Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (5 page)

Ty's head shook. “There's a lot of
red in that brown. I have had ample time to notice.”

“Isn't that auburn?”

“That's still a kind of red,”
countered Ty.

It was an absurd argument. He
smacked a hand against the desk. “That's not even the point!”

“Isn't it?” Ty winked.

Matthew knew he was red-faced, and
it was not entirely frustration.

Refilling his glass, Ty shrugged.
“Convince her to marry some officer. She's handsome enough. He can send her
back to wherever home is, and you'll have peace again.”

It sounded more like torture than
peace, at least for the poor nameless officer. “I cannot successfully transact
anything that requires Miss Foster's cooperation. That is what started this
conversation, if you recall.” He sighed, flicking his quill. “The men get on
with her just fine. I do not understand why I cannot.”

“Truly?” Raised eyebrows punctuated
Ty's question. “She does not single you out, Matthew.”

“I am not the aggressor, Tyler.” Why
did he sound so defensive? Ty was right. She was not the villain, but neither
was he. He could not understand their inherent friction. “I've not heard one
reproach on her character,” he conceded. “Except from Mister Astley. He has
whole volumes.”

“Unrequited love,” Ty joked.

He laughed in earnest. “Possibly.
Have you seen him? You have seen
her.
If there are romantic
sensibilities there, they are all on his side.”

Ty planted a boot on the corner of
the desk. Matthew wondered that it had taken so long tonight. “Are you in
agreement with Astley? I mean about Miss Foster's role here.”

The major had his own opinion, but
he was not sharing. Ty's usual approach was not to influence his general,
letting Matthew work through a problem on his own. In his experience, that was
sometimes the best form of advice.

So far Matthew hadn't answered the
question for himself. “She has a great many ideas, Ty. Far-fetched but –” He
struggled for a word. “Sound, somehow. In her patient records she writes of
germs and 'microbes', disease passing man to man. No regard for humors and
miasmas. It reads like madness, but the way she says it...” He rubbed his palms
together a moment, “I feel what she says is true.”

Draining his glass, Ty hooked the
decanter with a finger, dragging it close. “You're a man of science, Matthew.
If anyone can interpret such ideas, it's you.”

It sounded like a dubious honor.
“Meaning what?”

“Meaning,” Ty nodded with a mouthful
of Port, “that the world was flat once. The wisest men knew it was so. And now
we've sailed around it countless times, confident that it's round as a marble.
Someone has to be the first to believe a mad theory. And someone else –” Ty
jabbed a finger in his direction, “has the unenviable position of being the second.”

He tried a black look, but Ty had
made a very rational argument. Matthew wondered if he and Miss Foster were not
as at odds as it seemed.

Ty's boots landed against the rug, a
sign that he had gotten serious, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I
saw your mother in town. And Caroline.”

Matthew kept his eyes fixed on the
desk, pretending to skim one of the dispatches he'd read earlier. “Oh?”

“Oh. She asked after you.”

“My mother?”

“
Caroline,
” Ty bit back.

“And?” Why was he asking? There was nothing
Ty could say on the matter which he wanted to hear.

Ty's words had a clipped edge. “And,
your own wife has no idea where you are from one month to the next.”

Matthew intentionally misunderstood
Ty's point. “That would be true at any point over the last ten years, Tyler.
The army hardly sits still.”

He and Ty had been separated in the
field for almost four years, long enough that the major could have no idea how
divided his marriage had become. Caroline, of course, played the sympathetic
role of forgotten wife with stage-quality skill. “Anyway, I imagine she has a
good notion of how to find me.”

“She has had no news of you,” Ty
argued.

“That cannot be.” Matthew refilled
Ty's glass, slamming the stopper home. “I'm confident that Major Pitt keeps her
informed. After all, he's practically living in my
house.
”

The last word was louder than he had
intended, probably owing to the wine. If Ty truly had not known about Caroline
and Mercier Pitt, he must be the last person in Europe ignorant of the affair,
but his surprise looked genuine. Ty slumped back in his chair, took his glass
and let the matter rest.

Caroline
.
She
had
taken a lover, not he. So why was he was always defending himself when it came
to the state of their marriage?

