Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (46 page)

Ty brushed a finger over her
handwriting, voice barely above a ragged whisper. “The storms that plagued us
during those last days before Waterloo converged over open ocean. On June
twenty-fourth,
Union
was caught in the gale and foundered. The Yankee
sloop
Peacock
recovered six living souls late that day and torched the
wreckage.” He swallowed, quiet a moment. “The survivors were all crew. All
men.” Ty's face was granite, eyes bright and wide with meaning.

Matthew pushed the manifest back
across the desk. “It has to be an error. A different Katherine Foster. Or
perhaps she signed the wrong ledger.” There was a way to reason this out, his
mind argued. With enough time, he would find an explanation.

Ty's breath hitched. “I'm sorry,
Matthew. So truly sorry, not that it in any way –”

He did not want to be consoled.
There was no point. “Stop speaking.” He shook his head, trying to shake away
the ridiculous fears Ty had planted there. “We have no way of knowing what
happened to Kate. Another ship might have picked her up, or she could have
struck out for nearby land.” He hammered the page with his index finger. “This
does not mean anything.”

Ty's nod was halfhearted, annoying
him. “You're right, of course. I was too hasty. We should wait and see.”

“I'm going to be proved right,”
Matthew retorted

“I'll continue asking, see what I
can discover,” said Ty.

“That would be wise.”

Ty slipped out of his chair. “I'll
send word from London the moment I hear anything.”

“London?” Matthew sat up.
Was he
mad
? He could not leave now. “How are you going to help me sort this out
from London? I need you here.” He hated the desperate way his words trembled
into each other. “Clearly there's more digging to be done in Antwerp.”

“And I wish you more success than I
have had.”

“Tyler.” Matthew begged with a
single word. What could be more important at a time like this?

“I have orders, Matthew. This is no
easier for me.” Ty did not look at him again, closing the door in his wake.

“Bastard,” he muttered, picking up
the manifest and tossing it down again.

The seed of doubt planted by its
information took root in his chest, fully blossoming in the light of evidence.
His heart pounded, chased by panic. He had to figure out what they had missed.

He swept over the writing again and
again, the characters impaling deeper with each pass of his eyes. She
belonged
to him. Nothing, no one had any right to take her away. Why hadn't Adelaide
persuaded her to go to London? Why was she sailing to England alone? He slammed
a boot into the floor boards. Ty was a millstone around his neck, inciting
panic and then running back to England with his tail between his legs.

Shoving back his chair, he wadded
the manifest and cleared his desk with one violent sweep of his hand.

Who should you truly blame,
whispered a chilling voice.
Who sent her to Antwerp?

Matthew bent and braced palms on the
mahogany.

He had sent her away for selfish
reasons, misleading her in order to do so. He could blame his mother, or Ty, or
the sodding ship captain, but none of that would change things now. It was his
fault. If he just admitted it, if he was truly sorry for the mistake...

It still would not bring her back.
Something broke in him at the realization, fragile as glass shattering inside a
cyclone of emotion. The first sob was more of a spasm, wracking him from head
to toe and wringing anguish from every limb. Afterward they came from his
chest, punctuating his begging, pleading, the accusations against a God who
surely deserved an equal share of the blame.

He wrapped arms around himself,
trying to crush together two halves of a heart that was already broken.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Westminster Cathedral, London – July 19
^th

Light spilled in from high gothic
windows, blinding against white stone columns, only softened where it was
swallowed up by the carved fans of the cathedral's towering arches.

Matthew stood at the back of the
nave, inside the ornate twisted branches of twin brass gates. He was
overwhelmed by the splendor. Even through the fog of his grief, the cathedral
was magnificent.

A week ago, his impending knighthood
had been an appointment, a formality, one more obligation to drag him out into
a world of which he wanted no part. Now, however, he found an unexpected solace
in the church's silent brilliance.

He stared down at his feet, unconsciously
aligned with a gentle groove in the black and white marble tiles. It was a
path, worn down by kings and queens, and traitors and heroes over four-hundred
years. It was a noble's path, but looking up into the dust stars drifting
through white-gold shafts of light, he was reminded that it was
God's
house.

Something in him refused to take a
step until they had made a sort of peace. Never having been a religious sort,
Matthew stumbled to construct a prayer worthy of Kate. She would have been so
proud of him, and so dismissive of the opulence around him. He could hear her
laughter, her assurance that he did not need a piece of jewelry to earn his
country's esteem. But he
had
earned it, with her strength to buoy him,
and he needed her with him now.

I do not ask forgiveness or
promise to become a Sunday devotee. I promise only to try. Please let her see
me now, please let her know...And tell her I love her.

Matthew exhaled, having put an
irretrievable measure of his soul into the words. He reached inside the pocket
over his heart, rubbing the braid coiled inside. She was with him. He could
feel it when his heartbeat slowed, the tension melting from between his
shoulders.

The herald appeared at his side,
smoothing a snow cap of white hair. “When his majesty steps down, my lord, that
will be your mark.”

