by Julia Quinn
“Some of the officers say they are too thin and crumbly,” Mrs. Leverett said.
“They are mad,” Cecilia replied through her somewhat full mouth. “Although I must say, these would be excellent with tea.”
“Not easy to come by, I’m afraid.”
“No,” Cecilia said regretfully. She’d known enough to bring some with her, but she had not packed nearly enough, and she’d run out two-thirds of the way across the Atlantic. By the final week she was reusing her leaves and cutting her rations in half for each pot.
“I should not complain,” Mrs. Leverett said. “We are still able to get sugar, and that is far more important for a bakery.”
Cecilia nodded, taking a nibble of the second half of her biscuit. She needed to make this one last a little longer.
“The officers have tea,” Mrs. Leverett continued. “Not a lot, but more than anyone else.”
Edward was an officer. Cecilia did not wish to take advantage of his wealth, but if he could procure some tea . . .
She thought she might offer up a very small portion of her soul for a good cup.
“You did not say your name,” Mrs. Leverett said.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m quite in a fog today. I am Miss Har—I’m sorry. Mrs. Rokesby.”
The other woman smiled knowingly. “Newly married?”
“Quite.” How quite, Cecilia could not possibly explain. “My husband”—she tried not to stumble over the word—“is an officer. A captain.”
“I had suspected as much,” Mrs. Leverett remarked. “No other reason you’d be here in New York Town in the middle of a war.”
“It’s strange,” Cecilia mused. “It doesn’t feel like a war. If I didn’t see the wounded soldiers . . .” She stopped, reconsidering her words. She might not be witness to actual fighting in this British outpost, but signs of struggle and deprivation were everywhere. The harbor was filled with prison ships, and indeed, when Cecilia’s ship had sailed in, she had been warned to stay below as they passed.
The smell, she’d heard, was too much to bear.
“I beg your pardon,” she said to the other woman. “I spoke most callously. There is much more to war than the front of a battlefield.”
Mrs. Leverett smiled, but it was a sad smile. Tired. “There is no need to apologize. It has been relatively quiet here for two years. Pray God it remains so.”
“Indeed,” Cecilia murmured. She glanced out the window—why, she wasn’t sure. “I suppose I must go soon. But first, please do wrap up a half dozen speculaas.” She frowned, doing a little arithmetic in her head. She had just enough money in her pocket. “No, make that a dozen.”
“A full dozen?” Mrs. Leverett gave her a cheeky grin. “I hope you find that tea.”
“I hope so too. I’m celebrating. My husband”—there was that word again—“is leaving hospital today.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I did not realize. But I assume this means he is recovered.”
“Almost.” Cecilia thought of Edward, still so thin and pale. She had not even seen him out of bed yet. “He still needs time to rest and regain his strength.”
“How lucky he is to have his wife at his side.”
Cecilia nodded, but her throat felt tight. She wished she could say it was because the speculaas had made her thirsty, but she was fairly certain it was her own conscience.
“You know,” Mrs. Leverett said, “there is much to enjoy here in New York, even with the war so close. The upper crust still hosts parties. I do not attend, of course, but I see the ladies in their finery from time to time.”
“Really?” Cecilia’s brows rose.
“Oh yes. And I believe there will be a performance of Macbeth next week at the John Street Theatre.”
“You’re joking.”
Mrs. Leverett held up a hand. “On my father’s ovens, I swear it.”
Cecilia could not help but laugh at that. “Perhaps I shall try to attend. It has been some time since I went to the theater.”
“I cannot vouch for the quality of the production,” Mrs. Leverett said. “I believe that most of the roles are being played by British officers.”
Cecilia tried to imagine Colonel Stubbs or Major Wilkins treading the boards. It was not a pretty image.
“My sister went when they did Othello,” Mrs. Leverett continued. “She said the scenery was very prettily painted.”
If that wasn’t damning with faint praise, Cecilia didn’t know what was. But beggars couldn’t be choosers, and truly, she didn’t often get to see Shakespeare in Derbyshire. Maybe she would try to go.
If Edward was up to it.
If they were still “married.”
Cecilia sighed.
“Did you say something?”
Cecilia shook her head, but it must have been a rhetorical question because Mrs. Leverett was already wrapping the speculaas in a cloth. “I’m afraid we haven’t paper,” the baker said with an apologetic expression. “Like tea, it is in short supply.”
“It means I shall have to come back to return your cloth,” Cecilia said. And when she realized how happy that made her—just the thought of sharing a greeting with a woman her own age—she said, “I’m Cecilia.”
“Beatrix,” said the other woman.
“I’m very glad to have met you,” Cecilia said. “And thank you for—no, wait. How do I say thank you in Dutch?”
Beatrix smiled broadly. “Dank u.”
Cecilia blinked in surprise. “Really? That’s it?”
“You picked an easy one,” Beatrix said with a shrug. “If you wanted to learn please . . .”
“Oh, don’t tell me,” Cecilia said, knowing that she would, regardless.