She claimed it was his coldness that
drove her away. That was probably accurate. Displays of emotion had never come
naturally. If her affection had ever felt anything besides artificial, he might
have had an easier time of it. Matthew shook his head. None of that mattered
now. They both belonged too much to someone else, to ever belong to each other
again. He to the army, and she to Major Pitt.

So be it
. She was happy to
remain viscountess, and he was happy to remain five hundred miles from London.

CHAPTER FOUR

16 April, 1815 – Quatre Bras

Fann,

He's up to something, I can feel
it. Astley has run the spectrum of boorishness. He harassed me directly for a
few weeks, then tried throwing me to the general repeatedly (I admit to giving
him some ammunition there). I see little of him as it is, managing my nursing
duties from my own quarters and avoiding the hospital unless absolutely
necessary, but for days now I've not seen hide nor hair of the weasel. I am not
naive enough to think he has given up. Oh well. I could spend the whole day in
knots, but the product of his idiotic scheme will come when it comes. I simply
have to be vigilant.

The men have been idle too long.
I know because two things always happen. They drink more, evidenced by the rise
in facial injuries and bite wounds. And, I provide care for an excessive number
of pregnant women, because there is truly only one thing left for a crocked
soldier to do, once he's finished pummeling his companion. The population of
Belgium will have increased by a third when next we move.

I miss you today, more than
usual. There are some spindly yellow flowers blooming along the wall, reminding
me of when we were girls and would pluck the petals from mother's roses,
listing off the names of our beaus. I am glad mother put a stop to it. Those hateful
flowers predicted I would marry Patrick nearly every time, and see where that
got me?

If she had not loved that plant
so much, I'd root it up and burn it.

You will be proud of me for
reaching an uneasy truce with General Webb. I employ a method called avoidance.
It solves nothing, delays all problems for later, and gives a wonderful if
false impression of being diplomatic when I am really just tired.

Tell William I am sorry to hear
that age is already affecting his memory. He owes
me
for our last game
of cards, but I am so sad at his confusion that he should consider the debt
forgiven. As far as I am concerned, that puts us even.

Henry's tortoise is tacked to the
post near my bed. His skill with pencil and paper at four years old surpasses
the twenty years I have on him. I appreciate his detail, and the tortoise's
anatomical correctness, but I wonder if it's wise allowing him to use my books
for reference.

Hug him and kiss him a thousand
times...

Matthew set down his quill. The
stacks of dispatches, organized with supernatural efficiency by McKinnon, all
required his equal attention. He had gotten through more than he expected, but
it wasn't a heartening accomplishment. The Prussians were suddenly cool, not
willing to combine forces for anything besides battle. The Dutch government was
doing a poor job with provisions for the reinforcements, leaving everyone
baring teeth over scraps. He would have had enough trouble keeping a thousand
British soldiers well-behaved as it was. His four-thousand allied bodies were
barely controlled chaos. The German cavalry had gotten salty with the Prussian
infantry, filling the brigs more than once in recent weeks, and the Portuguese
regiments showed stern discontent with the misbehavior of everyone else.

Sliding one more envelope from the
stack, he tried to remain optimistic. If he had learned anything during the
war, it was that nothing united a fractious, malcontent bunch soldiers like the
impending charge of several thousand French.

He turned the letter over, then turned
it back. He examined the free-franc stamp, and the funny way in which Lord
Bathurst never completely closed his
b
's and
a
's.

She was going to barge in, any
moment.

He should just wait. Beginning any
work now was futile, and he would just have to start over when she finally
left. He'd barely set eyes on Miss Foster in a record three days. She was bound
to appear at any time now.

Nothing.

Matthew picked up his quill and
tapped it on the desk, spattering a few dots of ink. He should stretch his
legs, clear his mind.

He paced the tent, five steps down
and four back. She
would
come, and today he would be prepared.

Was it clouding up outside?
Rain would affect the artillery. Probably wise to take a look. He poked his
head through the slit, glancing skyward, and then left and right more than
once, just to be certain. Bodies went about their work up and down the camp,
but blessedly not one was moving toward him with any purpose. Nodding at a
perplexed sentry, he ducked back inside.

