by Julia Quinn
Could Thomas have written to her about it? She’d said that he had made the arrangements for the marriage. What if . . .
Edward felt the blood drain from his face. What if Cecilia really did think they were married? What if she hadn’t been lying at all?
Edward searched the letter frantically, looking in vain for a date. When had Thomas written this? Could he have told Cecilia to make arrangements for a proxy ceremony but then died before asking Edward to do the same?
He stood. He had to get back to the inn. He knew this was farfetched, but it would explain so much. And it was well past time that he told her that his memory had returned. He needed to stop stewing in his misery and simply ask her what was going on.
He didn’t run to the Devil’s Head, but it was a damned fast walk.
“Cecilia!”
Edward pushed open the door to their room with more force than was necessary. But by the time he’d reached the upper floor of the inn, his blood was rushing so fast and so hard he was practically jumping out of his skin. His head was full of questions, and his heart was full of passion, and at some point he’d decided he didn’t care what she’d done. If she had tricked him, she must have had a reason. He knew her. He knew her. She was as good and fine a person as had ever walked on this earth, and maybe she hadn’t said the words, but he knew she loved him.
Almost as much as he loved her.
“Cecilia?”
He said her name again even though it was obvious she wasn’t there. Damn it. Now he was going to have to sit on his hands and wait. She could be anywhere. She frequently went out and about, running errands and taking walks. There had been less of this since her search for her brother had ended, but still, she didn’t like to stay cooped up all day.
Maybe she’d left a note. She sometimes did.
His eyes swept over the room, moving more slowly along the flat planes of the tables. There it was. A thrice-folded piece of paper tucked partway under the empty washbasin so it wouldn’t blow away.
Cecilia always did like to leave the window open.
Edward unfolded the paper, and for a split second he was confused by the sheer number of words on the page, far more than was needed to let him know when she’d be back.
Then he started to read.
Dear Edward,
I am a coward, a terrible one, for I know I should say these words in person. But I cannot. I do not think I could make it through the speech, and also, I do not think I will have the time.
I have so much to confess to you, I hardly know where to start. I suppose it must be with the most salient fact. We are not married.
I did not mean to carry out such a falsehood. I promise you, it began for the most unselfish of reasons. When I heard you were in hospital, I knew that I must go and care for you, but I was turned away, told that due to your rank and position, only family members would be allowed to see you. I am not sure what came over me—I did not think I was so impulsive, but then again, I did throw caution to the wind and come to New York. I was so angry. I wanted only to help. And before I knew it, I shouted that I was your wife. To this day, I am not sure why anyone believed me.
I told myself that I would reveal the truth when you awakened. But then everything went wrong. No, not wrong, just strange. You woke up and had no memory. Even odder, you seemed to know who I was. I still do not understand how you recognized me. When you regain your memory—and I know you will, you must have faith—you will know that we had never met. Not in person. I know that Thomas showed you his miniature of me, but truly, it is not a good likeness. There is no reason you should have recognized me when you opened your eyes.
I did not want to tell you the truth in front of the doctor and Colonel Stubbs. I did not think they would allow me to stay, and I felt you still needed my care. Then later that night, something became very clear. The army was far more eager to aid Mrs. Rokesby in the search for her brother than it was for Miss Harcourt.
I used you. I used your name. For that I apologize. But I will confess that while I shall carry my guilt to the end of my days, I cannot regret my actions. I needed to find Thomas. He was all I had left.
But now he is gone, and so is my reason for being in New York. As we are not married, I think it is appropriate and best that I return to Derbyshire. I will not marry Horace; nothing shall sink me that low, I assure you. I buried the silver in the garden before I left; it was my mother’s and thus not part of the entail. I shall find a buyer. You need not worry for my welfare.
Edward, you are such a gentleman—the most honorable man I have ever known. If I remain in New York, you will insist that you have compromised me, that you must marry me. But I cannot ask this of you. None of this was your fault. You thought we were wed, and you behaved as a husband would. You should not be punished for my trickery. You have a life waiting for you back in England, one that does not include me.
All I ask is that you not speak of this time. When the day shall come that I might marry, I will tell my intended what happened here. I could not live with myself if I did not. But until then, I think it best if the world continues to see me simply as
Your friend,
Cecilia Harcourt
Postscript—You need not worry about lasting repercussions from our time together.
Edward stood in the center of the room, utterly frozen. What the bloody hell was that? What did she mean by—
He scrambled to find the part of the letter he was looking for. There it was. She did not think she would have the time to tell him in person.
The blood drained from his face.
The Rhiannon. It was in the harbor. It was leaving that eve.
Cecilia had booked passage on it. He was certain of it.
He checked the pocket watch he’d left out on the table to serve as their clock. He had time. Not a lot, but enough.
It would have to be enough. His whole world depended on it.
Chapter 21
I have not heard from you in so long, Thomas. I know I should not worry, that there are dozens of ways for your letters to be delayed, but I cannot help myself. Did you know that I mark a calendar to keep track of our correspondence? A week for my letter to be put on a ship, five weeks to cross the Atlantic, another week to reach you. Then a week for your letter to be put on a ship, three weeks to cross the Atlantic (see? I was listening when you told me it is faster to journey east), then a week for it to reach me. That is three months to receive an answer to a simple question!
