Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1)

by Baird Wells

  Scrubbing dirty fists against his eyes, he winced. His temple tore open, and he wished again for Kate. He snatched the paper from his bed, moving to the splintered table, and scooted in, back and thighs already screaming at the too-familiar position of sitting.

  My Dearest Ladies,

  I sit here at headquarters, at once the proudest and humblest of men. Our boys have brought us victory this night, rewarding us with a sound view of Bonaparte's tail feathers. They were a credit to the army and their king. We have won.

  I have a bed here at our temporary bivouac, a small fire, all my necessary parts and want for only your company in order to be satisfied.

  Mother, you will receive all this news in advance of the town and likely even the Prince. You must keep it in your bosom until he issues the news. Please do not make the same over-zealous mistake as you did with his divorce.

  Kate, my love for you has made me stubborn, and I defied every attempt by Death to separate us. I will be with you the first moment I am granted leave.

  My love to both of you. But a little longer until I am home.

  With my whole heart –

  Webb

  As he folded up the edges, his eyes grew leaden, beginning to droop with the absence of command or self-preservation. He shook his head and shifted in the chair, fighting off sleep until his hostess rapped at the door. Before she could hand off her tray, he pressed the letter into her hands, making her swear an oath in broken English to take it immediately to the Field Marshal.

  He set the board of stew and brown bread on the table untouched. Steam filling his nose hinted at the savory contents, but his stomach could never tolerate food after a battle. Not even bothering to remove his boots, he fell onto the hard mattress, appreciating how similar it was to his cot. Almost immediately, he sunk into a black sleep that was blessedly dreamless.

  * * *

  His mother's reply did not reach him until Paris a week later. That it arrived at all was miraculous, and he was certain it would have been completely lost if she had not posted it by special courier. Word of Napoleon's abdication on the 24th had spread like fire in the brush, and the drunkenness and celebration reduced even the most faithful public servant to the equivalent of a sun-mad Bermuda rum runner.

  The news could not have come at a better moment. He and several other officers were seated at the dining table with Wellington, having been invited to his new Paris residence for their first real supper since the Richmond ball. The house, rented from none other than Napoleon's sister Pauline, was beyond lavish and well into gaudy inside and out. Matthew had discovered Wellington's feelings on the matter throughout their meal. Whenever a well-meaning guest tried to offer a positive remark on the décor, the Field Marshal would simply bite out 'Stripped!' never looking up from his plate. If Wellington had his way, Matthew suspected the house would be gutted by morning.

  He had been unprepared for the taxing level of diplomacy required in Paris. Some of the men around him were allies, friendly acquaintances. Others, however, were nearly unsavory enough to spoil his appetite. A few of these were Talleyrand, one of Napoleon's most able ministers, and Joseph Fouche, his head of police. The former, Matthew despised as a detached bureaucrat and the latter, as an engineer of terror who had victimized the French people since the death of their monarch nearly twenty years before.

  It galled him that both men were so openly allowed to redecorate their loyalties to match whichever flag was flying. They might be useful, but they were also dangerous. He had no eagerness to make conversation with either one, though Fouche's attempts in reverse said he was eager to interrogate.

  Matthew pointedly raised the letter in front of his face. He opened it, read it, then read it again.

  ...Miss Foster has not come with me, but stayed on in Antwerp to wait for news of the fighting, which we had heard was fixed for the following day. I have neither seen nor heard from her since. No visits or letters...

  Excusing himself from the dinner table, he slipped from the room with his heart in his throat.

  He reasoned that Kate had likely stayed in Antwerp simply to defy him, not willing to go until she had heard something. She was probably still there now. The thought soothed him. Or, more likely, considering her resourcefulness, she was already on her way to Paris, having discovered he was posted there. Still, it worried him that his mother had heard nothing from Kate in weeks.

