by Julia Quinn
Chapter 20
Father has been especially irritable lately. But then, so have I. The month of March is always cold and damp, but it’s been worse than usual this year. He takes a nap each afternoon. I think I might do the same.
—from Cecilia Harcourt to her brother Thomas (letter never received)
Two days later, Cecilia bled.
She’d known it was coming. Her courses were always preceded by a day of lethargy, a bit of cramping in her belly, and a feeling like she’d eaten too much salt.
And yet she’d told herself that maybe she was misreading the signs. Maybe she felt tired because she was tired. She wasn’t sleeping well. How was she to rest properly with Edward on the other side of the bed?
As for the cramping, they’d been serving pie all week at the Devil’s Head. They’d told her there were no strawberries in the filling, but could she really trust the sixteen-year-old barmaid who couldn’t keep her eyes off the brightly clad soldiers? There could have been a strawberry in that pie. Even a single seed could explain Cecilia’s discomfort.
And as for the salt, she had no earthly clue. She was near the ocean. Maybe she was breathing the stuff in.
But then she bled. And as she carefully washed out her rags, she tried not to examine the spark of pain in her chest that came with the realization that she was not with child.
She was relieved. Surely she was relieved. A child would have meant that she would have to trap Edward into marriage. And while a very large part of her would always dream of a cottage in Kent with adorable blue-eyed children, she was coming to realize that this dream had even less of a basis in reality than she’d thought.
It was hard to imagine that a fake marriage could have a honeymoon period, but nothing had been the same since they had received word of Thomas’s death. Cecilia was not an idiot; she knew that they were both grieving, but she did not understand how that alone might account for the intractably awkward chasm that had cracked the world beneath them.
The thing about Edward was, it had all seemed so easy. As if she’d been waiting all of her life to understand who she really was, and then, when he opened his eyes—no, it was later, with their first real conversation—she knew. It was bizarre, since her entire time with him had been built upon a lie, but she’d felt more honestly herself in his company than at any other time in her life.
It wasn’t the sort of thing one even realized right away. Maybe not until it was gone.
And it was gone. Even when he’d tried to comfort her after she’d unpacked Thomas’s trunk, something had been off. She had been unable to relax in his arms, probably because she knew that this too was a lie. He’d thought she was upset about her brother, but what had really pierced her heart was the realization that she now had enough money for a ticket on the Rhiannon.
And now that she knew she wasn’t pregnant . . .
She walked over to the window and balanced her hip on the ledge. There was a slight breeze to the air, a blessed addition to the humidity that had settled over the region. She watched the leaves ruffling in the trees. There weren’t many of them; this part of New York was fairly well built up. But she liked the way one side of the leaves was darker than the other, liked watching the colors flip back and forth, dark to light, green to green.
It was Friday. And with the sky a carpet of unending blue, which meant the Rhiannon would be sailing away that evening.
She should be on it.
She had no business remaining in New York. Her brother was dead, buried up in the woods of Westchester. She couldn’t go visit the grave. It was not safe, and anyway, according to Colonel Stubbs there was no proper marker—nothing with Thomas’s name and age, nothing proclaiming him a beloved brother or dutiful son.
She thought back to that awful day when she’d received the letter from General Garth. Which had turned out to be from Colonel Stubbs, actually, but that mattered little. She had just lost her father, and in the moments before she opened the missive, she’d been so terrified. She remembered exactly what she had been thinking—that if Thomas was dead, there would be no one left in the world whom she loved.
Now Thomas was dead. And there was no one else in the world she was allowed to love.
Edward would eventually regain his memory. She was certain of that. Already the bits and pieces were beginning to sift themselves out. And when he did . . .
It was better if she told him the truth before he discovered it himself.
He had a life back in England, one that did not include her. He had a family who adored him and a girl he was supposed to marry. A girl who, like him, was an aristocrat through and through. And when he remembered her—the inimitable Billie Bridgerton—he’d remember why they made such a good match.
