by Julia Quinn
As for what she’d do once she was home . . . She supposed she’d have plenty of time in her ship’s cabin to figure that out.
“Good sir!” she called out to the man who was directing the cargo. “When do you leave?”
His bushy brows rose at her question, then he cocked his head toward the ship and said, “You mean the Rhiannon?”
“Yes. Do you head back to Britain?” She knew that many ships detoured to the West Indies, although she thought they usually did so on the way to North America.
“To Ireland,” he confirmed. “Cork. We leave Friday evening, if the weather holds.”
“Friday,” she murmured in response. It was only a few days away. “Do you carry passengers?” she asked, even though she knew that they had done so for the westward voyage.
“We do,” he said with a brusque nod. “Are you looking for a spot?”
“I might be.”
This seemed to amuse him. “You might be? Shouldn’t you know by now?”
Cecilia did not dignify this with an answer. Instead she employed a cool stare—the sort she’d once thought befitting of the wife of the son of an earl—and waited until the man jerked his head toward another fellow farther up the embankment. “Ask Timmins. He’ll know if we have space.”
“Thank you,” Cecilia said, and she made her way to a pair of men who were standing close to the bow of the ship. One had his hands on his hips while the other gestured toward the anchor. Their stances did not indicate that their conversation was urgent, so as Cecilia approached, she called out, “Your pardon, sirs. Is one of you Mr. Timmins?”
The one who’d been pointing toward the anchor doffed his hat. “I am, ma’am. How may I help you?”
“The gentleman over there”—she motioned back to where the cargo was being loaded—“mentioned that you might have room for another passenger?”
“Man or woman?” he asked.
“Woman.” She swallowed. “Me.”
He nodded. Cecilia decided she liked him. His eyes were honest.
“We’ve room for one woman,” he told her. “It would be in a shared cabin.”
“Of course,” she said. She doubted she could afford a private cabin, anyway. Even a shared one was going to be a stretch, but she’d been careful to keep enough funds to pay for her passage home. It had been difficult; she’d had almost nothing to live on before Edward woke up. She’d never been so hungry in all her life, but she’d kept herself to one meal per day.
“Might I know the cost, sir?” she asked.
He told her, and her heart sank. Or maybe it soared. Because the fare was almost one and one half times what she’d paid to come to New York. And that was more than she had saved. She didn’t know why it was more expensive to sail east than west. Probably the ships charged more simply because they could. The people of New York were loyal to the crown; Cecilia imagined that passengers tended to be more desperate to leave New York than to arrive.
But it didn’t matter, because she didn’t have enough.
“Do you want to purchase passage?” Mr. Timmins asked.
“Ehrm, no,” she said. “Not yet, anyway.”
But maybe on the next ship. If she siphoned off a bit of money every time Edward gave her some for shopping . . .
She sighed. She was already a liar. She might as well be a thief, too.
Thomas’s trunk was heavy, so Edward had made arrangements to have it transported to the Devil’s Head by wagon. He knew there were plenty of people in the front room to help him get it up the stairs.
When he reached room twelve, though, he saw that Cecilia was not there. He was not entirely surprised; she hadn’t said anything about going out at breakfast, but he couldn’t imagine that she’d want to hole herself up in the room all day. Still, it felt rather anticlimactic, sitting here in the room with her brother’s trunk. She was the reason he’d gone to get it, after all. He had imagined something of a heroic return, brandishing Thomas’s trunk like a hard-won prize.
Instead, he sat on the bed, staring at the damned thing taking up half the available floor space.
Edward had already seen the contents. Back at the army office, Colonel Stubbs had thrown open the lid before Thomas could even stop to think if they were invading someone’s privacy.
“We need to make sure everything is there,” Stubbs had said. “Do you know what he kept in it?”
“Some,” Thomas said, even though he was better acquainted with Thomas’s trunk than he had any right to be. He’d hunted through it on far too many occasions, searching out Cecilia’s letters so that he could reread her words.
Sometimes he didn’t even do that. Sometimes he’d just stared at her handwriting.
Sometimes that was all he’d needed.
God, he was such a fool.
A fool? Much worse.
Because when Stubbs had opened the trunk and asked Edward to inspect the contents, the first thing his eyes fell upon was the miniature of Cecilia. The one he now realized didn’t look like her. Or maybe it did, if one didn’t really know her. It did not capture the life in her smile, or the extraordinary color of her eyes.
He wasn’t sure a paint existed that could capture that color.
The colonel had returned to his desk, and when Edward looked up, it was clear that his attention was on the documents before him and not the trunk across the room.
Edward slid the miniature into his pocket.
And that was where it remained, even when Cecilia returned from her walk. In the pocket of his coat, which hung neatly in the wardrobe.
So now Edward was a fool and a thief. And while he felt like an ass, he couldn’t bring himself to regret his actions.
“You got Thomas’s trunk,” Cecilia softly exclaimed when she entered the room. Her hair was a little mussed from the wind, and he was momentarily mesmerized by a thin tendril that fell over her cheek. It curled into a soft blond wave, holding far more curl than it did when her hair was fully down.
