The Girl With the Make-Believe Husband

  “You’re awake,” his wife accused.

  “I wasn’t,” he said, “but then someone started whispering my name.”

  “That was ages ago.”

  He shrugged, unrepentant.

  “You look better today,” she said.

  He lifted his brows.

  “A little less . . . gray.”

  He decided to be grateful no one had offered him a looking glass. “I need to shave,” he said, rubbing his chin. How many days’ growth was this? At least two weeks. Probably closer to three. He frowned.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Does anyone know how long I was unconscious?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. No one knows how long you were unconscious before you were found, but I can’t imagine it was very long. They said the wound on your head was fresh.”

  He winced. Fresh was the sort of word one liked when applied to strawberries, not skulls.

  “So probably not more than eight days,” she concluded. “Why?”

  “My beard,” he said. “It has been far more than a week since I last shaved.”

  She stared at him for a moment. “I’m not sure what that means,” she finally said.

  “Nor I,” he admitted. “But it’s worth taking note of it.”

  “Have you a valet?”

  He gave her a look.

  “Don’t look at me that way. I know very well that many officers travel with a manservant.”

  “I do not.”

  A moment passed, then Cecilia said, “You must be very hungry. I got a bit of broth into you, but that’s all.”

  Edward placed a hand on his midsection. His hipbones were definitely more prominent than they’d been since childhood. “I seem to have lost some weight.”

  “Did you eat after I left yesterday?”

  “Not much. I was famished, but then I started to feel ill.”

  She nodded, glancing down at her hands before saying, “I did not have the opportunity to tell you yesterday, but I took the liberty of writing to your family.”

  His family. Holy God above. He had not even thought of them.

  His eyes met hers.

  “They had been informed that you had gone missing,” she explained. “General Garth wrote to them several months ago.”

  Edward put a hand to his face, covering his eyes. He could only imagine his mother. She would not have taken it well.

  “I wrote that you had been injured, but I did not go into detail,” she said. “I thought it most important that they know you had been found.”

  “Found,” Edward echoed. The word was apt. He had not been returned, nor had he escaped. Instead he had been found near Kip’s Bay. The devil only knew how he’d got there.

  “When did you arrive in New York?” he asked abruptly. Better to ask questions about what he did not know than to agonize over what he did not remember.

  “Almost a fortnight ago,” she said.

  “You came looking for me?”

  “No,” she admitted. “I didn’t—that is to say, I would not be so foolish to cross an ocean to look for a man who was missing.”

  “And yet you are here.”

  “Thomas was injured,” she reminded him. “He needed me.”

  “So you came for your brother,” he said.

  She regarded him with a frank, open stare, as if she was wondering if this was an interrogation. “I was led to believe I would find him in hospital.”

  “As opposed to me.”

  Her lower lip caught between her teeth. “Well, yes. I did not—that is to say, I did not know you were missing.”

  “General Garth did not write to you?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t believe he had been made aware of the marriage.”

  “So . . . wait.” He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them. He felt very twitchy, but something didn’t make sense. The timeline was off. “Did we marry here? No, we couldn’t have done. Not if I was missing.”

  “It—it was a proxy marriage.” Her face flushed, and she looked almost embarrassed to admit it.

  “I married you by proxy?” he asked, dumbfounded.

  “Thomas wanted it,” she mumbled.

  “Is that even legal?”

  Her eyes grew very wide, and he instantly felt like a heel. This woman had cared for him for three days while he was in a coma, and here he was implying that they might not even be married. She did not deserve such disrespect. “Forget I asked,” he said quickly. “We can sort all that out later.”

  She nodded gratefully, then yawned.

  “Did you rest yesterday?” he asked.

  Her lips curved into the tiniest—and the tiredest—of smiles. “I believe that is my line.”

  He returned the wry expression. “From what I understand, I have done nothing but rest these past few days.”

  She tilted her head, a silent touché.

  “You did not answer my question,” he reminded her. “Did you rest?”

  “Some. I rather think I’m out of practice. And it was a strange room.” A lock of hair fell from her coiffure, and she frowned before tucking it back behind her ear. “I always find it difficult to sleep the first night in new surroundings.”

  “I’d wager you have not slept well in weeks, then.”

  At that she smiled. “Actually, I slept very well on the ship. The rocking motion agreed with me.”

  “I’m jealous. I spent most of my crossing puking up my guts.”

  She smothered a laugh. “I’m sorry.”

  “Just be grateful you weren’t there. I would not have seemed such a matrimonial catch.” He considered this. “Then again, I’m no prize right now.”

  “Oh, don’t be—”

  “Unwashed, unshaved . . .”

  “Edward . . .”

  “Malodorous.” He waited. “I notice you do not contradict me there.”

  “You do have a certain, ah, fragrance.”

  “And do not forget that I am missing a small corner of my mind.”

  She instantly stiffened. “You should not say such things.”

  His tone was light but his eyes were straight and direct on hers as he said, “If I don’t find something to mock in this, I shall have to cry.”

  She went very still.

  “Figuratively,” he said, taking pity on her. “You needn’t worry. I shan’t break down in tears.”