Safe, for now. Matthew slid back
into his chair, crossed ankles together and reclined, beginning to read the war
minister's letter.

His concentration had sent a message
out in the cosmos that now was the moment to interrupt. Matthew was sure of it,
when the angry murmur outside erupted into a disagreement.

“...so we're
not
goin' away,
and that's just that. We're stayin' put right here until the gen'ral hears what
we got to say.”

“Come in here,” he bellowed.

It was not Kate, but Matthew felt in
his heart that somehow, she was involved.

Six men shuffled in, heads bowed and
hats to chests, hair and ears wet in a rushed attempt at presentability.

“Hadley, Flanagan, Boyd.” He
acknowledged the ones he recognized, and all the men saluted.

“What's all this, then?”

Captain Boyd stepped forward, stout
frame proudly wrapped in his Highlander tartan, a sign to any man that if Boyd
had something to say, he was damn well going to say it blunt. “It's Mister
Astley, general.”

Boyd would speak plainly, but not
until he'd been given leave to do so. Matthew leaned back, waving Boyd closer.
“At your ease, captain. What is your rub with him?”

“He's a double-yolked quim, sir.”
The sergeant bit off the accusation, practically spitting it across the desk.

Of all soldiers, the Scots were
authors of the most colorful expressions. 'Double yolked' was their delightful
euphemism for 'pompous windbag'.

Matthew sighed. “He is what we have
at hand. Not one of the lord's humbler instruments, but for the benefit of
decent care, we must overlook his faults.”

“Thas' just it, gen'ral. He don't
ken healing like Miss Foster. Some of us have no got better with Astley, and
there's times his cure's blacker than the ailment.” Boyd hooked a thumb over
his shoulder. “He's done somethin' to Brady's wee Will that's left him sore affected.”

Matthew winced reflexively,
sympathetic at the alleged state of Brady's genitals.

Astley, Matthew reminded himself,
wasn't
entirely
incompetent. He had read Doctor Addison's reports, and
observed the man a time or two. Poor bedside manner was hardly a crime, and
there were few supplies with which to work. Soldiers were not always gracious
when they could not quickly be made fit for duty.

“The six of you have had similar
experiences, I gather? You would like me to speak to Astley on your behalf?”

Flanagan waved a hand. “Half the
camp, sir.”

“What?”

“Half the camp don't like 'im.
They're refusin' to go.”

Matthew jerked up out of his chair
and began to pace. They were on the edge of battle, a few weeks perhaps, if
Napoleon decided to move. He could not tolerate even the hint of insurrection.
“I do not understand. If Astley's manner chafes, simply go to his nurse. Miss
Foster can treat you.”

Hadley stomped forward. “Apologies
sir, but he don't allow her to use her practices. Miss Foster can't treat us
the way we're used to.”

Sergeant Boyd's ruddy cheeks went a
shade redder. “She can no' treat us at all. He's forbid it.”

Flanagan's lanky frame straightened
to an indignant line. “She's gone to the follower's camp. Astley says she'll
not be back, and he's put the chill on us goin' to her.”

Of all the instances where Miss
Foster had complained about something inconsequential, and this time he had
heard not a word of her dissatisfaction? Matthew was certain of never
understanding the inner workings of her brain.

As for Astley, he had overstepped
himself by an infantry mile.

Matthew laced fingers behind his
back. “I will speak with Miss Foster, and Mister Astley. As Miss Foster cannot
under the law act as physician, she will continue on as camp nurse,
but –”
He raised a hand, squelching dissatisfied shuffling, “You men will have a
choice in who attends you. Unless French guns hit, in which instance I think
you'll be grateful for any pair of hands. Satisfied?”

Nods all around, and Boyd saluted.
“Thank ye, sir.”

“Very good. Dismissed.”

Matthew sat again and stared at
small sun-spot on the tent wall, mulling over what to do. Careful diplomacy was
needed. Astley's overuse of authority had to be dealt with, but he would have
to be careful to not to drive the man away. With something like a doctor on
hand, he could justify giving Miss Foster some autonomy. If Astley left, there
would be no allowing her to practice without putting them both in an untenable
position. If a patient died under her care, if one of the men lodged a
complaint with the field marshal and he had knowingly allowed the arrangement,
both their heads would be in a noose.

