“Malodorous.” He waited. “I notice you do not contradict me there.”
“You do have a certain, ah, fragrance.”
“And do not forget that I am missing a small corner of my mind.”
She instantly stiffened. “You should not say such things.”
His tone was light but his eyes were straight and direct on hers as he said, “If I don’t find something to mock in this, I shall have to cry.”
She went very still.
“Figuratively,” he said, taking pity on her. “You needn’t worry. I shan’t break down in tears.”
“If you did,” she said haltingly, “I shouldn’t think the less of you. I—I would—”
“Care for me? Tend to my wounds? Dry the salty rivers of my tears?”
Her lips parted, but he did not think she was shocked, merely perplexed. “I did not realize you were such a devotee of sarcasm,” she said.
He shrugged. “I’m not sure I am.”
She went a bit straight as she considered this, her brow puckering until three lines formed in the center of her forehead. She did not move for several seconds, and only when a little whoosh of air crossed her lips did he realize she had been holding her breath. It came out with a bit of her voice, resulting in a pensive noise.
“You seem to be analyzing me,” he said.
She did not deny it. “It is very interesting,” she said, “what you do and do not recall.”
“It is difficult for me to view it as an academic pursuit,” he said without rancor, “but by all means, you should do so. Any breakthroughs will be much appreciated.”
She shifted in her seat. “Have you remembered anything new?”
“Since yesterday?”
She nodded.
“No. At least I don’t think so. It’s difficult to tell when I don’t remember what I don’t remember. I’m not even certain where the memory gap begins.”
“I’m told you left for Connecticut in early March.” Her head tilted to the side, and that mischievous lock of hair fell out of place again. “Do you remember that?”
He thought about this for a moment. “No,” he said. “I vaguely recall being told to go, or rather that I was going to be told to go . . .” He scrubbed the heel of his hand against one of his eyes. What did that even mean? He looked up at Cecilia. “I don’t know why, though.”
“It will come back to you eventually,” she said. “The doctor said that when the head is concussed, the brain needs time to recover.”
He frowned.
“Before you woke up,” she clarified.
“Ah.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, and then, with an awkward motion toward his injury, she asked, “Does it hurt?”
“Like the very devil.”
She moved to stand. “I can get you laudanum.”
“No,” he said quickly. “Thank you. I would rather keep a clear head.” Then he realized what a ridiculous statement that was, all things considered. “Or at least clear enough to recall the events of the last day.”
Her lips twitched.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Laugh.”
“I really shouldn’t.” But she did. Just a little.
And the sound was lovely.
Then she yawned.
“Sleep,” he urged.
“Oh, I couldn’t. I just got here.”
“I won’t tell.”
She gave him a look. “Who would you tell?”
“Fair point,” he conceded. “But still, you obviously need to sleep.”
“I can sleep tonight.” She wiggled a little in her chair, trying to get comfortable. “I’m just going to rest my eyes for a moment.”
He snickered.
“Don’t mock me,” she warned.
“Or you’ll what? You’d never even see me coming.”
She opened one eye. “I have outstanding reflexes.”
Edward chuckled at that, watching as she returned to her expression of repose. She yawned again, this time not even trying to cover it.
Was that what it meant to be married? That one could yawn with impunity? If so, Edward supposed that the institution had much to recommend it.
He watched her as she “rested her eyes.” She really was lovely. Thomas had said his sister was pretty, but in that offhand, brotherly sort of way. He saw what Edward supposed he saw in his own sister Mary: a nice face with all the pieces in the right spots. Thomas would never have noticed, for example, that Cecilia’s eyelashes were a few shades darker than her hair, or that when her eyes were closed, they formed two delicate arcs, almost like slivers of a waxing moon.
Her lips were full, although not in that rosebud way the poets seemed wild for. When she slept, they didn’t quite touch, and he could imagine the whisper of her breath passing between them.
“Do you think you will be able to leave for the Devil’s Head this afternoon?” she asked.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“I told you, I’m just resting my eyes.”
In this she was not lying. She did not so much as lift a lash as she spoke.
“I should do,” he said. “The doctor wishes to see me once more before I go. I trust the room is acceptable?”
She nodded, eyes still closed. “You might find it small.”
“But you don’t?”
“I don’t require grand surroundings.”
“Neither do I.”
She opened her eyes. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to imply that you did.”
“I have spent many a night sleeping rough. Any room with a bed will be a luxury. Well, except this one, I suppose,” he said, looking about the makeshift ward. The church pews had been moved against the walls, and the men were lying in a motley collection of cots and beds. A few were on the floor.
“It’s depressing,” she said quietly.
He nodded. He should be grateful. He was whole of limb and body. Weak, perhaps, but he would heal. Some of the other men in the room were not so lucky.
But still, he wanted out.
“I am hungry,” he suddenly declared.
She looked up, and he found he rather enjoyed the startled look in her amazing eyes.
“If the doctor wishes to see me, he can bl—” Edward cleared his throat. “He can find me at the Devil’s Head.”
“Are you sure?” She gave him a concerned look. “I shouldn’t want—”
He cut her off by pointing toward a pile of fabric—scarlet and tan—on a nearby pew. “I think that’s my uniform over there. Would you be so kind as to fetch it?”
“But the doctor—”
“Or I’ll do it myself, and I’m warning you, I’m bare-arsed under this shirt.”
Her cheeks burned scarlet—not quite as deep a hue as his coat, but impressively close—and suddenly it occurred to him: A proxy marriage.
Him: Several months in Connecticut.
Her: Two weeks in New York.
No wonder he had not recognized her face. He’d never seen her before.
Their marriage?
It had never been consummated.
Chapter 4
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