  “If you did,” she said haltingly, “I shouldn’t think the less of you. I—I would—”

  “Care for me? Tend to my wounds? Dry the salty rivers of my tears?”

  Her lips parted, but he did not think she was shocked, merely perplexed. “I did not realize you were such a devotee of sarcasm,” she said.

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure I am.”

  She went a bit straight as she considered this, her brow puckering until three lines formed in the center of her forehead. She did not move for several seconds, and only when a little whoosh of air crossed her lips did he realize she had been holding her breath. It came out with a bit of her voice, resulting in a pensive noise.

  “You seem to be analyzing me,” he said.

  She did not deny it. “It is very interesting,” she said, “what you do and do not recall.”

  “It is difficult for me to view it as an academic pursuit,” he said without rancor, “but by all means, you should do so. Any breakthroughs will be much appreciated.”

  She shifted in her seat. “Have you remembered anything new?”

  “Since yesterday?”

  She nodded.

  “No. At least I don’t think so. It’s difficult to tell when I don’t remember what I don’t remember. I’m not even certain where the memory gap begins.”

  “I’m told you left for Connecticut in early March.” Her head tilted to the side, and that mischievous lock of hair fell out of place again. “Do you remember that?”

  He thought about this for a moment. “No,” he said. “I vaguely recall being told to go, or rathe
r that I was going to be told to go . . .” He scrubbed the heel of his hand against one of his eyes. What did that even mean? He looked up at Cecilia. “I don’t know why, though.”

  “It will come back to you eventually,” she said. “The doctor said that when the head is concussed, the brain needs time to recover.”

  He frowned.

  “Before you woke up,” she clarified.

  “Ah.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments, and then, with an awkward motion toward his injury, she asked, “Does it hurt?”

  “Like the very devil.”

  She moved to stand. “I can get you laudanum.”

  “No,” he said quickly. “Thank you. I would rather keep a clear head.” Then he realized what a ridiculous statement that was, all things considered. “Or at least clear enough to recall the events of the last day.”

  Her lips twitched.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Laugh.”

  “I really shouldn’t.” But she did. Just a little.

  And the sound was lovely.

  Then she yawned.

  “Sleep,” he urged.

  “Oh, I couldn’t. I just got here.”

  “I won’t tell.”

  She gave him a look. “Who would you tell?”

  “Fair point,” he conceded. “But still, you obviously need to sleep.”

  “I can sleep tonight.” She wiggled a little in her chair, trying to get comfortable. “I’m just going to rest my eyes for a moment.”

  He snickered.

  “Don’t mock me,” she warned.

  “Or you’ll what? You’d never even see me coming.”

  She opened one eye. “I have outstanding reflexes.”

  Edward chuckled at that, watching as she returned to her expression of repose. She yawned again, this time not even trying to cover it.

  Was that what it meant to be married? That one could yawn with impunity? If so, Edward supposed that the institution had much to recommend it.

  He watched her as she “rested her eyes.” She really was lovely. Thomas had said his sister was pretty, but in that offhand, brotherly sort of way. He saw what Edward supposed he saw in his own sister Mary: a nice face with all the pieces in the right spots. Thomas would never have noticed, for example, that Cecilia’s eyelashes were a few shades darker than her hair, or that when her eyes were closed, they formed two delicate arcs, almost like slivers of a waxing moon.

  Her lips were full, although not in that rosebud way the poets seemed wild for. When she slept, they didn’t quite touch, and he could imagine the whisper of her breath passing between them.

  “Do you think you will be able to leave for the Devil’s Head this afternoon?” she asked.

  “I thought you were asleep.”

  “I told you, I’m just resting my eyes.”

  In this she was not lying. She did not so much as lift a lash as she spoke.

  “I should do,” he said. “The doctor wishes to see me once more before I go. I trust the room is acceptable?”

  She nodded, eyes still closed. “You might find it small.”

  “But you don’t?”

  “I don’t require grand surroundings.”

  “Neither do I.”

  She opened her eyes. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to imply that you did.”

  “I have spent many a night sleeping rough. Any room with a bed will be a luxury. Well, except this one, I suppose,” he said, looking about the makeshift ward. The church pews had been moved against the walls, and the men were lying in a motley collection of cots and beds. A few were on the floor.

  “It’s depressing,” she said quietly.

  He nodded. He should be grateful. He was whole of limb and body. Weak, perhaps, but he would heal. Some of the other men in the room were not so lucky.

  But still, he wanted out.

  “I am hungry,” he suddenly declared.

  She looked up, and he found he rather enjoyed the startled look in her amazing eyes.

  “If the doctor wishes to see me, he can bl—” Edward cleared his throat. “He can find me at the Devil’s Head.”

  “Are you sure?” She gave him a concerned look. “I shouldn’t want—”

  He cut her off by pointing toward a pile of fabric—scarlet and tan—on a nearby pew. “I think that’s my uniform over there. Would you be so kind as to fetch it?”

  “But the doctor—”

  “Or I’ll do it myself, and I’m warning you, I’m bare-arsed under this shirt.”

  Her cheeks burned scarlet—not quite as deep a hue as his coat, but impressively close—and suddenly it occurred to him:

  A proxy marriage.