  In his room, Matthew penned a hasty note to Ty, who was in command near Brussels. He asked if the major would check for Kate and send word. He ground his back teeth, annoyed at being apart from her for so long, and at injured Colonel McKinnon's absence. The man would have ridden his letter to hell in the middle of the night if he'd asked. He had been happy to learn his faithful aide's arm was saved, but the man was in no shape for work of any real stock.

  For now, the best he could do was to wait

  * * *

  It was surprising, how little he noticed the days passing in Paris. Every night was some dinner or engagement at which he was expected. Daytime was full of responsibilities. Mostly he acted on Wellington's behalf, and other times his own, now that he was somehow tangled into the formation of a provisional government. Kate would be proud; before he had always made a conscientious effort to keep all government at arm's-length.

  Today was already the sixth of July. Two nights earlier he had begged a glass of Wellington's best Port, taken it in secret to his room, and raised it on behalf of Kate in honor of her nation's birthday. He had felt a bit like a libertine in church, perhaps the way that Ty felt all the time.

  The diversion had helped pass another impatient moment waiting for Major Burrell's reply to any one of his six letters. Each day that ended without word and without Kate stoked an uneasiness in his gut. In the early days of an occupation, correspondence was often late, misdirected. Matthew had grown used to it, but admitted now that he worried in earnest.

  He was just pondering how quickly he could reach Antwerp and what excuse he could give when Ty appeared in his doorway as if conjured. Getting to his feet, Matthew came around the desk and embraced his friend. It was good to see him in one piece, minus the ragged line of black stitches along his right eye.

  Stiff and unyielding, Ty stepped away the moment he let go.

  Matthew's gut clenched. “Tyler?”

  Pale, shoulders sagging under the burden of his great-coat, Ty did not meet his eyes. “You should take your seat Matthew.”

  “I'd rather stand.” The words barely made their way over the drawstring of nerves closing off his throat.

  Tyler turned back, closing the door. “I don't think you would.”

  The major planted himself in a chair before the desk, not looking or speaking until Matthew followed suit. His throat worked mechanically, lips parting and trembling. “I went to Antwerp, when I found that no one from the regiment had laid eyes on Kate. Plenty of people there noticed her, of course. One was a very obliging young clerk in the harbor master's office who provided me with this.” He laid a rough brown sheet of ledger paper atop the desk.

  Matthew stood and leaned over the desk, pulling it close to examine the bold heading.

  Passenger Manifest – The Union – June the 18th, 1815 – Set sail at ten o'clock in the morning.

  The spine of the page was jagged, obviously torn from the ledger. Matthew skimmed the different loops and slants of writing down the page's length until his eyes recognized the neat, elegant curls of her name. It was handwriting he could never mistake, after reading hundreds of her requests.

  Katherine Abigail Foster – Age 23 – Unaccompanied

  Bile churned at the base of his throat, wondering what Ty wanted him to see and knowing that, whatever it was, it could not be good. “So she did sail from Antwerp. What was the Union's destination?” He met Ty's eyes, hoping for some sort of encouragement there. “What am I meant to gather from this?”

  Ty's jaw clenched, eyes swelling until they were red-rimmed and damp.

  Mat
thew's knees gave way. The chair came up to meet him, saving him from the floor, though he could not really feel the seat or anything around him save a chill to the room. His ribs ached, caging his heart. “How?”

  Ty brushed a finger over her handwriting, voice barely above a ragged whisper. “The storms that plagued us during those last days before Waterloo converged over open ocean. On June twenty-fourth, Union was caught in the gale and foundered. The Yankee sloop Peacock recovered six living souls late that day and torched the wreckage.” He swallowed, quiet a moment. “The survivors were all crew. All men.” Ty's face was granite, eyes bright and wide with meaning.

  Matthew pushed the manifest back across the desk. “It has to be an error. A different Katherine Foster. Or perhaps she signed the wrong ledger.” There was a way to reason this out, his mind argued. With enough time, he would find an explanation.