Cecilia pushed herself away from the window ledge, grabbing her coin purse before she headed out the door. If she was leaving tonight, she had a great deal to do, and all of it needed to be done before Edward returned from army headquarters.
First and foremost, she needed to purchase her passage. Then she needed to pack, not that that would take very long. And finally, she needed to write Edward a letter.
She needed to let him know that he was free.
She would leave, and he could get on with his life, the one he was meant to lead. The one he wanted to lead. He might not realize this yet, but he would, and she didn’t want to be anywhere near him when that happened. There were only so many ways a heart could break. Seeing his face when he realized he belonged with someone else?
That might do her in entirely.
She checked the pocket watch Edward kept on the table to serve as their clock. She still had time. He’d gone out earlier that morning—a meeting with Colonel Stubbs, he’d said, one that would last all day. But she needed to get moving.
This was good, she told herself as she hurried down the stairs. This was right. She’d found the money, and she wasn’t pregnant. Clearly they weren’t meant to be.
Goal for today: Believe in fate.
But when she reached the front room of the inn, she heard her name, called out in urgent tones.
“Mrs. Rokesby!”
She turned. Fate, it seemed, looked an awful lot like the innkeeper at the Devil’s Head.
He’d come out from behind his counter and was walking toward her with a strained expression. Behind him was a finely attired woman.
The innkeeper stepped to the side. “This great lady was hoping to see Captain Rokesby.”
Cecilia tilted to the side to better see the woman, who was still somewhat obscured behind the innkeeper’s portly form. “May I help you, ma’am?” she said with a polite curtsy. “I am Captain Rokesby’s wife.”
Strange how easily the lie still slipped from her tongue.
“Yes,” the woman said briskly, motioning for the innkeeper to be gone.
The innkeeper quickly complied.
“I am Mrs. Tryon,” the lady said. “Captain Rokesby’s godmother.”
When Cecilia was twelve years old, she’d been forced to play the part of Mary in her church’s Nativity play. This had required her to stand in front of all her friends and neighbors and recite no fewer than twenty lines of prose, all of which had been religiously drummed into her by the vicar’s wife. But when the time came to open her mouth and announce that she was not married and didn’t understand how she could be with child, she froze. Her mouth opened, but her throat closed, and it didn’t matter how many times poor Mrs. Pentwhistle hissed the lines at her from offstage. Cecilia just couldn’t seem to move the words from her ears to her head to her mouth.
That was the memory that blazed through Cecilia’s head as she stared into the face of the estimable Margaret Tryon, wife of the Royal Governor of New York, and godmother to the man Cecilia was pretending to be married to.
This was much worse.
“Mrs. Tryon,” Cecilia finally managed to squeak out. She curtsied. (Extra deep.)
“You must be Cecilia,” Mrs. Tryon said.
“I am. I . . . ah
. . .” Cecilia looked helplessly around at the tables of the half-filled dining room. This was not her home, and thus she was not the hostess here, but it seemed like she ought to offer to entertain. Finally, she pasted as bright a smile as she could manage on her face and said, “Would you like to sit down?”
Mrs. Tryon’s expression flicked from distaste to resignation, and with a little jerk of her head, she motioned for Cecilia to join her at a table at the far side of the room.
“I came to see Edward,” Mrs. Tryon said once they were settled.
“Yes,” Cecilia replied carefully. “That is what the innkeeper said.”
“He was ill,” Mrs. Tryon stated.
“He was. Although not so much ill as injured.”
“And has he regained his memory?”
“No.”
Mrs. Tryon’s eyes narrowed. “You are not taking advantage of him, are you?”
“No!” Cecilia exclaimed, because she wasn’t. Or rather, she wouldn’t be soon. And because the thought of taking advantage of Edward’s generosity and honor burned like a poker in her heart.
“My godson is very dear to me.”
