entreating him to look at her. “Men begged to be next. Begging to be sawed upon without comfort, not even grog, as our supply was exhausted by then.
“Men lay in wagons, were piled in the wagons. English, Portuguese and Spanish, some French soldiers all heaped together. Blood, vomit and excrement saturated every one, except the soldiers on top. Their lot was to lie out under heat or cold and swarms of insects. Most of them died in those conditions, and if they hadn't, it would have been a kindness to kill them.”
Forth and Westcott sat with forks in suspended animation above their plates, gray in the face. Even Ty's ever-ready smile was flattened into a grim line. Her account was sobering. Matthew was reminded that, for all the horror of a battle, for some men the aftermath was worse.
Kate sat back and her eyes grew brighter, fixed now on him, wet with sad resignation. “At Vitoria I learned to amputate a leg in seven minutes. That is thirty-three minutes faster than the average English surgeon. A blessing to the patient, but not to me. I had to keep that pace for nearly half an hour after being wounded. My dress and apron were so saturated with blood – mine and others, that the next morning the garments were cut from my body. They were too stiff to be removed any other way.”
Mute, he stared at her along with the other officers, even Ty. Matthew realized he had never truly seen what she was capable of, never much thought about it. He had watched her suture and bandage, concoct her remedies. The Kate she had described might as well be a whole other person, but he would have believed her accounting, even if Ty had not been there to vouch for it. Impossible as it felt to reconcile the beautiful woman before him with a grim-faced sawbones, both shared a fire of absolute determination.
He nodded at her, a gesture of understanding.
“Forgive me. This was hardly appropriate dinner conversation. I'm afraid I've been a rude guest.” She stared down at her plate, lips pursed.
After Ty's admonishment that he did not praise her enough, Matthew was determined to reassure her. To make certain she did not regret for one moment what she had just shared. He waited a long moment, until the exponential silence caught her attention and raised her eyes. “On the contrary, Miss Foster. I think you have acquitted yourself very well.”
They might have gone on staring at one another, her eyes brimming with something unreadable, if Ty had not cleared his throat and asked for the salt. His interjection broke the moment, and when Matthew turned back to Kate, she had looked away.
The rest of the meal passed to the rhythm of clanking utensils and little else. Ty, entirely against protocol, moved seats to the end of the table and kept Kate engrossed in conversation until the soonest possible moment Matthew could excuse his officers.
He clanged a small hand bell for his steward Mister Hill, who shuffled in with the decanter of Port and a salver of stemware guarded against his chest like crown jewels. Hill had reached enough age and miles of campaign that physically he did not perform many duties. Tough as leather and salty as dried pork, he bossed the rest of the domestic staff like a hasty coach driver. What few actual tasks he deigned to perform for his general were greedily-held offices. Mister Hill was efficient and loyal enough that Matthew overlooked his sharper edges.
Hunched arthritically, Hill made the trip clockwise around the table, grumbling about the stains on the cloth, who had eaten too much or too little, showing them the thin whorl of silver hair atop his head. Each guest received the grudging present of his stemware, and Matthew passed the bottle along behind.
He raised his glass, earning a sour look from Kate. She cleared her throat, glancing at the empty space on the table in front of her. Was she serious? “Gentleman, thank you for the company –”
She coughed again. “I do not seem to have a glass.”
Ty, still seated at her elbow, smiled an apology. “Miss Foster, the ladies do not drink.”
Kate arched a brow, sounding amused. “Don't they?”
Matthew threw a look down the table to silence whatever cutting rejoinder was forming on her lips. One sentence in edgewise; was it too much to ask? “To the army, to the thirty-third, to his majesty, and Miss Foster for gracing us with her company.”
He set his glass down unconsumed, shaking each man's hand in turn, while they muttered about whether or not cards should be played in Major Burrell's tent if they must also listen to his fiddle. Ty glanced from him to Kate and back. “Miss Foster. General.”
He gave a shove against Ty's shoulder, cutting off whatever mischief he had planned. Tyler stumbled out with the officers behind, their debate trailing off into the camp.
Matthew took his seat again at the table, chair askew to let his leg stretch, and crossed his arms while considering Kate. There was a tension vibrating between them. He could tell she was waiting for something, maybe composing herself. She stood up, moving almost in front of him and leaned her hip against the table. There might have been a smile on her lips, but he wasn't sure. With two fingers she pinched the stem of his glass and tossed back the port. He watched her, dumbstruck.
Kate grimaced, exhaled and glanced around. Snatching a bottle of brandy from the sideboard in a fluid motion, she popped the cork and poured again. He had never seen anything like it. Now that he had, Matthew did not want it to stop.
She studied the label. “Armagnac? French and expensive. I question your patriotism, general.” He was impressed, but refused to let her see it. “I got it from a Dutch merchant, miss.” He could appreciate French brandy; he just wouldn't give them his coin.
Kate leaned a bit more heavily against the table. She set down his glass and pushed it toward him in a slow line with her index finger. “Did you enjoy testing me?”
