by Baird Wells
Whatever feeling he guessed might have surfaced first, it would not have been anger. But anger it was, not at Fann or Kate but at his own confusion. His brain was stunned under the weight of Fann's news. “Where is she? Why would she believe that?”
Her head shook, curls tumbling wildly. “Soldiers in Antwerp told her that they saw you struck in the head. Your lines were broken. She didn't know the truth. None of us did, until your letter arrived last night.”
He had been struck in the head. But what soldiers would have been in town to give her such news? Deserters. A regiment of spineless Hussars, if he had to wager. Still the confusion did not make sense.
Fann swiped at her eyes, at damp cheeks, until it dimly occurred to him to offer his handkerchief. He was too numb to do more.
For a moment, Matthew swore not even his heart beat. “Kate is gone, Fann. The Union...it was lost at sea. I saw her name. I saw it on the manifest!” He was losing his mind. A black haze threatened the edge of his vision. His anger blazed higher, protecting him against vain hope.
Fann's head shook harder, and for a moment her words came out in an unintelligible jumble. She rubbed a frustrated hand at her forehead, taking a deep breath. “Kate did not return on the Union. She changed her mind and waited for news in Antwerp. When the courier arrived, he said your lines were broken. Then some soldiers, deserters I think, told her you fell and did not recover. So she set sail on the Spring that afternoon, and not of her own volition. She was certain you were dead.”
“Kate was not lost in the storm.” He was not convincing himself by repeating it. There was no believing, no accepting what Fann was telling him.
She grabbed fistfuls of his coat. “She was not aboard the Union when it sank.” She pushed against him, as if trying to press the idea into his flesh. Ironically, he mused, that was likely the only way he was going to absorb it.
He was standing, and then he was on the ground, the oak floor planks smarting his backside. Fann dropped to her knees, bracing his shoulder. Wet trails painted both her cheeks, mirroring his own.
“I'm sorry, so sorry I didn't speak up earlier. I had no idea...” Her fingers pressed heat through his gloves and into frozen hands.
He threw his hat to the rug, raking fingers through his hair again and again, until the last pass when he buried his face in his hands. His breath came faster, gasps now, while hope surged inside. Months of suffering, grieving. All the time he had been in agony, Kate had been suffering, too. She'd thought he was never coming, and he wouldn't have, if not for Ty. That was perhaps the worst twist of all.
“Where?” It was all he could manage.
“I put the address in your basket. I wrote her as soon as I got your letter but she has not answered. The doctor who's taken her on in Albany keeps her busy till all hours.”
He forgot propriety, grabbed Fann and crushed her close, vaguely aware of William and Henry frozen in disbelief. How irrational, that he was more upset by a night spent two hours apart than months at a thousand miles. She could have been in his arms a day earlier.
A coach jostled up outside, rattling to a stop with a great deal of snorting, and a 'whoa!' Lucky for everyone, since he could not have sat there waiting for another minute. Its arrival had spared William negotiating the sale of a horse.
He stood and pulled Fann up with him. “You cannot imagine the good you have just done.”
Sniffling, she smiled and clasped his hands. “Someone has to keep my sister from dying of stubbornness. I suppose I am the most qualified. If she had simply written your mother, or the Major...” Fann laughed through her tears, swiping at her eyes with one arm and pushing him toward the door with the other. “Go! Every moment you waste here is a moment you could be telling her how infuriating she is.”
“You've read my thoughts.” He grabbed the basket, fumbling with his hat while trying to press William's hand and hug Fann one last time “Mrs. Livingston –”
“Go!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The coach shuddered to a stop on a wide corner in front of the Hudson Arms, Albany's stage hub. It was a tall, red-brick inn that boasted more cobblestone out front than most of the city's other visible streets combined. Matthew guessed it was for the comfort and convenience of the perpetual crowd of passengers out front, to keep them from the mud while awaiting their stage. He had occupied his mind with a whole string of similar inconsequential thoughts during the trip, anything to maintain his composure.
He gifted Fann's basket to the driver, also giving him some extra coin to see his trunk stowed until he could attend to it. Springing down, he unfolded Fann's little slip of directions, pausing on the platform to read them and gain his bearings. It was nearly impossible to concentrate on any detail. He glanced up past the gaggle of waiting travelers, spotting the weathered steeple she had described. As he was puzzling out the next line, surveying the area, he became acutely aware of a pair of eyes on him from the front of the crowd. A woman, and a comely one at that, watched him, head cocked under a sky-blue velvet bonnet. There was no ignoring her beauty, her womanly figure helped along by the cut of her blue velvet coat and the soft printed white muslin gown beneath. He smiled, a polite acknowledgment. She cocked her head further, and smiled back.
It was the smile that stopped his heart.
Matthew knew his mouth hung open, but he could only stand and stare disbelieving until she stepped forward. He reanimated, moving forward, making up enough ground that he met her in the middle of the lane. His heart had known it was she before his mind had fully grasped it.
Delicate hands slipped into his as if they belonged there, and he pressed his forehead to hers, closing his eyes and breathing her deep.