“He is dear to me, too,” Cecilia said softly.
“Yes, I imagine he is.”
Cecilia had no idea how to interpret that.
Mrs. Tryon began to remove her gloves with military precision, pausing only to say, “Were you aware that he had an arrangement with a young lady in Kent?”
Cecilia swallowed. “Do you mean Miss Bridgerton?”
Mrs. Tryon looked up, and a grudging flash of admiration—possibly for Cecilia’s honesty—passed through her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “It was not a formal engagement, but it was expected.”
“I am aware of that,” Cecilia said. Best to be honest.
“It would have been a splendid match,” Mrs. Tryon went on, her voice becoming almost conversational. But only almost. There was a hint of standoffishness to her words, a vaguely bored note of warning, as if to say—I have control, and I shall not relinquish it.
Cecilia believed her.
“The Bridgertons and the Rokesbys have been friends and neighbors for generations,” Mrs. Tryon went on. “Edward’s mother has told me on many occasions that it was her dearest wish that their families be united.”
Cecilia held her tongue. There wasn’t a thing she could say to that that wouldn’t cast her in a bad light.
Mrs. Tryon finished with her second glove, and let out a little sound—not really a sigh, more of an I-am-regrettably-changing-the-subject sort of noise. “But alas,” she said, “it is not to be.”
Cecilia waited for an impossibly long moment, but Mrs. Tryon did not say more. Finally, Cecilia forced herself to ask, “Was there anything in particular I might help you with?”
“No.”
More silence. Mrs. Tryon, she realized, wielded it like a weapon.
“I . . .” Cecilia motioned helplessly toward the door. There was something about this woman that left her utterly inept. “I have errands,” she finally said.
“As do I.” Mrs. Tryon’s words were crisp, and so were her motions when she rose to her feet.
Cecilia followed her to the door, but before she could bid her farewell, Mrs. Tryon said, “Cecilia—I may call you Cecilia, may I not?”
Cecilia squinted as her eyes adjusted to the sunlight. “Of course.”
“Since fate has brought us together this afternoon, I feel it my duty as your husband’s godmother to impart some advice.”
Their eyes met.
“Do not hurt him.” The words were simple, and starkly given.
“I would never want to,” Cecilia said. It was the truth.
“No, I don’t suppose you would. But you must always remember that he was once destined for someone else.”
It was a cruel statement, but it was not cruelly meant. Cecilia wasn’t sure why she was so certain of this. Perhaps it was the thin veil of moisture in Mrs. Tryon’s eyes, perhaps it was nothing more than instinct.
Maybe it was just her imagination.
It was a reminder, though. She was doing the right thing.
It was midafternoon before Edward finished up with his meetings at the British Army headquarters. Governor Tryon himself had wanted a complete recounting of Edward’s time in Connecticut, and the written account he’d submitted just one day prior for Colonel Stubbs had not been deemed sufficient. So he’d sat with the governor and told him everything he’d already said three times before. He supposed there was some usefulness to it, since Tryon hoped to lead a series of raids on the Connecticut coast in just a few short weeks.
The big surprise, however, occurred right when Edward was leaving. Colonel Stubbs intercepted him at the door and handed him a letter, written on good paper, folded into an envelope, and sealed with wax.
“It’s from Captain Harcourt,” Stubbs said gruffly. “He left it with me in case he did not return.”
Edward stared down at the envelope. “For me?” he asked dumbly.
“I asked him if he wanted us to send something to his father, but he said no. It doesn’t matter, anyway, I suppose, since the father predeceased the son.” Stubbs let out a tired, frowning sigh, and one of his hands came up to scratch his head. “Actually, I don’t know which of them passed on first, but it hardly makes a difference.”
“No,” Edward agreed, still looking down at his name on the front of the envelope, written in Thomas’s slightly untidy script. Men wrote such letters all the time, but usually for their families.
