The Girl With the Make-Believe Husband

  “No,” he said.

  It was a warning.

  He wanted her.

  Maybe even more than she wanted him.

  She licked her lips, which had gone unaccountably dry.

  “Don’t do that,” he choked out.

  Her eyes flew to his, and she was electrified, gripped by the intensity of his piercing blue gaze. She felt it in her chest, a pounding, pulsing thing, and for a moment she could not speak. His hand was hot against her skin, his touch unexpectedly tender.

  “I can’t leave you like this,” she said.

  He stared at her, uncomprehending. Or maybe like he thought he must have misheard.

  She motioned to his beard, full on the right side, completely absent on the left. “You look rather half-baked.”

  He touched his chin, right at the spot where whiskers met skin, and let out a little puff of amusement.

  “You look ridiculous,” she said.

  He stroked one side of his face, then the other.

  Cecilia held up the razor and brush. “Perhaps I should finish.”

  His right brow rose into a perfect arch. “You don’t think I should meet with Major Wilkins like this?”

  “I think I might pay good money to see that.” She scooted around to the other side of the bed, relieved that the tension seemed to have been broken. “If I had money.”

  Edward moved across the mattress so that he was closer to the edge, then held still while she soaped him up. “You are short of funds?” he asked.

  Cecilia paused, wondering just how much she should tell him. She settled on: “This has proven a more expensive journey than I had anticipated.”

  “Such is true for most journeys, I imagine.”

  “So I’m told.” She rinsed the razor in the tub. “This is the first I’ve ventured more than twenty miles out of Derbyshire.”

  “Really?”

  “Don’t move,” she admonished. She’d had the blade right at his throat when he’d startled.

  “Sorry, but really? The first time?”

  She shrugged, rinsing the blade again. “Where would I have gone?”

  “London?”

  “No reason to go.” The Harcourts were respectable, to be sure, but hardly the sort to send a daughter to the capital for a Season. Plus, her father hated cities. He made a fuss when he had to go to Sheffield. The one time he’d been forced to attend to business in Manchester, he’d complained for days. “No one to take me either,” Cecilia added.

  “I will take you.”

  Her hand stilled. He thought they were married. Of course he’d think he might someday take her to London.

  “That is, if you wish,” he added, misunderstanding her hesitation.

  She forced a smile. “That would be lovely.”

  “We’ll go to the theater,” he said with a yawn. “Or maybe the opera. Do you like the opera?”

  Suddenly she was desperate to end the conversation. Her mind was filled with visions of a future that included the both of them, a future where her last name really was Rokesby, and she lived in a darling house in Kent with three little children, all with their father’s arrestingly blue eyes.

  It was a lovely future. It just wasn’t hers.

  “Cecilia?”

  “We’re all done,” she said, a little too loudly.

  “Already?” His brow furrowed into a quizzical vee as he touched his right cheek. “You did this side much faster than the other.”

  She shrugged. “Easier as I went along, I suppose.” She hadn’t done quite as careful a job on the right side, but it wasn’t noticeable unless one got right up next to him. And at any rate, he’d said he was going to do it again tomorrow.

  “I should let you rest. You’re tired, and we have that meeting later.”

  “You don’t have to leave.”

  She did. For her own sake. “I’ll bother you,” she said.

  “Not if I’m sleeping.” He yawned again, then smiled, and Cecilia was nearly thrown back by the force of his beauty.

  “What?” he asked. He touched his face. “Did you miss a spot?”

  “You look different clean-shaven,” she said. Or did she whisper it?

  He gave her a loopy smile. “More handsome, I trust.”

  Much more. She wouldn’t have thought that possible.

  “I should go. We’ll need someone to take care of the water and—”

  “Stay,” he said simply. “I like having you here.”

  And as Cecilia gingerly sat on the far side of the bed, it seemed impossible that he could not hear the sound of her heart breaking.

  Chapter 7

  Oh for heaven’s sake, I know I don’t have a freakishly large nose. I was merely making a point. You cannot expect honesty from Mr. Rokesby when the subject of conversation is your sister. He must be complimentary. I think it is an unwritten dictum among men, is it not?

  What does Lieutenant Rokesby look like?

  —from Cecilia Harcourt to her brother Thomas

  When they went downstairs at half five that evening, Major Wilkins was already waiting for them in the dining room, seated near the wall with a mug of ale and a plate of bread and cheese. Edward gave him a crisp shoulder bow when he stood to greet them. He’d not served alongside Wilkins, but their paths had crossed often enough. The major served as a sort of administrator for the British garrison in New York and was certainly the correct place to begin in any search for a missing soldier.

  Edward had always found him somewhat pompous, but with that came a rigid adherence to rules and order, which he supposed was a necessary trait in a military administrator. And truth be told, he wouldn’t have wanted the man’s job.

  Cecilia wasted no time once they were seated. “Have you any news of my brother?”

  Major Wilkins gave her what even Edward could recognize as a condescending look, then said, “It is a large theater of war, my dear. We cannot expect to find one man so quickly.” He motioned to the plate at the center of the table. “Cheese?”

