by Baird Wells
“After Sintra, I'm surprised you returned.”
“You know of it?” She continually surprised him.
“Of course. I perform reconnaissance of my enemy, same as you.” It was hard to say, in the dark, but she may have punctuated the admission with a wink. “Jesting aside, Major Burrell took it very badly. He protested a great deal over your treatment.”
“I still swallow some bile at the memory. Every man I lost at Vimeiro was a worthy sacrifice once it became plain we would beat the French. To be made to put those same Frenchman on our ships with their gunny sacks of Portuguese booty, tolerate their disdainful manner...” His hand crushed the reins. The rage never dulled no matter how many years passed. “We treated them as victors because some lord-general's spine had weakened too much for him to do his duty and fight like a man.” Matthew snorted his disgust. “We pacified our enemy. Our humbled enemy. What did we gain? We only fought those same Frenchmen again in Lisbon and paid double our own men for it.”
“Disgusting. You must have suffered twice as much, being their general.”
“In the field and at home. I was made to sign that damned agreement under orders, but no one at home knew the truth of it. Disembarking at Portsmouth, I earned just as many curses and boos as the two powdered wigs who engineered the betrayal.”
“Everyone must realize now that you had no choice.”
“I would hope, but the matter was never really settled. Dalrymple and Burrard were quietly swept away, I was acquitted with Wellington in a formal hearing, and that was the end of it.”
“Well, your men at least are glad to have you back. They sang your praises even before you arrived.”
“Strange. I do not think myself much different than any other general.” He discharged his duties the best he knew how, tried to be fair and firm with his men, and expected only the best, most skilled maneuvers on the field. If anything, Matthew believed himself accounted of making more unpopular decisions than most other commanders. What the men liked better about him was a mystery, but he would not complain.
Beside him, Kate dragged a ragged breath through her nose. “Major Braddock was –” She stared ahead, quiet for a moment. “I won't embellish. It's enough to say he did not add to the dignity of the regiment. Or the division.” She breathed deeply again. “The point of the matter is that your men are glad for your return.”
No matter how much he loved and respected the men of his division, at the end of the day, he still had to point them toward the French artillery and give the order to march. He was touched that they felt some preference for him.
Kate's mention of Braddock dug something up from his memory, something in the disturbing letters the major had left behind. He agonized over the detail, wondering if they were familiar enough for him to mention it. He decided on an oblique approach. “Were there any particular complaints about Braddock, before he was transferred?”
She was silent, just the clatter of hooves against a wooden bridge filling the silence for a moment. When Kate spoke, he could hear her annoyance at being baited. She was too smart, he realized, for anything but directness. “I trust you know that there was. I am friends with Major Burrell, just like you, and he surely mentioned it. Ty is hardly the tight-lipped sort.”
In an uncharacteristic attempt to be circumspect, Ty had not mentioned it. Not in any great detail. Most of what he had uncovered had come from Captains Westcott and Boyd.
The story, as it was related to him, was a disturbing one. Braddock had taken to cornering Miss Foster from time to time, pressing unwanted advances. When he failed to woo her, the major put about that Kate had shared his bed. She confronted Braddock, and he beat her, resulting in Kate pinning his right hand to a table-top with a fish knife. She was promptly banished to the stockade, and not even Doctor Addison could successfully intervene. Ensuing mutiny over the course of a week led to Captain Westcott and then Major Burrell relieving Braddock of his post. A good deal of Ty's information was supported mainly by his regard for Miss Foster. Matthew wondered how accurate an account it was.
Matthew cleared his throat. “I understand your letter to the Field Marshal was very eloquent, and instrumental in Braddock's being permanently removed.”
Absently, he realized that he owed his return to the division almost entirely to Kate's exposing Braddock and his mismanagement.
“Only Major Burrell knows of my correspondence. I would appreciate you keeping my confidence. I'm not a fool. The major still has allies here.” Kate shrugged. “Anyhow, that incident was just a small part of Braddock's greater unfitness.”
“What you do here is valuable. I'm sorry he gave you a hard time of it.”
