“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.”