by Julia Quinn
“You must face facts,” he said, taking a step toward her. “You are alone. You cannot remain indefinitely at Marswell without a chaperone.”
“I shall go to my great-aunt,” she said.
“Sophie?” he said dismissively. “She’s hardly capable.”
“My other great-aunt. Dorcas.”
His eyes narrowed. “I am not familiar with an aunt Dorcas.”
“You wouldn’t be,” Cecilia said. “She’s my mother’s aunt.”
“And where does she live?”
Considering that she was wholly a figment of Cecilia’s imagination, nowhere, but her mother’s mother had been Scottish, so Cecilia said, “Edinburgh.”
“You would leave your home?”
If it meant avoiding marriage to Horace, yes.
“I will make you see reason,” Horace growled, and then before she knew what he was about, he kissed her.
Cecilia drew one breath after he released her, and then she slapped him.
Horace slapped her back, and a week later, Cecilia left for New York.
The journey had taken five weeks—more than enough time for Cecilia to second- and third-guess her decision. But she truly did not know what else she could have done. She wasn’t sure why Horace was so dead-set on marrying her when he had a good chance of inheriting Marswell anyway. She could only speculate that he was having financial troubles and needed someplace to live. If he married Cecilia he could move in right away and cross his fingers that Thomas would never come home.
Cecilia knew that marriage to her cousin was the sensible choice. If Thomas did die, she would be able to remain at her beloved childhood home. She could pass it along to her children.
But oh dear God, those children would also be Horace’s children, and the thought of lying with that man . . . Nay, the thought of living with that man . . .
She couldn’t do it. Marswell wasn’t worth it.
Still, her situation was tenuous. Horace couldn’t actually force her to accept his suit, but he could make her life very uncomfortable, and he was right about one thing—she couldn’t remain at Marswell indefinitely without a chaperone. She was of age—barely, at twenty-two—and her friends and neighbors would give her some leeway given her circumstances, but a young woman on her own was an invitation for gossip. If Cecilia had a care for her reputation, she was going to have to leave.
The irony was enough to make her want to scream. She was preserving her good name by taking off by herself across an ocean. All she had to do was make sure no one in Derbyshire knew about it.
But Thomas was her older brother, her protector, her closest friend. For him she would make a journey that even she knew was reckless, possibly fruitless. Men died of infection far more often than they did of battlefield injury. She knew her brother might be gone by the time she reached New York.
She just hadn’t expected him to be literally gone.
It was during this maelstrom of frustration and helplessness that she heard of Edward’s injury. Driven by a burning need to help someone, she had marched herself to the hospital. If she could not tend to her brother, by God, she would tend to her brother’s best friend. This voyage to the New World would not be for nothing.
The hospital turned out to be a church that had been taken over by the British Army, which was strange enough, but when she asked to see Edward, she was told in no uncertain terms that she was not welcome. Captain Rokesby was an officer, a rather sharp-nosed sentry informed her. He was the son of an earl, and far too important for visitors of the plebian variety.
Cecilia was still trying to figure out what the devil he meant by that when he looked down his nose and told her that the only people allowed to see Captain Rokesby would be military personnel and family.
At which point Cecilia blurted out, “I am his wife!”
And once that had come out of her mouth, there was really no backing away from it.
In retrospect, it was amazing she’d got away with it. She’d probably have been thrown out on her ear if not for the presence of Edward’s commanding officer. Colonel Stubbs was not the most affable of men, but he knew of Edward and Thomas’s friendship, and he had not been surprised to hear that Edward had married his friend’s sister.
Before Cecilia even had a chance to think, she was spinning a tale of a courtship in letters, and a proxy marriage on a ship.
Astoundingly, everyone believed her.
She could not regret her lies, however. There was no denying that Edward had improved under her care. She’d sponged his forehead when he’d grown feverish, and she’d shifted his weight as best she could to prevent bedsores. It was true that she’d seen more of his body than was appropriate for an unmarried lady, but surely the rules of society must be suspended in wartime.
And no one would know.
No one would know. This, she repeated to herself on an almost hourly basis. She was five thousand miles from Derbyshire. Everyone she knew thought she’d gone off to visit her maiden aunt. Furthermore, the Harcourts did not move in the same circles as the Rokesbys. She supposed that Edward might be considered a person of interest among society gossips, but she certainly wasn’t, and it seemed impossible that tales of the Earl of Manston’s second son might reach her tiny village of Matlock Bath.
As for what she would do when he finally woke up . . .
Well, in all honesty, she’d never quite figured that out. But as it happened, it didn’t matter. She’d run through a hundred different scenarios in her mind, but not one of them had involved him recognizing her.
“Cecilia?” he said. He was blinking up at her, and she was momentarily stunned, mesmerized by how blue his eyes were.
She ought to have known that.
Then she realized how ridiculous she was being. She had no reason to know the color of his eyes.
But still. Somehow . . .
It seemed like something she should have known.