Her voice was full of resolve. “He did, in a way not even the most rough-edged private ever has. But he has a scar on the back of his hand that will mark him as long as he lives, and that is something.”
He admired Kate's grit, wondering if there was anything capable of testing her bravery.
They passed under the watchtower, almost shadowless with the moon nearly overhead.
“Halt!” The order barked at them from the darkness. He had expected it, but too late he realized that Kate had not. She started, looking ready to fight and drawing Nelson up in a ready half-circle. Matthew set a hand on her arm. “Calm now. They are ours. We're in no danger.”
Rifles took aim from behind the bulwark, blued barrels making ghostly lines in the dark. Five locks clicked into place, snapping to the ready. One Highlander drew up from the barricade, wild black plumes of his shako waving like hair, giving him a barbarian's silhouette.
He raised an arm, and barked back. “Sergeant Campbell! Your men at ease, if you would.”
“General! Your note is only now in my hand. Did ya' hide behind the wall an' toss it over?” Thomas Campbell strode out of the shadows, saluting. He was easily the biggest man Matthew had ever seen, with black hair and blacker eyes and the hands and legs of a bear. It was almost hilarious to see how his gaiters strained to wrap tree-trunk calves. A clans-worth of green and blue tartan made up the tent of his kilt. He reached out to clasp their hands, without any noticeable angle to their heights despite Matthew's still being mounted.
“I'm sorry you did not have more warning. My visit was urgent and unexpected,” Matthew answered warmly.
Campbell cast a look over Matthew's shoulder. “And who's this snap of a lad ye've brought?”
“He found me on the road,” Kate teased, “And despite all my protests, here I am.” He voice was a silken thread, vibrating between them despite her jest. He felt a hidden meaning to her words, but he was missing it.
Campbell tossed his rifle up a little, slinging it over a meaty shoulder. “A lass then? Hmph. My men must be foragin' in the wrong parts.”
“Don't be too hasty, Sergeant Campbell. I took Miss Foster, but I have repented the whole way for not putting her right back.” He tightened his jaw against a grin, ignoring Kate's eyes burning his face. “Anything I should be aware of up ahead?”
Campbell shook his head, shaking his feathered hat like a bull about to charge. “All's clear. Folk were restless a fortnight ago, but time enough's passed. Hardly know there's war brewin' now. They ken the danger well enough, but ain't to be bothered about it.”
“Very good. You will hear from me again, before I return to the field.”
Campbell saluted. “General. Miss Foster.”
Matthew tucked heels into Bremen's side, urging him around the bulwark and into the city.
Kate matched him, shaking her head. “Your Highlanders are truly a breed apart.”
“And you approve, or disapprove?”
He could hear the smirk dripping over her words. “I approve of anyone who gives you trouble.”
Matthew hooked a thumb over his right shoulder. “I personally relieved him of duty, Sergeant Campbell, on campaign in Denmark.”
“That Sergeant Campbell?” She glanced behind them.
“Mmhmm. The man was incapable of avoiding
friction with his superiors. Much like someone else I could mention.”
“Hmm.” Kate's face was too thoughtful to find the humor in his jest. “He's a Scotsman.”
“And a soldier. What of it?”
“Are you surprised that a Scot objects to being subservient to an Englishman?”
“Surprise or no, that has a name: insubordination.”
“National feeling,” she retorted.
His hackles raised immediately. “A treaty crafted by wiser men than I settled that question before we were born.”
“A paper creating a meaningless title. Fear that Scotland might realize it doesn't need England after all.” Her tone was challenging, but he knew she didn't intend to antagonize. Even so, Kate had a way of jabbing her splinters right under the skin, working him up like no one else. Matthew realized he had been unprepared for such well-informed resistance.
“Scotland cannot be left outside the protection of Great Britain,” he bit back. “It would be irresponsible and dangerous.”
Kate snorted. “Outside of her protection or her treasury? You are perilously close to a cargo hold of tea in the harbor, general.”
