by Baird Wells
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Brussels did not suit her in any fashion. At least, not today.
On her last visit, she'd had purpose in caring for Matthew's mother. What had she expected this time? There were no patients, very little Matthew, and plenty of time to simmer in the heat.
Kate brushed back the lace curtain that obscured her view and picked through the crowd for Matthew. For his quarters, he was billeted in a house occupying a busy corner one street over from the main square. With white plaster and a high, flat-topped, slope-sided roof she always thought of as inherently French, the building was pretty but not ostentatious like its neighbors. Elaborate iron balconies decorated each floor like yards of black lace, a lovely contrast against the pale facade. She had already made use of the second-floor vantage point. It offered a kitty-corner view across the Grand Place, and more immediate enjoyment of her little street.
A flower girl almost directly beneath her perch displayed a cart overflowing with crimson poppies and roses, simple daisies, candy pink tulips, and hand-tied bouquets of delicate violets. Her straw bonnet bobbed with every curtsy, and occasionally a passerby – gentlemen, mostly – happily traded coin for some lovely arrangement. Now and then an intoxicating floral aroma lifted to Kate on the breeze, and she leaned on the rail, eyes closed, drinking it in.
Depriving herself the sense of sight had magnified her hearing, introducing the repetitive, baritone call of a man somewhere down the lane. His boast rang out cheerfully, and no wonder. From what little Dutch she could piece together, he offered the best sausages in the city. The sounds of trade were inescapable. Brussels was a city fed by the grand port of Antwerp, and some of the finest buildings in the main square, Matthew had explained, belonged to brewmasters and guild halls.
She had itched all afternoon to go out and explore but had not dared to leave the house, knowing Matthew could return at any moment. It was not so bad, being inside. The rooms were on the whole small and very comfortable, decorated in soft, printed cottons. The furnishings were handsome despite being well-used. Whoever owned the house originally had preferred white; chairs, tables, and cabinets were all brushed with milk-paint. Even the curtains were pale Brussels lace or light-hued prints. There was no gold-gilt in sight, and where there was wood, it remained refreshingly natural.
Perhaps, she admitted, the city was not so terrible after all.
Matthew had allowed her first choice of rooms, not that there had been much competition. The ground floor housed all the public rooms, and many of the first floor bed chambers were spartan, masculine in design. Those spaces were the obvious retreat of Matthew and, on occasion, of Colonel McKinnon who slept, took meals and tended his correspondence when not haring off over the country.
Left with free reign of the second floor, she had no trouble making her choice. It was the largest of the rooms, but that was not what had swayed her. Windows high as the balcony's French doors lined one entire wall, giving a view across the rooftops all the way to the Gothic spires of the city's ancient cathedral. The scene was breathtaking now, and Kate could hardly wait to gaze across the scene at night.
The interior was cozy, even without a grand vista. Of course, the bed was her favorite bit of furniture. She had learned the pleasure of a good bed from her mother. Her parents' had been nearly as wide as it was high, meriting a sturdy oak two-step footstool to mount. The mattress, firm with a cradling amount of give, embraced like a good hug. There had been many nights when she had snuggled in with her mother, father away overnight tending a labor or patient in another town. Her mother would vigorously rake the glowing hot bed-pan beneath the quilt, Kate leaping in the moment it was clear. In the earliest memories, Fann still occupied a cradle, and so she could stretch out gangling arms and legs, wriggling into the warmth until mother hushed her with a good-night kiss.
There was little pleasure equal to a good bed, and Kate considered it the absolute height of luxury. Her bed now was a perfect specimen. It was not too wide, but was wonderfully high and within arm's-length of the firebox. The bed skirt, canopy and curtains were an embarrassing yardage of lavender cotton trimmed with creamy lace. More elaborate fabric would have made the effect gaudy. Instead it lent the wonderful appearance of a deliciously frosted cake. Her first moment alone in the room, Kate had rolled quickly onto the mattress, giving a single bounce and being completely assured of its comfort. And perhaps its other less immediate applications.
