by Julia Quinn
“You did go to Connecticut Colony,” Colonel Stubbs said. “Do you remember?”
Edward shook his head. He tried . . . he wanted to . . . but there was nothing. Just the vague idea that someone had asked him to go.
“It was an important journey,” the colonel pressed. “There is much we need you to tell us.”
“Well, that’s not likely now, is it?” Edward said bitterly.
“Please, you must not put such pressure on him,” Cecilia intervened. “He’s only just woken up.”
“Your concern does you credit,” Colonel Stubbs said, “but these are matters of vital military importance, and they cannot be put aside for an aching head.” He glanced over at a nearby soldier and jerked his head toward the door. “Escort Mrs. Rokesby outside. She may return once we finish questioning the captain.”
Oh no. That was not happening. “My wife will remain by my side,” Edward bit off.
“She cannot be party to such sensitive information.”
“That’s hardly an issue, since I have nothing to tell you.”
Cecilia stepped between the colonel and the bed. “You must give him time to regain his memory.”
“Mrs. Rokesby is correct,” the doctor said. “Cases such as this are rare, but it is very likely he will regain most, if not all, of his memories.”
“When?” Colonel Stubbs demanded.
“I cannot say. In the meantime, we must afford him all the peace and quiet that is possible under such difficult circumstances.”
“No,” Edward said, because peace and quiet was the last thing he needed. This had to be like everything else in his life. If you wanted to excel, you worked hard, you trained, you practiced.
You didn’t lie in bed, hoping for a bit of peace and quiet.
He looked over at Cecilia. She knew him. He might not remember her face, but they had exchanged letters for over a year. She knew him. She knew that he could not lie about and do nothing.
“Cecilia,” he said, “surely you must understand.”
“I think the doctor must be correct,” she said quietly. “If you would only rest . . .”
But Edward was already shaking his head. They were wrong, all of them. They didn’t—
Goddamn it.
A searing pain shot through his skull.
“What is wrong?” Cecilia cried. Edward’s last sight before squeezing his eyes shut was her looking frantically toward the doctor. “What is happening to him?”
“My head,” Edward gasped. He must have shaken it too quickly. It felt as if his brain were slamming into his skull.
“Are you remembering something?” Colonel Stubbs asked.
“No, you bloody—” Edward cut himself off before he called him something unforgivable. “It just hurts.”
“That’s enough,” Cecilia declared. “I will not permit you to question him any further.”
“You will not permit me?” Colonel Stubbs countered. “I am his commanding officer.”
It was a pity that Edward could not bring himself to open his eyes, because he would really have liked to have seen the colonel’s face when Cecilia said, “You are not my commanding officer.”
“If I might intervene,” the doctor said.
Edward heard someone step aside, and then he felt the mattress dip as the doctor sat beside him.
“Can you open your eyes?”
Edward shook his head, slowly this time. It felt as if the only way to fight the pain was to keep his eyes tightly closed.
“It can be like this with a head injury,” the doctor said gently. “They can take time to heal, and are often very painful in the process. I’m afraid it does no help to rush things.”
“I understand,” Edward said. He did not like it, but he understood.
“That’s more than we physicians can claim,” the doctor replied. His voice was a bit quieter, as if he’d turned to speak to someone else. “There is much we do not know about injuries to the brain. In fact, I’d wager what we don’t know far outweighs that which we do.”
Edward did not find this reassuring.
“Your wife has cared for you most diligently,” the doctor said, patting Edward’s arm. “I recommend that she continue to do so, if possible out of hospital.”
“Out of hospital?” Cecilia echoed.
Edward still hadn’t opened his eyes, but he heard a note of panic in her voice.
“He is no longer feverish,” the doctor said to her, “and the wound on his head is healing well. I see no sign of infection.”
Edward touched his head and winced.
“I wouldn’t do that,” the doctor said.
Edward finally pried his eyes open and looked down at his fingers. He’d half expected to see blood.
“I can’t remove him from hospital,” Cecilia said.
“You will be just fine,” the doctor said reassuringly. “He cannot hope for better care than from his wife.”
“No,” she said, “you don’t understand. I have no place to take him.”
“Where are you staying now?” Edward asked. He was suddenly reminded that she was his wife, and he was responsible for her well-being and safety.
“I’ve rented a room. It’s not far. But there is only the one bed.”
For the first time since he’d woken up, Edward felt the beginnings of a smile.
“The one small bed,” she clarified. “It hardly fits me. Your feet will hang over the side.” And then, when no one said anything fast enough to stave off her palpable unease, she added, “It is a boardinghouse for women. He would not be allowed.”
Edward turned to Colonel Stubbs with rising disbelief. “My wife has been staying in a boardinghouse?”
“We didn’t know she was here,” the colonel replied.
“You’ve obviously known for three days.”
“She was already situated . . .”
A hard, cold fury began to rise within him. Edward knew the nature of the women’s boardinghouses in New York Town. It didn’t matter if he could not recall the wedding, Cecilia was his wife.
