Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1)

by Baird Wells

  Departure July the 29th, 1815

  Ridiculous. Why had Tyler believed for a moment that a ship's ticket would hold any interest?

  He tossed it away, trying not to look at it. It was too much effort, following Ty's reasoning just then.

  It was early in the day, but not too early, though he usually waited till later. Matthew pulled open the desk's left-hand drawer, took out his medal case and set it just so in front of him. He did nothing but steel himself for a moment. It always took some time to brace for the opening.

  When he lifted the lid, it was sweet and euphoric and miserable. He twisted the length of hair around his finger, strands drunkenly woven into a narrow braid one night when he could not bear putting it back away just yet. Her pin was next, the points of the ivy leaf poking dully at his callous. Three of her letters sat folded beneath, two of business which he'd barely saved from McKinnon's efficient purge of his camp correspondence, and one of a more personal nature.

  He plucked it from the bottom. The letter already had insubstantial places along the crease where he had folded and unfolded it countless times. He first brought it to his nose, her smell on the paper vibrant enough for him to believe she stood at his shoulder, just out of sight. She had sent it the morning after they became lovers, while he'd been away from the garrison on patrol. It was mistakenly the first thing he had read upon finally settling down to work that night, set awkwardly off to the side by McKinnon who must have realized by the smell that it was not a hospital inventory.

  He would never have admitted it then, but the note had cast a spell, and he could not for all the world have resisted when she had appeared in his tent an hour later.

  No longer sated with just the memory, he opened it. He knew the words by heart, but read them again anyway.

  We have dared!

  Bruised, exhausted but overflowing – it must be the same for you. Our precious secret must be kept, but all morning it has felt a little like lighting a house on fire and then pretending we can hide it from everyone by standing shoulder to shoulder. You are the one to relieve my torment, and you are too busy saving Europe today to sooth my fever, or to check my garters as promised.

  Until tonight...

  -K

  Even deep in the well of his grief, his pulse quickened. Her breath whispered the words hot against his ear, fingers raking the hair above his collar. Groaning, Matthew planted his forehead against the desktop, hand raking at the passenger slip against his will, until he got it half crumpled into his fist.

  She still owned his soul. For all his scoffing, he would board the ship tomorrow. Kate would call to him as she always did, in between dreams or when he was crocked, sweating and tangled in the bedding, until he set sail.

  Matthew studied his pitiful shrine. If he could derive so much comfort from so little, then perhaps Ty had been correct. He picked up her narrow braid.

  Perhaps it was time to carry her home.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  10 June, 1815 – Brussels

  Fann,

  I have arrived in Brussels. You would marvel at how much it resembles home in construction, but not at all in splendor. There is a different flavor to the city. Of a new place, of course, but of history past and history being made. Perhaps everything I see and feel is shaded by being in love. Have I written it already? I am only too happy to repeat it, forever.

  When my general returns this afternoon I will ask him to take me out so that I can find some little mementos for you and our boys. I could go out to the shops now, but why do something alone when I could enjoy Matthew's company? Besides, no man can truly find purpose unless he has an armload of lady's things to carry.

  Do not tease the cares of my heart! I know you must be laughing at me now, but if you could see how overcome I am, you would take pity on your dear sister.

  All my love to you and our little family.

  -K

  He turned the paper over, and her letter was done. The garrison, Brussels, the battlefield all melted away and he was once again in Kate's room. Months had flown past in a single night. Morning glow was creeping in through the windows and over the floorboards, and Matthew realized just how consumed he had been with her words.

  He got up and snatched the bottle of whiskey John had obligingly left on the bookcase. Falling back into his chair and eyeing her letter, he popped the cork with a thumb. Matthew began to pour without guilt or hesitation, without stopping.

  The last sheet was only a few lines at the top, concluding her thoughts from the previous page. A single note was scrawled at the bottom. It was Kate's hand, but looped hurriedly with a tell-tale waver to each letter:

  June the 15th – I am late.

