Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (16 page)

Adelaide furrowed a brow. “Something
other than what you have been taught, I gather?”

“My father was a pioneer of
battlefield medicine, and a family doctor for three towns. He cared for the
natives around our home. The education I received from him, and the local
medicine man, likely contained more useful information than a doctor receives
in all his training.”

“Do you have formal training?
Besides the army.”

“My father taught me as his
apprentice. I began at the same place as every doctor, at least in America. My
training is no different, but my knowledge is.” It was a fact, not a boast.

“You cannot practice, Miss Foster.
That is true in America, is it not?”

“It is. Yet here I am.” She stared
down Adelaide's challenge.
            “Serving with the army?” Lady Webb gave her head a little shake.
“Most unusual. Are you a married woman?”

“Widowed, like you,” said Kate.

“Hmph.” Adelaide stiffened, as if
trying and failing at resisting being in sympathy with Kate.

They sized each other up, Kate
feeling that her inquisitor was moving around a weighty issue, turning it over
in her mind. Adelaide relaxed further back against the pillows, looking exactly
like a wounded animal, only accepting care because she was too injured to bite
or flee.

Kate tapped the journal with her
index finger, flipping back to her entry. “Let's begin with the simplest bit.
What is wrong with you?”

Adelaide worried her thumbnail,
considering the question. “Malaise. I would say it came on rather suddenly, but
Louisa insists she noticed after Christmas.” She avoided Kate's eyes, turning
away to watch the fire.

Kate scratched a note across the
paper with one half of her brain, forming suspicion with the other. There was
more to the story than she was being told. “Just fatigue, no other physical
signs?”

“Not particularly.”

Kate noted that Adelaide did not say
'
no'.
“Fever? Coughing up blood,” she offered.

“No, neither one.”

“Incontinence?”

An uncomfortable pause. “Urgency,
Doctor Eckman calls it.”

Puzzle pieces were fitting together
in her mind, and Kate did not like the shape they were making. “Hmm. Vaginal
bleeding...spots of blood or clots?”

“Miss Foster.” Adelaide turned
farther away, wriggling against the covers.

“If you had a broken carriage or a
piano,” Kate chastised, “you would have not the slightest issue describing to a
workman what happened, the extent of the damage. And you would express an
expectation, quite reasonably, that it be fixed.” She laid fingers on the back
of Adelaide's hand. “Your body deserves as much consideration as a piece of
furniture. Modesty is doing nothing but killing you at the moment.”

Fishing in the pocket of her house
gown, Adelaide pulled out a small linen hankie and dabbed at both eyes. “The
spots began a fortnight ago. Before that, cramping and a fullness in my belly.”

Her heart fell. Bleeding in a woman
of such advanced age was always a bad sign.

“Your monthly courses have stopped?”
Impossible as it was, Kate wished the answer were no.

“Some ten years ago.”

Fighting back dread, Kate pressed
on. “Pain or discomfort in your groin?”

“Yes. Particularly after sitting
long periods – the carriage ride from Antwerp was misery. Sometimes the pain
comes on without warning.” Adelaide drew up her shoulders and shuddered.

Standing, Kate held up her hands.
“I'd like to examine your belly.”

“I do not wish to disrobe.” A hand
gripped tighter at the ruffled neckline.

She tried reassuring Adelaide with a
smile. “No need. Just slide down the bed and lie flat. Open your gown, but your
shift is fine as it is.”

Tossing back the quilt, Lady Webb
wriggled down from the pillows, barely moving the front panel of her nightgown,
leaving it to Kate to turn back the fabric.

Using the fingertips of both hands,
Kate rolled and prodded from the belly button downward, watching her patient's
face for the slightest flinch. “Any discomfort?”

Lady Webb's face was turned away,
thumb pressed to her lips. “Just bloat.”

Kate braced her hand against
Adelaide's hip, using a middle and index finger to dig with steady pressure
downward behind the pubic bone. A gasp, a jerk of the legs brought her hand
away.

She smiled and held out an arm, but
her chest squeezed with agonizing pressure.

It was cancer of the cervix.