He nodded, letting the man step in
front of him. The herald brushed and fussed at his black velveteen coat, taking
enough care that it might have been him receiving recognition. Then he turned
and addressed the assembly. “General...The viscount...Webb!”

A choir rang out in a minor key,
echoing from the walls and sending a shiver up his spine. Trumpets gilded the
voices, and the crowd rose to their feet at an unspoken command.

There were so many people, glinting like
jewels set into the wooden stalls, all awaiting his appearance. Above them hung
the devices of families considered aristocratic when the Webbs were still
Trowbridge weavers. Matthew spied his own halfway up the knave, red shield with
a gold cross and a falcon to guard each corner. A swimming sensation between
his temples forced him to blink heavily, chasing off a moment of disbelief.

As a general, it was hard to
understand the outpouring of emotion. He had only done his duty the best he
knew how. As an Englishman, he was just as overcome as anyone in the crowd.
Even the Prince Regent dabbed at his eyes, managing to look regal and dignified
despite his corpulent frame drowning in an abundance of ermine-trimmed robe,
giving the impression of a large woman in a too-small dress.

The prince lumbered down a step from
the dais, and Matthew began his long march forward. There were familiar faces
in the crowd, but he did not register any of them, hardly looking in any
direction save straight ahead, eyes fixed on a congregation of stained-glass
saints high above the altar. It was not until he spotted his mother, seated
near the front, that he truly met anyone's eyes. She looked younger and softer,
face framed by the black silk of her bonnet. He had weathered the day's tumult
so far, but her smile blazing through unchecked tears threatened his last
shreds of control. Matthew swallowed hard, digging up composure before he
reached the prince.

The choir reached its crescendo,
crying the Latin hymn's final hallelujahs into the clerestory, prickling the
hair along his neck as he reached the dais. He knelt on a red velvet cushion,
holding back some of his weight under a certainty that the little stool it sat
on would break.

In a complete anti-climax, the
actual ceremony took less time than crossing the cathedral. A blade's cold
steel kissed the right and then left sides of his neck, pressing his shoulders
with the weight of his new office. He stood as the prince stepped back, the
efficient old herald darting between them to remove the stool.

Prince George grabbed his hands and
kissed them, filling Matthew's nose with a pungent cloud of garlic, wine, and
snuff. “We are indebted sir, a thousand times indebted for your sacrifices and
bravery. We fully recognize and honor your most noble effort to earn our
glorious victory.”

His sacrifices
? He had
returned home alive, all his limbs intact. The only sacrifice he had made was
due to his own foolishness. George, like everyone in London, meant well. They
simply did not understand.

The prince dabbed a frilled cuff at
his ruddy cheeks, overcome again as trembling sausage fingers managed the first
medal off of the cushion at his side. Matthew braced himself, sure that in his
overwrought state the prince would impale him with the cross's stick. Instead,
George pierced it through the fabric at his breast with surprising deftness,
giving the Bath Order's medal a few gentle pats. He draped Matthew with the
same cross, smaller and hung from a red grosgrain lanyard, and another from an
orange and blue ribbon. “We are pleased to confer upon you His Majesty King
William's royal order. It is the highest honor of his kingdom, and we find you
worthy of no less.”

His jaw twitched. He stared at the
medal's spartan, sharply pointed cross and wondered how he had done anything
deserving of the award. If anything, it belonged to his men, especially those
mingled with the Belgian dust. Momentarily lost in the terrible memory, his
attention was so fixed that he did not realize the prince had extended something
else until the herald cleared his throat. Sealed papers hovered before him at
chest level. “We elevate you among your peers to the rank of earl, with the
hereditary title Dover, and all the rights and privileges due and according.”
His bulging blue eyes shone, and George pressed a hand to his ample chest.

Matthew took the letters making his
title official, wishing his hands would not tremble so violently. The herald
urged him back two steps, and he bowed and stood fixed until Prince George
swept from the chapel with entourage in tow to the renewed blaring of horns.

Then it was his turn. As he returned
down the long aisle, applause boomed overhead, caught like thunder between the
buttresses. Men he had never met and others whose names he could not recall leaned
out to press his hand or tug at his sleeve. A volley of handkerchiefs struck
him in passing, several loud with the odor of perfume, acquainting him with the
extent of his new-found celebrity.

Reaching the gates, he took the
flight of stairs two at a time down from the chapel to stay ahead of the crowd.
It seemed disrespectful to run through the cathedral, so Matthew determined
just how quickly he could walk to the massive doors barring his escape through
the high stone arch. Once outside, he tossed decorum out the window and loped
along the curb until he spotted his mother's carriage.

Jumping in, he wrestled back against
the seat and drew a black velvet curtain, listening with mounting anxiety to
the buzz of voices growing around him.

Nearly a quarter of an hour must
have passed while he waited and prayed no curious eyes caught a glimpse of him
inside. Suddenly the carriage rocked and the door was thrown open. His mother
planted a foot on the step beside her coachman, freezing half bent when she
caught sight of him inside.

“God man, you'll let the whole
bloody town in!” Matthew leapt forward, grabbing the leather handle and pulling
the door back to close the gap beside Adelaide's body.