  Cecilia was momentarily flummoxed by the change of subject, but she seemed to regain her purpose quickly. “This is the army,” she protested. “The British Army. Are we not the most advanced, the most well-organized force in the world?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “How could we lose a man?”

  Edward laid a gentle hand on her arm. “The chaos of war can test even the most well-run of militaries. I myself went missing for months.”

  “But he wasn’t missing when he went missing!” she cried.

  Wilkins chortled with amusement at her malapropism, and Edward nearly groaned at his insensitivity.

  “Oh, now that’s a good one,” the major said, cutting off a thick slice of cheddar. “Wasn’t missing when he went missing. Heh heh. The colonel will love that one.”

  “I misspoke,” Cecilia said tightly.

  Edward watched her carefully. He’d thought to intervene on her behalf, but she seemed to be in good control of the situation. Or if not the situation, at least of herself.

  “What I meant,” she continued, her eyes icing over in a way that ought to have frightened Major Wilkins, “was that Thomas was here in New York. In hospital. And then he wasn’t. It’s not as if he was on a battlefield or off scouting behind enemy lines.”

  Scouting behind enemy lines. Edward frowned as the words rolled around between his ears. Was that what he’d been doing in Connecticut? It seemed the most likely scenario. But why? He didn’t recall ever having done so before.

  “Well, that’s just the thing,” Major Wilkins said. “I can find no record of your brother having been in hospital.”

  “What?” Cecilia’s head jerked as she looked to Edward and then back again at the major. “That’s impossible.”

  Wilkins shrugged unapologetically. “I had my man go through the records. The name and rank of every soldier who is brought to hospital is recorded in a ledger. We make note of the date of arrival and the date of, ehrm, departure.”
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  “Departure?” Cecilia echoed.

  “Or death.” Wilkins had the grace to look at least a little uncomfortable upon raising this possibility. “Regardless, we could not find record of your brother.”

  “But he was injured,” Cecilia protested. “We received notice.” She turned back to Edward, visibly agitated. “My father received a letter from General Garth. He wrote that Thomas had been injured, but that it wasn’t a mortal wound and he was recovering in hospital. Is there another hospital?”

  Edward looked to Major Wilkins.

  “Not on this part of the island.”

  “Not on this part?” Cecilia said, leaping onto his choice of words.

  “There is something of an infirmary up in Haarlem,” Wilkins answered with the sort of sigh that said he wished he hadn’t brought it up. “I wouldn’t call it a hospital.” He glanced over at Edward with a meaningful look in his eye. “Wouldn’t want to stay there myself, if you know what I mean.”

  Cecilia blanched.

  “For God’s sake,” Edward snapped, “you’re talking about the lady’s brother.”

  The major turned to Cecilia with a contrite expression. “My apologies, ma’am.”

  She nodded, a tense little motion made heartbreaking by the convulsive swallow in her throat.

  “The infirmary in Haarlem is rudimentary at best,” Major Wilkins said to Cecilia. “Your brother is an officer. He would not have been brought to such a place.”

  “But if it was the closest facility . . .”

  “His wound was not life-threatening. He would have been moved.”

  Edward did not like the idea of enlisted men being forced to convalesce in subpar conditions merely on account of their rank, but there were only so many beds in the hospital here at the southern end of Manhattan Island. “He’s right,” he said to Cecilia. The army would always move the officers first.

  “Perhaps Thomas would have had reason to refuse a transfer,” Cecilia suggested. “If he was with his men he might not have wished to leave them.”

  “This would have been months ago,” Edward said, hating that he had to pierce her hopes this way. “Even if he had stayed to be with his men, surely he would have moved down here by now.”

  “Oh, of a certain,” Major Wilkins said matter-of-factly. “There’s simply no way he’d be up in Haarlem.”

  “You can hardly even call it a town,” Edward said to Cecilia. “There’s the Morris Mansion, but beyond that, it’s more of a collection of abandoned colonial camps.”

  “But don’t we have men there?”

  “Merely to keep it from falling back into enemy hands,” Major Wilkins said. “Good farmland up there too. We’ve got some crops almost ready for harvest.”

  “We?” Edward could not help but inquire.

  “The Haarlem farmers are loyal to the king,” the major said firmly.

  Edward wasn’t so sure about that, but this hardly seemed the time for a discussion on the local political leanings.

  “We went through six months of records at the hospital,” Major Wilkins said, bringing the conversation back to its purpose. He reached out to fix himself another piece of bread and cheese, scowling when the cheddar crumbled on the knife. “We could not find any mention of your brother. Honestly, it’s as if he never existed.”

  Edward fought a groan. By God, the man had no tact.

  “But you will continue to make inquiries?” Cecilia asked.

  “Of course, of course.” The major looked to Edward. “It is the least I can do.”

  “The very least,” Edward muttered.

  Major Wilkins drew back. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why did you not give my wife this information when you spoke to her last week?” Edward asked.

  The major went still, his food mere inches from his mouth. “I didn’t know she was your wife.”

  Edward could have cheerfully strangled him. “How does that make a difference?”