Settling back against the headboard,
Lady Webb's charcoal eyes probed her for some hint. “Well, what have you
discovered?”

Kate rubbed her arm. “Just rest a
minute. I'll get the general and then we can talk. If we discuss anything
without him, you know there will be trouble.”

Lady Webb nodded, full lips
flattened to a grim line.

Matthew had been so hopeful when
he'd first asked her to come. It was killing her, having to tell him that his
mother was very sick, and there was little she could do. Kate threw open the
bedchamber door, nearly bowling him over and almost throwing the tea tray into
his chest. She came up short, slamming the door before Lady Webb caught a
glimpse of his approach.

“I'm sorry. I would have been up
sooner, but Louisa –”

Kate grabbed the tray, searching the
shadows of the darkened front room and finally clattering it down atop
something resembling a chess table.

“Miss Foster?” Worry added points to
his question.

Grabbing Matthew's hand, she led him
to a small settee under the window, where the moon winked behind the trees on
its decent to the horizon. She sat, pulling him down under creaking protest
from the sofa. Matthew settled beside her, and Kate took both of his hands.

She could just make out his handsome
features in the dark, forehead knit with tense lines, drawing his brows
together. What she had to say was going to break his heart.

“Your mother is ill, general.”

“How ill?”

His lips barely formed the words.
Kate steeled herself and squeezed his hands tighter. “Cancer of the cervix, I'm
almost positive.”

He made a kind of reverse gasp, as
though he'd been punched in the gut. They sat in silence, Kate listening to the
artificial way he slowed his breaths, feeling the stiffness of his body beside
her.

When he spoke, it was through a
mouthful of gravel. “You're confident of that?”

“Enough to share my diagnosis. I
would never worry you or your mother over mere speculation,” Kate said.

He shuddered next to her, stumbling
on a ragged breath. Kate leaned closer, then hesitated. Matthew, seeming to
have less reservations about their history, squeezed her fingers almost
painfully and dropped his forehead to her shoulder. She leaned into him, rested
her cheek against his hair, and let him be. “I'm sorry, Matthew.”

For a moment he was limp, and then
she felt his palms pressed to the small of her back. His forehead rested just
above her ear, voice a ragged whisper. “Thank you.”

She patted his arm and pulled away.
“I still have some good news. Come, let's tell her and then you can both
discuss what you would like to do.” She stood up, offering her hand.

Matthew wrapped her fingers, letting
her tug him up from the sofa. He pulled her in close the moment her arm
relaxed. “I know it is your way to laugh off a compliment, but just this once I
want you to take it seriously. I am so, so –” His voice broke, springing tears
up in her eyes, “So very grateful.”

Not trusting herself to speak, she
wrapped a hand around his shoulder and opened the door.

*          *          *

He sat in the chair beside his
mother, squeezing her hand and feeling a cold sweat on his fingers that might
have belonged to him or both of them.

She was not going to die.
He
wouldn't even contemplate the idea.

His mother swiped at her eyes again,
sniffling and seeming to get a hold of herself for the moment. “What can be
done?”

Kate crouched beside the bed and
took her other hand. Matthew told himself yet again that he had done the right
thing by bringing her.

“The unfortunate news is, surgery is
the only treatment,” she warned.

His mother squeezed his hand with
biting pressure, staring at her quilt.

Kate flicked open her journal lying
at her feet and pulled out a small handbill. “Here is the good news.” She held
it out, smiling.
            He took the paper, unfolded it and skimmed its bold print. “Doctor
Konrad Langenbeck?”

“He is a surgeon from Hanover.
The
surgeon for the Hanoverian army, in fact. Doctor Addison and I chanced to meet
him on our way through Paris. I have corresponded with him, from time to time.”

“This is an unbelievable
coincidence.” Heart racing, he glanced at his mother's bemused frown and waved
the paper. “The Hanoverian army is
here
. He will be close. Very close.”

“That is the least exciting part.”
Kate leaned in closer to the bed. “He has just performed the very surgery your
ladyship would undergo. It was a completely unremarkable procedure, and he
claims she has no complications.”