“I did.” With the toe of his boot he pushed out a chair beside her, waving for her to sit. “My officers must support my decisions, no matter how unpopular.”
She flinched, and Matthew wished he had chosen his words better. “I invited you because I'm confident in your ability to discharge the duties I've assigned. I hoped you would defend yourself capably, and I was not disappointed.”
“Thank you.” Suspicion narrowed her eyes a little, in opposition to the reluctant twitch at the corners of her mouth.
“Now.” He planted his left boot heel on the edge of the table, wondering if Ty was rubbing off. “I would ask you the same question.” Had she thought he would not notice?
Her surprise looked genuine. “Did I enjoy testing you?”
“Precisely. There is not so much as a crease or wrinkle in your gown, Miss Foster. I cannot believe you pulled it from your baggage moments before dashing in.”
“You are a very keen observer.” Her face colored in a rare blush, one side of her mouth a saucy up-turn. “I had to find someone to lace me up.”
“Pardon?” He could not have heard her correctly.
“I haven't worn proper stays in so long, and the ties are too short to reach myself...” Kate bit her lip and shrugged.
“I see.” A different topic, a polite remark, anything to erase the image of Kate's undergarments from his mind. Instead, he stared.
Kate chuckled and filled Ty's glass sitting at her elbow. She leaned in enough that for the first time her neckline hinted indecently at flesh beneath. She pushed his glass closer. “Drink your brandy.”
“I don't drink.”
She sputtered mid-sip. “What?”
“I don't drink.” He was used to everyone knowing.
“Do
you suffer intemperance?”
“I fear it,” he admitted. He stared at the toe of his boot, finding the right words. “My father's two greatest passions were his drink and his pianoforte. He was utterly devoted to both.”
“That is no guarantee you'll share his affliction.” She scooted closer, so that they were almost knee to knee at the table's corner. Lavender and some softer herb drifted to him.
He didn't want to tell her about Caroline, but the words filled the space between them before he could help it. “My wife used to accuse me of coldness, on occasion. I would take to the bottle, to dull the loss of my men or a smarting defeat. My moods were not easy for her to comprehend.”
“And now that you've given it up?”
“We've passed eight years at a distance agreeable to us both.” He had no way of knowing Caroline's opinion on the matter.
“I don't believe you.” Her smile was sly. Kate pushed the glass until it was almost touching his chest, and held up her own. “If it was truly agreeable, you wouldn't give a fig what she thinks. You'd have no reservations about drinking on campaign.”
“It's been some time since I set foot in church, Miss Foster, but I do recall the sermons regarding temptation.” Lucifer, if he recalled, was the most beautiful of the angels.
Her grin was wicked. “Then you're adequately prepared.”
He was going to drink the brandy. Whatever she was doing, he could not protest or argue. It was witchcraft. The sweet wine coated his tongue, its slow burn heating the back of his throat. “I would like to walk you back to your tent,” he blurted.
“I know the way.”
“So do I.” He stood and held out a hand.
She got up, ignoring his offer and pointed to the Armagnac. “You should stay and reacquaint yourself.”
“I already have,” he drawled.
“Then enjoy your evening.” She side-stepped him cleverly at every turn, but he was determined not to be outfoxed.
“The night is cold.” He grabbed his cloak from a peg in the corner, slinging it over her shoulders.
“That's kind of you.” Kate clutched it to herself without protest, while looking uncomfortable. “I appreciate your invitation to dinner tonight.”
He nodded. “Agreeable, as always.”
“Good night, general.”
Matthew could tell by her pace that Kate did not realize he was doing more than simply walking her to the door, until they had gone five or six steps from the tent.
“What are you doing?” she snapped.
He pointed to his cloak. “Accompanying you, so that I can retrieve my article.”
“You are not walking me to my tent...”
He tugged at the cloak's hem, hiding a grin. “No, I certainly am not.”
* * *
She should have just given back the cloak and been on her way. The thing was warm. A little too warm, a voice insisted. The lining was soft, well-worn linen, and combined with the heat of the wool it was making her drowsy. There were still chores to attend before bed.
And it had a smell, she protested. A bite of cedar, the incense of pipe smoke and something else that was uniquely the general. It was so different from the usual odors of camp, so pleasant, that Kate felt almost uncomfortable being enveloped by it.
She had nabbed the brandy to make her point, after being passed over at dinner. Then it had been fun to tease and banter. Somewhere it had crossed a line into dangerous territory. The mention of his wife was sobering, a douse of cold water.
“Here we are.” She stopped outside her tent and grabbed at the cloak, but Matthew's hand grasped the collar, gently clasping it shut. “It was brave, what you said at dinner. And necessary. I believe the regiment is immeasurably fortunate to have you.” He let her shrug free of the garment and cupped her shoulder. “Thank you, Miss Foster.”
The general had noticed her work. Of course he did. But it was so rarely acknowledged that sometimes she wondered just how much. She could feel herself glowing at his compliment. “I am so grateful that you've allowed me to stay.”
His smile was cryptic as he slung the cloak over his shoulder. It made her crazy that she could not read his expression. Matthew backed away a few steps and bowed. “Goodnight, Miss Foster.”