“If you want some privacy to read it, you can use the office across the hall,” Stubbs offered. “Greene is out for the day, and so is Montby, so you should not be bothered.”
“Thank you,” Edward said reflexively. He did want privacy to read his friend’s letter. It was not every day one received messages from the dead, and he had no idea how he might react.
Stubbs escorted him to a small office, even going so far as to open the window to alleviate the heavy, stuffy air. He said something as he departed and shut the door, but Edward didn’t notice. He just stared down at the envelope, taking a deep breath before finally sliding his fingers underneath the wax seal to open it.
Dear Edward,
If you are reading this, I am surely dead. It is strange, really, to write these words. I have never believed in ghosts, but right now the notion is a comfort. I think I should like to come back and haunt you. You deserve it after that episode in Rhode Island with Herr Farmer and the eggs.
Edward smiled as he remembered. It had been a long, boring day, and their quest for an omelet had ended with their getting pelted by eggs from a fat farmer screaming at them in German. It should have been a damned tragedy—they hadn’t had a meal in days that wasn’t bland and boring—but Edward couldn’t remember a time he’d laughed so hard. It had taken Thomas a full day to get the yolk out of his coat, and Edward had been picking bits of shell from his hair all night.
But I shall have the last laugh, because I am going to be wretchedly maudlin and sentimental, and maybe I will even force you to shed a tear over me. That would make me laugh, you know. You’ve always been such a stoic. It was only your sense of humor that made you bearable.
But bearable you were, and I wish to thank you for the gift of true friendship. It was something you bestowed without thinking, something that simply came from within. I am not ashamed to say that I spend half my life in the colonies terrified out of my skull. It is far too easy to die here. I cannot express the comfort it gave me to know that I always had your support.
Edward sucked in a breath of air, and it was only then that he realized how close he was to tears. He could have written the exact same words to Thomas. It was what had made the war bearable. Friendship, and the knowledge that there was at least one other person who valued your life as much as his own.
And now I must impose upon that friendship one last time. Please have a care for Cecilia. She will be alone now. Our father hardly counts. Write to her, if
you will. Tell her what happened to me so that the only word she receives is not from the army. And should you have the opportunity, go visit her. See that she is well. Perhaps you could introduce her to your sister. I think Cecilia would like that. I know that I will rest easier knowing that she might have the opportunity to meet new people and find a life outside of Matlock Bath. Once our father passes, there will be nothing for her there. Our cousin will take ownership of Marswell, and he has always been an oily sort. I should never want Cecilia to be dependent on his generosity and goodwill.
Nor Edward. Cecilia had told him all about Horace. Oily was an apt modifier.
I know this is a great deal to ask of you. Derbyshire isn’t quite the end of the earth—I believe we both know that’s right here in New York—but I am sure that once you return to England, the last thing you will wish to do is travel north to the midlands.
No, but he wouldn’t have to. Wouldn’t Thomas be surprised to know that Cecilia was just a quarter mile away, in room twelve at the Devil’s Head. It was truly a remarkable thing she’d done, crossing an ocean to find her brother. Somehow Edward thought that even Thomas wouldn’t have imagined her capable of it.
So this is farewell. And thank you. There is no one I would trust my sister’s welfare to more than you. And perhaps you will not mind the task so very much. I know you used to read her letters when I was gone. Honestly, did you think I wouldn’t notice?
Edward laughed. He couldn’t believe Thomas had known all along.
I bequeath to you the miniature I have of her. I think she’d want you to have it. I know that I do.
Godspeed, my friend.
Yours most truly,
Thomas Harcourt
Edward stared down at the letter for so long his vision blurred. Thomas had never let on that he knew of Edward’s infatuation with his sister. It was almost mortifying to think of it. But clearly he’d been amused by it. Amused, and maybe . . .
Hopeful?
Had Thomas been a matchmaker at heart? It had certainly sounded that way in his letter. If he’d wanted Edward to marry Cecilia . . .