“Let us agree that the British army has no nationalities and leave it at that, shall we? We are soldiers, nothing more.”
“Perfectly agreeable,” Kate snapped.
Matthew bristled at the sarcasm. He was infuriated by her willingness to argue and slightly more so that she did it well.
She had offended him. Matthew realized it, in the silence filling between them as they emerged onto the main street.
Not offended. Wounded. Stung that she would presume he acted even slightly on prejudice. Matthew refused to let the matter rest, needing to defend himself.
“I sent Campbell home because Copenhagen was not the place, not the proper time, for a man of his colors.” The words came out forcefully, and he saw her stiffen. Matthew took a deep breath and tried to drop his voice. “It was a gentleman's convention of white gloves and good form. Not the field for a true soldier.”
Kate was quiet beside him, face turned a fraction to the right and out of easy view. It was impossible to tell whether she was thinking about what he had said or ignoring him.
“Almost as quickly as I sent him away, I brought him back onto the peninsula where he could do some good.” He held up a finger. “Not once have I regretted it. His grenadiers do the army infinite credit, and Campbell's thorny edges are perfectly suited to the challenges here. He inspires loyalty and bravery in his men and a healthy measure of hesitation in our allies, who give other officers no end of trouble.”
Kate was quiet for a long time, and he began to worry that he was being ignored. “I'm no bigot.”
She exhaled. “I'm sorry if I made you believe I feel that way. I don't.” Her words were rounded, soft with apology. It surprised him, how quickly she went from challenging to conciliatory.
Matthew shrugged. “In the future, I hope you have cause to think well of me.”
She jerked to a halt, staring wide-eyed in confusion. “I already think well of you.”
He nodded and kept quiet. 'Thank you' was too trite and nothing else manifested to defuse the moment.
They passed between the spaces in the amber lamplight, under the gray stone facades of the buildings standing shoulder to shoulder. Somewhere deep in the city covenants there must lie a rule that every structure boast at least one striking piece of statuary or elaborately molded wrought iron fencing.
Hoping to repair the distance between them, he rested a hand on Kate's wool coat. “Remember when I told you to be prepared for the city? Here we are.”
They trotted from the high street, into the wide cobblestone expanse of the main square, and Kate gasped in pure delight at what lay before them. It was a striking sight, never losing its charm no matter how many times he visited. Guildhalls, hotels and civic offices towered impossibly high in closed ranks on all four sides. Six and seven floors were not uncommon, whole fronts made of windows abutting one another, most spilling light out into the grand square, even at the late hour. Gold gilt and stonework ornamented every building, with their bell-shaped baroque roofs like fancy eight-bell mantle clocks. Gaslight warmed the stones and doorways, softened by a mist of late-night dew. Above them lilacs formed a white and purple canopy at the mouth of the lane. The streets and square were empty of people, and despite muted laughter or conversation through an open door or window, he could almost imagine they were the only two people on earth.
“I've never seen anything so beautiful. Not even Albany has this much charm. It is home but...” Kate shrugged into a shiver of joy, “There is so much flavor to a place like this. Such history.”
“Not this place so much. The French shelled it to the ground just over a century ago, and it seems they mean to do again.” Matthew realized he was militarizing her appreciation, and caught himself, smiling. “But I take your meaning.”
He searched the doorways one by one. “Number twenty-seven. Here we are.” He pointed for Kate's benefit to a house kitty corner across the square. White plaster smoothed over the stones and a column of bay windows climbed up one side opposite a wide Palladian graystone entry at the ground floor. “My mother has let the house of the Swedish ambassador for her stay.”
“I can't say she might have done better or worse. There is not one unattractive building in the lot.” Her voice still held a touch of awe.
A boy came running from the alley, baggy linen shirt moving in direct opposition to his awkward loping gate. He might have been fifteen or sixteen, vain enough to feel proud of the thin whiskers atop his lip, and too much ego to cut them.
Matthew slid from the saddle as the stable hand reached for Bremen's reins and waved for Kate to do the same. She bounced to the cobblestone with a decidedly feminine grunt, giving the boy pause and making him look twice. Matthew chuckled, unslinging his pack as Kate did the same.