“You’re awake,” she said dumbly. She tried to say more, but the sound twisted in her throat. She fought simply to breathe, overcome with emotion she had not even realized she felt. With a shaking hand, she leaned down and touched his forehead. Why, she did not know; he had not had a fever for nearly two days. But she was overwhelmed by a need to touch him, to feel with her hands what she saw with her eyes.
He was awake.
He was alive.
“Give him room,” Colonel Stubbs ordered. “Go fetch the doctor.”
“You fetch the doctor,” Cecilia snapped, finally regaining some of her sense. “I’m his w—”
Her voice caught. She couldn’t utter the lie. Not in front of Edward.
But Colonel Stubbs inferred what she did not actually say, and after muttering something unsavory under his breath, he stalked off in search of a doctor.
“Cecilia?” Edward said again. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ll explain everything in a moment,” she said in a rushed whisper. The colonel would be back soon, and she’d rather not make her explanations with an audience. Still, she couldn’t have him giving her away, so she added, “For now, just—”
“Where am I?” he interrupted.
She grabbed an extra blanket. He needed another pillow, but these were in short supply, so a blanket would have to do. Helping him to sit up a little straighter, she tucked it behind him as she said, “You’re in hospital.”
He looked dubiously around the room. The architecture was clearly ecclesiastical. “With a stained glass window?”
“It’s a church. Well, it was a church. It’s a hospital now.”
“But where?” he asked, a little too urgently.
Her hands stilled. Something wasn’t right. She turned her head, just enough for her eyes to meet his. “We are in New York Town.”
He frowned. “I thought I was . . .”
She waited, but he did not finish his thought. “You thought you were what?” she asked.
He stared vacantly for a moment, then said, “I don’t know. I w
as . . .” His words trailed off, and his face twisted. It almost looked as if it hurt him to think so hard.
“I was supposed to go to Connecticut,” he finally said.
Cecilia slowly straightened. “You did go to Connecticut.”
His lips parted. “I did?”
“Yes. You were there for over a month.”
“What?” Something flashed in his eyes. Cecilia thought it might be fear.
“Don’t you remember?” she asked.
He began to blink far more rapidly than was normal. “Over a month, you say?”
“That’s what they told me. I only just arrived.”
“Over a month,” he said again. He started shaking his head. “How could that . . .”
“You must not overtax yourself,” Cecilia said, reaching out to take his hand in hers again. It seemed to calm him. It certainly calmed her.
“I don’t remember . . . I was in Connecticut?” He looked up sharply, and his grip on her hand grew uncomfortably tight. “How did I come to be back in New York?”
She gave a helpless shrug. She didn’t have the answers he sought. “I don’t know. I was looking for Thomas, and I heard you were here. You were found near Kip’s Bay, bleeding from your head.”
“You were looking for Thomas,” he echoed, and she could practically see the wheels of his mind spinning frantically behind his eyes. “Why were you looking for Thomas?”
“I’d got word he was injured, but now he’s missing, and—”
Edward’s breathing grew labored. “When were we married?”
Cecilia’s lips parted. She tried to answer, she really did, but she could only manage to stammer a few useless pronouns. Did he actually think they were married? He’d never even seen her before this day.
“I don’t remember,” he said.
Cecilia chose her words carefully. “You don’t remember what?”
He looked up at her with haunted eyes. “I don’t know.”
Cecilia knew she should try to comfort him, but she could only stare. His eyes were hollow, and his skin, already pallid from his illness, seemed to go almost gray. He gripped the bed as if it were a lifeboat, and she had the insane urge to do the same. The room was spinning around them, shrinking into a tight little tunnel.
She could barely breathe.
And he looked like he might shatter.
She forced her eyes to meet his, and she asked the only question that remained.
“Do you remember anything?”
Chapter 2
The barracks here at Hampton Court Palace are tolerable, more than tolerable, I suppose, although nothing to the comforts of home. The officers are housed two to a two-room apartment, so we have a bit of privacy. I have been assigned to live with another lieutenant, a fellow named Rokesby. He is the son of an earl, if you can believe that . . .
—from Thomas Harcourt to his sister Cecilia
Edward fought to breathe. His heart felt as if it were trying to claw its way out of his chest, and all he could think was that he had to get off this cot. He had to figure out what was going on. He had to—
“Stop,” Cecilia cried, throwing herself on him in an effort to keep him down. “You must calm yourself.”
“Let me up,” he argued, although some tiny rational part of his mind was trying to remind him that he didn’t know where to go.
“Please,” she begged, transferring her weight to her grip on each of his wrists. “Take a moment, catch your breath.”
He looked up at her, chest heaving. “What is happening?”
She swallowed and glanced about. “I think we should wait for the doctor.”
But he was far too agitated to listen. “What day is this?” he demanded.
She blinked, as if taken off guard. “Friday.”
“The date,” he bit off.
She didn’t answer right away. When she did, her words were slow, careful. “It is the twenty-fifth day of June.”
Edward’s heart started pounding anew. “What?”
“If you will only wait for—”
“It cannot be.” Edward shoved himself into a more upright position. “You are wrong.”
She shook her head slowly. “I’m not wrong.”
