No, it really would not have done to confess just how much he looked forward to Cecilia’s letters.
And then one day, while Thomas was out, and Edward was resting in the room they shared, he found himself thinking of her. There was nothing abnormal about this. He thought about his best friend’s sister far more than would be expected given that they had never actually met. But it had been more than a month since her last letter—an uncommonly lengthy break—and Edward was beginning to worry about her, even though he knew that the delay was almost certainly the fault of ocean winds and currents. The transatlantic post was far from dependable.
But as he lay on his bed, he realized that he could not remember precisely what she’d written in that last letter, and for some reason it became imperative that he do so. Had she described the village busybody as overbearing or overwrought? He could not recall, and it was important. It changed the meaning, and—
Before he knew it, he was in Thomas’s things, fishing out Cecilia’s letters just so he could reread the four sentences she had included for him.
It did not occur to him until he was done just how gravely he’d abused his friend’s privacy.
That he was pathetic, he had realized all along.
Once he started he couldn’t stop. Edward found himself sneaking peeks at Cecilia’s letters whenever Thomas was away. It was his guilty, stealthy secret, and when he had learned that he was being sent to Connecticut, he’d filched two of her stationery sheets for himself, carefully taking only the ones where the final sheet of paper was almost entirely directed to him. Thomas would lose very little of his sister’s words, and Edward would gain . . .
Well, he thought he would gain a little bit of sanity, to be frank. Maybe some hope.
In the end, he’d taken only one of her letters with him to Connecticut, opting to leave the other safely in his trunk. This seemed to have been a prudent plan. According to the people at the hospital, he had not had any papers or property when he’d been found at Kip’s Bay. Heaven only knew where Cecilia’s letter was now. At the bottom of a lake, probably, or maybe kindling for a fire. Edward hoped it had been found by an enterprising bird, torn apart to cushion a nest.
Cecilia would probably like that, he thought.
He did too. It almost took the sting out of the loss.
He’d thought he’d kept it safe, always in his coat pocket. It was strange that—
Edward froze. This was the most he’d remembered since he’d awakened. Nothing of what he’d done or said, just that he’d carried a letter from his wife in his coat pocket.
Or had she even been his wife then? When was the date of their marriage? He’d asked her about it the day before, but they’d veered off the topic, and then—honestly, it was his own fault—he’d demanded that she kiss him.
If he hadn’t got any answers, he had only himself to blame.
This letter, however—the one in his hands—was the one that was most dear to him. It was the first time she’d written expressly to him. There had been nothing terribly personal; it was as if she’d instinctively known that what he needed most was normalcy. She’d filled her page with the mundane, made delightful by her wry perspective.
Edward peeked over his shoulder to make sure that Cecilia was still sleeping, then he carefully unfolded the letter.
Dear Captain Rokesby,
Your description of the wildflowers in the colonies has made me long for spring, which is losing its fierce battle with winter here in Derbyshire. No, I lie. The battle is not fierce. Winter has crushed spring like a bug. We do not even have the pleasure of a fresh, powdery snow. Whatever precipitation we have gleaned has long since melted into a dirty, unpleasant slush, and I fear I have ruined two shoes this season. Not two pair, mind you, two shoes. The left of my slippers and the right of my boots. My frugal soul wants me to cobble together a pair from what remains, but I fear I am too vain for the resulting fashion, not to mention far too poor of balance. The heel of my boot is an inch higher than that of my slippers, and I am quite sure I shall trip over everything, fall down the stairs, and perhaps crash a window. Ask Thomas about the time I stumbled over the rug in our drawing room. ’Twas a sad cascade of maladies that followed.
Do keep yourself safe and Thomas as well, and I will beseech of him to do the same. I shall think of you often and keep you in my prayers.
Your friend,
Cecilia Harcourt
Edward stared at the elegant script for several seconds after he’d read all the words, his forefinger lightly tracing the swirls of her name. Your friend, she’d written. Indeed, that was what she had been, even before he’d known her.
His friend.
And now his wife.
Behind him, he heard the unmistakable sounds of Cecilia waking up. He hastily refolded the letter, tucking it back into the pile from his family.
“Edward?” he heard her say. Her voice was still thick and sleepy, as if at any moment she might slide into an unexpected yawn.
“Good morning,” he said, turning around.
“What were you reading?”
His hand tapped against his thigh. “Just a letter from home.”
“Oh.” She was quiet for a moment, then softly said, “You must miss your family dreadfully.”
“I . . . yes,” he said. And in that single moment he felt like a green boy again, faced with the beautiful girl across the room, the one no one had the courage to speak to. It was ridiculous, utterly mad. He was a grown man, and there had not been a woman who frightened him into silence for over a decade. But he felt as if he’d been caught red-handed.
If she found out that he’d stolen her letters . . .
He was mortified just thinking about it.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“No, no, of course not.” He shoved the entire pile of letters back into his trunk. “Just . . . you know . . . thinking of home.”
She nodded as she pushed herself upright, tucking the bedclothes primly around her.
“I haven’t seen them in—ow!” Edward let out a stream of invective as his big toe slammed into the side of his trunk. He’d been so eager to hide the evidence of his lovesick foolishness that he had not been paying attention to where he was going.
“Are you all right?” she asked, sounding frankly surprised by his reaction.
Edward swore again, then immediately begged her pardon. It had been so long since he’d been in the presence of a lady. His manners were rusty.
“Do not apologize,” she said. “There is nothing so awful as a stubbed toe. I only wish I could say the same when I stub mine.”
“Billie does,” he said.
“Who?”
“Oh, sorry. Billie Bridgerton. My neighbor.” She was still in his thoughts, it seemed. Probably because he’d been looking through those letters from home.