And the army let her stay in such questionable lodgings?
Edward had been raised a gentleman—a Rokesby—and there were some insults that could not be borne. He forgot the pain in his skull, forgot even that he’d lost his bloody memory. All he knew was that his wife, the woman he was sworn to cherish and protect, had been badly neglected by the very band of brothers to whom he had devoted the last three years.
His voice was diamond hard when he said, “You will find her alternate lodgings.”
Stubbs’s brows rose. They both knew who was the colonel and who was merely the captain.
But Edward was undeterred. He had spent most of his military career playing down his noble lineage, but in this, he had no such reservations.
“This woman,” he said, “is the Honorable Mrs. Edward Rokesby.”
Colonel Stubbs opened his mouth to speak, but Edward would not allow it. “She is my wife and the daughter-in-law of the Earl of Manston,” he continued, his voice icing over with generations of aristocratic breeding. “She does not belong in a boardinghouse.”
Cecilia, obviously uncomfortable, tried to intervene. “I have been perfectly well,” she said quickly. “I assure you.”
“I am not assured,” Edward responded, never taking his eyes off Colonel Stubbs.
“We will find her more suitable lodgings,” Colonel Stubbs said grudgingly.
“Tonight,” Edward clarified.
The look on the colonel’s face said clearly that he found this to be an unreasonable request, but after a tense moment of silence he said, “We can put her in the Devil’s Head.”
Edward nodded. The Devil’s Head Inn catered primarily to British officers and was considered the finest establishment of its kind in New York Town. This wasn’t saying much, but short of installing Cecilia in a private home, Edward couldn’t think of anyplace better. New York was desperately overcrowded, and it seemed that half the army’s resources w
ent to finding places for its men to sleep. The Devil’s Head would not have been suitable for a lady traveling alone, but as the wife of an officer, Cecilia would be safe and respected.
“Montby leaves tomorrow,” Colonel Stubbs said. “His room is big enough for you both.”
“Move him in with another officer,” Edward ordered. “She needs a room tonight.”
“Tomorrow will be fine,” Cecilia said.
Edward ignored her. “Tonight.”
Colonel Stubbs nodded. “I’ll speak to Montby.”
Edward gave another curt nod. He knew Captain Montby. He, like all the officers, would give up his room in a heartbeat if it meant the safety of a gentlewoman.
“In the meantime,” the doctor said, “he must remain calm and sedate.” He turned to Cecilia. “He must not be upset in any way.”
“It is difficult to imagine being more upset than I am right now,” Edward said.
The doctor smiled. “It is a very good sign that you retain your sense of humor.”
Edward decided not to point out that he had not been making a joke.
“We shall have you out of here by tomorrow,” Colonel Stubbs said briskly. He turned to Cecilia. “In the meantime, fill him in on all he has missed. Perhaps it will jog his memory.”
“An excellent idea,” the doctor said. “I am sure your husband will want to know how you came to be here in New York, Mrs. Rokesby.”
Cecilia tried to smile. “Of course, sir.”
“And remember, do not upset him.” The doctor tipped an indulgent glance toward Edward and added, “Further.”
Colonel Stubbs spoke briefly to Cecilia about her move to the Devil’s Head, and then the two men departed, leaving Edward once again alone with his wife. Well, alone as one could be in a church full of sick soldiers.
He looked at Cecilia, standing awkwardly near his bed.
His wife. Bloody hell.
He still didn’t understand how it had come to pass, but it must be true. Colonel Stubbs seemed to believe it, and he’d always been a by-the-book sort of man. Plus, this was Cecilia Harcourt, sister of his closest friend. If he was going to find himself married to a woman he didn’t think he’d actually met, he supposed she would be the one.
Still, it seemed like the sort of thing he’d remember.
“When were we wed?” he asked.
She was staring off toward the far end of the transept. He wasn’t sure if she was listening.
“Cecilia?”
“A few months ago,” she said, turning back around to face him. “You should sleep.”
“I’m not tired.”
“No?” She gave a wobbly smile as she settled into the chair next to his bed. “I’m exhausted.”
“I am sorry,” he said instantly. He felt like he should rise. Give her his hand.
Be a gentleman.
“I did not think,” he said.
“You have not had much opportunity to do so,” she said in a dry voice.
His lips parted with surprise, and then he thought—there was the Cecilia Harcourt he knew so well. Or thought he knew so well. Truth be told, he could not recall ever having seen her face. But she sounded just like her letters, and he had held her words close to his heart during the worst of the war.
Sometimes he wondered if it was strange that he had looked forward to her letters to Thomas more than he did the ones coming to him from his own family.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I have a most inappropriate sense of humor.”
“I like it,” he said.
She looked over at him, and he thought he saw something a little grateful in her eyes.
Such an interesting color, they were. A seafoam green so pale she would surely have been called fey in another era. Which seemed somehow wrong; she was as down-to-earth and reliable as any person he’d ever met.
Or thought he’d met.
She touched her cheek self-consciously. “Have I something on my face?”
