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.”
“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.
Several seconds passed before anyone spoke. Finally Major Wilkins cleared his throat and said, “May I keep this?” He held up the letter from General Garth.
Cecilia barely moved, but Edward saw the turmoil she held tightly behind her pale green eyes. Her chin drew back—just the tiniest hint of movement—and her lower lip trembled before she caught it between her teeth. The letter from the general was her only connection to her brother, and she was clearly loath to part with it.
“Let him take it,” he said to her when she looked to him for guidance. Wilkins could be a boor, but he was a good soldier, and he needed the letter if he was going to get any further in their search for Thomas.
“I will treat it with great care,” Wilkins assured her. He tucked the folded missive in an inside coat pocket and patted it. “I give you my word.”
“Thank you,” Cecilia said. “I apologize if I seem ungrateful. I do appreciate your help.”
A most gracious sentiment, Edward thought, especially considering the major’s complete lack of cooperation up to this point.
“Right, well. I’ll be on my way.” Major Wilkins stood, giving Cecilia a polite bow of his head before turning to Edward. “I do hope your injury improves.”
Edward acknowledged this with a nod. “You will forgive me if I do not rise.” He felt rather queasy all of a sudden, and he had a horrendous premonition that he might empty the contents of his belly if he tried to stand.
“Of course, of course,” the major said in his usual gruff manner. “Think nothing of it.”
“Wait!” Cecilia called out, scrambling to her feet as Wilkins turned to leave.
He tilted his head toward her. “Ma’am?”
“Will you take me to Haarlem tomorrow?”
“What?” Sour stomach be damned, Edward hauled himself upright for that.
“I would like to visit that infirmary,” Cecilia said to the major.
“I will take you,” Edward cut in.
“I don’t think you are in any condition—”
“I will take you.”
Wilkins looked from Edward to Cecilia and back with only slightly concealed amusement before offering her a little shrug. “I cannot countermand a husband’s wishes.”
“But I need to go,” Cecilia protested. “Thomas could be—”
“We have already determined that it is highly unlikely that he is in Haarlem,” Edward said. He clutched the edge of the table, hoping that he wasn’t being too obvious about it. A touch of vertigo had descended upon him with his sudden rise to his feet.
“But he could have been there,” Cecilia said. “And if that’s the case, someone will remember him.”
“I will take you,” Edward said again. Haarlem was only about ten miles away, but ever since the British had lost (and then regained) the territory in 1776, it had felt like more of a wild outpost than the former Dutch village it was. It was no place for a lady alone, and while he did not doubt Major Wilkins’s ability to watch over Cecilia, he could not help but think that it was his duty as her husband to see to her safety.
“If you will allow me to take my leave,” Major Wilkins said, bowing again to Cecilia.
She gave a curt nod. Edward was fairly certain, however, that her ire was not directed at the major. Indeed, the moment Wilkins departed, she turned to Edward and, with jutted chin, said, “I must go to that infirmary.”
“And you will go.” He lowered himself back into his seat. “Just not tomorrow.”
“But—”
“Nothing will change in a day,” he cut in, far too exhausted to argue with her on this matter. “Wilkins is making inquiries. He will gain far more information from General Garth’s attaché than we will from a journey up the island.”
“Surely it would be better if we pursued both avenues of inquiry,” she said, sitting back down beside him.
“I do not argue with you on that point,” he said. He closed his eyes briefly, fighting the wave of fatigue that had fallen over him like a blanket. With a sigh, he continued, “Nothing will be lost if we wait a day or two. I promise.”
“How can you promise?”
God, she was like a dog with a bone. Edward would admire her tenacity if he weren’t so goddamned ill. “Fine,” he snapped. “I can’t promise. For all I know the Continental Army could arrive tomorrow and we will all die before we get the chance to investigate the infirmary. But I can promise that given everything I know—which admittedly isn’t much, but it’s more than you do—a few days will not make a difference.”
She stared at him in shock. It occurred to him that perhaps he ought not to have married a woman with such extraordinary eyes. Because when she stared, it took every ounce of his fortitude not to squirm in his seat.
If he were a metaphysical man, he’d think she could see straight to his soul.
“Major Wilkins could have taken me,” she said with soft defiance.
He fought the urge to groan. “Do you really wish to spend the day with Major Wilkins?”
“Of course not, but—”
“What if you are forced to spend the night? Did you consider that possibility?”
“I made it across the Atlantic on my own, Edward. I’m sure I can tolerate a night in Haarlem.”
“But you shouldn’t have to,” he ground out. “You married me, Cecilia. For God’s sake, let me protect you.”
“But you can’t.”
Edward reeled in his seat. Her words had been soft, but if she had pulled back her fist and slammed it into his neck she could not have landed a better punch.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
His temper, which had been simmering at the surface, started to spit and sizzle. “You’re right,” he said in a harsh voice. “I don’t know. Do you know why? Because I don’t know you. I’m married to you, or so I’m told—”
She flinched.