The boy led the horses away to the mews behind the house, leaving them alone. Kate wiggled her brows at him, and Matthew took another glance at her outfit, steeling himself to grasp the brass knocker.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sergeant Campbell had not exaggerated about the tardiness of Matthew's note. The household had obviously been told they were coming, but Kate deduced by the haphazard pattern of lit and unlit candles, and the staff's rumpled appearance, that they'd had little warning.
Matthew stood beside her in the entry hall, smacking his gloves against his thigh impatiently while the parlor fire was lit. There was little to distract as they waited. The sweeping curve of the staircase was accented with a gilded iron rail that might have been a salvaged cemetery gate. White wainscoting cut every wall in two, dividing paint that was a pretty shade of robin's egg, if her eyes could be trusted in the dark. Blank spaces alluded to the art that had once decorated the hall, but nothing remained there now. The ambassador had either left with the idea of being away a long time, or perhaps – if Napoleon had his way – of never returning at all.
A thin specter of a woman appeared at the top of the stairs, enveloped by the frilled white muslin of a morning gown. It was a cut and style that Kate thought her grandmother would have owned. The cap on the woman's head was starched and neat, pinned just so at her crown, as though she never slept or lay down, perpetually ready and waiting for visitors. Her snow white braid was nearly lost against the color of her dress, but as she came closer, Kate could see it was thick and soft, probably a beautiful tow or gold in her younger years. She darted over Matthew with kind blue eyes as he made her a small bow.
“Lady Louisa.”
“My lord. I thought to have a letter from you.” Louisa's voice warbled birdlike with age and nerves as she flitted to Matthew with hands outstretched. Kate recalled that Louisa had been forbidden from mentioning Lady Adelaide's illness and realized the woman must be quaking in her stockings at their sudden arrival.
Matthew clasped her hands, planting a light kiss on her cheek. “It would not do, t
o write and wait. I must see her at once.”
“Mmm. Mmhhm.” Obviously distracted, she craned her neck at Kate, considering her from boots to bonnet over Matthew's shoulder.
Fighting a smile, Kate curtsied. “Lady Louisa.”
Matthew stepped back, resting a hand on her shoulder. Kate stared at the gesture, wondering if he was ever going to notice Louisa's wide-eyed attention, or let her go before the servants caught wind.
“This is Miss Foster. She has been with the regiment some time, as our surgeon's assistant. I thought perhaps mother would be more agreeable to a woman's – Miss Foster's – examination,” said Matthew.
Louisa's inspection of her produced the same expression as discovering a clump of seaweed in the hall. It was not exactly disgust; more disapproval and a little confusion. She tugged Matthew's hands, pulling him to a convenient height for her diminutive frame. The diminished hearing of age had clearly made her unaware that her whisper was not a whisper at all, and Kate heard every word of the effusive protest. “Lord Webb! This will send your poor mother right over the edge. You should not bring a... lady of the camp into her house.”
“If Miss Foster is anything of the camp, it is more an officer than a lady.”
Matthew caught her eye, saw her fight a smile at the awkward compliment, and shook his head. He straightened, gently pulling Louisa's hand from his coat. “Leave me worry about mother.” Her continued, furtive glances said she would keep silent, but that her fretting was far from over. Kate bit her tongue to kill a laugh at Louisa's kind-hearted snobbery.
She reached for her pack, but Matthew pressed himself into the space, snatching it up before she could claim the strap. He was trying to be chivalrous, but Matthew had taken the only thing with which she could fiddle away her nerves. Or defend herself with, if the time came.
He lifted brows in an invitation. “Let's see her, shall we? She's stalling coming down, thinking I'll just go to bed.” He flashed a heart-stopping grin. “So we'll go up. Lady Louisa, if you would...”
Made up of small, nervous movements, Louisa jerked a tiny hand at a hovering footman, indicating he should bring a candle. He obliged, leading their ragtag procession up the staircase into the dark hallway.
