by Julia Quinn
“Where did you get it?” Cecilia asked.
“I have my secrets.”
Amazingly, she did not pursue the question. Instead she pulled the gown from the box, rising to her feet so that she could hold it in front of her. “We have no looking glass,” she said, still sounding rather dazed.
“You shall have to trust my eyes, then,” he said. “You are radiant.”
In truth, Edward did not know much of ladies’ fashion. Aunt Margaret had warned him that his chosen gown was not quite au courant, but to him it seemed as fine as anything he had ever beheld in a London ballroom.
But then again, it had been several years since he had seen a London ballroom, and he rather suspected that for Margaret Tryon, fashion was measured in months, not years.
“It’s got two parts,” he said helpfully. “The, ehrm, inside and the out.”
“Petticoat and robe,” Cecilia whispered. “And a stomacher. Three parts, actually.”
He cleared his throat. “Of course.”
She touched a reverent hand to the silver embroidery, which ran in swirls up and down the length of the skirt. “I know that I should say it’s too fine,” she murmured.
“Absolutely you should not say that.”
“I’ve never owned anything so beautiful.”
That, Edward thought, was a tragedy of epic proportions, but he sensed that saying so might be laying it on a bit too thick.
She looked up, her eyes snapping to his with an abruptness that signaled a sudden clarity of thought. “I thought we weren’t going to the governor’s ball.”
“Why would you think that?”
Her lips came together in a fetching purse. “Because I had nothing to wear.”
He smiled, because she so clearly realized the absurdity of her words as they passed over her lips.
She sighed. “I must be terribly vain.”
“Because you like pretty things?” He leaned down, settling his mouth dangerously close to her ear. “What does that say about me, then? That I like to see pretty things on you?”
Or off her. Dear God, when he’d watched the dressmaker package the gown into its box, he could not help but keep a close eye on the fastenings. This would not be the night that he finally made love to his wife, of that he was sadly certain. He was still too weak, and far too vain to risk doing a bad job of it.
But he wanted her all the same. And he vowed that one day he would peel this dress from her body, unwrapping her like his present. He would lay her down on the bed, part her legs, and . . .
“Edward?”
He blinked. When she came into focus, she looked somewhat concerned.
“You’ve gone a bit red,” she said. She touched his forehead with the back of her hand. “Have you a fever?”
“It’s been warm today,” he lied. “Don’t you think?”
“No, not really.”
“You’re not wearing a woolen coat.” He unbuttoned his scarlet jacket and shrugged it off. “I’m sure I’ll feel better if I sit down next to the window.”
She watched him curiously, still holding the pale green dress in front of her. When he was settled in the chair, she asked, “Don’t you want to open the window?”
Without a word, he leaned over and pushed it open.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Fine,” he assured her. He felt like a fool. He probably looked like a fool too, but it was worth it to see her face when she looked at the pale green gown.
“It really is beautiful,” she said, gazing down at it with an expression that was almost . . .
Rueful?
No, that could not be right.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“No,” she said absently, her attention still on the gown. “No.” She blinked, then looked him square in the face. “No, of course not. I just . . . Ehrm, I need to . . .”
He watched her for a moment, wondering what on earth could be responsible for her abrupt change of countenance. “Cecilia?”
“I need to get something,” she said. But it sounded more like an announcement.
“All right,” he said slowly.
She grabbed her reticule and hurried to the door, pausing with her fingers on the handle. “I’ll only be a moment. Or a few moments. But not long.”
“I will be here when you return,” he said.
She gave him a little nod, cast a longing glance at the gown that now lay on the bed, and dashed from the room.
Edward stared at the door for a moment, trying to make sense of what had just happened. His father had always told him that women were a mystery. Maybe Cecilia thought she had to buy him a gift since he’d got one for her. Silly girl. She should know better.
Still, he could not help but wonder what she’d pick out.
He got up from his chair, adjusted the window so it wasn’t quite so far open, and settled down atop the bed. He didn’t mean to fall asleep, but when he did . . .
He had a silly smile on his face.
Oh please oh please oh please.
Cecilia hurried down the street, praying with every ounce of her soul that the fruit cart was still at the corner of Broad Street and Pearl, where she’d seen it that morning.
She’d thought the matter of the governor’s ball had been settled two days ago when they’d not been able to find a seamstress who could fashion a gown in time. If she didn’t have a dress, she couldn’t go. It was as simple as that.
Then the blasted man had to go and find her the most beautiful gown in the history of gowns, and dear God she wanted to weep at the injustice of it, because she really wanted to wear that dress.
But she couldn’t go to the governor’s ball. She flat-out simply could not. There would be too many people. There was no way she could contain her lie to its current small circle if she was actually presented to New York society.
Cecilia bit her lip. There was only one thing she could do that would guarantee she would not have to attend the governor’s ball. It would be awful, but she was desperate.
So desperate she was willing to eat a strawberry.