  Ty's breath hitched. “I'm sorry, Matthew. So truly sorry, not that it in any way –”

  He did not want to be consoled. There was no point. “Stop speaking.” He shook his head, trying to shake away the ridiculous fears Ty had planted there. “We have no way of knowing what happened to Kate. Another ship might have picked her up, or she could have struck out for nearby land.” He hammered the page with his index finger. “This does not mean anything.”

  Ty's nod was halfhearted, annoying him. “You're right, of course. I was too hasty. We should wait and see.”

  “I'm going to be proved right,” Matthew retorted

  “I'll continue asking, see what I can discover,” said Ty.

  “That would be wise.”

  Ty slipped out of his chair. “I'll send word from London the moment I hear anything.”

  “London?” Matthew sat up. Was he mad? He could not leave now. “How are you going to help me sort this out from London? I need you here.” He hated the desperate way his words trembled into each other. “Clearly there's more digging to be done in Antwerp.”

  “And I wish you more success than I have had.”

  “Tyler.” Matthew begged with a single word. What could be more important at a time like this?

  “I have orders, Matthew. This is no easier for me.” Ty did not look at him again, closing the door in his wake.

  “Bastard,” he muttered, picking up the manifest and tossing it down again.

  The seed of doubt planted by its information took root in his chest, fully blossoming in the light of evidence. His heart pounded, chased by panic. He had to figure out what they had missed.

  He swept over the writing again and again, the characters impaling deeper with each pass of his eyes. She belonged to him. Nothing, no one had any right to take her away. Why hadn't Adelaide persuaded her to go to London? Why was she sailing to England alone? He slammed a boot into the floor boards. Ty was a millstone around his neck, inciting panic and then running back to England with his tail between his legs.

  Shoving back his chair, he wadded the manifest and cleared his desk with one violent sweep of his hand.

  Who should you truly blame, whispered a chilling voice. Who sent her to Antwerp?

  Matthew bent and braced palms on the mahogany.

  He had sent her away for selfish reasons, misleading her in order to do so. He could blame his mother, or Ty, or the sodding ship captain, but none of that would change things now. It was his fault. If he just admitted it, if he was truly sorry for the mistake...

  It still would not bring her back. Something broke in him at the realization, fragile as glass shattering inside a cyclone of emotion. The first sob was more of a spasm, wracking him from head to toe and wringing anguish from every limb. Afterward they came from his chest, punctuating his begging, pleading, the accusations against a God who surely deserved an equal share of the blame.

  He wrapped arms around himself, trying to crush together two halves of a heart that was already broken.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Westminster Cathedral, London – July 19th

  Light spilled in from high gothic windows, blinding against white stone columns, only softened where it was swallowed up by the carved fans of the cathedral's towering arches.

  Matthew stood at the back of the nave, inside the ornate twisted branches of twin brass gates. He was overwhelmed by the splendor. Even through the fog of his grief, the cathedral was magnificent.

  A week ago, his impending knighthood had been an appointment, a formality, one more obligation to drag him out into a world of which he wanted no part. Now, however, he found an unexpected solace in the church's silent brilliance.

  He stared down at his feet, unconsciously aligned with a gentle groove in the black and white marble tiles. It was a path, worn down by kings and queens, and traitors and heroes over four-hundred years. It was a noble's path, but looking up into the dust stars drifting through white-gold shafts of light, he was reminded that it was God's house.

  Something in him refused to take a step until they had made a sort of peace. Never having been a religious sort, Matthew stumbled to construct a prayer worthy of Kate. She would have been so proud of him, and so dismissive of the opulence around him. He could hear her laughter, her assurance that he did not need a piece of jewelry to earn his country's esteem. But he had earned it, with her strength to buoy him, and he needed her with him now.

  I do not ask forgiveness or promise to become a Sunday devotee. I promise only to try. Please let her see me now, please let her know...And tell her I love her.