  He recalled that morning. His body recalled that morning, but Matthew could not guess what she had meant. Late in leaving Brussels, perhaps. There had been tension vibrating through the city, a sense of the inevitable. And of course, they'd had the truth of the matter at Lady Richmond's ball that night.

  He exhaled, trying to pour off some of the emotion raging inside, feelings barely tempered by seven weeks at sea. Worrying the pages, he raked them back together with unsteady fingers, staring. There were things in her letter she had never told him, thoughts and feelings that had blossomed before they were close enough to share. He wished vainly that there was a hope of ever being the man Kate had described. And for the thousandth time, he wished she were here.

  “General.” Liddy hovered in the doorway, hands clasped primly over her apron. “Mr. and Mrs. Livingston have come. Missus is waiting for you in the parlor, sir.”

  The carriage had rumbled up at some point, but he must have been too deep in the letter or his own reflections to notice. Matthew steeled himself, fanning away the fumes of liquor hanging on his clothes, righting his hair. When there was nothing left with which to fuss, he went down to meet Kate's family.

  Outside the parlor, he took only a single breath to steady his nerves. Whatever these people thought of him, Matthew reminded himself he would be with them a very short time. He also realized how desperate he was for them to like him. He opened the door and stepped through.

  Fann commanded a little chair beside the hearth, bathed in morning sunlight, at ease and looking ready to entertain Lucifer himself, should he walk through the door. She smiled at his entrance. “General Webb.”

  Kate had been right. She really was the prettiest thing he had ever seen. For a moment his heart ached at it. Kate could not have described her sister more perfectly, impossible as it had been for him to believe at the time.

  Fann was a contrast to Kate, short and petite, with long willowy limbs. She was fragile and bright like a little porcelain dancer in her pastel ruffles. Her hair and eyes were Kate's, warm chestnut and sky blue, but there was an innocent light to Fann's gaze, testifying she had been spared from the same cares as her sister. Their similarities ended there. Fann's nose was a pert upturn, mouth narrower, fuller and doll-like against her baby face. He wagered there was not a cross bone in her body.

  “Mrs. Livingston.” He bowed and waited, but for what he had no idea.

  There was one more similarity. He hadn't noticed it until the silence stretched between while they took each other's measure. Fann cocked her head, managing to look down shyly with her face, and upward frankly with her eyes. It was a disarming paradox he'd only experienced with Kate. His heart throbbed.

  Finally, she spoke. “I received your letter last night. I'm sorry nothing was ready. Had it not been so late, I would have had you sent over to Chestnut Hill to stay with us, instead of your waiting in an empty house.”

  He wanted to tell her it had been exactly what he needed, like wrapping himself in a blanket against the chill of her absence, basking in Kate's spirit all around him. It was probably not what she wished to hear just now, and Matthew knew he could never do it justice with words. “I passed an agreeable night. Please don't trouble yourself on my account.”

  “Fann?” William appeared in the hall, cra
ning his neck to see them around the door frame. It had to be William. Again, Kate had painted a life-like portrait. Will had the carriage of an officer, straight-backed long strides. A stern mouth was softened by the lines of a smile, and his eyes snapped to observe everything as he crossed the room, arm outstretched. “General. This is a pleasant surprise.”

  His grasp was firm and familiar as they shook hands, and Matthew liked him instantly. He began to explain to William that he would not be offended if they found his sudden arrival not so pleasant, but a noise stopped him short. It was a tapping, the unmistakable click of tiny leather soles clapping against a wood floor. He leaned to see past William who stepped aside, revealing a tiny shadow in tow behind him. “Henry, this is General Webb.”

  Henry was a miniature gentleman, from his lopsided tricorn hat to the tails of his coat and breeches that hugged his knobby knees for dear life. He had Kate and Fann's piercing gaze and his father's studious countenance, both screwed up just now in serious childlike appraisal of their guest. He tucked whatever was cradled in his hands beneath an arm and raised one balled fist to his sandy-blond brow in a perfect salute.

  Something in Matthew's heart gave way, and he blinked back tears, staring down at the boy. “Master Henry.” He saluted in return, winning a shy smile.