“Just looking at you,” he said.
“There is not much to see.”
This made him smile. “I must disagree.”
She flushed, and he realized he was flirting with his wife. Strange.
And yet possibly the least strange thing of the day.
“I wish I remembered . . .” he began.
She looked at him.
He wished he remembered meeting her for the first time. He wished he remembered their wedding.
He wished he remembered kissing her.
“Edward?” she said softly.
“Everything,” he said, the word coming out with a little more edge than he’d intended. “I wish I remembered everything.”
“I’m sure you will.” She smiled tightly, but there was something wrong about it. It didn’t reach her eyes, and then he realized that she hadn’t met his eyes. He wondered what she wasn’t telling him. Had someone told her more about his condition than she had shared with him? He didn’t know when they could have done so; she had not left his side since he’d awakened.
“You look like Thomas,” he said abruptly.
“Do you think so?” She gave him a puzzled look. “No one else seems to. Well, except for the hair.” She touched it then, probably without even realizing she’d done so. It had been pulled back into an inexpertly pinned bun, and the bits that had fallen out hung limply against her cheek. He wondered how long it was, how it might look against her back.
“I favor our mother,” she said. “Or so I’ve been told. I never knew her. Thomas is more like our father.”
Edward shook his head. “It’s not in the features. It is your expressions.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yes, right there!” He grinned, feeling a bit more alive than he had just a moment earlier. “You make the same expressions. When you said, ‘I beg your pardon,’ you tilted your head exactly the same way he does.”
She quirked a smile. “Does he beg your pardon so very often?”
“Not nearly as much as he should.”
She burst out laughing at that. “Oh, thank you,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I haven’t laughed since . . .” She shook her head. “I can’t remember when.”
He reached out and took her hand. “You haven’t had much to laugh about,” he said quietly.
Her throat worked as she nodded, and for one awful moment Edward thought she might cry. But still, he knew he could not remain silent. “What happened to Thomas?” he asked.
She took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. “I received word that he had been injured and was recuperating in New York Town. I was concerned—well, you can see for yourself,” she said, waving a hand toward the rest of the room. “There are not enough people to nurse the wounded soldiers. I did not want my brother to be alone.”
Edward considered this. “I am surprised your father allowed you to make the trip.”
“My father has died.”
Bloody hell. “I am sorry,” he said. “It seems my tact has departed along with my memory.” Although in truth, he could not have known. Her dress was pink, and she showed no signs of mourning.
She caught him eyeing the dusty rose fabric of her sleeve. “I know,” she said with a sheepish pout to her lower lip. “I should be in blacks. But I only had the one dress, and it was wool bombazine. I should roast like a chicken if I wore it here.”
“Our uniforms are rather uncomfortable in the summer months,” Edward agreed.
“Indeed. Thomas had said as much in his letters. It was because of his descriptions of the summer temperatures that I knew not to bring it.”
“I am sure you are more fetching in pink,” Edward said.
She blinked at the compliment. He could not blame her. The sheer ordinariness of it seemed oddly out of place considering their location in a hospital.
In a church.
In the middle of a war.
Add in his lost memory and found wife, and truly, he did not see how his life might get any more bizarre.
&n
bsp; “Thank you,” Cecilia said, before clearing her throat and continuing with “But you asked about my father. You are correct. He would not have permitted me to travel to New York. He was not the most conscientious of parents, but even he would have put his foot down. Although . . .” She let out a little choke of uncomfortable laughter. “I’m not sure how quickly he would have noticed my absence.”
“I assure you, anyone would notice your absence.”
She gave him a sideways sort of look. “You haven’t met my father. As long as the house is—excuse me, was—running smoothly, he wouldn’t have noticed a thing.”
Edward nodded slowly. Thomas had not said a lot about Walter Harcourt, but what he had seemed to confirm Cecilia’s description. He’d complained more than once that their father was too content to let Cecilia molder away as his unpaid housekeeper. She needed to find someone to marry, Thomas had said. She needed to leave Marswell and make a life of her own.
Had Thomas been playing matchmaker? Edward hadn’t thought so at the time.
“Was it an accident?” Edward asked.
“No, but it was a surprise. He was napping in his study.” She gave a sad little shrug. “He didn’t wake up.”
“His heart?”
“The doctor said there was no way to know for certain. It doesn’t matter, though, really, does it?” She looked over at him with an achingly wise expression, and Edward could have sworn he felt it. There was something about her eyes, the color, the clarity. When they met his, he felt as if the breath was sucked from his body.
Would it always be like this?
Was this why he’d married her?
“You look tired,” she said, adding before he could interrupt, “I know you said you’re not, but you look it.”
But he didn’t want to sleep. He couldn’t bear the thought of allowing his mind to slip back into unconsciousness. He’d lost too much time already. He needed it back. Every moment. Every memory.
“You didn’t say what happened to Thomas,” he reminded her.
A wave of worry washed over her face. “I don’t know,” she said with a choke in her voice. “No one seems to know where he is.”
“How is that possible?”
