by Baird Wells
Taking him in profile, she turned something over in her mind, a realization she had not come to until she and Ty were safely back at camp. “You never wrote for a doctor.”
“No.” His head shook slowly. “I perjured myself to you on that count.” He smiled. “Willingly.”
“Why?” The question had nagged at her for hours, but no answer she had constructed made any sense.
He looked at her now, face set in determined lines. “Because I do not feel the need of one. My men have improved under your care, your madcap ideas.” He pinched her sleeve, shaking it gently. “I cannot in good conscience trade that for leeches.”
Pride warmed her to the core, but it was fleeting. He had showed his hand to the Field Marshal, thanks to Greene. “You will have to trade it, now.”
Matthew grinned. “How long have you served with the army, Miss Foster? I have not received the winter provisions I requested two years past.”
There was truth in his jest, but she had seen the Field Marshal's resolve when he said the regiment would have a proper doctor. Her hopes were pinned now on serving whomever that might be. Hopefully, a man more Addison than Astley. “I am grateful for your faith in me, General. No one has ever had so much of it, I think.” Doctor Addison had taken a risk on his belief in her, but it was under the guise of keeping her as a nurse. Matthew had acted with no such excuse.
He was silent, arms wrapping one knee to his chest. She wished he would not drift away at moments like this. She could practically feel the cork sliding back into the bottle. Kate floundered for something to hold him there with her. “You risked yourself, admitting to the Field Marshal what you'd done. General –”
“Miss Foster.” His eyes snapped to hers, and Matthew cut her off with surprising force. “I climbed that rickety leg-breaker to come up here and make certain you are unhurt. Anything else is irrelevant just now.”
Swallowing, she nodded, heart at war yet again. It happened with more and more frequency lately. She fought the urge to cry; over joy, over disappointment, or loneliness. Kate hardly knew what brought it on anymore. She just knew that Matthew was a common factor. She longed for the even-keeled, taciturn Kate of days past.
“We hardly spoke, on the road. Are you all right?”
She tried to brush away his question, feeling at risk of losing her composure. “Major Burrell has already told you what occurred.”
“I'm not interested in a field report, Kate. I don't want to hear facts.”
“Then what would you like to hear? That I feel guilty? I don't. They would have –” She pushed away the memory of their stink, their spittle-covered lips curved and leering. “They would have killed me. And Major Burrell. I'm just angry at having to suffer the memory of it.”
He was watching her carefully. “Have you ever killed a man before?”
Kate closed her eyes, remembering. “During the siege of Rodrigo. We took cover in a farmhouse. I must have struck a few with my musket, but it was chaos. Even if I'd been able to see through the powder smoke...aim and fire, ram another ball home. It was all a blur.” She opened her eyes and glanced at him. “Not like this. Not so close.”
He seemed to measure her with his eyes. “I have never much tolerated women in the service. It fosters discontent among the men and burdens them with inappropriate responsibility. Thin resources are divided more thinly, and the army moves like a three legged horse.”
She could not believe he would insult her so casually, not after everything that had happened. Kate got to her knees, a hand on her hip and a finger spearing at Matthew's chest. “I take profound offense at the idea –”
His index finger bridged her lips, preventing her finishing the tirade. She could not have continued if she'd wanted to. Its warm line across her mouth stole her thoughts.
“I am willing to admit – particularly where you are concerned, Miss Foster, that perhaps I have been wrong.” His lips twitched, and Kate realized she'd been had. Matthew had got her goat, and he knew it. She sat back down and folded arms across her chest. It irked her when Matthew got under her skin; even more so when she let him.
He was uncomfortable with the silence. She saw it in the way he unbent, then bent his leg again, peppering her with sidelong glances. He cleared his throat. “Miss Foster –”
“Shh.” She stifled a giggle.
“I beg your pardon?” It was his turn to look vexed. His confusion was worth a grin.
She reached out her fingers. “Shh. Hold my hand. Here it comes.”
He looked around them, confused. “What?”