He glanced over the handbill again,
skeptical. “Do you believe that?”

Her nod was firm. “I do. Langenbeck
has significantly better outcomes than his colleagues.”

His mother looked small and delicate
in the center of the bed, pale and no doubt exhausted by the late hour. “It
will hurt?”

“Yes. Though he can offer you
laudanum, and the operation itself will go very fast.”
            His mother's eyes clouded with hesitation, and Matthew felt the
commander in him take over. “You will see him at the first opportunity. I will
write to him now and make arrangements.”

Had he expected that approach to
work
?

Predictably, she balked and pulled
her hand away. “You cannot simply order me to do something, Matthew. We are
talking of cutting out an organ, not marching to the barracks.”

He was only making things worse.
With a glance he pleaded for Kate to save him. She caught his meaning; he knew
it when she moved to sit beside his mother on the bed.

“It is very painful and there are
all sorts of risks, along with a very excellent chance you will fully recover.”
She scooped up his mother's hand again, pressing it firmly. “If you decide
against surgery, you
will
die from this disease. Have you watched
someone die from cancerous maladies? They suffer
every day
with the pain
you will feel under the knife just once. For them, there is no relief in sight.
Just death.”

His mother pooled against the
pillows, defeated but also looking relieved. He guessed she was glad, in a
strange way, to have the decision made for her. “Very well. Send for your
surgeon. We will see what can be done.”

Slumping over the bed, Matthew
rested his head at her breast, and his mother ruffled fingers through his hair.
Hope washed away a measure of the sick tension in his gut, and for the first
time in years, he offered up something like a prayer.

CHAPTER TWELVE

He did not recall truly sleeping
after he had left his mother's room. Kate had not either, he was certain,
already hearing her voice from the hall when he woke. If she was fatigued now,
it did not show. Silky chestnut waves were neatly braided, blue eyes bright
over a ready smile, and not a hint of exhaustion. Stifling a yawn into his
sleeve, Matthew admitted a stinging amount of jealousy, certain he was not half
as composed.

They left at midday, the square in
front of the townhouse busy with people sharing curious looks at Kate's
appearance. Either she did not realize or did not care, greeting each open
stare with a smile and nod, or a wave. He would trade some of his military
efficiency any day for even an ounce of her unflappable spirit. He laughed.
Perhaps then he'd be better equipped to deal with her the rest of the time.

He lifted Kate's bag with the
intention of securing it, finding it straining at the seams and heavier than he
recalled the night before. He held it up and shook it at her. “Did you pilfer
the tea service?”

She rolled her eyes, grinning, and
bounced into Nelson's saddle. “Your mother sent me away with not one but
two
silk gowns. It would have been four but I convinced her that would be a burden
to poor Nelson here. I have no idea where she thought I would wear them.”

He smiled, all-too-familiar with his
mother's brand of henpecking. “But you accepted them.”

“Of course. And she does
not
need to know that I plan on cutting them up into bandages.”

“Shocking.” He took immense delight
at her expression any time he teased her so, amusement with a hint of annoyance.

“I can only imagine.” Kate tossed
him a sharp look, then looked again, brows furrowed. She leaned across Bremen
so quickly that he started, shifting his horse. Her knuckle rubbed up his
cheek, in broad daylight and in front of every pedestrian. It ran a current
through his body that he tried to ignore.           “Is that
stubble
on
your face?” she gasped.

“Thomas forgot to pack my strop and
razor.” He had felt self-conscious about his disheveled state all morning, and
Kate's pointed attention was not helping.

“Hmm.” Kate's smile was faint and
achingly unreadable. Matthew hated how often he was left scratching his head
after one of their exchanges. She granted him one more glance over her
shoulder, fueling his confusion, before wheeling Nelson out into the square's
bustling crowd.

Weaving between the streams of
people, wagons, and one very persistent lady of comfort, he caught up with Kate
at the bulwark, just above the bridge from town. “You ride with some
experience, Miss Foster.”

“I wager you would give me a good
run,” she admitted, without a glance.

“You imagine so?”

“We could find out...” Kate drew
Nelson up short at the end of the bridge.