  Henry cradled his toy and held it up for Matthew's inspection. “It's my ship.”

  Matthew got down on one knee for closer inspection. “And a fine vessel, too. Look at that prow, and her stout mast. Where do you run her?”

  “Papa takes me to the pond after supper,” Henry said, beaming proudly.

  “A navy man? Are you to be a sailor then, Henry?”

  “Aunt Kate says the navy is for criminals and lunatics.”

  The laugh that escaped his chest was an unexpected but welcome gift, and he looked to William who smiled without apology. “Can you tell he's heard the opinion repeated more than once?”

  “That is why we're in the army, is it not?”

  “Precisely,” nodded William.

  “Look what I can do!” Henry stomped his feet in little turns, gaining momentum until the tails of his coat spun like a dervish.

  “Bravo!” Matthew clapped, serving to increase the boy's speed. Henry's easy joy was a balm to his soul.

  Fann swept between them, shaking her head and ushering Henry to the sofa.

  William waved a hand toward his son. “The time between three and four years of age is something like boarding with an asylum patient.”

  “William, honestly.” Fann rested a tiny hand on Matthew's coat sleeve. “I'm glad that you have come, Lord Webb.”

  William planted a kiss atop his wife's head. “This is a happy occasion. I will go down and see if Liddy can manage supper here on late notice.”

  She sent him out with a pat, and Matthew watched their exchange with a measure of dull jealousy.

  “It must be odd for your family. Miss Foster... Kate spoke so often, so fondly of you all that I feel acquainted, though I must seem a complete stranger.”

  “No. Oh no, not at all!” Fann alighted on the sofa beside Henry, who studiously worked his sails, and patted a chair beside her. “I don't believe there was a single entry in all her letters that did not mention you. By the end she talked of little else.”

  He smiled, remembering for a moment. “I imagine she talked of little else in the beginning, too, and not as kindly.”

  Her mouth curved sympathetically, and she squeezed his hand on the arm of the chair. “Kate, as you know, has always been very...honest, in her appraisals.”

  “She called me an ass.”

  “At least once, yes.” Fann didn't bother to stifle her giggle.

  He settled deeper into the chair, realizing that Fann was privy to all he had just read in Kate's letters. Intimate, personal things, but the idea did not unsettle him. He felt liberated, and, for the first time in anguish-filled months, there was someone with whom he could commiserate. Matthew examined the room, wondering at how comfortable and familiar it felt to sit there. “This is a striking house.”

  “We grew up here, and our father left the property in Kate's capable hands. It was her sanctuary, when Patrick...” Her voice trailed into sad silence.

  He understood, hating the memory, the idea.

  Fann glanced beside her, seeming to remember Henry when he made a shush, creating an imaginary wave for his ship. “Henry, you do not have to sit. Run on down to Papa and ask him to take you outside, now that the morning chill has passed.”

  “I will take him.” The offer jumped to Matthew's lips before he had a moment to consider what he was getting into. Children did not fall into his area of expertise, but suddenly he was eager for the chance.

  Fann smiled, waving a hand in the air. “You needn't trouble yourself.”

  “I insist. Master Henry has a fine vessel. Proud lines and fast, I'd wager. A man ought to have an opportunity to show off such a lovely craft.”

  Henry did not share Fann's reservation. His little hand curled into Matthew's cuff, hauling for all he was worth toward the door. “Come on! You'll sit on my favorite rock so you can see better. Mister Smith might come, if you're quiet. He's a pond frog. He's got a yellow spot on his head, like a fancy hat.”

  Matthew laughed in earnest at the boy's endearing ramble, letting Henry pull him along, content in the knowledge he could have no better guide.

  * * *

  Wrapped around William's arm, Fann watched Henry clap at something the general said.

  The pair crouched together and Matthew pointed to a spot on the horizon, and Henry's little head bobbed in reply.

  Beside her, William shifted from foot to foot, the way he always did when mulling something over. “I'm a bit thrown off by General Webb. Did you expect him to be so dour?”