CHAPTER TEN
Matthew stared at the letter, afraid to break the seal and open Pandora's box.
The sender was no mystery. 'Hon. Louisa Aldridge - Personal' was printed neatly in sternly pointed loops along its face. She had been Lady Adelaide Webb's companion for almost half his life, since he joined the army and left his mother alone in London. When his brother Charles died, Louisa had been the closest thing to family for the aging countess. A strange pair, his bear of a mother with such an aging magpie, but the two got on famously.
He pinched the crease, tapping the letter's edge against his desktop. There was not a single instance which he could imagine Louisa's writing him directly. It was not to inform him something had happened to his mother; her own letters were too unrelenting for such a possibility. By Matthew's best guess, his mother had grown impatient with his lack of visits and, getting no reply, was using Louisa to pester him. He smiled, hardly surprised by her behavior, and tore the seal.
Webb,
By now you must have received your mother's letters of the sixteenth, eighteenth, nineteenth and twenty-second. With such volume, one at least must have reached you. It is not just her eagerness to see you that prompts so much writing, but she will not tell you the truth owing to her natural stubbornness. She has suffered an ailment since the end of last year, and all through the spring now. Doctor Eckman called on her twice in London, but she refused his attempts at examination. I have reached the end of my wits to persuade her, and still she is fixed. It pains me to trouble and distress you at such a time, but will you come and reason with her? You are the only one who can.
I am frightened for our dear Adelaide and have nowhere else to turn. Write before you will come, so that she is prepared and will not suspect my hand in your visit. She forbade me to speak of her illness to you, and I would avoid her wrath if possible.
Yr most humble and ob't svt,
L. Aldridge
He gripped the foolscap between shaking fingers. How long would she have waited to tell him, if not for Louisa? For all her denial, Adelaide must think herself sick, or she would not have written five letters in seven days – probably more than she had written during the rest of his campaign.
She had to be examined. Shame on her for her stubbornness, and shame on Doctor Eckman for indulging it. The man had cared for Adelaide long enough to know better.
Matthew tucked the letter in his pocket, too winded for anything but staring at the top of his desk. He would not write Louisa. His mother needed care immediately, well ahead of any letter. He would take the blame if Louisa were found out. She likely had enough good standing to weather the supposed betrayal.
He would go to Brussels. Tonight. Matthew stood, but his feet were hesitant. Could he find a competent physician in the city? Skill was not enough. The man would have to be persuasive and tenacious enough to flank his mother's stubborn streak. What if the only doctor available was an Astley? She could undoubtedly handle such conceit – his father had given her a thorough education in that regard – but it chapped him to think of his lovely mother being prey to ignorant smarm.
There was an alternative, Matthew realized. Conventional wisdom would say he was making a mistake, but he couldn't help noticing how much better he felt minutes later, crossing the camp towards Kate's tent.
Outside in the dark he cleared his throat, composing the words in his head.
“Come in, general.” There was an amused lilt to the invitation.
Matthew ducked inside, something scratching through his hair, smacking him in the forehead. Herbs. She had bundles and stems hung from the supports, front to back. Brown curls of bark, pointed purple blossoms, clusters of wrinkled rust-orange rose hips. If the variety was impressive, the
smell was doubly so. Some he recognized: the bite of clove and the spice of sandalwood, a soothing pungent oil that was unmistakably lavender. Others were foreign, floral or evergreen in note, but unrecognizable in the potpourri.
“How did you know it was me?”
She was folded onto a quilt, back against her small cot wall and knees drawn to her chest. Her chemise ended mid-calf, met by a comically huge pair of gray knit socks. The socks and a long blue and white check shawl conspired to make her seem tiny inside their embrace, and under a pile of chestnut hair she resembled a doll clad in borrowed clothes. With the toes of her right foot, Kate braced an inkwell, and her quill hung idly from her hand. In the dim light, he swore there was a hint of amusement in her blue eyes. “You bark before you bite.”
Not certain how he should take her remark, Matthew craned his head, glancing all around the space. “I expected you to be entrenched in Doctor Addison's quarters by now.”
Kate shook her head. “Not enough spare moments. I take a few things whenever I'm already headed that way, but it's slow going.”
He raised onto his toes, peering past her coat and shaking his head at the sheer amount of things Kate had stashed away in every corner. “I daresay your quarters are bigger than mine.”
“Shame on you for not demanding something a little nicer from his Majesty. I purchased mine out-of-pocket.”
“How very American of you,” he teased.
Kate pursed her lips, trying and failing to fold a smile in between her teeth.
He shook his head. “This is your leisure time. I apologize for interrupting your evening.” He struggled with preamble, not wanting to simply blurt out his reason. He did not want her to think he had come to her as a last resort.
She thumbed a stack of papers resting on a wide book across her lap. “Just writing home. Every time I think it's long enough, I put the pages aside to be mailed. Then something else of note happens and I think, I'll just keep it a little longer.” She sighed. “It will be a book, if it ever does get sent.”