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 salivating 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.
“Some of the officers say they are too thin and crumbly,” Mrs. Leverett said.
“They are mad,” Cecilia replied through her somewhat full mouth. “Although I must say, these would be excellent with tea.”
“Not easy to come by, I’m afraid.”
“No,” Cecilia said regretfully. She’d known enough to bring some with her, but she had not packed nearly enough, and she’d run out two-thirds of the way across the Atlantic. By the final week she was reusing her leaves and cutting her rations in half for each pot.
“I should not complain,” Mrs. Leverett said. “We are still able to get sugar, and that is far more important for a bakery.”
Cecilia nodded, taking a nibble of the second half of her biscuit. She needed to make this one last a little longer.
“The officers have tea,” Mrs. Leverett continued. “Not a lot, but more than anyone else.”
Edward was an officer. Cecilia did not wish to take advantage of his wealth, but if he could procure some tea . . .
She thought she might offer up a very small portion of her soul for a good cup.
“You did not say your name,” Mrs. Leverett said.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m quite in a fog today. I am Miss Har—I’m sorry. Mrs. Rokesby.”
The other woman smiled knowingly. “Newly married?”
“Quite.” How quite, Cecilia could not possibly explain. “My husband”—she tried not to stumble over the word—“is an officer. A captain.”
“I had suspected as much,” Mrs. Leverett remarked. “No other reason you’d be here in New York Town in the middle of a war.”
“It’s strange,” Cecilia mused. “It doesn’t feel like a war. If I didn’t see the wounded soldiers . . .” She stopped, reconsidering her words. She might not be witness to actual fighting in this British outpost, but signs of struggle and deprivation were everywhere. The harbor was filled with prison ships, and indeed, when Cecilia’s ship had sailed in, she had been warned to stay below as they passed.
The smell, she’d heard, was too much to bear.
“I beg your pardon,” she said to the other woman. “I spoke most callously. There is much more to war than the front of a battlefield.”
Mrs. Leverett smiled, but it was a sad smile. Tired. “There is no need to apologize. It has been relatively quiet here for two years. Pray God it remains so.”
“Indeed,” Cecilia murmured. She glanced out the window—why, she wasn’t sure. “I suppose I must go soon. But first, please do wrap up a half dozen speculaas.” She frowned, doing a little arithmetic in her head. She had just enough money in her pocket. “No, make that a dozen.”
“A full dozen?” Mrs. Leverett gave her a cheeky grin. “I hope you find that tea.”
“I hope so too. I’m celebrating. My husband”—there was that word again—“is leaving hospital today.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I did not realize. But I assume this means he is recovered.”
“Almost.” Cecilia thought of Edward, still so thin and pale. She had not even seen him out of bed yet. “He still needs time to rest and regain his strength.”
“How lucky he is to have his wife at his side.”
Cecilia nodded, but her throat felt tight. She wished she could say it was because the speculaas had made her thirsty, but she was fairly certain it was her own conscience.
“You know,” Mrs. Leverett said, “there is much to enjoy here in New York, even with the war so close. The upper crust still hosts parties. I do not attend, of course, but I see the ladies in their finery from time to time.”
“Really?” Cecilia’s brows rose.
“Oh yes. And I believe there will be a performance of Macbeth next week at the John Street Theatre.”
“You’re joking.”
Mrs. Leverett held up a hand. “On my father’s ovens, I swear it.”
Cecilia could not help but laugh at that. “Perhaps I shall try to attend. It has been some time since I went to the theater.”
“I cannot vouch for the quality of the production,” Mrs. Leverett said. “I believe that most of the roles are being played by British officers.”
Cecilia tried to imagine Colonel Stubbs or Major Wilkins treading the boards. It was not a pretty image.
“My sister went when they did Othello,” Mrs. Leverett continued. “She said the scenery was very prettily painted.”
If that wasn’t damning with faint praise, Cecilia didn’t know what was. But beggars couldn’t be choosers, and truly, she didn’t often get to see Shakespeare in Derbyshire. Maybe she would try to go.
If Edward was up to it.
If they were still “married.”
Cecilia sighed.
“Did you say something?”