“Alstublieft,” Beatrix said with a grin. “And don’t say it sounds like a sneeze.”
Cecilia chuckled. “I’ll stick to dank u. At least for now.”
“Go on,” Beatrix said. “Get back to your husband.”
That word again. Cecilia smiled her farewell, but it felt hollow. What would Beatrix Leverett think if she knew Cecilia was nothing but a fraud?
She got out of the store before her tears could prick their way out of her eyes.
“I hope you have a sweet tooth, because I bought—oh.”
Edward looked up. His wife had returned with a small cloth bundle and a determined smile.
Not determined enough, though. It wobbled and fell when she saw him sitting with slumped shoulders at the end of his bed.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
Not really. He’d managed to dress himself, but that was only because she’d placed his uniform on the bed before she left. Honestly, he didn’t know if he would have been able to make it across the room on his own. He’d known he was weak, but he had not realized just how much until he had swung his legs over the side of his cot and tried to stand.
He was pathetic.
“I’m fine,” he muttered.
“Of course,” she murmured unconvincingly. “I . . . ah . . . Would you care for a biscuit?”
He watched her slim hands as she unwrapped her bundle.
“Speculaas,” he said, recognizing them instantly.
“You’ve had them before? Oh, of course you have. I forget, you’ve been here for years.”
“Not years,” he said, taking one of the thin biscuits. “I was in Massachusetts for nearly a year. Then Rhode Island.” He took a bite. God, they were good. He looked up. “And apparently Connecticut too, not that I remember it.”
Cecilia sat on the end of the bed. Well, more like a perch. She had that look of someone who didn’t want to get too comfortable. “Did the Dutch settle all over the colonies?”
“Just here.” He finished off the biscuit and reached for another. “It hasn’t been New Amsterdam for over a century, but most of the Dutch stayed when the island traded ownership.” He frowned. Actually, he had no idea if most had stayed, but walking around town, it felt like they had. Dutch influence was all over the island, from the distinctiv
e zigzag façades on the buildings to the speculaas biscuits and crunch bread at the bakery.
“I learned how to say thank you,” she said.
He felt himself smile. “Very ambitious of you.”
She gave him a look. “I take it you know the phrase, then.”
He took another biscuit. “Dank u.”
“You’re quite welcome,” she said with a little flick of her eyes, “but perhaps you should slow down. I don’t think it’s a good idea to eat too much at once.”
“Probably not,” he agreed, but he ate it, anyway.
She waited patiently while he finished, then she waited patiently while he sat on the edge of the cot, trying to summon his strength.
She was a patient woman, his wife. She’d have to be, sitting three days at his boring bedside. Not much to do with an unconscious husband.
He thought about her journey across the Atlantic. To get word of her brother and then decide to go help him, all the time knowing it would take months . . .
That too bore the hallmark of a patient individual.
He wondered if she sometimes wanted to scream in frustration.
She was going to have to be patient for a bit longer, he thought grimly. His legs were like jelly. He could barely walk. Hell, even just standing was a chore, and as for making their marriage legal in every way . . .
That was going to have to wait.
More was the pity.
Although it did occur to him that they could still get out of this union if they so chose. Annulment on account of nonconsummation was a tricky legal maneuver, but then again, so was a proxy marriage. If he did not want to be married, he was fairly certain he did not have to be.
“Edward?”
Her voice tickled at the edge of his mind, but he was too lost in his thoughts to respond. Did he wish to be married to her? If not, he damned well couldn’t accompany her to the Devil’s Head. He might not possess the strength to take her properly to bed, but if they shared a room, even for one night, she would be thoroughly compromised.
“Edward?”
He turned, slowly, forcing himself to focus. She was looking at him with concern, but even that could not cloud the startling clarity of her eyes.
She laid a hand over his. “Are you certain you are well enough to leave today? Should I find the doctor?”
He searched her face. “Do you want to be married to me?”
“What?” Something close to alarm raced over her features. “I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to be married to me,” he said carefully. “We have not consummated the marriage.”
Her lips parted, and oddly enough, he could see that she was not breathing. “I thought you didn’t remember,” she whispered.
“I don’t have to remember. It’s simple logic. I was in Connecticut when you arrived. We had never been in a room together before you came to the hospital.”
She swallowed, and his eyes fell to her throat, to the delicate arc of it, to the pulse quivering under her skin.
God, he wanted to kiss her.
“What do you want, Cecilia?”
Say you want me.
The thought burst through his brain. He did not want her to leave him. He could barely stand on his own. It would be weeks before he’d regain even half his strength. He needed her.
And he wanted her.
But most of all, he wanted her to want him.
Cecilia did not speak for several seconds. Her hand left his, and she hugged her arms to her body. She seemed to be looking at a soldier on the other side of the church as she asked, “Are you offering to release me?”
“If that is what you want.”
Slowly, her eyes met his. “What do you want?”
“That is not the question.”
“I rather think it is.”
“I am a gentleman,” he said stiffly. “I will bow to your wishes in this matter.”