“No. No.” He looked frantically about the room. “Colonel!” he yelled. “Doctor! Anyone!”
“Edward, stop!” she cried, moving to block him when he flung his legs over the side of the bed. “Please, wait for the doctor to see you!”
“You there!” he ordered, pointing a shaky arm toward a dark-skinned man sweeping the floor. “What day is it?”
The man looked to Cecilia with wide eyes, silently asking for guidance.
“What day is it?” Edward said again. “The month. Tell me the month.”
Again, the man’s eyes flicked to Cecilia’s, but he answered, “It is June, sir. End of the month.”
“No,” Edward said, falling back to the bed. “No.”
He closed his eyes, trying to force his thoughts through the pounding in his skull. There had to be a way to fix this. If he just concentrated hard enough, focused on the last thing he could remember . . .
He snapped his eyes back open and looked straight at Cecilia. “I don’t remember you.”
Her throat worked, and Edward knew he should be ashamed of himself for bringing her so close to tears. She was a lady. She was his wife. But surely she would forgive him. He had to know . . . he had to understand what was happening.
“You said my name,” she whispered, “when you woke up.”
“I know who you are,” he said. “I just don’t know you.”
Her face trembled as she rose to her feet, and she tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear before clasping her hands together. She was nervous, that much was easy to see. And then the most disjointed thought popped into his head—she didn’t look very much like that miniature her brother carried about. Her mouth was wide and full, nothing like that sweet, mysterious half moon in her portrait. And her hair wasn’t golden either, at least not the heavenly shade rendered by the painter. It was more of a dark blond. Rather like Thomas’s, actually, although not quite as shot through with brass.
He supposed she didn’t spend as much time in the sun.
“You are Cecilia Harcourt, aren’t you?” he asked. Because it had just occurred to him—she had never actually confirmed this fact.
She nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“And you’re here, in New York.” He stared at her, searching her face. “Why?”
He saw her eyes flick toward the other side of the room, even as she gave her head a little shake. “It’s complicated.”
“But we’re married.” He wasn’t sure whether he’d said it as a statement or a question.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted it to be a statement or a question.
She sat warily on the bed. Edward didn’t blame her for her hesitance. He’d been thrashing about like a trapped animal. She must be quite strong to have been able to subdue him.
Or else he’d become quite weak.
Cecilia swallowed, looking very much as if she were steeling herself for something difficult. “I need to tell you—”
“What is going on?”
She jerked back, and they both looked over at Colonel Stubbs, who was stalking across the chapel with the doctor in tow.
“Why are the blankets on the floor?” the colonel demanded.
Cecilia rose once again to her feet, moving aside so that the doctor could take her place at Edward’s side. “He was struggling,” she said. “He’s confused.”
“I’m not confused,” Edward snapped.
The doctor looked at her. Edward wanted to grab him by the throat. Why was he looking at Cecilia? He was the patient.
“He seems to be missing . . .” Cecilia caught her lip between her teeth, her eyes flitting back and forth between Edward and the doctor. She didn’t know what to say. Edward couldn’t blame her.
“Mrs. Rokesby?” the doctor prodded.
<
br /> There it was again. Mrs. Rokesby. He was married. How the hell was he married?
“Well,” she said helplessly, trying to find the correct words for an impossible situation. “I think he doesn’t remember, ehrm . . .”
“Spit it out, woman,” Colonel Stubbs barked.
Edward was half out of the bed before he realized what he was about. “Your tone, Colonel,” he growled.
“No, no,” Cecilia said quickly. “It’s all right. He means no disrespect. We are all frustrated.”
Edward snorted and would have rolled his eyes except she chose that moment to lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. His shirt was thin, almost threadbare, and he could feel the soft ridges and contours of her fingers settling against him with cool, quiet strength.
It calmed him. His temper did not magically evaporate, but he was able to take a long, even breath—just enough to keep himself from going for the colonel’s throat.
“He was not sure of the date,” Cecilia said, her voice gaining in certitude. “I believe he thought it was . . .” She looked over at Edward.
“Not June,” he said sharply.
The doctor frowned and took Edward’s wrist, nodding as he counted his pulse. When he was through he looked first into one of Edward’s eyes and then the other.
“My eyes are fine,” Edward muttered.
“What is the last thing you remember, Captain Rokesby?” the doctor asked.
Edward opened his mouth, fully intending to answer the question, but his mind stretched before him like an endless expanse of gray misty air. He was on the ocean, the steel blue water unnaturally calm. Not a ripple, not a wave.
Not a thought or memory.
He grabbed the bedsheets in frustration. How the hell was he supposed to recover his memory if he wasn’t even sure what he did remember?
“Try, Rokesby,” Colonel Stubbs said gruffly.
“I am trying,” Edward snapped. Did they think he was an idiot? That he didn’t care? They had no idea what was going on in his head, what it felt like to have a huge blank space where memories ought to be.
“I don’t know,” he finally said. He needed to get ahold of himself. He was a soldier; he had been trained to be calm in the face of danger. “I think . . . maybe . . . I was supposed to go to Connecticut Colony.”