Not entirely settled on the matter,
he sent for Astley and Miss Foster, deciding to let the conversation dictate
his response.

Naturally, Astley arrived first. If
there was any matter that needed addressing, he could be counted upon to acquit
himself long and loudly before the opposition arrived.

Matthew nipped it in the bud by
finishing Bathurst's letter, refusing to look at Astley no matter how many
times he muttered and shifted in his seat.

Kate, on the other hand, was long in
coming. Matthew assumed it was because she knew it provoked him to wait and
made him less reasonable. She seemed the sort to enjoy a challenge.

He had to swallow that bitterness
back when she stepped in a moment later. Her face was flushed, pink from sun
and fresh air. Unruly chestnut waves, egged on by the wind, tumbled over her
right eye. She dropped her red pack to the floor, so full up with leaves and
flowers it was as if she had robbed a hothouse. He suddenly wished they were
alone, so he could take her in without Astley's scrutiny, speak to her about
some topic that would guarantee him a smile, and not one tailor-made to incite
their usual hostilities. Just when he imagined it could not get worse, she
smiled.

“I apologize, general. I was out
gathering.”

Astley, taking on the role of black
cloud, jabbed her haul with his toe. “Gathering what?”

“Thistle, dogwood, horse mint.
Whatever is useful. Indian healers rely on all sorts of plants.”

“You're going to rely on something
the savages taught you?” Astley sneered.

Kate shrugged, belying the volley
Matthew knew was coming. “They taught us scalping. That has proved reasonably
effective.”

Matthew knocked on the desk,
stifling a groan. “That will
do
. Mister Astley, I will be brief. You are
not the regiment's doctor, but the same basic rules apply. If there is
dissatisfaction with Miss Foster or the discharge of her duties, direct them to
me
. There is no reason, or precedent, for you to trouble with discipline
when I should address it.” Astley's thin lips were already working, but Matthew
plowed ahead. “Sending Miss Foster away and denying the men access to her is
beyond your scope. We have never established such boundaries. I am taking the
opportunity to correct that error now.”

It was the most diplomatic language
he could manage, making his point without inflaming Astley and stirring the two
against one another yet again. Miss Foster, in an unforeseen turn of events,
looked satisfied. Astley did not, and things were only about to get worse for
him. Matthew tried not to take pleasure in the idea.

“The men have shown a preference,
and while it is the exception for me to indulge the whim of every common
johnny, if I can grant a small thing to improve morale, I will. Some of the men
wish to be treated by you,” he nodded to Astley, “and others prefer Miss Foster's
approach. Without laying down a lot of guidelines or rewriting military code,
we will adopt an informal arrangement. The two of you will continue on in the
garrison, running separate institutions. I will not provide additional
direction, interference or,” he met them both with a hard gaze, “supplies.” The
last part was not meant to be punitive; there were simply no more supplies to
be had.

Kate was the first to pipe up. “That
is hardly an obstacle.
Someone
has already drunk the medicinal scotch
and replaced it with tea-stained river water.”

He held up a hand before Astley's
glower could transmute to an insult. “Two hospitals, cooperative provisions,
and a wide berth. Understood?”

“Hmph.” Astley crossed his arms, and
Kate stayed silent.

“Excellent. Mister Astley, you may
take your leave.”

He could see that it galled Astley,
not to be part of whatever conversation was about to take place. That much was
evident in the fussy, hesitating gait which moved him glacially to the door.
Matthew waited a breath to speak, too long for the man to reasonably still be
standing outside, and turned his attention to Kate, who stood waiting with
uncharacteristic patience.

“Why did you not tell me? You are a
banshee about the cook not using soap and water, but it did not answer for you
to tell me Astley had dismissed you?” He searched her face in earnest,
realizing he was genuinely annoyed that she had not come to him.

Hands went to her hips beneath the
folds of her brown cloak. “
I
dismissed me. I do not consider wrinkled
shirts and holey socks to be a medical problem. Or my problem. Mister Astley
can send those to the camp women for mending, like everyone else.”