  “Not in the slightest.” Kate had described him as being serious, formal on occasion. The man before her had the demeanor of frayed rope, struggling to hold together its few remaining strands. “Truly William, I think something is wrong. He has not asked about Kate once.”

  “Does he know that she's believed him dead all this time? Have you told him? Perhaps he's only a bit rattled.”

  Fann shook her head, noting the defeated sag of Matthew's shoulders as he trailed behind Henry back to the house. “I thought she would arrive before us. Or at any moment now, so I did not see the point. It seemed wiser to have her explain, than to worry him.” She had assumed Kate's joy at seeing Matthew would undo the confusion more than anything she could say. Matthew would have questions, undoubtedly, and Kate was the most qualified to answer them.

  Will pressed a hand against the window pane. “Look at the poor man's face. Seems too late for that.”

  A terrible thought struck her. Impossible, she argued, except that it might explain so much of the general's demeanor. “Oh William, what if he's come with bad news? Do you think he's changed his mind?” Would he cross an entire ocean, when a letter could suffice? If Kate's letters had taught her anything, it was that General Webb was an honorable man. Perhaps it had been the right thing, in his view.

  Will took her hand, and sighed. “I suppose we ought to reckon that out before she arrives.”

  * * *

  “You'll not escape me!”

  There was stomping, and a boyish squeal in reply to Will's bellowing. Matthew entered the dining room just in time to see Henry hoisted onto his father's shoulder, flailing his limbs for all he was worth. Fann, gracefully posed at the head of the table, did not engage in their mirth. She stood over a deep basket, worrying her lip in an imitation of her sister.

  He drew up short, unnoticed, and watched her. She was not Kate, but in the low light of early morning, with her face tipped down, it was an easy thing to imagine.

  William spun around, caught sight of him, and broke the spell. “Lord Webb.”

  Plunging free and onto his feet, Henry charged up and made his little salute. Then he tugged a crumpled sheet of paper from his tiny great-coat and
held it out.

  “What's this?” Matthew made a great show of unfolding it. The drawing was touching in its simplicity. The large and small figures were hardly more than stick people, but the waves on the pond and the little sailboat were perfectly identifiable. His heart stuck in his throat.

  Henry pointed out the details. “We're sailing my ship. Aunt Kate won't mind. We aren't in the navy.”

  He folded it reverently, glancing to William and Fann, and tucking it away. “It is marvelous. I will take it back to Paris and put it up in my office where I can see it every day.”

  William held out a hand. “General, you are welcome to join us at Chestnut Hill this evening, for dinner.”

  He'd had enough. Ty was right in making him come, and it had been a painful but necessary endeavor, like scrubbing grit from a wound. But he was done. He needed to be somewhere familiar, isolated, to grieve and take in all that had passed. “It is my intention to begin the journey home mid-day today. The stage should be here directly.”

  Fann startled with such force that she nearly toppled the basket. “Why on earth would you do that?”

  William cut the air with his hand. “Fann, it is not our place –”

  Fann shouted down her husband, to Matthew's surprise. “I do not understand how you can simply leave! What is the matter with you?” she cried out in anguish.

  Matthew understood it well. He and anguish, along with rage and bitterness, had been fair-weather friends for months now. “I came here to make peace, Mrs. Livingston. I cannot snuff out my misery, so why not indulge it? And so I have, thanks to all of you. There is a little scab on the wound, and now I return home to nurse it.”

  Fann's mouth hung open for a moment. “I do not understand.”

  “You have done a more admirable job of healing – I am not ashamed to admit it. When Kate died, a part of me I had just come to know died, too. There is no easy mending.”

  “What are you –” Fann shook her head. “Kate, dead?” She launched around the table, fistfuls of skirts still perilously in range for tripping, closing the distance between them with admirable grace for how encumbered she was. “You cannot leave.” A small hand curled insistently into his coat sleeve, her eyes filled with tears. “Kate's not dead, Matthew. She's not – why on earth would you think so? She's in town, waiting all this time thinking –” A sob tore through her words, and Fann's head fell against his chest, shoulders wracking. “Thinking you had died, at Waterloo!”