But then again, maybe there are no simple questions. Or if there are, they lack simple answers.
—from Cecilia Harcourt to her brother Thomas (letter never received)
The Rhiannon was remarkably similar to the Lady Miranda, and Cecilia had no difficulty locating her cabin. When she’d purchased her ticket a few hours earlier, she’d been told that she would be sharing her cabin with a Miss Alethea Finch, who had been serving as a governess to a prominent New York family and was now returning home. It was not uncommon for total strangers to share accommodations on such journeys. Cecilia had done so on the way over; she’d got on quite well with her fellow traveler and had been sorry to say good-bye when they had docked in New York.
Cecilia wondered if Miss Finch was Irish, or like her, simply eager to get on the first ship back to the British Isles and did not mind having to make a stop before reaching England. Cecilia herself wasn’t sure how she was going to get home from Cork, but that hurdle seemed tiny compared with the greater challenge of getting herself across the Atlantic. There would probably be ships sailing from Cork to Liverpool, or if not that, she could travel up to Dublin and sail from there.
She’d got herself from Derbyshire to New York, for heaven’s sake. If she could do that, she could do anything. She was strong. She was powerful.
She was crying.
Damn it, she needed to stop crying.
She paused in the narrow corridor outside her cabin to take a breath. At least she wasn’t sobbing. She could still com
port herself without attracting too much attention. But every time she thought she had hold of her emotions, her lungs seemed to lurch, and she drew in an unexpected breath, but it sounded like a choke, and then her eyes got all prickly, and then—
Stop. She needed to stop thinking about it.
Goal for today: Don’t cry in public.
She sighed. She wanted a new goal.
Time to move on. With a fortifying breath, she brushed her hand over her eyes and pushed down on the handle to the door of her cabin.
It was locked.
Cecilia blinked, momentarily nonplussed. Then she knocked, reckoning that her cabinmate had arrived before she had. It was prudent for a woman alone to lock her door. She would have done the same.
She waited a moment, then knocked again, and finally the door opened, but only partway. A thin woman of middling years peered out. She filled most of the narrow opening, so Cecilia could not see much of the cabin behind her. There appeared to be two bunks, one up and one down, and a trunk was open on the floor. On the lone table, a lantern had been lit. Clearly Miss Finch had been unpacking. “May I help you?” Miss Finch asked.
Cecilia affixed a friendly expression to her face and said, “I believe we are sharing this cabin.”
Miss Finch regarded her with a pinched mien, then said, “You are mistaken.”
Well. That was unexpected. Cecilia looked back at the door, which was propped open against Miss Finch’s hip. A dull brass “8” had been nailed into the wood.
“Cabin eight,” Cecilia said. “You must be Miss Finch. We are to be bunkmates.” It was difficult to muster the energy to be sociable, but she knew she must try, so she bobbed a polite curtsy and said, “I am Miss Cecilia Harcourt. How do you do?”
The older woman’s lips flattened. “I was led to believe I would not be sharing this stateroom.”
Cecilia glanced first at one bunk, then at the other. It was clearly a room for two. “Did you reserve a cabin for yourself?” she asked. She had heard that people sometimes did so, despite having to pay double.
“I was told that I had no cabinmate.”
Which was not the answer to the question Cecilia had asked. But even though her own mood was rattling between black and blue, she held her temper in check. She was going to have to share an extremely small cabin with this woman for at least three weeks. So she summoned her best approximation of a smile and said, “I only booked passage this afternoon.”
Miss Finch drew back with obvious disapproval. “What sort of woman books passage across the Atlantic on the day of departure?”
Cecilia’s jaw tightened. “My sort of woman, I suppose. My plans changed rather abruptly, and I was fortunate enough to find a ship departing immediately.”
Miss Finch sniffed. Cecilia wasn’t sure how to interpret this, aside from the obvious fact that it was not complimentary. But Miss Finch finally took a step back, allowing Cecilia entry into the tiny cabin.
“As you can see,” Miss Finch said, “I have unpacked my belongings on the bottom berth.”
“I am more than happy to sleep on top.”
Miss Finch sniffed again, a little louder. “If you get seasick, you will have to exit the room. I will not have the smell in here.”
Cecilia felt her resolve toward politeness slipping away. “Agreed. Just so long as you do the same.”
“I hope you do not snore.”
“If I do, no one has told me of it.”
Miss Finch opened her mouth, but Cecilia cut her off with “I’m sure you will tell me if I do.”
Miss Finch opened her mouth again, but Cecilia added, “And I will thank you for it. It does seem the sort of thing one ought to know about oneself, would you not agree?”
Miss Finch drew back. “You are most impertinent.”
“And you are standing in my way.” The room was very small, and Cecilia had not fully entered; it was nearly impossible to do so while the other woman had her trunk open on the floor.
“It is my room,” Miss Finch said.
“It is our room,” Cecilia nearly growled, “and I would appreciate it if you would move your trunk so that I might enter.”