“Kate.”
* * *
Twining arms around his neck and not giving a damn who saw, Kate wondered how she had ever doubted. That Matthew was alive, that he would come. Fleeing Antwerp, certain that he was lost and the French were at her heels, the worst had seemed so plausible, so real. Now, she felt foolish.
“There were moments when I did not believe I could go on without you.” She studied him, heart pounding, waiting for some sign that he understood.
He raked a curl from her face, brushing her cheek. “I told you, I am always with you. That will never change, Kate of my heart.”
The moment he pulled her in, wrapped arms around her, the worry blew away like dust. She clutched at Matthew with every bit of sorrow and regret she had suffered for months, letting his love chase it off. His arms squeezed tighter, and then he stiffened. Kate smiled into his chest. She'd wondered how long he would take to notice.
“What the devil...” Matthew broke their embrace as though she had scorched him, looking her up and down with disbelief. If ever there were a moment when all his promises would be put to the test, Kate decided this was it. If Matthew rejected her now, it would break her forever.
She stood completely still, worrying her lip, letting Matthew come around to the idea. Finally, he extended a hesitant arm, pressing his palm to her stomach and pulling away. Then, he replaced the gesture with two caressing hands, mapping the shape of her protruding belly which was now almost beyond concealing.
“My God, Kate.” His words were soft, barely a whisper, nearly drowned by the clamor of voices and wagons all around.
She rested a hand over his and nodded, words stolen by the humbled expression in his eyes.
“I am late,” he muttered.
Late to Albany, late in coming to find her? Confused, Kate shook her head. “What?”
Finally, he met her eyes, face drawn up in tense lines. “The last line of your letter. 'I am late'. You knew in Brussels. Why did you not tell me?”
Guilt seeped into their moment at his frown. “I suspected. I do not think I knew until your mother and I arrived in Ruisbroek. I started to turn back, but when I asked for the date...I could not return to the front pregnant.” She squeezed his hands tighter.
“But, even so...” Matthew contin
ued glancing from her stomach to her face, openly in shock. “You should have told me you suspected.”
“It was the last thing you needed to worry over. Your mother's recovery and Caroline and the battle – I wanted a peaceful moment. A right moment.”
His smile was as warm as a sunrise. “This one is perfect.”
“Matthew –”
Just as quickly, he scowled. “How long have you been standing here?” He was suddenly General Webb, snapping after her through camp, tapping his foot.
Kate bit her lip, fighting a smile, with a good idea of what was coming. “I don't know. A quarter of an hour, perhaps, before you arrived.”
He snatched her hand, looking around them. “Why are you standing? You should be sitting. Is there a bench? Why are there no benches in this Godforsaken place?”
She choked back a laugh while he pulled her to the front of the inn. “We spent the bench budget on musket balls, driving out the people who demanded benches.”
“Hush,” he tossed back. To the two young men lounging on the bench they approached, Matthew was less courteous. He stabbed at them with a very aristocratic finger. “My lady wishes to sit.”
They scrambled up, slipping past Matthew with mumbled apologies. She laughed, rolling her eyes, heart swelling with joy as he settled beside her. “If this is how you plan to behave,” she teased, “perhaps we should spend the next few months on separate continents.”
He grinned, pecking her cheek. “I have not begun to make myself infuriating. You have no idea the state of overbearing I can manage when I feel it is merited.”
“Oh, no, I'm very much acquainted with it.” She brushed fingers over Matthew's features, remembering the feel of every plane and angle, conscious all the while that they were drawing more and more attention. After so many months apart, there was no end to touching him, and that was becoming a bit of a problem just now. “I've been staying in town these last few weeks,” she volunteered. “Aiding a new doctor who's just come up from Virginia.”
“Oh?” He was clearly confused by her rapid change of topic.
“I have been staying in town here, at the Hudson Arms.” She picked the key from her coat pocket, pressing the cool iron meaningfully into his palm.
“Oh?” His eyes widened. “Oh.”
“Oh.” She nodded firmly. “Let's go up.” Having learned her lesson, Kate sat patiently until Matthew stood and reached down to help her.
He took her hand and smiled, and suddenly the world was perfect. Matthew brought his lips to her ear. “Let's.”
* * *
Whole again, Kate snuggled further back against Matthew's chest, too content to spoil the moment by hinting that his continual stroking of her bump was beginning to grate in the most touching way. After a few more minutes, he pulled away, tipping her onto her back and propping on an elbow to lean over her. “That did not cause you any discomfort...”
She almost laughed at his sudden concern, except that it sprang from deep in his eyes as he searched her face. Brushing her lips over his, Kate shook her head. “Only that we do not have more time.”
“My ship leaves at two o'clock.” He did not close the sentence, letting it hang meaningfully between them with a look Kate had never seen on his face. She scooted farther up the bed, studying him and trying to decode his expression. “You are staring at me as though you've never seen me before.”
“And so I haven't. Not you. You are the mother of my child.” His palm pressed again to her stomach, and the last of her resistance melted under his hand.
