“That would be very nice, thank you.”
He got up, moving carefully so that the mattress did not shift overmuch from the loss of his weight. He found a cloth near the basin, and he dipped it in the water.
“You seem stronger today,” he heard Cecilia say.
“I think I am.” He wrung out the cloth and made his way back to her side. Strange how that worked. He felt the strongest when he could take care of her.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“For what?”
She sighed as he placed the cloth against her forehead. “I know you wanted to go to your godmother’s party this evening.”
“There will be other parties. Besides, as eager as I am to show you off, it would have been exhausting. And then I would have had to watch you dance with other men.”
She looked up at him. “Do you like to dance?”
“Sometimes.”
“Only sometimes?”
He touched her nose. “It depends on my partner.”
She smiled, and for a fleeting moment he thought he saw a tinge of sadness in her face. But it was gone so quickly he couldn’t be sure, and when she spoke, her eyes were tired but clear. “I expect it’s like that with many things in life.”
He touched her cheek, suddenly so grateful for this moment. So grateful for her. “I expect so,” he murmured.
He looked down. She was already asleep.
Chapter 12
I am not even able to put my pen to paper without Edward coming over to assure me that had he been at the assembly, he would have been delighted to dance with you. Oh, now he is cross. I think I might have embarrassed him.
Your brother is a menace.
He commandeered my pen! I shall forgive him if only because we have been trapped in this tent for days. It has not stopped raining since 1753, I am convinced.
My dear Miss Harcourt, pray forgive your brother. I fear the humidity has addled his brain. The rain is unrelenting, but it has brought the gift of wildflowers, quite unlike anything I have ever seen. The field is a carpet of lavender and white, and I cannot help but think you would like it very much.
—from Thomas Harcourt (and Edward Rokesby) to Cecilia Harcourt
Cecilia was soon back to her old self, save for a few scabs on her legs where she had not been able to keep from scratching. She resumed her search for Thomas, and Edward often accompanied her. He’d found that mild exercise improved his strength, so when the weather wasn’t too overbearingly hot he tucked her arm in the crook of his elbow, and they walked about town, running errands and asking questions.
And falling in love.
She was, at least. She refused to allow herself to wonder if he felt the same way, although it was more than obvious that he enjoyed her company.
And that he wanted her.
He had taken to kissing her good night. And good morning. And sometimes good afternoon. And with each touch, each shared glance, she felt herself slipping further into a falsehood of her own creation.
But oh, how she wished it were true.
She could be happy with this man. She could be his wife and bear his children, and it would be a wonderful life . . .
Except that it was all a lie. And when it fell apart, she wasn’t going to be able to escape by swallowing a strawberry.
Goal for today: Stop falling in love.
Never had one of her little goals felt less attainable. And more destined for heartbreak.
There were already small signs that Edward’s memory was returning. One morning as he was pulling on his uniform, he turned to Cecilia and said, “I haven’t done this for a while.”
Cecilia, who had been reading the book of poetry he’d brought with him from home, looked up. “Done what?”
He was silent for a moment before he answered, and he frowned, as if he were still working out his thoughts. “Put on my uniform.”
Cecilia used a ribbon to mark her place and closed the book. “You do that every morning.”
“No, before that.” He paused and blinked a few times before saying, “I didn’t wear a uniform in Connecticut.”
She swallowed, trying to set aside her unease. “Are you sure?”
He looked down at himself, smoothing his right hand over the scarlet wool that marked him as a soldier in His Majesty’s Army. “Where did this come from?”
It took her a moment to realize what he was asking. “Your coat? It was in the church.”
“But I wasn’t wearing it when I was brought in.”
This, Cecilia was startled to realize, was a statement, not a question. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t think so. I did not think to ask.”
“I couldn’t have been,” Edward decided. “It was far too clean.”
“Perhaps someone laundered it for you?”
He shook his head in the negative. “We should ask Colonel Stubbs.”
“Of course,” Cecilia demurred.
He did not say anything, but Cecilia knew this meant that his mind was whirring double-time, trying to find the outline of a puzzle that was still missing too many pieces. He stared sightlessly at the window, his hand tapping against his leg, and Cecilia could only wait until he seemed to suddenly come alert, turning sharply toward her to say, “I remembered something else.”
“What?”
“Yesterday, when we were walking along Broad Street. A cat brushed up against me.”
Cecilia did not speak. If there had been a cat, she hadn’t noticed.
“It did that thing cats do,” Edward continued, “rubbing its face against my leg, and I remembered. There was a cat.”
“In Connecticut?”
“Yes. I don’t know why, but I think . . . I think it kept me company.”
“A cat,” she repeated.
He nodded. “It probably doesn’t mean anything, but . . .” His voice trailed off, and his eyes lost their focus again.
“It means you are remembering,” Cecilia said softly.
It took a moment for him to shake off his faraway expression. “Yes.”
“At least it is a happy cat memory,” she offered.
He looked at her quizzically.
“You could have remembered that you’d been bitten. Or scratched.” She moved off the bed and stood. “Instead you know that an animal kept you company when you were alone.”
Her voice caught, and he took a step toward her.
“It comforts me,” she admitted.
“That I was not alone?”
She nodded.
“I’ve always liked cats,” he said, almost absently.
“Even more so now, I should imagine.”
He looked at her with a half smile. “Let us make a summation of what I remember. I didn’t wear a uniform.” He ticked this off on his hand. “There was a cat.”
“Yesterday you said you’d been in a boat,” Cecilia reminded him. They had been out near the river, and the salty tang in the air had jogged loose a spark of memory. He’d been in a boat, he told her. Not a ship, but something smaller, something not meant to go far from shore.