“No, I don’t suppose you would. But you must always remember that he was once destined for someone else.”
It was a cruel statement, but it was not cruelly meant. Cecilia wasn’t sure why she was so certain of this. Perhaps it was the thin veil of moisture in Mrs. Tryon’s eyes, perhaps it was nothing more than instinct.
Maybe it was just her imagination.
It was a reminder, though. She was doing the right thing.
It was midafternoon before Edward finished up with his meetings at the British Army headquarters. Governor Tryon himself had wanted a complete recounting of Edward’s time in Connecticut, and the written account he’d submitted just one day prior for Colonel Stubbs had not been deemed sufficient. So he’d sat with the governor and told him everything he’d already said three times before. He supposed there was some usefulness to it, since Tryon hoped to lead a series of raids on the Connecticut coast in just a few short weeks.
The big surprise, however, occurred right when Edward was leaving. Colonel Stubbs intercepted him at the door and handed him a letter, written on good paper, folded into an envelope, and sealed with wax.
“It’s from Captain Harcourt,” Stubbs said gruffly. “He left it with me in case he did not return.”
Edward stared down at the envelope. “For me?” he asked dumbly.
“I asked him if he wanted us to send something to his father, but he said no. It doesn’t matter, anyway, I suppose, since the father predeceased the son.” Stubbs let out a tired, frowning sigh, and one of his hands came up to scratch his head. “Actually, I don’t know which of them passed on first, but it hardly makes a difference.”
“No,” Edward agreed, still looking down at his name on the front of the envelope, written in Thomas’s slightly untidy script. Men wrote such letters all the time, but usually for their families.
“If you want some privacy to read it, you can use the office across the hall,” Stubbs offered. “Greene is out for the day, and so is Montby, so you should not be bothered.”
“Thank you,” Edward said reflexively. He did want privacy to read his friend’s letter. It was not every day one received messages from the dead, and he had no idea how he might react.
Stubbs escorted him to a small office, even going so far as to open the window to alleviate the heavy, stuffy air. He said something as he departed and shut the door, but Edward didn’t notice. He just stared down at the envelope, taking a deep breath before finally sliding his fingers underneath the wax seal to open it.
Dear Edward,
If you are reading this, I am surely dead. It is strange, really, to write these words. I have never believed in ghosts, but right now the notion is a comfort. I think I should like to come back and haunt you. You deserve it after that episode in Rhode Island with Herr Farmer and the eggs.
Edward smiled as he remembered. It had been a long, boring day, and their quest for an omelet had ended with their getting pelted by eggs from a fat farmer screaming at them in German. It should have been a damned tragedy—they hadn’t had a meal in days that wasn’t bland and boring—but Edward couldn’t remember a time he’d laughed so hard. It had taken Thomas a full day to get the yolk out of his coat, and Edward had been picking bits of shell from his hair all night.
But I shall have the last laugh, because I am going to be wretchedly maudlin and sentimental, and maybe I will even force you to shed a tear over me. That would make me laugh, you know. You’ve always been such a stoic. It was only your sense of humor that made you bearable.
But bearable you were, and I wish to thank you for the gift of true friendship. It was something you bestowed without thinking, something that simply came from within. I am not ashamed to say that I spend half my life in the colonies terrified out of my skull. It is far too easy to die here. I cannot express the comfort it gave me to know that I always had your support.
Edward sucked in a breath of air, and it was only then that he realized how close he was to tears. He could have written the exact same words to Thomas. It was what had made the war bearable. Friendship, and the knowledge that there was at least one other person who valued your life as much as his own.
And now I must impose upon that friendship one last time. Please have a care for Cecilia. She will be alone now. Our father hardly counts. Write to her, if you will. Tell her what happened to me so that the only word she receives is not from the army. And should you have the opportunity, go visit her. See that she is well. Perhaps you could introduce her to your sister. I think Cecilia would like that. I know that I will rest easier knowing that she might have the opportunity to meet new people and find a life outside of Matlock Bath. