Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1)

by Baird Wells

  She laughed, hands coming up. “I've already told you about them. How much would you like to hear?”

  Matthew popped up, snapped a look through his glass over the wall, and ducked down again. They had time. “Every detail.”

  “That would bore you,” Kate protested.

  “I will take that risk.” He would. She was incapable of telling a boring story.

  She laughed and shook her head. “Hmm. There isn't anything recent I can tell you about my parents. My mother was my father's second wife, and he had no children before-”

  “Mother...father's second wife, first children...I have to get a pencil so I can draw this out.”

  “Stop!” She made a mock swipe at his sleeve, as if to stop his leaving. “Anyhow, my father was already old when Fann and I came along. My mother wasn't exactly young, either.” She paused, eyes turning down. “They died just after I was married.”

  “I'm sorry, Kate.” He recalled a deep sense of relief when his father had finally died, and an inevitability at his brother's loss, but Kate obviously shared a stronger bond with her family.

  “It was hard,” she admitted. My mother succumbed to winter fever, and I think my father was just heart broken.”

  “Just you and your sister left behind?”

  “Mmm. I wish you could meet her.” Kate's face brightened, luminous. “I love her so very much. No one who knows her can help it. She really is the prettiest thing you have ever seen. Inside and out.”

  He took in the ocean depths of Kate's eyes, the pert curve of her nose above the soft cupid's bow of her mouth, and found her claim impossible to believe.

  “We took care of each other for about two years. There was no making her wait any longer to marry her Colonel Livingston.” Kate's hand pressed to her heart. “Fann was in love with Will from the first time they danced. An entirely innocent gesture on Will's part, I think. He was in his middle twenties and Fann was just a charming little girl.” She laughed. “He thought he was humoring her, but my sister is headstrong.”

  “You don't say,” he drawled.

  “Impossible to believe, I know.” Kate threw up her hands. “She was smitten with William and that was final. My father had discouraged her up until he died, because of their difference in age, but they suit each other perfectly. Fann is wonderfully domestic and William dotes on her like a queen.”

  He whistled softly. “More than a decade between them? That is a long bridge to cross.”

  “They have been inseparable for nearly four years. At least when Will was not away with the army.”

  “Army, eh?” He poked a finger into her ribs, proud at being the first to make the jest for a change.

  “The war has been over for two years, general.” Her scowl was cutting, and totally undermined by the twitch on her lips. “Will was a colonel. Very patriotic. His family is one of the oldest in Albany. His grandfather signed the Declaration or helped author the constitution – one of those things I am sure you'd rather pretend did not happen.”

  “You know, I wasn't even born when that all transpired,” said Matthew.

  “You weren't? Well you still have to carry a grudge. It's unpatriotic if you don't.”

  He rolled his eyes. “About William...”

  Her elbow jostled his arm. “He makes fantastic sums of money from the family mills, enough that I'm not obliged to tell people he's in politics.” She pressed fingers to forehead in a dramatic show of relief. “I'm only teasing. He is a decent man. Henry worships his father, and no one could treat my sister with any more affection. Besides myself, of course.”

  He was envious. “I cannot fathom how you bear being away from them.”

  “It's painful some days, I'll admit.”

  A rumble, low constant thunder, caught his ear from somewhere out over the ridge. It was the sound of gun carriages jostling over rough terrain, moving into position; he would know it in his sleep. Matthew turned and crouched behind the fortifications, searching shadows on the horizon. Nothing moved in the semi-darkness, and if a torch was lit, it was too far below the ridge line to be seen.

  His scouts would be back any time now. Steeling himself, he settled back against the timbers to wait for answers.

  Beside him, Kate curled against the wall, staring at the sky where stars where just visible, winking down from the top of its dome. Matthew leaned farther against the knotted wood, resting his head on his left shoulder to study her unnoticed. A whole spectrum of emotions turned and pulled at her features. Sometimes the openness of her expressions made him uncomfortable, unchecked by artifice or vanity. He was not used to a woman for whom every word or glance was not a weapon. He watched a smile play at her lips, eyes widening then turning down, hooded and somber. He did not know what she was thinking, but he certainly knew what she was feeling.

  Stuffing hands inside his coat, Matthew gathered his courage, following her gaze to the sky overhead. “You haven't told me about the most important member of your family.”

  “Most important?” she asked, puzzled.

  “Perhaps influential is the word I'm searching for. He drove you from your home, so the superlative seems fitting.” It occurred that he was desperately curious about Kate's husband, how a man fortunate enough to earn her love could have been such an unrepentant ass.

  Kate scratched a fingernail over a pinpoint stain on her cuff, refusing to meet his eyes. “I don't talk about Patrick. It was long ago.”

  “Speaking from my own experience, time heals wounds of the body far quicker than the heart. Months and years have no care for injured feelings.” He had no right to press her, but Matthew hoped they were close enough for her to confide willingly. “Paint me a likeness of him in the honest, anatomical way in which only you are able.”

  “Why?” she protested.

  “I would know my enemy.” It was the first time he had been completely honest about his feelings.

  A broken smile curved her mouth, small tears pooling inside her lower lids, spiking her lashes. Her hand rested on his sleeve.

  “I was smitten with Patrick, or at least something about him from the first moment I remember seeing him. Eight years old, perhaps? He was ten and tall for his age, and played lacrosse on the church green every chance he got. When mother walked Fann and me home from town, he would trot out toward the road, roll up his little shirt sleeves and make a huge show of flexing his arms. Pretending no one was watching, of course.”

  “But it worked. You noticed, obviously.”

  “I did!” She grinned. “Even at the tender age of eight. Two years passed, and he was sitting behind me at service, yanking my braids. He knew I wouldn't dare turn around or shush him in church, and sometimes he would provoke me until I cried.”

  Matthew recalled a good run of hair pulling, especially the silky brown plaits of Charlotte Lennox. “Where the adolescent boy is concerned, there's no greater sign of attraction.”

  Kate smiled, exasperated. “I know that now, but explain it to my gentle ten-year-old heart.”

  “I have trouble imagining you as gentle,” he scoffed. “Or too meek to put the boy in his place.”

  “Trouble yourself no further. Sunday before Christmas, Patrick had been especially awful. Kicking my heel beneath the pew, snatching out my pins, and generally inflicting every sort of indignity a young lady should not have to bear. But I didn't cry.” Kate smiled proudly. “I walked out of the vestibule with mother, head up high, and when that rat-faced hell spawn jumped before me and asked how I had 'enjoyed the service', I punched him right in the eye!” She smacked hands together. “Off the steps and onto his backside in the snow.”

  She winced, as if still smarting. “Oh, my knuckles ached, and my flesh stung like frostbite! But I refused to let him see how much it hurt. As mother dragged me off to my doom, I balled my bloody fist inside my cloak and stuck out my tongue for all I was worth!”

  He clapped gently. “Show no weakness.”

  “None.” Her head shook vehemently. “My
mother insisted I go apologize, but I would have died of humiliation. I stayed in my room for two days, refusing to cooperate. Father intervened for me, conceding that I had grounds, and declaring that my purple, swollen hand was punishment enough.”

  Nothing she had shared so far countered his original impression of her as a child. Why did that not surprise him? “Soundly thrashed by a girl.”

  Kate's eyes narrowed. “Knowing him, I'm absolutely certain he had a more masculine explanation for it.” She relaxed against the wall. “After our row, I hardly remember setting eyes on him for the longest time, though I'm sure we must have been around each other as often as before. Then, one afternoon, Father called me into the parlor, and there was Patrick in a spotless new navy uniform. He didn't tease or pick on me. In fact, we sat there in the most uncomfortable silence, with just my poor father interjecting some unoffending comment from time to time. When the clock in the hall struck four, Patrick jumped up as if bit and left, barely saying goodbye.”

  An involuntary grin pulled at his lips. “He was courting you.”

  “I had no idea,” she groaned. “I was on the cusp of fifteen, and there was a spring ball sponsored by the aldermen. All I cared about was debating with Lizzie Fletcher how many flounces our skirts should have. The masculine sex ran a very distant second.”

  He widened his eyes for Kate's benefit. “The mysteries of female discourse, revealed.”

  She chuckled. “Now you know.” Kate drew up her knees and smiled, shifting nervously, looking exactly the part of the girl in her story. “It was after Patrick's third visit, or perhaps the fourth, that mother sat beside me, took both my hands, and told me to answer her truthfully. She asked if I would like father to tell Patrick not to call anymore.” She raised a fist, making him laugh. “I was astounded! Why would we ask Patrick to stop visiting?” Kate shook her head, settling closer against his shoulder.

  “She smiled, realizing of course that I had not the slightest idea what Patrick was about. So she explained it to me.” Hands flew to her cheeks. “My face nearly caught on fire, and then I did not want him to come back! I dreaded his next visit, expecting the worst, but my father had come to his aid and suggested Patrick stick to medically-related subjects.”

  “And life was easier for everyone,” he teased.

  “Much. Patrick asked for permission to marry when I was seventeen, but father made him wait. It was under the pretense of allowing me to finish my schooling and my father's apprenticeship, but I was very close to my father, and I think he was just putting off the day I left the nest.” Her smile faded into the far-away depth of her eyes. “Patrick was at sea by then, and maybe father was already seeing the first hints of trouble.”

  “I find it hard to imagine. Nothing you've shared so far sounds like the man to come. It seems he cared for you.” Deeply, if he were a gambling man. It sounded as though Kate had entranced her future husband in much the same way he had been tripped up by her. Matthew realized he had resorted to his own bouts of braid-pulling where she was concerned.

  “While we were courting, I'm certain he did care for me. Patrick was always, always charming, gregarious, thrilled at being in company. When we became engaged, I was prepared to settle in, make our home, and have our children. Isn't that what I was supposed to do?” Her beautiful face drew up, pained with confusion. “I was giving up medicine for him! I'm ashamed to think of it now.” Kate hung her head.

  “It was so agonizing. That seemed to be what Patrick wanted from me, but I obviously bored him. He teased me unkindly about my interest in medicine. He had his own ship by then but never took me aboard, even though it is the captain's privilege. He was celebrated during the war, and rightly so. Whatever else he might have been, Patrick was a skilled sailor and a fine captain. But that meant he attended more dinners, more balls.” Her voice trembled. “He attended, and I did not.”

  “This when you were newlywed?” He could understand a marriage cooling over time. He had experienced it first-hand. But even with Caroline, there had been a fire in the beginning that made it impossible to stay apart, or clothed, for long.

  “We were, not that it mattered to Patrick. Forgive my bluntness, but I took pleasure in sharing my husband's bed. After a time, though, he would return from weeks at sea, roll to the edge of the mattress and nod off as if I weren't there. It took me an embarrassingly long time to puzzle out why.”

  Kate took a deep breath, as though she were prepared to dive. “I went into town, while Patrick was deployed to break up a blockade, and crossed paths with the wife of his friend Timothy. She innocently let slip that the men had returned to port the day before. Patrick had spent the night drinking at the Old Crow and stayed in the upstairs rooms.”

  Ugly anticipation prickled at the hairs along his neck. There was no wondering what Patrick had been up to. His heart ached for Kate. Matthew wrapped his arm around hers. “You do not have to speak of it.”

  “No, I want to.” Kate clutched her stomach, leaning forward. “Though, it makes me sick to think of it, even now. I told myself not to go, that my nerves were up for no reason. But the tavern was only two streets over. A short walk to put my mind at ease.” She was quiet a moment. “At ease with the truth, really. Inside, I already suspected.

  “I knew, when the landlady gave me a hard time of it, that I shouldn't go upstairs. I suppose I just needed to see for myself.” Kate squeezed his arm tight, voice sounding small. He closed his eyes, steeling himself for what came next.

  “I would have known she had been there, had the place been empty. The whole chamber stunk like stale sweat and spiced rum. Patrick, sprawled on the coverlet with his trousers not quite up or down. And there she was, tucked up beside him as though she had every right to be: Lizzie Fletcher, my dearest friend in the world.” Kate might as well have punched him in the gut. At least Mercier Pitt had not been his friend.

  “She sat with me at church, consoled me when my parents died, kept me company when Patrick was at sea,” She sniffed, wiping at her eyes, “And kept him company when he returned.” Kate lay against his side, and he could feel the tremble in her muscles. Not tears, but pent-up rage.

  “I wanted to scream at them, throw something at them, claw her face till it bled. Instead, I laid my shawl across them, so they would both know I had been there, and went home. Not to our home; to White Oaks. I lay on my mother's bed and cried until I slept. When I woke up, I cried some more.”

  He knew precisely what she meant. The day was fresh in his mind, dredged up by Kate's memories. He'd dug through Caroline's reticule, looking for a missing key. The handkerchief had been carelessly tossed aside, until it was time to stuff the contents back into the purse. He had mistaken the M on the corner for a W, until his brain had protested that the other two initials stretched in the wrong direction. He had unfolded the cloth, rotated it. MEP. His eyes had traced the black stitches, and he knew.

  He pulled Kate's arm tighter.

  She pressed her face to her shoulder, using it to dry her eyes. “There was nowhere to turn. My sister was too young, and my parents were dead. The two people I would've sought it from otherwise were the two I wished to forget.”

  He wanted to offer some comfort, but he was well aware there was nothing to say that would ease the sting, not even in the space of years.

  “Once they knew that I knew, they were unrepentant for roughly a fortnight. They lived together, unofficially, in our house. They were seen together everywhere, just as husband and wife. Lizzie's brother begged her to stop her outrageous behavior, and he visited me once or twice, to apologize on behalf of her family.”

  Kate slumped against him, and some of the fire went out of her voice. “Nothing put those two to shame until Lizzie realized she was pregnant. Patrick was happy to continue in their fashion, but he was never going to marry her. Finally, Lizzie went home. After a few weeks she wrote to me, and every day for days on end. I believe she was truly sorry, but I was too hurt and too proud to forgive her.”


  “Not much past, Patrick showed his hateful face at my door. Our housekeeper Liddy was fit to club him with a rolling pin directly in the throat, but I told her to let him in. I think it was morbid curiosity; I could not imagine what he thought he could say at that point. He wanted to apologize, of course. I told him if that was why he’d come, he could leave immediately. There was no apologizing. Then he asked if we could simply talk with one another. It was late in the evening, and I told him I was tired and upset, but that we could speak at our house the next morning. I would hear whatever he had to say. He was pathetically grateful and said that would do. He was set to ship out the next night.”

  She sat, completely still, staring at the toe of her boot or something just past it. Matthew waited, shifting against the ground, but Kate seemed to have forgotten he was there. He cleared his throat, wondering what explanation the man could give that would even slightly absolve him.

  Silence stretched out, Matthew dimly aware of a rifle company calling down the line. Kate looking worse by the moment. Her face broke, tears spilling down her cheeks, and for minutes she could only shake her head. Matthew dug in his pocket, finding a handkerchief and pressing it into her palm.

  Kate gathered herself enough to speak. “I have no idea what he wanted to tell me.” She looked to her lap, fiddling with a thread on her apron. “I didn't go. In fact, I never intended to. I wanted him to make the journey, hopeful and encouraged,” she paused, “And then to sit there in our damned house and realize I was never coming. There was an ugly pleasure in it that I will never stop regretting.”

  A trickle of cold realization ran down Matthew's spine, knowing her story must be near its end.

  Kate's voice was coarse, barely forced from her chest. “Patrick was shot from the deck during an engagement two days later. He was likely incapacitated, and then drowned. It was not a quick death.”

  He reached out to gently grasp her fingers.

  With her other hand, Kate reached into the neckline of her gown, tugging free a wide silver band threaded with a length of brown jute. “When they pulled him from the water, he was wearing his wedding ring again. I want to believe that he was truly sorry. I most certainly was. But I also still hurt at what he had done.” She tucked away the ring. “It has taken me years to realize there is no shame in that.”