Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) Read Free Page A

for tightening.            The
appeal of such an obnoxious piece of furniture was its down mattress, made up
of the feathers of more geese than France could boast, all stuffed into the
blue and white ticking. Major Ford, the only competent officer the garrison
could claim at the time, had brought the hulk back from a siege. He made a
present of it to the doctor, who had saved his arm. Dr. Addison had declared
the bed a necessity, replacing an army cot that had caused unabated misery for
old bones when his arthritis worsened during the winter.
    He was lying on the bed now, a gaunt
line dividing the mattress right down the center, quilts swallowing him on both
sides. He smiled weakly at her entrance, and Kate knew immediately that Addison
was in grave shape. Only one side of the doctor's thin lips curved up. He
reached for her with his left hand instead of his right.
    Taking her stool from under the
instrument table, she pulled it up to the bedside. She smoothed a hand over
what was left of Addison's snowy white hair. “Something has happened.”
    “Louisa.” His daughter's name was
lightly garbled, as though he had been drinking. “My right arm is cold.”
    His mistake dashed the last of
Kate's hope. Louisa, a woman old enough to be her mother, had died before the
doctor took her on. His left pupil didn't move as he searched her face.
Swallowing her worry, she squeezed his shoulder. “It's Kate, sir. You sent for
me.”
    He seemed not to hear, grimacing
with the good half of his face. “Oh, ohhh!” He pawed at his temple with a
knobby hand. “My head, Louisa! Get me the willow bark powder at once.”
    She jumped to obey, moving entirely
on reflex. The brown glass jar was at the back of the first table, on the left.
Water pitcher over her right shoulder, tumblers on the bottom shelf of the
stand. She tapped the sharp-scented tan powder into the glass, measuring a
spoonful of laudanum into the tincture to help him rest.
    “Are we in the country?” he slurred.
“I don't know this place.”
    There was no point upsetting him.
“Of course we're in the country. Drink this.”
    “What is it? Is this quinine? Oh, we
must be in India!” As fast as he perked up, Addison went slack again, eyes half
shut. “Oh, my head. Are we in India?”
    “That's right! No malaria – drink it
all down.” She put the glass in his trembling left hand, slipping an arm under
frail shoulders to sit him up. “Take a good long drink, and we'll see if that
doesn't fix things.” Tipping the liquid between his slack lips, she used her
apron tail to dab at the stream trickling back out. He sputtered, chest
wracking weakly, then relaxed into the bend of her elbow, eyes falling closed.
    Voices outside the tent gave her
seconds' warning, a breath to prepare for the inevitable duel she was about to
fight. Astley, the doctor's assistant, tore through the flap, yammering without
a breath to whomever he had in tow. His mouth snapped shut when he caught sight
of her at the doctor's bedside. Kate felt a little satisfaction that something
had shut him up.
    Gregory Astley, in another life,
would have been stationed on a London street corner, lifting his stovepipe hat
to passers-by while extolling the effectiveness of his toad wart liniment. He
was small and wiry, dark-eyed, with brown hair exactly like a goat's. His long
nose and broad mouth might have been handsome, except they were laced by a
perpetual sneer. Usually aimed at her.
    Astley's only useful quality, in her
estimation, was his willingness to conscript even the smallest task for the
possibility of praise. Cold and full of ego, at least he accomplished a lot of
work.
    The man towering behind him was such
a contrast that Kate nearly laughed. He had to hunch more than six feet of lean
frame deep under the roof just to get inside. His abandoned hat revealed black
hair that was short even by military standards. Dark brows furrowed in
perpetual concern. His gray eyes darted everywhere,