A gentle rapping shook the door, breaking into her musing. Kate had discovered just after their arrival that morning that she need not answer. Servants observed some prearranged natural delay, then entered whether summoned or no. The household staff was attentive but very formal. Even now her maid, thin like a willow branch, dark haired and dark eyed, did not meet her gaze. She deposited the tea tray atop a table made for the purpose which stood sentry at the side of a rose-velveteen arm chair. With an efficient hand, the young woman rearranged something on the tray, smoothed at the chair and bobbed a curtsy, never looking up. She might as well have been pantomiming her duties to an empty room. It was not at all what Kate was used to. Liddy and John served her family, but they were more like aunt and uncle than servants. She experienced an unfamiliar discomfort at being waited on with such dutiful opulence.
Opening the balcony doors, Kate returned to the chair, settling in and doing nothing but panting for a moment. It was June and hot as Hades, swampy with unspent rain weighing down woolly clouds on the horizon. The house was uncomfortably humid at midday, doubly so on the upper floors. She was not used to wearing proper clothes, let alone proper undergarments. Being with Matthew demanded she dress with at least moderate propriety. And suffer for it, too. High bodice and full sleeves, a chemise and an ocean of starched petticoats. Drawers, for heaven's sake! Sweat beaded in her hairline, plastering the muslin of her stays to her torso. She did not remember missing bed time so fiercely before. At least then she could pare down to a scandalous three layers.
She stared at the tea tray, mocking her with its pleasant hand painted flowers as though it were not a Trojan horse for hot water. Kate wondered who in their right mind would offer a steaming beverage to their guest. It seemed both rude and cruel in weather nearly equal the gates of hell. Her father had claimed that a hot drink in hot weather cooled the body; Kate had always returned that lemonade accomplished the same task, without the effort of boiling water. Now she would have to put his wisdom to the test.
Kate poured the tawny liquid into her china cup, trumpeted like a lily and just as fragile. There were a few savories tempting her from the plate: a little cracker topped with clotted goat cheese and a biscuit with green flecks that might have been chives. A lavender shortbread drizzled with frosting stood apart, involuntarily drawing her fingers to it.
A door slammed downstairs, boots hammering at the entry hall's marble floor, and then the staircase. Her breath caught, heart increasing tempo instantly. She knew it was Matthew because he took the stairs two at a time, every time he came to her room. It was nearly obnoxious – Kate bit her cookie and smiled – but it was Matthew, and his excitement at seeing her kept the din somewhere closer to endearing.
His rapping, on the other hand...She shook her head. Like the maid, Matthew was not kept at bay by silence. He would enter, invited or not. She had tested the theory before he went out, delighted when he trespassed, though she had feigned disapproval.
He popped over the threshold, full of too much enthusiasm for a man up before dawn and dusted with twenty miles of road grit. His eyes looked her over, head to feet, earning her a lazy grin. “You look comfortable.”
She jarred her cup against the saucer, planting it on the table and fighting not to betray herself by answering his smile. “Well, I'm not,” she grumbled. “I've been waiting to go out.”
He shrugged, looking adorably confused. “Then go out.”
“I couldn't. I had to wait for you!”
“Woman!” His bellow echoed off the walls, mingling with
her shrieks when he hauled her from the chair, his lips cutting off any more protests. She buried herself in his embrace, not caring that the space between them became an inferno.
He stepped back, fingers circling her wrists. “I would love nothing more than to stay in with you, but in light of your displeasure,” he planted a kiss at the end of her nose, “I will take you out. What is your aim?”
She held up three fingers, watching to see if his lips formed their usual frown at the gesture. “The book sellers, next street over. Something for William and Henry. And for Fann, if anything catches my eye.”
“Good God!” he bellowed. “You spend like Parliament.”
Kate snatched her purse up from the foot of the bed, sharply jingling the silver within. “I do not need your help, thank you.”
He frowned again. “I thought you said you sent all your wages home...”
“I send home all my wages. I keep all my winnings.” She had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen.
