She thought not. Some things were private, even from one’s favorite brother.
She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. Thomas always liked to say that he was her favorite brother, to which she always replied that he was her only brother. And then their father, who’d never really had much of a sense of humor, would grumble that he’d heard this before, and honestly, couldn’t the two of them work this out?
“What are you thinking about?” Edward asked.
“Sorry. Thomas again.” She scrunched up one side of her mouth. “Did I look sad?”
“No. Rather happy, actually.”
“Oh.” She blinked a few times. “I suppose I was.”
Edward nodded toward the open trunk. “You said you would have liked to help him pack?”
She thought for a moment, her eyes growing wistful. “I think so. It would have been nice to have been able to picture him with his things.”
Edward nodded.
“Not necessary, of course,” she said briskly, turning so that he would not see her blinking back her tears. “But it would have been nice.”
“I didn’t really need my mother’s help,” Edward said quietly.
Cecilia turned slowly to look at him, staring at the face that had become so dear to her in such a short time. She did not know what his mother looked like, but somehow she could still picture the scene: Edward, tall and strong and capable, feigning a touch of incompetence so that his mother could fuss over him.
She met his eyes with solemn respect. “You are a good man, Edward Rokesby.”
For a moment he looked almost surprised by the compliment, and then he blushed, although it was mostly obscured by his beard. She dipped her chin to hide her smile. He’d not be able to hide behind his whiskers for long.
“She’s my mother,” Edward mumbled.
Cecilia flipped open one of the buckles on the shaving kit. “Like I said, a good man.”
He blushed again. She couldn’t see it—she’d already turned away—but she would have sworn that she could feel it, rippling through the still air of the room.
She loved that he blushed.
She loved that she’d caused it.
Still smiling to herself, she looked back down at the trunk, trailing her fingers along its edge. Like all his things, it was well-made, of fine wood and iron, with Edward’s initials formed by a pattern of nails at the top. “What is the G for?”
“G?”
“Your initials. EGR.”
“Ah. George.”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“Why do you say of course?”
She glanced over at him. “What else would it be?”
He rolled his eyes. “Gregory. Geoffrey.”
“No,” she said with the beginnings of a sly smile.
“Gawain.”
She rolled her eyes. “Please. You’re a George.”
“My brother is a George,” he corrected.
“So are you, apparently.”
He shrugged. “It’s a family name.” He watched as she opened the leather bag and took out his straight razor. “What is yours?”
“My middle name? Esmerelda.”
His eyes widened. “Really?”
She laughed. “No. Not really. I’m hardly so exotic. It’s Anne. After my mother.”
“Cecilia Anne. It’s lovely.”
Her cheeks grew warm, which struck her as bizarre, given how many other, far more blush-worthy things had happened to her that day.
“How did you shave while you were in Connecticut?” she asked. His straight razor had obviously been packed away with the rest of his belongings. He had not had it with him when he’d reappeared in Kip’s Bay.
He blinked a few times. “I don’t know.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” What an idiot she was. Of course he did not know.
“But,” he said, in a clear attempt to put a halt to her embarrassment, “I do own two razors. The one in your hand is from my grandfather. The other was purchased right before I left. I generally take that one when I am traveling rough.” He frowned. “I wonder what happened to it.”
“I don’t recall seeing it with your things at the hospital.”
“Did I have things at the hospital?”
She frowned. “Now that you ask, no. Just the clothes on your back, I’m told. And whatever was in your pockets. I wasn’t there when you were brought in.”
“Well.” He scratched his chin. “I suppose that is why I don’t take my good razor.”
“It’s very fine,” Cecilia murmured. The handle was ivory, beautifully carved and warm in her hand. The blade, the finest Sheffield steel.
“I’m named for him,” Edward said. “My grandfather. His initials are in the handle. It’s why he gave it to me.”
Cecilia looked down. Sure enough, EGR had been etched delicately at the tip of the ivory. “My father’s razor was similar,” she said, moving over to the washbasin. It was empty, so she dipped it in the tub. “The handle isn’t as fine, but the steel is the same.”
“You are a connoisseur of steel blades?”
She gave him an arch look. “Are you afraid?”
“I think I should be.”
She chuckled. “Anyone living so close to Sheffield knows their steel. Several of the men in the village have left in the last few years to go work at the crucible furnaces.”
“Not a pleasant occupation, I should think.”
“No.” Cecilia thought of her neighbors—her former neighbors, she supposed. They were all young men, mostly the sons of tenant farmers. But none of them looked young after a year or two at the furnaces. “I’m told the pay is considerably better than working in the fields,” she said. “I certainly hope that’s true.”
He nodded as she added a little soap to a dish and worked it into a lather with the brush she’d found alongside the razor. She brought it over to his bedside and frowned.
“What?”
“Your beard is quite long.”
“I’m not as scruffy as that.”
“It’s longer than my father’s ever was.”
“Is that where you honed your skills?”
“Every day for the last few years of his life.” She tilted her head to the side, like an artist examining her canvas. “It would be best if we could trim it first.”
“Alas, I have no shears.”
Cecilia had a sudden vision of the gardener going after his face with the hedge trimmers and had to stifle a snort of laughter.
“What?” Edward demanded.
“Oh, you don’t want to know.” She picked up the brush. “Let’s give this a go.”
Edward lifted his chin, allowing her to coat the left side of his face with the soapy lather. It wasn’t as thick as she’d want, but it would do. She worked carefully, using one hand to stretch his skin while the other scraped the blade down from cheek to chin. With each pass she rinsed the blade in the washtub, watching as the water grew thick with his whiskers.
“You have quite a lot of red in your beard,” she observed. “Does one of your parents have red hair?”
He started to shake his head.
“Don’t move!”
He looked at her sideways. “Don’t ask me questions.”