She pointed to the land out ahead of them, closed her eyes, opened them again, and laughed under Matthew's furrowed brow. “It's hard to decide whether to look or to keep my eyes shut.” The fingertips of her left hand pressed against her eye. “I love the way the light glows through my eyelids, sort of dusky and pink, and a moment later the warmth touches my face.”
The sun crested the low ridge to the east. Bronze and then golden, it spilled over the trees, flooding the valley with light. Shadows were chased away ahead of its wave, until she had to turn her face away, shielding it from the sun's brilliance.
She squeezed his fingers. “It's a little selfish, indulging so when I am needed elsewhere. But when I watch the light come over the horizon, painting hills and houses, I know that God has not forgotten us.”
Matthew pressed his other hand to her knuckles, sheltering her fingers between his own. “I know he has not forgotten you, Miss Foster. I remember you to him far too often for it.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
14 May, 1815 – Quatre Bras
Fann,
How I wish you were here now. There is almost no price too high in order to have your advice. Something has happened, after the events with the deserters, and I hardly know what to do.
When I told you that I had studiously avoided General Webb after he was shot, I was being entirely honest. I had begun to feel something I dared not entertain.
At times I swear he feels the same, and others I cannot read him a bit. Though he is married, he is conflicted. Perhaps that is the confusion I sense, and it has nothing to do with me at all.
Since the attack on the road, I have had to admit that I cannot put him from me, even if I wished to. Instead I have resolved to be his friend and confidant, to enjoy his company as much as I am allowed. Is that sinful? Am I simply finding a way to indulge myself under the guise of something nobler?
I am drowning, Fann, with no direction to strike out for land...
Kate wrung out the rag and pressed it to her skin, wincing at the steam against her flesh. She wiped away the last of the blood from her arms and neck. Her last patient had been a drunkard. It had hardly been a surprise when his gut ache turned into a spasm, forcing blood from his mouth and nose. Hooking her soiled dress with a foot, she tossed it into the corner. Hardly a surprise, and hardly pleasant. One look down his throat was all it had taken to diagnose torn veins strained by years of drink. It was a miracle he had not choked on the clotting ooze. Not that it mattered much, she thought, wriggling into a clean shift. She would be amazed if he lasted to the end of the week and was sorry to see him suffer that long.
A hand darted in through the flap, disembodied fingers snapping. “What are you about in there!”
Stifling a laugh, Kate finished her buttons. “Come in here!”
Ty strolled in regally, everything in place save for the lingering red welt over his cheek where his stitches had been.
Kate widened her eyes for effect at his entrance. “My goodness. I haven't seen so much as the back of your head in days. Where have you been?”
“Playing soldier,” he mumbled absently. Neck craning, his eyes searched every corner of her tent, top to bottom. “That sneezing powder you concocted for me...that was first rate.” He moved to her worktable, picking up a bottle and shaking it. “What do you have that would make a man appear dead?” He threw a glance over his shoulder. “Not actually dead.”
&
nbsp; “Romeo and Juliet dead?” she asked.
“Exactly!” He poked a finger at her, still fiddling with the things on her table.
“I'll see what I can do,” she offered uneasily. Sometimes she wondered about Tyler. “Is that why you are here interrupting my mid-day respite?”
He dropped her pestle back into its mortar and turned around. “No, by the by. The general has arranged an... amusement, for the midday meal. I am certain that you do not wish to miss it.”
The way his brows wiggled was not encouraging. “Is it a drunken animal? I have seen enough of those to last –”
“Better,” Ty cut in. “The regiment's morale is of chief concern to General Webb,” he announced theatrically. “He has ordered –” Ty paused, correcting himself, “firmly requested that Captain Greene compose and recite a poem. For the benefit of the men, of course.”
“Of course.” Kate doubled over, snorting. This she had to see. Matthew had assured her that he could not make Greene apologize for his behavior at the officers' dinner. Apparently he had been doing some thinking on the matter. She snatched her shawl from the bed. “It was very kind of you to remember me.”
The mid-day meal was a rare occurrence. Typically, the men ate breakfast on waking, fended for themselves from their own rations until dinner, which was usually each company's responsibility to organize. On occasion, though, if rations permitted and when the men had been hard at drill or heavy labor, the garrison commander would approve additional fare.
For Kate it brought mixed feelings. The event certainly improved morale, but it always meant the loss of Porter. Accounted as a sound cook who could prepare food in states other than raw or burned, he was conscripted as another pair of hands. Kate got the impression by the way he was now keeping up animated conversation with the pretty French girl who tended the bread that he did not really mind.
Greene was already planted atop one of the trestle tables dotting the commissary yard. He held a creased sheet of paper in front of his face. He pretended to squint in concentration, but Kate knew better. He was nervous. She rubbed her hands together, picking her way closer through the crowd of men to better hear her nemesis.
...There are men behind the wagons
Eyes of lily white
And we leave them under France's dust
In their eternal night
In bitterest dreams I scream and shout
For the driver to draw up slow
But the men behind the wagons
No longer care to go
Greene relaxed his arm, paper dangling at his hip, and faced the silent camp.
It was good. Not an epic, but honest, admitted Kate. Suddenly she felt ashamed of her eagerness to mock him, whatever had transpired. The men began to clap, but Kate decided her good will went only so far. She tucked fingers up into the crook of each arm and stood still.
Greene's eyes snapped to hers over the applause spreading through the crowd. The tight lines of his narrow face were loosened by earnestness, and perhaps by a touch of humility. He nodded slowly, and she responded in kind. They were far from on good terms, thought Kate, but perhaps they understood one another a little better.
A figure over her shoulder blocked the sun, casting its shadow out ahead of her. A familiar scent announced Matthew's arrival even before she heard him speak. “What do you think of our new poet?”
Turning slowly, she looked the general over carefully. “Was this your doing?”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Captain Greene penned his few stanzas out of the goodness of his heart?”
Laughing, Matthew at least had the decency to stare sheepishly at his boots. “Every man has an Achilles heel, Miss Foster.”
“Even you?”
His smile vanished, and Matthew bored into her with his fathomless gray eyes. “Especially me.”
“Webb! Miss Foster wants no part of your wool gathering.” Ty appeared almost between them, grinning from her to Matthew and back. Kate was glad for his interruption, for once. She could not have uttered a single word in answer to Matthew.
Raising a brow at Ty, Matthew pinned her with a finger. “Miss Foster made no such complaint, major.”
“Because she has manners. And if you had any, you'd be seated in the mess already, so we could bloody well eat.” Ty crossed his arms, leaning impatiently onto one leg.
Eager to be away from Matthew and alone with her thoughts, Kate took three steps back. “Gentlemen.” She half-curtsied. “I cannot stand between a man and his food.”
Ty's bow was low and dashing. Matthew simply watched unblinking, until she finally turned her back in order to hide her burning face.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“How long has it been?” Ty grinned, wrestling the shirt tail from his breeches.
Matthew skimmed the make-shift ring, nearly at the center of the officers' quarters, and tried to remember. He tossed his own shirt atop the splintered timber wall. “Vittoria?
“Sounds right.” Ty glanced overhead, weighing a canopy already growing inky at its zenith. “Have to make it count, before we lose the light.”
They had snipped at one another for days. The major did not drill his artillery the way that Matthew preferred. Not that there was anything deficient in Ty's handling of his men. Taking umbrage, Ty had challenged him openly in front of the company. They could not get on at cards, Ty drank too much and accused him of not drinking enough. It had culminated in his labeling the major 'a cock about the yard', and receiving the probably apt title of 'Wiltshire goat'.
It was a perfectly natural series of events, going back as long as they had been friends. Waiting to fight had made them ready to fight. When battle did not come, they turned to each other for some sort of relief. Matthew cracked his knuckles. Only one sport would do.
“Let nighttime come.” He grinned, to get under the major's skin. “No matter. I can beat you in daylight or dark.”
“Arrogance,” said Ty.
“Skill,” he corrected.
Ty nodded. “For a man your age, I suppose it is.”
He ignored the insult, staring at Ty's feet. “What the devil are those?”
“Training shoes,” Ty explained, looking sad for his backward general.
They looked suspiciously like a lady's dancing slippers. “For what purpose?”
Raising one foot onto tip-toes, Ty easily flexed it forward and back inside the heavily-stitched buckskin. “For that purpose.”
He grunted, refusing to be impressed.
Ty looked appalled. “You do not intend to wear your boots...”
Matthew grabbed a handful of chalk from a small tin pail, rubbing palms hungrily. “I damn well do, and I will beat you in them.”
Ty held up a finger. “If I best you, you swear to purchase a pair. I have your word.”
He answered with a jab, forcing Ty to leap back, chuckling. “So it's to be that way. Very well.”
While they circled, Matthew watched Ty's eyes more than his hands. A good boxer had to read his opponent, know the man's strengths and weaknesses, and pair them against his own. It was a game of wits as much as fists, and Ty was a very good player.
Matthew cut the air between them with a hook. Ty slipped the punch, twisting right so the fist slid over his back. He landed two solid blows to the major's ribs in the aftermath, staggering him back into the rails. The burn in his fingers was satisfying.
“I let you have that one!” Jab, jab, jab. Ty closed the distance, arms working, keeping him on the defense. When Matthew finally swung, Ty dropped his shoulders, ducking easily. “Come on, Webb! Are you going to hit me or hold my hand?”
“I apologize.” He rocked forward onto his toes, then weaved back. Ty's fist rammed his shoulder, wrenching the joint til it burned. Matthew stumbled, caught himself on the gate, and winked. “I thought you just wanted to dance.”
Matthew hung his arms out front, forming a low guard over his belly. Ty's blows jarred him back a half-step each tim
e, pounding tender flesh deep inside his musket wound. He repulsed each one, shoving back against its impact. The pattern made him complacent; he was unprepared for a solid uppercut that tore the skin over his brow bone. His neck snapped, eye socket pounding. Ty darted back, out of range and raised his hands in the air. “Woo!”
They had drawn a crowd. Matthew realized it when several calls answered Tyler's ungentlemanly cry. He jerked his head toward the men, who were taking seats atop the north wall. “Good,” he panted. “Now there's someone to drag your arse home once I've beaten you.”
Ty raked blood from his cheek with the back his hand. “Where's Miss Foster, to put you back together?”
His answer was a right hook. It kissed Ty's chest, stumbling him back a step. The major returned a half-hearted jab.
“Nothing to say?” Ty panted. “Disappointing.”
Left, right, and left again. Matthew dodged Ty's efforts. “You have some grist to grind with me, major?”
“I do, until you admit what has really got your hackles up.”
Gut cramping, Matthew doubled over to rest fists against his knees. He was too winded to comprehend Ty's meaning. “And what is that?”
“Stop being coy and admit you like her. Everyone in the garrison owns it but you.”
He was not about to discuss his feelings for Kate. Not here. Not with anybody, not even Tyler. He had thrown off Caroline's anchor, but that did not mean he sailed with any direction. “Perhaps everyone in the garrison has too much time for gossip. I shall review the drill schedule.”
Ty bristled, arms raising a fraction. “Hah!” His jab whispered past Matthew's ear. His own cross caught the major wide open, knocking the smirk from Ty's face.
Matthew lunged forward, driving them chest to jest, ramming Ty into the fence. He worked his arms like pistons, countering and evading Ty's blows. The major struck viciously, with all the force of a man pinned to the ropes. Matthew brought a few hits to the ladder of Ty's ribs, but his run could not last. A fist buried deep in his gut. Air left him, and he doubled over. A second blow caught him under the chin. Flesh split. Teeth banged together. Copper and salt coated his tongue, and Matthew turned and spat out blood. He pressed searing, swollen knuckles to the dirt, to keep from dropping to his knees. Lungs spasming, he shook his head against the sparkling in his peripheral vision.