“—and while I can imagine all sorts of reasons why such a union would have come to pass, I can’t remember a single one of them.”
She said nothing, made no movement save for a tiny tremble passing over her lips.
“You are my wife, aren’t you?” he asked, but his tone was so unkind that he rescinded the question immediately. “Forgive me,” he muttered. “That was uncalled for.”
She regarded him for a few more seconds, her face revealing nothing of her thoughts. But she was pale, unsettlingly so as she said, “I think you should rest.”
“I know I should rest,” he said irritably. “Do you think I don’t feel what is going on in my head? It’s as if someone is taking a hammer to my skull. From the inside out.”
She reached across the table and placed her hand atop his.
“I don’t feel well,” he said. Four little words, yet so hard for a man to say. But still, he felt so much better for having done so.
No, not better. Relieved. Which he supposed was a form of better.
“You are doing remarkably well,” she said. “You must not forget that it has been only a day since you woke up.”
He eyed her with a narrowed stare. “Don’t say that Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
“I would never,” she promised, and he could hear the smile in her voice.
“I felt better this afternoon,” he said. His voice was small, almost childlike to his ears.
“Better? Or improved?”
“Improved,” he admitted. “Although when I kissed you . . .”
He smiled. When he kissed her, he’d almost felt whole.
Cecilia stood and gently took his arm. “Let’s go upstairs.”
He did not have the energy to argue.
“I shall have supper brought to the room,” she said as they made their way to the stairs.
“Not much,” he said. “My stomach . . . I don’t know what I could keep down.”
She looked at him intently. Probably measuring how green his skin had become.
“Broth,” she said. “You must have something. Otherwise you will never regain your strength.”
He nodded. Broth sounded possible.
“Perhaps some laudanum,” she said quietly.
“A small amount.”
“Very small, I promise.”
When they arrived at the top of the stairs, he reached into his coat pocket and took out the key. Wordlessly, he handed it to her and leaned against the wall while she unlocked the door.
“I’ll help you with your boots,” she said, and he saw that she had led him inside and sat him down on the bed without him even realizing it.
“I would remind you that you should not overexert yourself,” she said as she pulled off one boot, “but I am aware that your exertions today were for Thomas.”
“And for you,” he said.
Her hands stilled, but only for a moment. He might not have noticed it if he weren’t so exquisitely aware of her touch.
“Thank you,” she said. She reached behind his heel and gripped his other boot, giving it a sharp tug before sliding it off. Edward crawled under the blankets while she meticulously put them in the corner. “I’ll prepare the laudanum,” she said.
He closed his eyes. He wasn’t sleepy, but his head felt better when his eyes were closed.
“I wonder if you should have remained in hospital for another day.” Her voice was closer now, and he heard her shaking liquid in a bottle.
“No,” he said. “I would rather be here with you.”
Again, she stilled. He didn’t need to see her to know it.
“The hospital was unbearable,” he said. “Some of the men . . .” He didn’t know how much to tell her, how much she already knew. Had she spent the night by his side while he was unconscious? Did she know what it meant to try to sleep while across the room, a man moaned in agony, crying out for his mother?
“I agree with you,” she said, nudging him to scoot into a more upright position. “This is a much more pleasant place to recuperate. But the doctor is at the hospital.”
“Do you think so?” he said with a hint of a smile. “I’d wager he’s downstairs having a pint. Or maybe over at the Fraunces. Better ale there, I think.”
“Speaking of drinks,” Cecilia said, her voice a delightful blend of no-nonsense and good humor, “here is your laudanum.”
“Considerably more potent than a pint,” Edward said, opening his eyes. It wasn’t so bright any longer; Cecilia had pulled the curtains shut.
She held the cup to his lips, but he gave her a little shake and said, “I can do it myself.”
“It’s a very small dose,” she promised.
“The doctor gave you instructions?”
“Yes, and I have some experience with the medicine. My father sometimes had megrims.”
“I did not realize,” he murmured.
“They were not frequent.”
He drank the drug, wincing at the bitter taste of it.
“It’s foul, I know,” she said, but she did not sound especially sympathetic.
“You’d think the alcohol would make it tolerable.”
She smiled a little at that. “I think the only thing that makes it tolerable is the promise of relief.”
He rubbed his temple. “It hurts, Cecilia.”
“I know.”
“I just want to feel like myself again.”
Her lips quivered. “We all want that.”
He yawned, even though logically it was still too soon for the opiate to have taken effect. “You still need to tell me,” he said, sliding back down under the covers.
“Tell you what?”
“Hmmm”—he made a funny little high-pitched noise as he thought about that—“everything.”
“Everything, eh? That might be a touch ambitious.”
“We have time.”
“We do?” Now she sounded amused.
He nodded, and he realized that the drug must have taken hold because he had the oddest feeling—he was too tired to yawn. But he was still able to get a few words out.
“We’re married,” he said. “We have the rest of our lives.”