Matthew rested hands on his hips. “Did I by chance mention that I spied a fine bit of horseflesh for sale on my way back here...” he trailed off, grinning.
Kate finished wrapping the end of her loose bun and jammed the last pin into place. “Buying a horse is the same as betting on one. Never bet on horses, Matthew. It is practically giving your money away.” She presented with her back before he could make a face, snatching her bonnet off the back of the chair.
“Insufferable. Are you ready, or no?”
She turned, a retort perched on her lips, then swallowed it back and just took him in. It was easy now to see why Matthew had appeared detached, even abrasive when they had first met. He was a fortress on the outside. Strong and guarded, built for war. Once she had blindly stumbled inside his defenses he had so many more colors.
Something bloomed in her heart, something planted weeks earlier.
She closed the few paces between them, rested a hand on his shoulder and raised on tiptoes to share a kiss. Kate wove fingers into Matthew's hair, drawing his ear close. She sucked in a breath, wrapped her other arm around his neck, and whispered her heart. “I love you.”
He jerked back with violence, almost as if she'd slapped him. His face was drawn up in anxious lines and Kate had no doubt that, had she been jesting, she would have broken him completely. “Tell me, again.”
There was something almost dangerous in the rough, husky way he demanded it. It was passion, Kate realized, of the body and the soul. She pressed her palms to his jaw, cradling his face. “I love you.” She met his gray eyes, unblinking.
His lips worked, but no words came out. He scrutinized her face as though his very life depended on some answer there. He clasped her hands and brought them together at his lips. His words came out as a ragged whisper. “Then by God, I hope to deserve you.”
Kate threw herself into him, hands pressing at his back. She wondered how he could have any doubt.
When they finally stepped apart, Matthew looked grave. “I must break my promise to you, Kate, and for that I am sorry.”
She swallowed, afraid of what he would say, and waited. His thumb brushed gently beneath her bottom lip. “I cannot keep our secret anymore.” He grinned, offering his elbow. “I want every man in Brussels to see you on my arm.”
* * *
Shopping with Kate in Brussels piqued Matthew's curiosity for a glimpse of what it would be like to shop with Kate in London. Many an English husband was heard to bemoan the ritual of trailing behind his lady down Bond street. He was there to pick up a stray glove or handkerchief, himself equally forgotten during hours of fittings, or his lady's agonies over which color was vogue. He was only remembered when the shop-keep needed payment. Kate, in true Kate fashion, bucked that trend. She wanted to show him everything, have his opinion, and threatened to toss his bank-book into a street drain if he took it out one more time in an attempt to pay for her purchases.
It was, like all things with her, an adventure. Matthew's only disappointment was that it passed so quickly.
They had started with the book seller, but the only title she recognized was Byron's Corsair. She had poked it deeper out of sight between its neighbors, grimacing, and whispered to him what she believed to be the only acceptable use of his work. In reply, he had questioned her on whether it was at all sanitary, taking a book into the earth closet.
The proprietor, a lanky man with heavy spectacles and an oscillating mustache, had conveyed stern disapproval at Matthew's laughter, affronted that one of his serious tomes was an object of mirth. Matthew had suspected, as he tipped his hat and filed out behind Kate, that the man was glad to see them go.
He had hoped that Fann's and William's presents would take an inordinate amount of time to locate. Unfortunately, but unsurprisingly, Kate 's knowledge of her family's preferences was touching and efficient. And frustrating, each hurried moment robbing him of a chance to enjoy her.
She loved him. His heart thundered, pounding at his temples when he recalled the sweetly forceful way in which she had spoken the words, telling him he had no choice in the matter. He had waited, at the garrison, not wanting to confess himself until the right moment. He realized now that there was no right moment. There was no doubt his in his mind that Kate had not aimed to tell him when he returned to the house; it had just spilled out. It was funny now that he had worried she might reject him when he came to her tent that first night. The idea of being denied had seemed so plausible to him in the moment, the fear she might not have him. In hindsight it was obvious their love had built too long for that to be possible. It had existed unspoken between them, waiting patiently until they stopped scrapping long enough to notice that it was there. Suddenly the months they had spent at odds stung like a physical pain. Matthew regretted that their paths had not crossed years before. The time ahead of them together could be decades and still not be enough.