Matthew grinned. Her challenge
sounded like just the thing to still his nerves. He pointed to the fanned
branches peeking from atop a ridge, a few hundred yards across the field before
them. “A guinea says I beat you to that elm.”

Kate gasped, laughing at his terms.
“Robbery!”

“And another if I overtake you
before the brook.”

She sniffed and rolled a shoulder.
“I sincerely doubt I have such an exorbitant sum in my possession. My pay goes
to Fann for safe keeping. When I receive it.”

Matthew took devilish pleasure in
her admission. If she lacked coin, they could bargain with something else,
making the wager that much more interesting. “Oh, we can alter the terms,” he
teased. “You best me overall, a guinea. Overtake me at the stream, two
guineas.”

Kate's eyes narrowed to sharp blue
slits. Matthew realized they had arrived at the moment she knew him well enough
to be suspicious. “And if you best me?”

“You lodge no complaints, of any
kind, for a week.”

“Three days.” Kate held up fingers
as emphasis.

“This is
my
half of the
wager, Miss Foster. Four days.”

“Three. Three days.”

She had a way of negotiating that
grated his nerves to no end, bargaining ruthlessly with not a decent card in
her hand. The
most
grating bit was how often she
won
. “Very
well,” he ground out. “Three days.”

“Hah!” She raised an arm in triumph.
“Agreed. If you pass
me
at the half-way?”

“Ah.” Matthew let his smile draw
slowly, watching a little anxiety dawn on her face. “There is the alteration.
Whether you win or no, if I match you at the brook, it's a favor to be named at
a time of my choosing.”

Kate chewed her lip, shifting in the
saddle. She hated the idea of losing, but Matthew knew she hated the idea of
not playing even more. Her back straightened, boots adjusting in the stirrups,
and Matthew saw he had won her over. Kate stuck out her hand. “I accept.”

He smiled, raising his right arm and
stretching forward in the saddle. As his fingertips brushed hers, Kate spurred
Nelson with a yip, tearing past him off the bridge.

“Dammit all.” He muttered the curse
into her dust trail, giving Bremen two good digs with his boot heels. He
grinned, realizing he should have known better than to trust her. Squeezing
Bremen's flanks with his knees, he arched low over the horse's neck. Tracing
her path with his eyes, he studied the terrain, tugging Bremen's reins to bring
him around a rocky mound. He did not have to beat her, just match her at the
creek. He had known at the outset that he would not pass her; Bremen just
wasn't that kind of horse. But he was good for a short burst, enough to bring
them even. He had no doubt she would win, but one guinea was worth having Kate
in his pocket for later. He just had to beat her to the checkpoint.

Only a handful of strides from the
creek, Kate began glancing at him over her shoulder, urging Nelson harder. He
was an endurance horse, and Matthew had ridden him enough to know he could go
for miles, but not a bit faster in his pace. He had intentionally held Bremen
back until Kate overextended. Neck and neck, he gave her a wink, earning a head
shake in return. Two quick spurs, and Bremen's hooves plunged into the water
first, spraying Matthew's face. Kate passed by in a single gallop, and Matthew
kept just enough speed, to the base of the ridge, to give her the illusion of a
contest.

She had dismounted by the time he
trotted up the bank, leaning against the elm's gnarled trunk with boots crossed
in front of her. Kate brushed reckless auburn waves from her face and smiled,
chest heaving against the pewter buttons of her coat.

Matthew started to raise a leg over
his saddle. In an effort to remain an honest man, he thought better of it and
stayed put. Instead, he lifted his hat in salute. “Miss Foster,
congratulations.”

Kate's arms crossed, resting over
her breasts. “You knew from the beginning you couldn't win.”

“I never assume defeat until a thing
is well and done,” he said, imitating her coyness.

“Oh well. I took your devil's deal.”
She got up with all the grace of a conquering queen. “Besides, I get my guinea
now
and defer my lashes till later.”

“Later,” he shot back, enjoying her
flagging triumph, “but not forever.”