“I love you Matthew, and I was selfish about what that means. I will go to London and make the best of it, to be with you. Anything to not be apart again.” She meant it, every word, with all her heart.
His lips on hers were slow, demanding her promise. Then he pulled back and smiled. “You do not have to live in London, Kate. I am posted to Paris. My orders are indefinite. No less than three years, by my guess.” His knuckles brushed the hair from her temple. “Does France suit you any better?”
Paris. It was not London, or Albany. Neutral, full of change and excitement. Possibility. A new city, for her new life with Matthew. Content, she exhaled slowly. “It suits me perfectly.”
“And you will not have to play second fiddle to a viscountess, now that I am an earl. A viscountess owes you that deference.”
A lifetime must have passed for him in three months. “What else happened while we were apart? Tell me everything now. My heart can't survive another shock.”
He looked into her eyes, his gaze a strange mix of warmth and gravity. “I want to marry you the moment we arrive in France.”
Her heart thundered at the news, almost painfully. In a single day, she had been elevated to pure elation from the depths of misery. It was nearly too much, and tears threatened at the corners of her eyes. “Is that a proposal?” she said, fighting for control.
Frowning, Matthew drew up off his arm, half-sitting. “Will you have me or not?” he demanded.
Snagging arms around his neck, Kate pulled him back to answer first with a kiss. “Of course I will. Where on earth are you going to find a clergyman who'll agree?” She patted a stomach that would be well beyond concealing when they reached Paris seven weeks from now.
He rolled from the mattress, gathering and sorting their abandoned garments, pelting her with articles of clothing. “Any man of the cloth will agree. We just have to be honest with him and tell the truth.”
As if she did not know him better. “Which is...”
He turned back, grinning in triumph at his own cleverness. “That you are my dead brother's widow, and I must offer you my protection.”
“You cannot lie to a man of God, Matthew! You'll go to hell.” Laughter was not helping her argument.
He stopped dressing and stood before her, taking her hand. “I would risk it, Kate, to end the day with you as my wife.”
“Hmm.” She pulled free, wriggling into her shift just in time to hide a smile. “Let's save eternal damnation for when all else fails.”
He snatched up his watch from somewhere under the bed and snapped open the cover. “Twenty minutes, and we need to be underway. Should you write your sister, let her know that you are not coming home?”
Smoothing her skirts, Kate met Matthew's eyes and shook her head. “She will not be expecting me to come back.”
“How is that?”
“Call it sisterly intuition,” she said, shrugging into her coat. She did not bother fastening satin frogs that had already started straining at her midsection a week earlier.
Matthew dusted her bonnet and settled it on her head, tying the ribbons slowly. “This reminds me...” He pulled the bundle of letters from his coat pocket, bound with his blue-gray ribbon. “Would you like these back?”
She smiled and grabbed his hand, pulling him to the door. “Keep them. I don't need them.”
He laughed as she dragged him along behind. “Why not?”
“Because,” she shouted, his nervous grip tightening on her wrist as they bounced down the stairs, “for the rest of our adventure, we'll be together!”
EPILOGUE
Lord and Lady Webb had ten children over twelve years. The Duke of Wellington and Major Burrell both stood as godfather for each of them.
Their oldest, William, inherited his father's title on Matthew's death in 1865, serving as a faithful cabinet member to Queen Victoria. He acted as a surrogate grandfather to his acquaintance Randolph Churchill's stocky, little red-haired boy Winston. William married Major Sir Tyler Burrell's daughter Madeline.
Arthur Webb took his father's path, joining the Queen's army with the 33rd regiment, distinguishing himself at two separate battles of the Crimean war.
A daughter, Elizabeth, worked as a nurse under Florence Nightingale during the Crimean War, and in 1858 became one of the first female doctors on the American frontier.
Another daughter, Adelaide, devoted admirer of her namesake grandmother, became a writer – one
of the first women to travel across Egypt and document her adventures.
Their youngest, Theodore, fought alongside his cousin Colonel Henry Livingston during the American Civil War, and both men distinguished themselves as officers at the Battle of Gettysburg. Theodore reached the rank of Brigadier General, to his father's tremendous pride, and after the war entered politics – to his mother's secret and passing disappointment.
When Kate passed away in 1874, she left behind ten children, forty-two grandchildren, and twenty-six great grandchildren.
Since Matthew and Kate could not agree on a final resting place in either America or England, they were laid to rest side-by-side in the churchyard of St. Joseph's, in Waterloo.
Porter Grimm received the Waterloo Medal for valor in the field. After the war, he married Louise de Rhode and finished writing his memoirs in 1816. The printer could hardly meet demand from the public. Porter and Louise founded one of the first textile mills to hire black workers at equal wages, and they used a good portion of their fortune to aid the early days of the Underground Railroad. Their son Josiah fought with Theodore and Henry and the Battle of the Wilderness.
Major Burrell's story is another matter entirely...
About the Author
When Baird Wells is not writing historical and speculative fiction, she spends her nights working for the local fire department.
Her first book, Vermillion, is built on a life-long passion for all things historical and romantic.