How nice to defy gravity.
And what an odd, nonsensical thought.
He rose from the bed, clearing his throat as he pulled himself to attention. “Colonel Stubbs was able to retrieve it quickly.”
She moved toward the trunk with a strange hesitancy. She reached out, but paused before her hand touched the latch. “Did you look?”
“I did,” he said with a nod. “Colonel Stubbs asked me to make sure it was all in order.”
“And was it?”
How did he answer such a question? If it had been all in order, it wasn’t now, not with the miniature in his pocket.
“As far as I could tell,” he finally told her.
She swallowed, the gesture nervous and sad and wistful all at once.
He wanted to hold her. He almost did; he stepped forward before he realized what he was doing, then he stopped.
He could not forget what she had done.
No, he could not allow himself to forget.
It wasn’t the same thing.
And yet when he watched her, standing in front of her dead brother’s trunk with hopelessly sad eyes, he reached out and took her hand.
“You should open it,” he said. “I think it will help.”
She nodded gratefully and slid her fingers from his so that she could lift the lid with both hands. “His clothes,” she murmured, touching the white shirt that lay neatly folded at the top. “What should I do with them?”
Edward didn’t know.
“They won’t fit you,” she mused. “He wasn’t as broad in the shoulders. And yours are more finely tailored, anyway.”
“I’m sure we can find someone in need,” Edward said.
“Yes. That’s a good idea. He would like that.” Then she let out a little laugh, shaking her head as she brushed that rebellious bit of hair from her eyes. “What am I saying? He wouldn’t have cared.”
Edward blinked in surprise.
“I love my—” She cleared her throat. “I loved my brother, but he did n
ot give much thought to the plight of the poor. He did not think ill of them,” she hastened to add. “I just don’t think he thought of them at all.”
Edward nodded, mostly because he didn’t know how else to respond. He was probably guilty of the same sin of indifference. Most men were.
“But it will make me feel better to find a home for his shirts,” Cecilia said firmly.
“He would like that,” Edward said, then clarified, “Making you happy.”
She gave him a wry almost-smile, then turned back to the trunk. “I suppose we’ll have to find someone to take his uniform, as well. Someone will need it.” She ran her hand along Thomas’s coat, her slim fingers pale against the scarlet wool. “When I was in hospital with you, there were other soldiers. I . . .” She looked down, almost as if paying her respects. “I sometimes helped. Not as much as I should have done, I’m sure, but I didn’t want to leave you unattended.”
Edward started to thank her, but before he could, she’d straightened her shoulders and was continuing in a brisker voice. “I saw their uniforms. Several were beyond repair. So, surely, someone will need it.”
Her words held a hint of a question, so Edward nodded. Soldiers were expected to keep their uniforms in perfect condition, no easy feat considering the amount of time they were traipsing through the muddy countryside.
And being shot at.
Bullet holes were a nuisance to mend, but bayonet wounds were the absolute devil. In skin as well as fabric, he supposed, but he focused on the fabric, since it was the only way to hold on to one’s sanity.
It was kind of her to give Thomas’s uniform to another soldier. Many families wanted it back, a tangible symbol of heroism and duty.
Edward swallowed and stepped back, suddenly needing to put a little space between them. He did not understand her. And he hated that he could not maintain his rage. It had been only a day. Just over twenty-four hours since his memory had returned in a rush of color and light and words and places—none of which had included Cecilia Harcourt.
She wasn’t his wife. And he should be angry. He had a right to be angry.
But his questions—the ones beating a relentless tattoo in his mind—he couldn’t ask them now. Not when she was lovingly unpacking her brother’s trunk. Not when she turned her face away, trying to hide the swipe of her hand at her tears.
She set Thomas’s coat to the side, then delved deeper. “Do you think he saved my letters?”
“I know he did.”
She glanced up briefly. “Oh, of course. You’ve been through the trunk already.”
It wasn’t how he knew, but she didn’t need to know that.
Edward leaned against the edge of the bed and watched as she continued her exploration of Thomas’s belongings. At some point she had dropped to her knees for easier access, and now she was going through it all with a smile on her face that he’d never thought to see again.
Or maybe it was that he’d never thought he’d want to see it so bloody badly.
He was still in love with her.
Against all better judgment, against his own damned sanity, he was still in love with her.
He sighed.
She looked up. “Is something wrong?”
Yes.
“No.”
But she’d turned back to the trunk before he answered the question. He wondered . . . if she had not, if she had been looking at his face . . .
Would she have seen the truth in his eyes?
He almost sighed again.
She made a curious hmmm, and he found himself leaning forward to get a better look at what she was doing. “What is it?” he asked.
She frowned as she delved her hands into the neatly folded shirts and breeches. “I don’t see the miniature.”
Edward’s lips parted, but he did not speak. He meant to. He’d thought he was about to, but he could not put voice to words.
He wanted that damned painting. Call him a tyrant, call him a thief. He wanted it for himself.