She knew what would happen. It wouldn’t be pretty. First her skin would go blotchy. So blotchy that the port master would likely call for a pox quarantine if he saw her. And it would itch like the devil. She still had two scars on her arms from the last time she’d accidentally eaten a strawberry. She’d scratched until she bled. She couldn’t help herself.
Then her stomach would revolt. And as she’d eaten a full meal right before Edward had arrived with the dress, the revolt would be of epic proportions.
For about twenty-four hours she’d be misery personified. A swollen, itchy, vomitous mess. And then she’d be fine. Maybe a little woozy for a few days, but she’d recover. But if Edward had ever thought her attractive . . .
Well. She’d cure him of that.
She hurried around the corner onto Pearl Street, her eyes searching the length of the street. The fruit cart was still there.
Oh, thank God. Cecilia practically ran the last few yards, skidding to a halt in front of Mr. Hopchurch’s cart.
Goal for today: Poison herself.
Good God.
“A fine afternoon to you,” he said. Cecilia decided her eyes must not have looked as crazed as she felt, because he did not back away in fear. “What can I get you?”
She looked over his wares. It was nearing the end of his sales day, so he didn’t have much. A few skinny courgettes, several ears of the sweet corn that grew so well here. And over in the corner, the biggest, fattest, most hideously red strawberry she’d ever seen. She wondered at its presence here, so late in the day. Had all his other customers sensed what she already knew? That the speckled, pocked-up, inverted red pyramid was nothing but a little bomb of misery and despair?
She swallowed. She could do this. “That’s a very large strawberry,” she said, eyeing it with queasy distaste. Her stomach heaved just at the thought of it.
“I know!” Mr. Hopchur
ch said with great excitement. “Have you ever seen one so grand? My wife was right proud of it.”
“I’ll take it, please,” Cecilia said, practically choking on the words.
“You can’t take just one,” Mr. Hopchurch said. “I sell them by the half dozen.”
That might explain why he had not sold it. She gave him a pathetic nod. “Six, then.”
He reached out and took hold of the big one by its leafy green crown. “Do you have a basket?”
She looked down at her hands. What an idiot she was. She hadn’t thought. “Never mind,” she said. She didn’t need six. Not with one the size of Colossus. “I’ll pay you for six,” she told him, “but I only need the one.”
Mr. Hopchurch looked at her as if she were right crazy, but he was far too sensible to argue. He took her money and dropped the giant berry into her hands. “Fresh from the garden. Be sure to come back and tell me how you like it.”
Cecilia was quite certain he would not like it if she did, but she nodded nonetheless, thanking him before making her way to a quiet spot around the corner.
Dear God, now she had to eat it.
She wondered if this was how Shakespeare’s Juliet felt, right before she took her wicked brew. The body rebelled against ingesting something it knew to be poisonous. And her body knew quite well that this strawberry was just two shades short of hemlock.
Leaning against a building for support, she lifted the red berry and held it near her face. And then, against the protests of her stomach, her nose, and honestly, every last part of her body, she took a bite.
By seven that night, Cecilia wanted to die.
Edward knew this because she said quite clearly: “I want to die.”
“No, you don’t,” he said with more pragmatism than he felt. Logically, he knew that she would be fine, that this was probably a case of bad fish at supper—although he’d eaten what she’d eaten, and he was fine.
But it was hell to watch her suffer. She’d already retched so many times all she had left was some pinkish-yellowish bile. Even worse, her skin was beginning to rise with thick red welts.
“I think we should get a doctor,” he said.
“No,” she moaned. “Don’t go.”
He shook his head. “You’re too ill.”
She grabbed his hand with enough strength to startle him. “I don’t need a doctor.”
“Yes,” he said, “you do.”
“No.” She shook her head, then moaned.
“What?”
She closed her eyes and lay very still. “It made me dizzy,” she whispered. “Can’t shake my head.”
Now she had vertigo? “Cecilia, I really think—”
“It was something I ate,” she cut in weakly. “I’m quite sure.”
He frowned. He’d thought the same, but she was getting worse by the second. “Did you have the fish at supper?”
“Aaaahhh!” She threw her arm over her eyes, even though as far he could tell they were still closed. “Don’t say that word!”
“Fish?”
“Stop!”
“What?”
“Don’t mention food,” she mumbled.
He thought about this. Maybe it was something she ate. He watched for a bit, more wary than worried. She was lying utterly still atop the bedclothes, her arms at her sides in two perfect sticks. She was still wearing the pink frock she’d had on earlier, although he supposed they were going to have to get it cleaned. He didn’t think she’d got any bile on it, but she’d been sweating rather viciously. Come to think of it, he should probably loosen her stays or unfasten her buttons or something to make her more comfortable.
“Cecilia?”
She did not move.
“Cecilia?”
“I’m not dead,” she told him.
“No,” he said, trying not to smile. “I can see that you’re not.”
“I’m just lying very still,” she said.
And she was doing an admirable job of it. He could barely see her lips move.