He watched her now, crouched in front of a small boy who was peddling little wooden dolls, asking him something that stretched his grubby smile from one blushing cheek to the other. Matthew laughed at himself. She made him feel exactly the same way. It was just the effect she had.
The glass-front millinery shop a few doors down from the book sellers stopped Kate clean in her tracks. Entirely out of his element, he remarked neutrally on the kid gloves and the quantity of lovely hats in the window. He waved a finger up and down over a yellow silk abomination, the least appalling bonnet in the bunch. “This one seems...eye-catching.”
Kate frowned, more with concern than frustration, as if she worried he had lost his mind. Matthew was certain he had lost credibility at his questionable taste in head wear. “My sister's head is far too lovely to be covered, but look at this...” She tapped the glass, indicating a slender fan of pale blue Brussels lace perched on the display. “Perfect and a pun.” She winked, leaving him there confused as the door banged shut.
Kate was in and out with military efficiency, holding it up with a delightfully unladylike snort. “Lace Fann!”
Matthew rolled his eyes, unable to resist chuckling. He grabbed her elbow, reeling her in like an unruly child.
De Greir's Toy & Curiosity Shop. The sign was not hard to spot. A small group of children stood guard before a high window framed by the storefront's weathered pine-green pain. They ogled a yarn-haired doll and lines of meticulously decorated lead soldiers formed up like Trojans at the base of a wooden rocking horse.
Kate squeezed him arm as they stepped inside the dimly lit shop. It was immediately obvious that it doubled as a confectioner and tea merchant to take advantage of the space, which explained the pungent aroma of earthy pekoe leaves and dried orange peel.
Kate glanced around slowly, voice hushed. “These wares are probably no different than any in Albany, but somehow this just feels more... exciting.”
Her enthusiasm was catching. Matthew began studying the toys with a more personal eye. “Whatever you send will have a story to go with it, no matter how commonplace.”
/> She laughed. “Have you observed my letter to Fann? Soon I will be obliged to divide it into volumes. My poor boys will never get a story.”
She moved off, examining a small display of jacks and leaving him to stand sentry by the door. He had been posted to some exotic parts of the world, and it struck him as sad that a toy shop was likely the most foreign place he had ever been. He shifted foot to foot, unsure where to put his hands, hovering at the threshold.
A shelf in the back corner, painted bright blue and towering above a pile of twirling hoops, drew his eye. Specifically, a deck of cards. On closer inspection he discovered that the cards were not a game, but an illustrated alphabet. Henry was likely too old for such lessons. Matthew turned his attention to the rest of what the shelf had to offer. Red, blue and white painted pegs stood up in a long wooden tray, lining two sides. He recognized the game immediately as Nine Men Morris. Growing up, his tutor, and on rare occasions his brother, had indulged him in a game. He had played at every opportunity, and had won with astounding frequency, to their chagrin. There was something satisfying about forming the pegs into tidy groups of colors, all the while weaving a strategy to block one's opponent.
Matthew caught himself reordering the pieces, forming lines and examining the enemy's position, and mused that the game was probably responsible for his joining the army.
Kate appeared at his elbow, rocking onto tiptoes and peering over his shoulder. He pointed to the display with one hand, taking up a linen bag containing another set. “I used to play this, as a child. It fosters cleverness without feeling like a lesson. Henry, if he is anything like his aunt, will enjoy it.” He held the cloth bag out to her. “Perhaps he can master it with his father, and tutor you when the time comes.”
She grinned, taking the game excitedly. “How perfect. Fann and Will love games, mostly cards and charades. Something to play at with Henry...that is brilliant.” She moved two pegs to the far side of the display board, ruining his advance in a deft maneuver.