Cecilia shook her head, but it must have been a rhetorical question because Mrs. Leverett was already wrapping the speculaas in a cloth. “I’m afraid we haven’t paper,” the baker said with an apologetic expression. “Like tea, it is in short supply.”
“It means I shall have to come back to return your cloth,” Cecilia said. And when she realized how happy that made her—just the thought of sharing a greeting with a woman her own age—she said, “I’m Cecilia.”
“Beatrix,” said the other woman.
“I’m very glad to have met you,” Cecilia said. “And thank you for—no, wait. How do I say thank you in Dutch?”
Beatrix smiled broadly. “Dank u.”
Cecilia blinked in surprise. “Really? That’s it?”
“You picked an easy one,” Beatrix said with a shrug. “If you wanted to learn please . . .”
“Oh, don’t tell me,” Cecilia said, knowing that she would, regardless.
“Alstublieft,” Beatrix said with a grin. “And don’t say it sounds like a sneeze.”
Cecilia chuckled. “I’ll stick to dank u. At least for now.”
“Go on,” Beatrix said. “Get back to your husband.”
That word again. Cecilia smiled her farewell, but it felt hollow. What would Beatrix Leverett think if she knew Cecilia was nothing but a fraud?
She got out of the store before her tears could prick their way out of her eyes.
“I hope you have a sweet tooth, because I bought—oh.”
Edward looked up. His wife had returned with a small cloth bundle and a determined smile.
Not determined enough, though. It wobbled and fell when she saw him sitting with slumped shoulders at the end of his bed.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
Not really. He’d managed to dress himself, but that was only because she’d placed his uniform on the bed before she left. Honestly, he didn’t know if he would have been able to make it across the room on his own. He’d known he was weak, but he had not realized just how much until he had swung his legs over the side of his cot and tried to stand.
He was pathetic.
“I’m fine,” he muttered.
“Of course,” she murmured unconvincingly. “I . . . ah . . . Would you care for a biscuit?”
He watched her slim hands as she unwrapped her bundle.
“Speculaas,” he said, recognizing them instantly.
“You’ve had them before? Oh, of course you have. I forget, you’ve been here for years.”
“Not years,” he said, taking one of the thin biscuits. “I was in Massachusetts for nearly a year. Then Rhode Island.” He took a bite. God, they were good. He looked up. “And apparently Connecticut too, not that I remember it.”
Cecilia sat on the end of the bed. Well, more like a perch. She had that look of someone who didn’t want to get too comfortable. “Did the Dutch settle all over the colonies?”
“Just here.” He finished off the biscuit and reached for another. “It hasn’t been New Amsterdam for over a century, but most of the Dutch stayed when the island traded ownership.” He frowned. Actually, he had no idea if most had stayed, but walking around town, it felt like they had. Dutch influence was all over the island, from the distinctive zigzag façades on the buildings to the speculaas biscuits and crunch bread at the bakery.
“I learned how to say thank you,” she said.
He felt himself smile. “Very ambitious of you.”
She gave him a look. “I take it you know the phrase, then.”
He took another biscuit. “Dank u.”
“You’re quite welcome,” she said with a little flick of her eyes, “but perhaps you should slow down. I don’t think it’s a good idea to eat too much at once.”
“Probably not,” he agreed, but he ate it, anyway.
She waited patiently while he finished, then she waited patiently while he sat on the edge of the cot, trying to summon his strength.
She was a patient woman, his wife. She’d have to be, sitting three days at his boring bedside. Not much to do with an unconscious husband.
He thought about her journey across the Atlantic. To get word of her brother and then decide to go help him, all the time knowing it would take months . . .
That too bore the hallmark of a patient individual.
He wondered if she sometimes wanted to scream in frustration.
She was going to have to be patient for a bit longer, he thought grimly. His legs were like jelly. He could barely walk. Hell, even just standing was a chore, and as for making their marriage legal in every way . . .
That was going to have to wait.
More was the pity.
Although it did occur to him that they could still get out of this union if they so chose. Annulment on account of nonconsummation was a tricky legal maneuver, but then again, so was a proxy marriage. If he did not want to be married, he was fairly certain he did not have to be.
“Edward?”