“If I lie very still,” she continued, her voice coming out slightly singsongy, “it almost feels like I’m not going to . . .”
“Vomit?” he supplied.
“I was going to say die,” she said. “I’m fairly certain I’m still going to vomit.”
He had the chamber pot next to her in a flash.
“Not right now,” she went on, reaching blindly out to push it away. “But soon.”
“When I least expect it?”
“No.” She let out a tired exhale. “More likely when I least expect it.”
He tried not to laugh. He sort of succeeded, but he had a feeling she’d heard him snort. He wasn’t nearly as worried about her as he’d been just a few minutes before. If she maintained her sense of humor, she was probably going to be fine. He wasn’t sure how he knew this, but he’d seen enough bouts of food poisoning to decide that she was probably right; she’d eaten something that had not agreed with her.
The welts were concerning, though. He was rather glad they did not have a looking glass. She would not like what she saw.
Gingerly, he sat on the side of the bed, reaching out so that he could touch her forehead. But when the mattress dipped, Cecilia let out an unholy groan. One of her arms swung blindly through the air, connecting with his thigh.
“Ow!”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” he said with a smile.
“Please don’t rock the bed.”
He pried her fingers from his leg. “I thought you didn’t get seasick.”
“I don’t.”
“If that’s the case, I think you now know how the rest of us feel.”
“I was perfectly happy not knowing.”
“Yes,” he murmured affectionately, “I expect you were.”
She opened one eyelid. “Why does it sound as if you’re enjoying this?”
“Oh, I’m certainly not enjoying this. But I have come to agree with you that you’ve a nasty case of food poisoning. So while I have the utmost sympathy and concern, I am no longer overtly worried for your health.”
She grunted. Aside from the retching, it was possibly the least ladylike noise he’d heard from her lips.
He found it delightful.
“Edward?”
“Yes?”
She swallowed. “Do I have spots on my face?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“They itch.”
“Try not to scratch them,” he said.
“I know.”
He smiled. It was the most gloriously mundane conversation.
“Shall I get you a cool cloth?”
“That would be very nice, thank you.”
He got up, moving carefully so that the mattress did not shift overmuch from the loss of his weight. He found a cloth near the basin, and he dipped it in the water.
“You seem stronger today,” he heard Cecilia say.
“I think I am.” He wrung out the cloth and made his way back to her side. Strange how that worked. He felt the strongest when he could take care of her.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“For what?”
She sighed as he placed the cloth against her forehead. “I know you wanted to go to your godmother’s party this evening.”
“There will be other parties. Besides, as eager as I am to show you off, it would have been exhausting. And then I would have had to watch you dance with other men.”
She looked up at him. “Do you like to dance?”
“Sometimes.”
“Only sometimes?”
He touched her nose. “It depends on my partner.”
She smiled, and for a fleeting moment he thought he saw a tinge of sadness in her face. But it was gone so quickly he couldn’t be sure, and when she spoke, her eyes were tired but clear. “I expect it’s like that with many things in life.”
He touched her cheek, suddenly so grateful for this moment. So grateful for her. “I expect so,” he murmured.
He looked down. She was already asleep.
Chapter 12
I am not even able to put my pen to paper without Edward coming over to assure me that had he been at the assembly, he would have been delighted to dance with you. Oh, now he is cross. I think I might have embarrassed him.
Your brother is a menace.
He commandeered my pen! I shall forgive him if only because we have been trapped in this tent for days. It has not stopped raining since 1753, I am convinced.
My dear Miss Harcourt, pray forgive your brother. I fear the humidity has addled his brain. The rain is unrelenting, but it has brought the gift of wildflowers, quite unlike anything I have ever seen. The field is a carpet of lavender and white, and I cannot help but think you would like it very much.
—from Thomas Harcourt (and Edward Rokesby) to Cecilia Harcourt
Cecilia was soon back to her old self, save for a few scabs on her legs where she had not been able to keep from scratching. She resumed her search for Thomas, and Edward often accompanied her. He’d found that mild exercise improved his strength, so when the weather wasn’t too overbearingly hot he tucked her arm in the crook of his elbow, and they walked about town, running errands and asking questions.
And falling in love.
She was, at least. She refused to allow herself to wonder if he felt the same way, although it was more than obvious that he enjoyed her company.
And that he wanted her.
He had taken to kissing her good night. And good morning. And sometimes good afternoon. And with each touch, each shared glance, she felt herself slipping further into a falsehood of her own creation.
But oh, how she wished it were true.
She could be happy with this man. She could be his wife and bear his children, and it would be a wonderful life . . .
Except that it was all a lie. And when it fell apart, she wasn’t going to be able to escape by swallowing a strawberry.
Goal for today: Stop falling in love.
Never had one of her little goals felt less attainable. And more destined for heartbreak.
There were already small signs that Edward’s memory was returning. One morning as he was pulling on his uniform, he turned to Cecilia and said, “I haven’t done this for a while.”
