The Girl With the Make-Believe Husband

  Cecilia, who had been reading the book of poetry he’d brought with him from home, looked up. “Done what?”

  He was silent for a moment before he answered, and he frowned, as if he were still working out his thoughts. “Put on my uniform.”

  Cecilia used a ribbon to mark her place and closed the book. “You do that every morning.”

  “No, before that.” He paused and blinked a few times before saying, “I didn’t wear a uniform in Connecticut.”

  She swallowed, trying to set aside her unease. “Are you sure?”

  He looked down at himself, smoothing his right hand over the scarlet wool that marked him as a soldier in His Majesty’s Army. “Where did this come from?”

  It took her a moment to realize what he was asking. “Your coat? It was in the church.”

  “But I wasn’t wearing it when I was brought in.”

  This, Cecilia was startled to realize, was a statement, not a question. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t think so. I did not think to ask.”

  “I couldn’t have been,” Edward decided. “It was far too clean.”

  “Perhaps someone laundered it for you?”

  He shook his head in the negative. “We should ask Colonel Stubbs.”

  “Of course,” Cecilia demurred.

  He did not say anything, but Cecilia knew this meant that his mind was whirring double-time, trying to find the outline of a puzzle that was still missing too many pieces. He stared sightlessly at the window, his hand tapping against his leg, and Cecilia could only wait until he seemed to suddenly come alert, turning sharply toward her to say, “I remembered something else.”

  “What?”

  “Yesterday, when we were walking along Broad Street. A cat brushed up against me.”

  Cecilia did not speak. If there had been a cat, she hadn’t noticed.

  “It did that thing cats do,” Edward continued, “rubbing its face against my leg, and I remembered. There was a cat.”

  “In Connecticut?”

  “Yes. I don’t know why, but I think . . . I think it kept me company.”

  “A cat,” she repeated.

  He nodded. “It probably doesn’t mean anything, but . . .” His voice trailed off, and his eyes lost their focus again.

  “It means you are remembering,” Cecilia said softly.

  It took a moment for him to shake off his faraway expression. “Yes.”

  “At least it is a happy cat memory,” she offered.

  He looked at her quizzically.

  “You could have remembered that you’d been bitten. Or scratched.” She moved off the bed and stood. “Instead you know that an animal kept you company when you were alone.”

  Her voice caught, and he took a step toward her.

  “It comforts me,” she admitted.

  “That I was not alone?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ve always liked cats,” he said, almost absently.

  “Even more so now, I should imagine.”

  He looked at her with a half smile. “Let us make a summation of what I remember. I didn’t wear a uniform.” He ticked this off on his hand. “There was a cat.”

  “Yesterday you said you’d been in a boat,” Cecilia reminded him. They had been out near the river, and the salty tang in the air had jogged loose a spark of memory. He’d been in a boat, he told her. Not a ship, but something smaller, something not meant to go far from shore.

  “Although,” Cecilia said, giving the matter more thought than she’d done the day before, “you’d have to have been in a boat, wouldn’t you? How else would you have got to Manhattan? There’s no bridge to this part of the island. And I don’t think you swam.”

  “True,” he murmured.

  Cecilia watched him for a moment, then could not help but giggle.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “You get this look,” she said. “Every time you try to remember something.”

  “Oh really?” He made a look like he was trying to be sardonic, but she knew he was teasing.

  “Yes, you go a bit like this—” She drew her brows together and let her eyes go blank. She had a feeling she was not getting it quite right, and in fact a more prickly man might think she was poking fun at him.

  He stared at her. “You look unhinged.”

  “I believe you mean you look unhinged.” She waved one of her hands near her face. “I am your mirror.”

  He burst out laughing, then reached out and tugged her toward him. “I am fairly certain I have never seen anything so delightful in the mirror.”

  Cecilia felt herself smiling, even as warning bells went off in her mind. It was so easy to be happy with him, so easy to be herself. But this wasn’t her life. And she wasn’t his wife. It was a role she’d borrowed, and eventually she’d have to give it back.

  But no matter how hard she tried to keep herself from growing too comfortable in her role as Mrs. Rokesby, it was impossible to resist his smile. He pulled her closer, and then closer still, until his nose rested on hers.

  “Have I told you,” he said, his voice warmed with joy, “how very happy I am that you were at my side when I awakened?”

  Her lips parted, and she tried to speak, but every word sat uncomfortably in her throat. He had not said this, as a matter of fact, at least not so explicitly. She shook her head, unable to take her eyes from his, drowning in the warmth of his bright blue gaze.

  “If I had known,” he continued, “I’m sure I would have told you not to come. In fact I am quite sure I would have forbidden it.” His mouth twisted into that wry spot halfway between a grimace and a smile. “Not, I imagine, that that would have swayed you.”

  “I was not your wife when I boarded the ship,” she said quietly. Then she died a little when she realized this might be the most honest statement she would utter all day.

  “No,” Edward said, “I suppose you were not.” He cocked his head to the side, and his brow drew together the way she’d been teasing him about, but his eyes stayed sharp. “Now what?” he asked, when he saw how she was studying him.