Her voice tickled at the edge of his mind, but he was too lost in his thoughts to respond. Did he wish to be married to her? If not, he damned well couldn’t accompany her to the Devil’s Head. He might not possess the strength to take her properly to bed, but if they shared a room, even for one night, she would be thoroughly compromised.
“Edward?”
He turned, slowly, forcing himself to focus. She was looking at him with concern, but even that could not cloud the startling clarity of her eyes.
She laid a hand over his. “Are you certain you are well enough to leave today? Should I find the doctor?”
He searched her face. “Do you want to be married to me?”
“What?” Something close to alarm raced over her features. “I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to be married to me,” he said carefully. “We have not consummated the marriage.”
Her lips parted, and oddly enough, he could see that she was not breathing. “I thought you didn’t remember,” she whispered.
“I don’t have to remember. It’s simple logic. I was in Connecticut when you arrived. We had never been in a room together before you came to the hospital.”
She swallowed, and his eyes fell to her throat, to the delicate arc of it, to the pulse quivering under her skin.
God, he wanted to kiss her.
“What do you want, Cecilia?”
Say you want me.
The thought burst through his brain. He did not want her to leave him. He could barely stand on his own. It would be weeks before he’d regain even half his strength. He needed her.
And he wanted her.
But most of all, he wanted her to want him.
Cecilia did not speak for several seconds. Her hand left his, and she hugged her arms to her body. She seemed to be looking at a soldier on the other side of the church as she asked, “Are you offering to release me?”
“If that is what you want.”
Slowly, her eyes met his. “What do you want?”
“That is not the question.”
“I rather think it is.”
“I am a gentleman,” he said stiffly. “I will bow to your wishes in this matter.”
“I . . .” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I . . . don’t want you to feel trapped.”
“I don’t feel trapped.”
“You don’t?” She sounded honestly surprised.
He shrugged. “I have to marry eventually.”
If she found this unromantic, it did not show on her face.
“I obviously agreed to the marriage,” he said. He loved Thomas Harcourt like a brother, but Edward could not imagine what might have made him consent to a marriage he did not want. If he was married to Cecilia, he had damned well wanted to be.
He looked closely at her.
Her gaze slipped to the floor.
Was she assessing her options? Trying to decide if she truly wished to be the wife of a man whose brain was not whole? He might remain this way for the rest of his life. For all they knew the damage went deeper than his memory. What if he awakened one day and could no longer speak? Or move properly? She might find herself being forced to care for him as she would a child.
It could happen. There was no way to know.
“What do you want, Cecilia?” he asked, aware that a note of impatience had entered his voice.
“I . . .” She swallowed, and when she spoke again, her voice was a little more certain. “I think we should go to the Devil’s Head. This is not a conversation I wish to have here.”
“Nothing is going to change in the next half hour.”
“Nevertheless, you could do with a meal not made of flour and sugar. And a bath. And a shave.” She stood, but not so fast that he missed the pink flush of her cheeks. “I shall offer you privacy for the latter two.”
“Very generous of you.”
She did not comment upon his dry tone. Instead she reached for his coat, which lay draped like a slash of scarlet across the foot of his bed. She held it out. “We have a meeting this afternoon. With Major Wilkins.”
“Why?”
“He brings news of Thomas. Or at least I hope he does. I saw him at the inn last night. He said he would make inquiries.”
“He has not already done so?”
She looked slightly uncomfortable as she said, “I took your advice and informed him of our marriage.”
Ah. Now it became clear. She needed him too. Edward forced a smile around his gritted teeth. It was not the first time a lady had found his name the most attractive thing about him. At least this lady had unselfish motives.
She held out his coat. With some effort, he stood and allowed her to help him don it.
“You’ll be warm,” she warned him.
“It is, as you say, June.”
“Not like June in Derbyshire,” she muttered.
He permitted himself a smile at that. The summer air in the colonies had an unpleasant solid quality to it. Rather like fog, if one heated it to the temperature of one’s body.
He looked toward the door, took a breath. “I . . . I will need help.”
“We all need help,” she said quietly. She took his arm, and then slowly, without a word, they made their way out to the street, where a carriage awaited to take them the short distance to the Devil’s Head.