His mother's head snapped up, and
somewhere behind her Worley muttered an apology. He shut the door in such
nervous haste that he smacked his mistress in the backside, nearly toppling
Adelaide while trying to close her in.

“Worley is treating Hansel and
Gretel as a textbook, I see,” she grumbled. Despite her surprise, his mother
was as unflappable as ever. Untying her bonnet, Adelaide set it on the seat,
filling it with her tiny, black satin gloves. She raised an arm and her hand on
his cheek was cool, stroking with a soothing pressure. He ached to be a child
again, to have everything set right just by laying his head in her lap. “You
look tired. How long since you've slept?”

“I don't know. I lie down and
sometimes it feels as though I sleep. I do not notice time passing, but the
fatigue is just as deep when I wake.” He decided not to confess that those
nominally restful periods only came halfway through a bottle of gin. She likely
already suspected.

“You will come to dinner tonight.”
There was no room for argument in her command.

He was too tired to fight, Matthew
decided. “Only if you can swear that I am the only guest.”

Her words were soft, but firm in
true motherly fashion. “Tonight, yes. Though you are a national hero now,
Matthew. You cannot shirk your obligations forever.”

“I have no obligations. I belong to
myself.” Defiance, fueled by despair, flared up inside.

She clucked her tongue, chuckling.
“Don't be obtuse. You belong to England, and you well know it. You are property
of the State, and every man and woman claims a bit of you, a bit of your
victory, as their own. I have had to give you up, and now you must do the
same.”

“And if I wish simply to be left
alone?” he retorted bitterly.

Her hand smacked his thigh, not
tolerating his pique. “Do you appreciate for a moment what you have
accomplished? A single man and his army have terrorized half the world for as
long as some can recall. That is ended now, Matthew, for good this time. Europe
knows peace.” She pressed him with the words. “You had a very great hand in
that.”

“Can the deed not simply stand on
its own?” he barked. “
Thank you, general. We are grateful for your service,
general.
” Matthew sighed, rubbing hands over his face. “Can I cross Mayfair
ever again in under half an hour?” He would not admit, even to his mother, what
truly bothered him about the attention. It was not simply modesty. It was
agony, a wound in his chest picked open by every conversation, each
well-wisher.

His mother crossed her arms, having
none of his complaining. “The attention runs a rank deeper for Wellington,
Matthew, but you do not see him pouting up and down Bond street, scowling and
snapping at the never-ending crush of acquaintance-makers nipping him like
pick-pockets.” Adelaide sat back and tsk-tsked. “His Grace, poor thing. Duke of
Wellington snuff boxes and walking sticks. Shaving soap! Can you grasp it?” She
shuddered.

He could grasp it, but until now, he
had not. In his imaginings, a few more hats would tip a nod on the street, and
he would add a medal or two to his uniform. Perhaps receive a dinner invitation
to St. James from the Prince Regent. Being transformed into a symbol, a
celebrity,
had never occurred. Matthew Webb the man had all but ceased to exist to the
citizens of Britain.

His mother smoothed his hands
between her own, cool fingers, a balm to some of the fever there. “Stay with me
in Mayfair for a few days.”

“In the middle of town? That rather
runs counter to my interests.” He would not be able to so much as open a
curtain without drawing a crowd.

“We can keep one another company,”
she offered.

Matthew stared out the window,
wishing at once to feel nothing at all, or something besides crushing misery.
“I don't know that I wish any company.”

She moved beside him, settling onto
the seat and resting her head at his breast. “I miss her, too.”

He wanted to shout that it was not
the same, that she could never truly understand the hollow space around his
heart. Instead, he bent and rested his face in her palm, letting his heart pour
out.

*          *          *

Mayfair
,
London – July 21, 1815

Ty stood rooted to the sidewalk, a
crowd of pedestrians flowing practically unnoticed around him. He hovered in
front of Matthew's house at 41 Upper Brook Street, staring up at the gray stone
facade, trying to find his courage. It seemed lately that he only came with bad
news.

Not all bad
, he thought. Matthew
had passed from grieving to wallowing somewhere over the weeks. He did not
relish the task of putting a boot in his friend's arse, but it was as much his
duty as following Matthew's orders on the field. And it was high time for a
reminder that someone else felt Kate's loss.

“Tyler, shall I come with you?”

Olivia's soft voice drifted from his
carriage, soothing, bolstering his spirits. Ty shook his head absently, not
turning around.

What Matthew needed, he had decided
the previous night under the wisdom of good gin, was
motivation
.
Something besides Kate and the army on which to focus his attention. What a
fortunate coincidence, Ty mused as he mounted the first narrow step, that
someone
had provided that very opportunity.

Who was that man, he wondered, who
had gone to White's last night? What honest lout had unburdened his soul to the
members of Mercier Pitt's gentleman's club? It had taken bollocks to share that
Lord Webb was chuckling over his wife Caroline's new dalliance with Sir John
Perry.     Undoubtedly it had been a man
so
concerned with the matter
that he had completely disregarded the obvious consequences: Webb and Pitt were
going to shred one another like cats in a sack.