“I . . .” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I . . . don’t want you to feel trapped.”
“I don’t feel trapped.”
“You don’t?” She sounded honestly surprised.
He shrugged. “I have to marry eventually.”
If she found this unromantic, it did not show on her face.
“I obviously agreed to the marriage,” he said. He loved Thomas Harcourt like a brother, but Edward could not imagine what might have made him consent to a marriage he did not want. If he was married to Cecilia, he had damned well wanted to be.
He looked closely at her.
Her gaze slipped to the floor.
Was she assessing her options? Trying to decide if she truly wished to be the wife of a man whose brain was not whole? He might remain this way for the rest of his life. For all they knew the damage went deeper than his memory. What if he awakened one day and could no longer speak? Or move properly? She might find herself being forced to care for him as she would a child.
It could happen. There was no way to know.
“What do you want, Cecilia?” he asked, aware that a note of impatience had entered his voice.
“I . . .” She swallowed, and when she spoke again, her voice was a little more certain. “I think we should go to the Devil’s Head. This is not a conversation I wish to have here.”
“Nothing is going to change in the next half hour.”
“Nevertheless, you could do with a meal not made of flour and sugar. And a bath. And a shave.” She stood, but not so fast that he missed the pink flush of her cheeks. “I shall offer you privacy for the latter two.”
“Very generous of you.”
She did not comment upon his dry tone. Instead she reached for his coat, which lay draped like a slash of scarlet across the foot of his bed. She held it out. “We have a meeting this afternoon. With Major Wilkins.”
“Why?”
“He brings news of Thomas. Or at least I hope he does. I saw him at the inn last night. He said he would make inquiries.”
“He has not already done so?”
She looked slightly uncomfortable as she said, “I took your advice and informed him of our marriage.”
Ah. Now it became clear. She needed him too. Edward forced a smile around his gritted teeth. It was not the first time a lady had found his name the most attractive thing about him. At least this lady had unselfish motives.
She held out his coat. With some effort, he stood and allowed her to help him don it.
“You’ll be warm,” she warned him.
“It is, as you say, June.”
“Not like June in Derbyshire,” she muttered.
He permitted himself a smile at that. The summer air in the colonies had an unpleasant solid quality to it. Rather like fog, if one heated it to the temperature of one’s body.
He looked toward the door, took a breath. “I . . . I will need help.”
“We all need help,” she said quietly. She took his arm, and then slowly, without a word, they made their way out to the street, where a carriage awaited to take them the short distance to the Devil’s Head.
Chapter 5
You showed him my miniature? How terribly embarrassing. Thomas, whatever were you thinking? Of course he must call me pretty. He could hardly do otherwise. You are my brother. He can’t very well comment on my freakishly large nose.
—from Cecilia Harcourt to her brother Thomas
One hour later, Cecilia was seated in the front room of the Devil’s Head, methodically finishing her lunch while Edward perused a recent copy of the Royal Gazette. She had also started her meal with a newspaper in her hand, but she had been so startled by the paragraph advertising the sale of “One Negro Man, a good Cook and not a Seasick,” that she’d put it down and instead set her eyes on her plate of pork and potatoes.
Edward, on the other hand, read the newssheet from front to back, and then, after asking the innkeeper to locate an issue from the previous week, repeated the process with that. He hadn’t bothered to explain, but it was clear to Cecilia t
hat he was trying to fill the gaps in his memory. She wasn’t sure that it would help; she rather doubted he was going to find clues about his time in Connecticut in a public newspaper. But it certainly wouldn’t hurt, and anyway, he seemed like the sort of man who would want to keep abreast of the news of the day. He was like Thomas that way. Her brother never excused himself from the breakfast table without finishing the entire London Times. It was several days old by the time it reached them in Matlock Bath, but that never seemed to bother him. Better to be delayed in the news than ignorant altogether, he’d often said, and besides, there was nothing they could do about it.
Change what you can, he’d once told her, and accept what you can’t. She wondered what Thomas would think of her recent behavior. She had a feeling he would have placed his injury and subsequent disappearance firmly in the “accept what you can’t” category.
She let out a little snort. It was a bit too late for that now.
“Did you say something?” Edward asked.
She shook her head. “Just thinking of Thomas,” she said, since she was actively trying not to lie whenever possible.
“We will find him,” Edward said. “Or we’ll get news. One way or another.”
Cecilia swallowed, trying to push down the lump in her throat as she gave him a grateful nod. She was not alone in this anymore. She was still scared, and anxious, and full of self-doubt, but she wasn’t alone.
It was staggering what a difference that made.
Edward started to say something more, but they were interrupted by the young woman who had brought their food earlier. Like everyone in New York, Cecilia thought, she looked tired and overworked.
And hot. Honestly, Cecilia didn’t know how people lived through these summers. The air at home was never this thick with moisture unless it was actually raining.
She’d heard the winters were equally extreme. She prayed she was not still here when the first snow fell. One of the soldiers in hospital had told her that the ground froze through like a rock, and the wind was enough to nip your ears off.