  Major Wilkins just stared.

  “She was still Captain Harcourt’s sister. She deserved your respect and consideration regardless of her marital status.”

  “We are not used to fielding questions from family members,” the major said in a stiff voice.

  Edward had about six different replies to that, but he decided there was nothing to be gained in further antagonizing the major. Instead he turned to Cecilia. “Do you have that letter from General Garth with you?”

  “Of course.” She reached into her skirt pocket. “I carry it with me at all times.”

  Edward took it from her slender hand and unfolded the paper. He read it silently, then held it out toward Major Wilkins.

  “What?” Cecilia asked. “What is wrong?”

  The major’s bushy brows came together, and he didn’t look up from the letter as he said, “This doesn’t sound like General Garth.”

  “What do you mean?” Cecilia turned frantically toward Edward. “What does he mean?”

  “There’s something wrong with it,” Edward said. “I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “But why would someone send me such a thing?”

  “I don’t know.” He pressed his fingers to his temple, which had begun to ache.

  Cecilia caught the motion immediately. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Because we can—”

  “We are here about Thomas,” he said sharply. “Not me.” He took a breath. He could get through this meeting. He might have to go right back to bed when they were through, he might even take that dose of laudanum she’d been threatening him with, but he could make it through one goddamned meeting with Major Wilkins.

  He was not so damaged as that.

  He looked up to realize that both Cecilia and the major were watching him with expressions of wary concern.

  “I trust your injury does not bother you overmuch,” Wilkins said gruffly.

  “It hurts like the devil,” Edward said through gritted teeth, “but I’m alive, so I’m trying to be grateful for that.”

  Cecilia looked at him with sharp surprise. He supposed he could not blame her. He was not normally so caustic.

  Wilkins cleared his throat. “Right, well. Regardless, I was most relieved to hear of your safe return.”

  Edward sighed. “My apologies,” he said. “My temper grows short when my head hurts more than normal.”

  Cecilia leaned in and said in a quiet voice, “Shall I take you back upstairs?”

  “It is not necessary,” Edward muttered. His breath caught as the pain in his temple intensified. “Not yet, anyway.” He looked back over at Wilkins, who was frowning as he reread the letter from the general.

  “What is it?” Edward asked.

  The major scratched his chin. “Why would Garth . . . ?” He shook his head. “Never mind.”

  “No,” Cecilia said quickly. “Tell me.”

  Major Wilkins hesitated, as if he was trying to figure out the best way to express his thoughts. “I find this an odd collection of information,” he finally said.

  “What do you mean?” Cecilia asked.

  “It’s not what one would normally write in a letter to a soldier’s family,” the major said. He looked to Edward for confirmation.

  “I suppose,” Edward replied, still rubbing his temple. It wasn’t doing much good, but he couldn’t seem to stop. “I’ve not written such a missive myself.”

  “But you said something was wrong with the letter,” Cecilia reminded him.

  “Nothing so specific,” Edward told her. “It just feels off. I know General Garth. I can’t put my finger on why, but it doesn’t sound like something he would write.”

  “I have written such missives,” Major Wilkins said. “Many of them.”

  “And . . . ?” Cecilia prodded.

  He took a long breath. “And I would never write that a man was injured but it was not life-threatening. There is no way to know that. It takes a month for word to get home. Anything could happen in that
time.”

  While Cecilia nodded, the major went on. “I have seen far more men succumb to infection than to the trauma of their original wounds. I lost a man last month because of a blister.” He looked to Edward with an expression of disbelief. “A blister.”

  Edward shot a quick glance at Cecilia. She was holding herself still, the very model of upright British stoicism. But her eyes were haunted, and he had the awful sensation that if he touched her—just one finger to her arm—she would shatter.

  And yet he was desperate to hold her. He wanted to hold her so tightly that she could not break apart. To hold her so long that her worries and fears melted from her body and seeped into his own.

  He wanted to absorb her pain.

  He wanted to be her strength.

  He would be, he vowed. He would recover. He would heal. He would be the husband she deserved.

  The husband he deserved to be.

  “It was on his foot,” the major was saying, oblivious to Cecilia’s distress. “His stockings must have rubbed him the wrong way. He’d been marching through swamp. It’s impossible to keep your feet dry, you know.”

  Cecilia, to her great credit, managed a sympathetic nod.

  Major Wilkins put his hand on his mug of ale, but he did not pick it up. He seemed to sag a little, as if the memory still had the ability to puncture him. “The cursed thing must have broken open because within a day it was infected and within a week he was dead.”

  Cecilia swallowed. “I’m very sorry for your loss.” She looked down at her hands, clasped together on the table, and Edward had the distinct sensation that she was trying to keep them from trembling. As if the only way to do that was to keep her eyes on her fingers, watching them for signs of weakness.

  She was so strong, his wife. He wondered if she realized it.

  The major blinked as if surprised by her condolences. “Thank you,” he said awkwardly. “It was . . . Well, it was a loss.”

  “They all are,” Edward said in a quiet voice, and for a moment he and the major, with whom he had so little in common, were brothers in arms.