Edward walked to the bed and sat down on the edge, offering his silent support.
“I think . . . I think it was desperation.” She tipped her face toward his, and he knew he would be forever haunted by the look in her eyes. It was not sorrow, nor was it fear. It was something much worse—resignation, as if she’d looked within herself and found something hollow. “I felt very alone,” she admitted. “And scared. I don’t know if . . .”
She did not finish her sentence right away. Edward held still, allowing his silence to be his encouragement.
“I don’t know if I would have come if I had not felt so alone,” she finally finished. “I’d like to think that I was thinking only of Thomas, and how much he needed my help, but I wonder if I needed to leave even more.”
“There is no shame in that.”
She looked up. “Isn’t there?”
“No,” he said fervently, taking hold of both her hands. “You are brave, and you have a true and beautiful heart. There is no shame in having fears and worries.”
But her eyes would not meet his.
“And you are not alone,” he vowed. “I promise. You will never be alone.”
He waited for her to say something, to acknowledge the depth of his statement, but she did not. He could see that she was working to regain her composure. Her breathing slowly took on a more regular tenor, and she delicately pulled one of her hands from his to wipe away the moisture that clung to her lashes.
Then she said, “I would like to get dressed.”
It was clearly a request for him to leave.
“Of course,” he said, trying to ignore the pang of disappointment that bounced against his heart.
She gave a little nod and murmured her gratitude as he stood and walked to the door.
“Edward,” she called out.
He turned, a ridiculous flare of hope rising within him.
“Your boots,” she reminded him.
He looked down. He was still in his stockinged feet. He gave a curt nod—not that that would camouflage the deep flush racing up his neck—and grabbed his boots before heading out into the hall.
He could put on the damned things on the stairs.
Chapter 10
An uneventful life sounds marvelous just now. Our date of departure looms, and I do not look forward to the crossing. Did you know that it will take at least five weeks to reach North America? I’m told the journey is shorter coming home—the winds blow predominantly west to east and thus push the ships along. This is small comfort, though. We are not given an anticipated date of return.
Edward bids me to say hello and not to tell you that he is a miserable sailor.
—from Thomas Harcourt to his sister Cecilia
By the time Cecilia found Edward in the main dining room of the Devil’s Head, he was eating breakfast. And wearing his boots.
“Oh, do not rise,” she said, when he pushed his chair back to stand. “Please.”
He went still for the barest of moments, then gave a nod. It cost him, she realized, to forsake his manners as a gentleman. But he was ill. Mending, but ill. Surely he had the right to conserve his energy wherever possible.
And she had a duty to make sure that he did. It was her debt to pay. He might not realize that she owed it, but she did. She was taking advantage of his good nature and his good name. The very least she could do was restore his good health.
She sat across from him, pleased to see that he seemed to be eating more than he had the day before. She was convinced that his lingering weakness was due less to his head injury than it was to his not having eaten for a week.
Goal for today: Make sure that Edward ate properly.
Certainly easier than the previous day’s goal, which was to stop lying so much.
“Are you enjoying your meal?” she asked politely. She did not know him well enough to know his moods, but he’d left their room in a strange rush, without even having put on his boots. Granted, she’d told him she wished to get dressed—which she supposed implied that she hoped for privacy—but surely that had not been an unreasonable request.
He folded the newspaper he’d been perusing, pushed a plate of bacon and eggs toward her, and said, “It’s quite good, thank you.”
“Is there tea?” Cecilia asked hopefully.
“Not this morning, I’m afraid. But”—he tilted his head toward a piece of paper near his plate—“we did receive an invitation.”
It took Cecilia a few moments to understand what should have been a simple statement. “An invitation?” she echoed. “To what?”
And more to the point, from whom? As far as she was aware, the only people who knew she and Edward were married were a few army officers, the doctor, and the man who swept the floor in the church-hospital.
Or rather, they were the only people who thought they knew.
She tried to feign a smile. Her web was growing more tangled by the moment.
“Are you unwell?” Edward asked.
“No,” she said, her voice emerging too suddenly from her throat. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
“You have a very odd expression on your face,” he explained.
She cleared her throat. “Just hungry, I expect.” Dear heavens, she was a terrible liar.
“It is from Governor Tryon,” Edward said, sliding the invitation across the table. “He is hosting a ball.”
“A ball. Now?” Cecilia shook her head in wonder. The lady at the bakery had said that there was still a bustling social scene in New York, but it seemed bizarre, what with battles being fought so close by.
“His daughter turns eighteen. I’m told he refused to allow the occasion to go unmarked.”
Cecilia picked up the vellum—good heavens, where did one get vellum in New York?—and finally took the time to read the words. Sure enough, Captain the Honorable and Mrs. Rokesby had been invited to a celebration in three days’ time.
She said the first thing that came into her mind: “I have nothing to wear.”
Edward shrugged. “We’ll find something.”
She rolled her eyes. He was such a man. “In three days?”
“There is no shortage of seamstresses in need of coin.”
“Which I don’t have.”
He looked up at her as if a small chunk of her brain had just flown out her ear. “But I do. And hence, so do you.”
There was no way Cecilia could argue with that, no matter how mercenary it made her feel inside, so instead she mumbled, “You’d think they might have given us more notice.”
Edward’s head tipped thoughtfully to the side. “I imagine the invitations went out some time ago. I’ve only recently come back from the missing.”
“Of course,” she said hastily. Oh dear heavens, what was she to do about this? She could not go to a ball hosted by the Royal Governor of New York. She had told herself that the only reason she could get away with this charade was because no one would ever know.
She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. No one but the governor, his wife, and every other leading Loyalist in the city.
Who might eventually return to England.
Where they might see Edward’s family.
And ask them about his bride.