Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (4 page)

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 American. 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.”