  “Nothing, just that you were almost making the same expression as before. Your brow was the same, but your eyes didn’t glaze over.”

  “You make me sound so appealing.”

  She laughed. “No, it’s interesting. I think—” She paused, trying to figure just what she was thinking. “You weren’t trying to remember something this time, were you?”

  He shook his head. “Just pondering the great questions of life.”

  “Oh stop. What were you really thinking about?”

  “Actually, I was thinking that we need to look into the laws of proxy marriages. We ought to know the exact date of the union, wouldn’t you agree?”

  She tried to say yes. She couldn’t quite manage it.

  Edward tugged on his cuffs, smoothing out his sleeves so that his coat lay smooth on his body. “You went second, so I imagine it was whenever you got the captain to perform your side of the ceremony.”

  Cecilia gave a tiny nod—all she could manage with the boulder in her throat.

  But Edward did not seem to notice her distress, or if he did, he must have thought she was just being emotional over the memory of her wedding, because he dropped a quick kiss on her lips, straightened, and said, “Time to greet the day, I suppose. I’m meeting with Colonel Stubbs downstairs in a few minutes, and I can’t be late.”

  “You’re meeting with Colonel Stubbs, and you did not tell me?”

  His nose wrinkled. “Did I not? An oversight, I’m sure.”

  Cecilia did not doubt him in this. Edward did not keep secrets from her. He was remarkably open, all things considered, and when he asked for her opinion, he actually listened to her response. She supposed that to some degree he did not have much choice; with such a large hole in his memory he had to rely on her judgment.

  Except . . . she could not imagine many other men doing the same. She’d always been proud of the fact that her fathe
r had left the running of the house in her hands, but in her heart she knew that he had not done so because he’d thought her especially capable. He just didn’t want to bother with it himself.

  “Do you wish to join me?” Edward asked.

  “For your meeting with the colonel?” Cecilia’s brows rose. “I cannot imagine he will wish to have me there.”

  “All the more reason for you to come. I learn far more when he’s in a bad mood.”

  “In that case, how can I refuse?”

  Edward opened the door and stepped aside, waiting for her to precede him into the hall.

  “It does seem odd that he’s not more forthcoming,” Cecilia said. “Surely he wants you to recover your memory.”

  “I don’t think he’s trying to be secretive,” Edward said. He took her arm as they descended the stairs, but unlike the week prior, it was to be a gentleman and not because he needed her physical support. It was remarkable how much he had improved in just a few short days. His head still pained him, and of course there was the memory gap, but his skin had lost the grayish pallor that had been so worrying, and if he was not ready for a fifty-mile march, he was at least able to go about his day without needing to take a rest.

  Cecilia thought he sometimes still looked tired, but Edward just told her she was acting like a wife.

  He smiled when he said this, though.

  “I think,” Edward said, still on the topic of Colonel Stubbs, “that it is his job to keep secrets.”

  “But surely not from you.”

  “Perhaps,” Edward said with a small shrug. “But consider this: He does not know where I was or what I did these last few months. It is almost certainly not in the interest of the British Army to entrust me with secrets just yet.”

  “That’s preposterous!”

  “I appreciate your unwavering support,” he said, giving her a wry smile as they reached the ground floor, “but Colonel Stubbs must be assured of my loyalties before revealing his hand.”

  Cecilia was not sold. “I cannot believe he would dare to doubt you,” she muttered. Edward’s honor and honesty were so clearly intrinsic to his nature. She did not understand how anyone could not see this.

  Colonel Stubbs was standing by the door when they entered the dining room, his face skewed into its usual scowl. “Rokesby,” he said upon seeing them, followed by: “Your wife is here too.”

  “She was hungry,” Edward said.

  “Of course,” the colonel replied, but his nostrils flared with irritation, and Cecilia saw his jaw clench as he led them to a nearby table.

  “They make a fine breakfast here,” Cecilia said sweetly.

  The colonel stared at her for a moment, then grunted something that might have been a response before turning back to Edward.

  “Do you bring any news?” Edward asked.

  “Do you?”

  “I am afraid not, but Cecilia has been most helpful in my quest to regain my memory. We have traversed the town many times, searching for clues.”

  Cecilia pasted a placid smile on her face.

  Which Colonel Stubbs ignored. “I don’t see how you think to find clues here in New York. It’s the time in Connecticut that needs to be examined.”

  “About that,” Edward said mildly, “I was wondering—did I have a uniform?”

  “What?” The colonel’s voice was curt and distracted, and he was patently irritated by the abrupt change of subject.

  “I had the strangest recollection this morning. It’s probably not even relevant, but as I was donning my coat, it occurred to me that I had not done so in quite a long time.”

  The colonel just stared at him. “I don’t follow.”

  “The coat at the hospital . . . This one, as a matter of fact,” Edward said, brushing his hand along his sleeve. “Where did it come from? It’s obviously mine, but I don’t think I had it with me.”

  “I held it for you,” Stubbs said gruffly. “Wouldn’t do to be labeled a lobsterback in Connecticut.”

  “Are they not loyal to the crown?” Cecilia inquired.