  Matthew exhaled, having put an irretrievable measure of his soul into the words. He reached inside the pocket over his heart, rubbing the braid coiled inside. She was with him. He could feel it when his heartbeat slowed, the tension melting from between his shoulders.

  The herald appeared at his side, smoothing a snow cap of white hair. “When his majesty steps down, my lord, that will be your mark.”

  He nodded, letting the man step in front of him. The herald brushed and fussed at his black velveteen coat, taking enough care that it might have been him receiving recognition. Then he turned and addressed the assembly. “General...The viscount...Webb!”

  A choir rang out in a minor key, echoing from the walls and sending a shiver up his spine. Trumpets gilded the voices, and the crowd rose to their feet at an unspoken command.

  There were so many people, glinting like jewels set into the wooden stalls, all awaiting his appearance. Above them hung the devices of families considered aristocratic when the Webbs were still Trowbridge weavers. Matthew spied his own halfway up the knave, red shield with a gold cross and a falcon to guard each corner. A swimming sensation between his temples forced him to blink heavily, chasing off a moment of disbelief.

  As a general, it was hard to understand the outpouring of emotion. He had only done his duty the best he knew how. As an Englishman, he was just as overcome as anyone in the crowd. Even the Prince Regent dabbed at his eyes, managing to look regal and dignified despite his corpulent frame drowning in an abundance of ermine-trimmed robe, giving the impression of a large woman in a too-small dress.

  The prince lumbered down a step from the dais, and Matthew began his long march forward. There were familiar faces in the crowd, but he did not register any of them, hardly looking in any direction save straight ahead, eyes fixed on a congregation of stained-glass saints high above the altar. It was not until he spotted his mother, seated near the front, that he truly met anyone's eyes. She looked younger and softer, face framed by the black silk of her bonnet. He had weathered the day's tumult so far, but her smile blazing through unchecked tears threatened his last shreds of control. Matthew swallowed hard, digging up composure before he reached the prince.

  The choir reached its crescendo, crying the Latin hymn's final hallelujahs into the clerestory, prickling the hair along his neck as he reached the dais. He knelt on a red velvet cushion, holding back some of his weight under a certainty that the little stool it sat on would break.

  In a complete anti-climax, the actual ceremony took less time than cr
ossing the cathedral. A blade's cold steel kissed the right and then left sides of his neck, pressing his shoulders with the weight of his new office. He stood as the prince stepped back, the efficient old herald darting between them to remove the stool.

  Prince George grabbed his hands and kissed them, filling Matthew's nose with a pungent cloud of garlic, wine, and snuff. “We are indebted sir, a thousand times indebted for your sacrifices and bravery. We fully recognize and honor your most noble effort to earn our glorious victory.”

  His sacrifices? He had returned home alive, all his limbs intact. The only sacrifice he had made was due to his own foolishness. George, like everyone in London, meant well. They simply did not understand.

  The prince dabbed a frilled cuff at his ruddy cheeks, overcome again as trembling sausage fingers managed the first medal off of the cushion at his side. Matthew braced himself, sure that in his overwrought state the prince would impale him with the cross's stick. Instead, George pierced it through the fabric at his breast with surprising deftness, giving the Bath Order's medal a few gentle pats. He draped Matthew with the same cross, smaller and hung from a red grosgrain lanyard, and another from an orange and blue ribbon. “We are pleased to confer upon you His Majesty King William's royal order. It is the highest honor of his kingdom, and we find you worthy of no less.”

  His jaw twitched. He stared at the medal's spartan, sharply pointed cross and wondered how he had done anything deserving of the award. If anything, it belonged to his men, especially those mingled with the Belgian dust. Momentarily lost in the terrible memory, his attention was so fixed that he did not realize the prince had extended something else until the herald cleared his throat. Sealed papers hovered before him at chest level. “We elevate you among your peers to the rank of earl, with the hereditary title Dover, and all the rights and privileges due and according.” His bulging blue eyes shone, and George pressed a hand to his ample chest.