“Perhaps he took it with him to Connecticut,” Cecilia said. “I suppose there is something nice about that.”
“You were always in his thoughts,” Edward said.
She looked up. “It’s very sweet of you to say.”
“It’s the truth. He talked about you so much I felt that I knew you.”
Something in her eyes turned warm, even as they took on a faraway look. “Isn’t that funny,” she said softly. “I felt the same way about you.”
He wondered if he should tell her now that he’d got back his memory. It was the right thing to do; by everything that made him a gentleman, he knew this to be true.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, neatly puncturing his thoughts. She hopped to her feet. “I nearly forgot. I never showed you my miniature of Thomas, did I?”
There was no need for Edward to respond; she’d already started rifling through her one and only satchel. It was large, but still, Edward was amazed she’d made the voyage to New York with so few belongings.
“Here it is,” she said, pulling out the small cameo. She peered down at it with a wistful smile, then held it out. “What do you think?”
“I can tell it’s the same artist,” he said without thinking.
Her chin drew back with some surprise. “You remember the other one that well?”
“Thomas liked to show it to people.” It wasn’t a lie; Thomas did like to show the miniature of Cecilia to his friends. But that wasn’t why Edward remembered it so well.
“Did he?” Her eyes lit with happiness. “That’s very . . . I don’t know what it is. Sweet, I suppose. It’s nice to know he missed me.”
Edward nodded, not that she was looking at him. She’d returned to her task, carefully examining her brother’s effects. Edward felt very odd and awkward, very much a spectator.
He didn’t like it.
“Hmmm, what’s this?” she murmured.
He leaned forward for a better look.
She pulled out a little purse, and twisted around to face Edward. “Would he have kept money in his trunk?”
Edward had no idea. “Open it and see.”
She did, and to her obvious surprise several gold coins tipped out. “Oh my goodness,” she exclaimed, looking down at the windfall in her palm.
It wasn’t much, at least not to Edward, but he remembered how pressed for funds she’d been when he had woken up. She’d tried to hide the extent of her poverty, but she wasn’t—or at least he hadn’t thought she was—an accomplished liar. She’d let slip little details, like how she’d been eating only one meal per day. And he knew of the boardinghouse from which she’d rented a room; it was barely one step above sleeping on the street. He shuddered to think what would have become of her if she had not found him in hospital.
Maybe they’d saved each other.
Cecilia was strangely quiet, still staring down at the gold in her hand as if it were something mysterious.
Perplexing.
“It’s yours,” he said, figuring she was trying to decide what to do with it.
She nodded absently, gazing at the coins with the most peculiar expression.
“Put it with the rest of your money,” he suggested. He knew she had a little. She kept it carefully tucked away in her coin purse. He’d seen her counting it twice, and both times she’d looked up with a sheepish expression when she saw that he was watching her.
“Yes, of course,” she murmured, and she rose awkwardly to her feet. She opened the wardrobe and reached into her bag. He presumed she’d pulled out the coin purse, but he couldn’t really see what she was doing with her back to him.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, perhaps a touch more suddenly than he would have expected. “I just . . .” She turned partway back around. “I did not think Thomas would have money in his trunk. It means I have . . .”
Edward waited, but she did not finish the sentence. “It means you have what?” he finally prodded.
She blinked at him, and an odd beat of silence passed before she answered. “It’s nothing. I just have more than I thought I did.”
That seemed to Edward the very definition of obvious.
“I think . . .”
He waited, but her words trailed off as she turned and looked at the open trunk. A few shirts lay on the floor next to it, and Thomas’s red coat was draped over the side, but other than that, she’d left everything in place.
“I’m tired,” she said abruptly. “I think . . . Would you mind if I lie down?”
He stood. “Of course not.”
She looked down, but he caught a glimpse of unbearable sadness on her face as she brushed past him and curled up on the bed, drawing her knees up until she curved away from him like a sickle.
He stared at her shoulders. He didn’t know why, except that they were so obviously tight with sorrow. She wasn’t crying, or at least he didn’t think she was, but her breathing was hitched, as if it took some effort to keep herself under regulation.
He reached out a hand, even though he was too far away to touch her. But he couldn’t stop himself. It was instinct. His heart beat, his lungs drew breath, and if this woman was in pain, he reached out to comfort her.
But he didn’t take the final step. His hand fell back against his side, and he stood like a statue, helpless against his own tumult.
From the moment he saw her, he’d wanted to protect her. Even when he was so weak he could barely walk unassisted, he’d wanted to be her strength. But now, when she finally needed him, he was terrified.
Because if he allowed himself to be strong for her, to shoulder her burden the way he so desperately needed to do, he would lose himself completely. Whatever thread still hung inside him, keeping him from loving her completely, it would snap.
And his heartbreak would be complete.
He whispered her name, softly, almost daring her to hear him.
“I think I should be alone,” she said, never once turning to face him.
“No, you shouldn’t,” he said roughly, and he laid himself down behind her, holding her tight.