  “Rebels are everywhere,” Stubbs said, shooting her an irritated look. “They are sprinkled like salt, and the very devil to excise.”

  “Excise?” Cecilia echoed. It was a disturbing choice of words. She had not been in New York very long, but even she was able to discern that the political landscape was more complicated than the newspapers at home would have her believe. She was, and always would be, a proud British subject, but she could not help but see that the colonists had some legitimate grievances.

  But before she could say anything further (not that she was intending to), she felt Edward’s hand on her leg under the table, its heavy weight cautioning her not to speak.

  “I beg your pardon,” Cecilia murmured, casting her eyes obediently toward her lap. “I was not familiar with the term.”

  It hurt to utter such a lie, but there was clearly some benefit in having the colonel think her somewhat less than brilliant. And the last thing she wanted was for him to think that she was not loyal to the crown.

  “Might I inquire, then,” Edward asked, moving the conversation forward with smooth agility, “if my lack of a uniform in Connecticut means that I was there as a spy?”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” the colonel huffed.

  “What would you say?” Cecilia asked, biting her tongue when Edward’s hand tightened on her thigh again. But it was difficult to keep her mouth shut. The colonel was so aggravating, dropping bits of information here and there, never quite telling Edward what he needed to know.

  “I beg your pardon,” she mumbled. Edward had turned to her with a cool glance, once again warning her not to interfere. She had to stop antagonizing Colonel Stubbs, and not just for Edward’s sake. The colonel knew Thomas as well, and though he had not proved helpful in her search thus far, he might in the future.

  “Spying is such an unsavory word,” Colonel Stubbs said, nodding in reply to her apology. “Certainly nothing to discuss in front of a lady.”

  “A scout, then,” Edward suggested. “Would that be a more accurate description?”

  Stubbs grunted in the affirmative.

  Edward’s lips pressed into a firm line that was oddly difficult to interpret. He did not look angry, at least not as angry as Cecilia was feeling. Rather, she had the impression that he was sifting through information in his mind, placing it in neat little piles for future reference. He had a very orderly way of looking at the world—a trait that must have made his memory deficit twice as difficult to bear.

  “I realize,” Edward said, steepling his hands in a contemplative motion, “that you are in an extremely delicate position. But if you truly wish for me to remember the events of the last few months, you will need to help me recall them.” He leaned forward. “We are on the same side.”

  “I have never doubted your loyalty,” the colonel said.

  Edward nodded graciously.

  “But nor can I feed you the information I wish to hear.”

  “Are you saying you know what Edward was doing?” Cecilia cut in.

  “Cecilia,” Edward said, his voice a soft warning.

  Which she ignored. “If you know what he was doing, you must tell him,” she insisted. “It’s cruel of you not to. It could help him regain his memory.”

  “Cecilia,” Edward said again, this time with bite.

  But she could not keep silent. Ignoring Edward’s warning, she locked eyes with Colonel Stubbs and said, “Surely if you want him to remember what happened in Connecticut, you will tell him everything you know.”

  The colonel met her stare with his own. “That is all very well and good, Mrs. Rokesby, but have you considered that anything I say could influence your husband’s recollections? I cannot afford to color his memories with information of my own that may or may not be accurate.”

  “I—” Some of the fight left Cecilia as she realized the colonel had a point. But still, wasn’t Edward’s peace of mind worth something?
>
  Stern lines formed at the corners of Edward’s mouth. “Allow me to apologize for my wife,” he said.

  “No,” Cecilia said. “I will apologize for myself. I am sorry. It is difficult for me to see the situation from your point of view.”

  “You want your husband to get well,” Colonel Stubbs said with surprising gentleness.

  “I do,” she said fervently. “Even—”

  Her heart stopped. Even if it meant her own downfall? She was living in a house of cards, and the moment Edward regained his memory, it was all over. She almost laughed at the bitter irony of it. She’d been arguing nonstop with the colonel, fighting for the one thing that would break her heart.

  But she couldn’t help it. She wanted him to get well. She wanted it more than anything. More than—

  Her heart stopped. More than finding Thomas?

  No. That could not be. Maybe she was just as bad as Colonel Stubbs, withholding facts that could help Edward get his memory back. But Thomas was her brother. Edward would understand.

  Or so she kept telling herself.

  “Cecilia?”

  She heard Edward’s voice, coming to her as if through a long tunnel.

  “Darling?” He took her hand, then started to rub it. “Are you all right? Your hands are like ice.”

  Slowly she came back to the present, blinking as she took in Edward’s worried face.

  “You sounded like you were choking,” he said.

  She looked at the colonel, who was also regarding her with worry. “I’m sorry,” she said, realizing that the choking sound must have been a sob. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “It’s quite all right,” Colonel Stubbs said, much to Cecilia’s—and by the looks of it, Edward’s—surprise. “You are his wife. It is as God intended that you should put his welfare above all else.”

  Cecilia allowed a moment to pass, then asked, “Are you married, Colonel Stubbs?”

  “I was,” he said simply, and it was easy to know from his expression what he meant.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  The normally stoic colonel swallowed, and his eyes flashed with pain. “It was many years ago,” he said, “but I think of her every day.”