  Him: Several months in Connecticut.

  Her: Two weeks in New York.

  No wonder he had not recognized her face. He’d never seen her before.

  Their marriage?

  It had never been consummated.

  Chapter 4

  Lieutenant Rokesby isn’t unbearable at all. In fact, he’s quite a decent fellow. I think you’d like him. He is from Kent and is practically engaged to his neighbor.

  I showed him your miniature. He said you were very pretty.

  —from Thomas Harcourt to his sister Cecilia

  Edward had insisted upon dressing himself, so Cecilia took this time to head outside to find them something to eat. She had spent the better part of a week in this neighborhood and knew every shop and storefront on the street. The most economical option—and thus her usual choice—was currant buns from Mr. Mather’s cart. They were tolerably tasty, although she suspected their low price was made possible by the inclusion of no more than three currants per bun.

  Mr. Lowell, a bit farther down the street, sold actual Chelsea buns, with spiraled dough and cinnamon spice. Cecilia had never counted their currants; she’d eaten only one, bought day-old, and she’d devoured it far too quickly to do anything but moan with pleasure at the sticky-sweet sugar glaze as it dissolved on her tongue.

  But around the corner—that was where one found the shop of Mr. Rooijakkers, the Dutch baker. Cecilia had gone in only once; that was all it had taken to see that (a) she could not afford his treats and (b) if she could, she’d be fat as a house in no time.

  If there was ever a time for extravagance, though, surely this was the day, with Edward having awakened and in goodish health. Cecilia had two coins in her pocket, enough for a fine treat, and she no longer had to worry about paying for her boardinghouse room. She supposed she should be saving her pennies—the Lord only knew where she’d find herself in the weeks to come—but she could not bring herself to scrimp. Not today.

  She pushed open the door, smiling at the tinkle of the bell above, and then sighing with delight at the heavenly smells wafting toward her from the kitchen in the back.

  “May I help you?” asked the ginger-haired woman standing behind the counter. She was perhaps a few years older than Cecilia and spoke with a very slight accent, one Cecilia would not have been able to place had she not already known that the proprietors hailed from Holland.

  “Yes, thank you, I’ll have a round bread loaf, please,” Cecilia said, motioning toward a row of three sitting plump and pretty on the shelf, with a mottled golden crust that looked different from anything she’d seen back home. “Are they all the same price?”

  The woman cocked her head to the side. “They were, but now that you mention it, the one on the right does look a bit small. You can have it for a ha’penny less.”

  Cecilia was already calculating where she might go to purchase butter or cheese to eat with the bread, but then she just had to ask, “What is that delicious smell?”

  The woman beamed. “Speculaas. Freshly baked. Have you never tried one?”

  Cecilia shook her head. She was so hungry. She’d finally had a proper meal the night before, but it had only seemed to remind her belly how badly she had been mistreating it. And while the steak and kidney pie at the Devil’s Head had been good, Cecilia was positively sal
ivating at the thought of something sweet.

  “I broke one taking them off the tray,” the woman said. “You can have it for free.”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t—”

  The woman waved this off. “You’ve never had one. I can’t charge you for trying.”

  “Actually, you could,” Cecilia said with a smile, “but I’ll not argue with you further.”

  “I haven’t seen you in the shop before.” The woman said this over her shoulder as she scooted into the kitchen.

  “I came in once,” Cecilia said, declining to mention that she had not made a purchase. “Last week. There was an older gentleman here.”

  “My father,” the woman confirmed.

  “Then you are Miss Rooey—ehrm, Roojak—” Good heavens, how did one pronounce it?

  “Rooijakkers,” the woman said with a grin as she came back through the doorway. “But actually I’m Mrs. Leverett.”

  “Thank heavens,” Cecilia said with a relieved smile. “I know you just said your name, but I don’t think I could reproduce it.”

  “I have often told my husband it is why I married him,” Mrs. Leverett joked.

  Cecilia laughed until she realized that she too was holding on to a husband for his name. In her case, however, it was so that Major Wilkins would do his bloody job.

  “Dutch is not an easy language,” Mrs. Leverett said, “but if you plan to be in New York Town for some time, you might find it worthwhile to learn a few phrases.”

  “I don’t know how long I will be here,” Cecilia said honestly. Hopefully not too long. She just wanted to find her brother.

  And make sure Edward regained his strength. She couldn’t possibly leave until she was assured of his welfare.

  “Your English is excellent,” she said to the baker.

  “I was born here. My parents too, but we speak Dutch in the home. Here”—she held out two pieces of flat, caramel-brown biscuit—“try it.”

  Cecilia thanked her again, fitting the pieces together into their original oblong shape before lifting the smaller one to her mouth and taking a nibble. “Oh my goodness! This is divine.”

  “You like it, then?” Mrs. Leverett’s eyes went wide with delight.

  “How could I not?” It tasted of cardamom and clove and slightly burnt sugar. It was completely foreign and yet somehow made her homesick. Perhaps it was the mere act of sharing a biscuit over conversation. Cecilia had been too busy to realize that she had also been lonely.