Kate didn't answer. She was bent
under Nelson, holding his leg. “Oh no.” He fussed, stomping sideways, and
whinnied. “He's taken a stone, poor boy. Now I feel awful.”

Matthew leaned down, squinting for a
better look. “He's been prone to it since Portugal. Trod down on something so hard
I thought he was lamed. He's come through it, but that left foot is sometimes
tender. He'll be right as ever, in a week or so.”

She brushed at Nelson's muzzle.
“Should we take him back to town?”

Matthew squinted into the distance,
then shook his head. “He can manage a slow pace just fine. I'd prefer John
looking after him, and not that man child tending my mother's horses. And that
means...” He patted Bremen's neck.

She took an uneasy step back. It was
nice to see Kate unbalanced for a change. “I can walk.”

“Undoubtedly. I'm so confident of it
that there's no need for us arrive at the garrison past midnight, for you to
prove the point.” He reached out a hand. “Mount up.”

*          *          *

Matthew tugged her arm, lifting her
easily into the saddle. It was impossible to ignore the feel of him against
her. He could have been boorish and ugly as toad and she still would have been
acutely aware of their bodies touching.
But he wasn't
, a little voice
protested. She tried very hard to ignore that voice, recalling that on the ride
back from the farm she had hardly noticed Matthew at all.
Because you were
too busy being afraid he'd strangle you
, she recalled. That, and a
near-brush with death which had left her with a multitude of things to reflect
upon, not one of them having to do with the general's cologne.

Cradled now by his muscled thighs,
pressed against him back-to-front, Kate appreciated that at least his coat was
between them.

Matthew's breath hissed between his
lips. “Let's hold a moment.” He snapped Bremen to heel. “It really is
unseasonably hot this afternoon.” Pushing her shoulder, he leaned her forward
an inch or two, and Kate realized he was unbuttoning his coat.

Oh well.

He rolled it into a bundle, jostling
against her buttocks and hips while turning to stuff it into his pack. She
stiffened with the impossible effort of trying not to touch him.

“Are you all right, Miss Foster?”

“Mmhm.” It
was
hot out in the
open, beaten by a sun just passing mid-day. The fact was impressed upon her by
a dampness already growing between her back and the wall of his chest,
plastering their shirts to one another. She tried sitting up, putting some
space between them.

“What are you doing?” he snapped.

“Sitting.”

“Your head is bumping my chin.
Repeatedly.” Matthew's hands curled around her waist, hauling her back till her
head cradled into his shoulder. “There. Much better.”

Resigned to their configuration,
Kate relaxed into the sway of Matthew's body. “I do not think we should enter
the garrison like this.”

“Why ever not?” God bless him, he
was honestly curious.

She laughed, throwing up her hands.
“It just looks...” Could he really not grasp her meaning? The way they were
dressed, being gone all night and returning on the horse together...Kate felt
the potential for gossip, but could hardly put it into words. Propriety of one
sort was not as important as another, but she was having trouble articulating
the difference.

“I have to earn the respect of the
men, just like you. Civilians in camp are ordered by rank, same as the army.
Camp women,
true
camp women fall at the bottom. The Astleys, the Forths
and Greenes tolerate me because I figure slightly higher. And I do it by never
trading in favors or preference. The second your men feel I am not earning my
place right along with them, especially by your hand,” she shrugged, “I lose
their confidence. And respect.”

He was quiet behind her, thoughtful
for a moment. Kate felt it in the tension of his shoulders against hers. “I had
never thought of it in that manner.”

She nodded, knowing it had likely
never occurred to him. “We cannot come back like this.”

Matthew jabbed her in the ribs.
“Miss Foster, have you seen yourself? You are dressed like a drummer boy at
Sunday service.”

“You look like the quarter master on
a French privateer.” She refused to let him hear her smile.

He chuckled above her ear. “Then
it's fortunate we've been thrown together.”

This was the place where she would
usually dig in, giving Matthew no quarter for his teasing. Kate looked around
them, not a thing in sight but copses of trees dotting the hills all the way to
the riverbank, and realized it was her decision how long the rest of their trip
felt.

She laughed, relaxing further
against him. “I suppose it is.”