“Well!” Miss Finch slammed her trunk shut and shoved it under her bed. “I don’t know where you will put your trunk, but don’t think you can take up the middle of the floor if I cannot.”
Cecilia didn’t have a trunk, just her large traveling bag, but there seemed little reason to make a point of that.
“Is that all you have?”
Especially since Miss Finch seemed eager to make the point for her.
Cecilia tried to draw a calming breath. “As I said, I had to leave most suddenly. There was no time to pack a proper trunk.”
Miss Finch stared down her bony nose and made another one of those sniffing sounds. Cecilia resolved to spend as much time as possible on deck.
There was a small table nailed to the foot of the bed, with enough space underneath for Cecilia’s bag. She removed the few things she thought she might wish to have in her bunk and then edged past Miss Finch so that she could climb up and see where she would be sleeping.
“Don’t step on my bed getting up to your bunk.”
Cecilia paused, counted in her head to three, then said, “I shall restrict my movements to the ladder.”
“I am going to complain to the captain about you.”
“By all means,” Cecilia said with a grandiose wave of her arm. She made her way up another rung and took a peek. Her bunk was neat and tidy, and even if she didn’t have much headroom, at least she wouldn’t have to look at Miss Finch.
“Are you a harlot?”
Cecilia whirled around, nearly losing her footing on the ladder. “What did you just ask?”
“Are you a harlot?” Miss Finch repeated, punctuating each word with a dramatic pause. “I can think of no other reason—”
“No, I am not a harlot,” Cecilia snapped, well aware that the odious woman would most likely disagree if she knew the events of the past month.
“Because I won’t share a room with a whore.”
Cecilia lost it. She simply lost it. She’d held her composure through the death of her brother, through the revelation that Colonel Stubbs had lied in the face of her grief and worry. She’d even managed not to fall apart while leaving the only man she would ever love, and now she was putting a bloody ocean between them, and he was going to hate her, and this awful wretched woman was calling her a whore?
She jumped off the ladder, strode to Miss Finch, and grabbed her by the collar.
“I don’t know what sort of poison you ingested this morning,” she seethed, “but I have had enough. I paid good money for my half of this cabin, and in return I expect a modicum of civility and good breeding.”
“Good breeding! From a woman who does not even possess a trunk?”
“What the devil does that mean?”
Miss Finch threw up her arms and screeched like a banshee. “And now you invoke the name of Satan!”
Oh. Dear. God. Cecilia had entered hell. She was sure of it. Maybe this was her punishment for lying to Edward. Three weeks . . . maybe even a full month with this shrew.
“I refuse to share a cabin with you!” Miss Finch cried.
“I assure you I would like nothing more than to grant your wish, but—”
A knock sounded on the door.
“I hope that’s the captain,” Miss Finch said. “He probably heard you screaming.”
Cecilia gave her a disgusted look. “Why on earth would the captain be here?” They lacked a porthole, but she could tell from the movement of the ship that they had already left the dock. Surely the captain had better things to do than arbitrate a catfight.
The crisp rap of knuckles on wood was replaced by the pound of a fist, followed by a bellow of “Open the door!”
It was a voice Cecilia knew quite well.
She went pale. Truly, she felt the blood leave her face. Her mouth went slack with shock as she turned towa
rd the pulsing flat of the door.
“Open the damn door, Cecilia!”
Miss Finch gasped and whirled to face her. “That’s not the captain.”
“No . . .”
“Who is it? Do you know who it is? He could be here to attack us. Oh dear God, oh dear heavens . . .” Miss Finch moved with surprising agility as she leapt behind Cecilia, using her as a human shield for whatever monster she thought was going to come barreling through the door.
“He’s not going to attack us,” Cecilia said in a dazed voice. She knew she should do something—shake off Miss Finch, open the door—but she was frozen, trying to make sense of what was clearly an impossibility.
Edward was here. On the ship. On the ship that had left the harbor.
“Oh my God,” she gasped.
“Oh, now you’re worried,” Miss Finch snapped.
The ship was moving. It was moving. Cecilia had watched the crew unwrap the thick ropes from the moorings as she made her way across the deck. She’d felt them push away from the dock, recognized the familiar pitch and sway as they set out across the bay and into the Atlantic.
Edward was on the ship. And as he was hardly likely to swim back to shore, that meant he had deserted his post, and—
More pounding, louder this time.
“Open this door right now or I swear I will break it down!”
Miss Finch whimpered something about her virtue.
And Cecilia finally whispered Edward’s name.
“You know him?” Miss Finch accused.
“Yes, he’s my . . .” What was he? Not her husband.
“Well, then open the door.” Miss Finch gave her a hard shove, catching Cecilia sufficiently off guard to send her tumbling against the far wall. “But don’t let him in,” she barked. “I won’t have a man in here. You take him out and do your . . . your . . .” Her fingers made disgusted piano-like motions in front of her. “Your business,” she finally finished. “Do it elsewhere.”
“Cecilia!” Edward bellowed.
“He’s going to break the door!” Miss Finch shrieked. “Hurry!”
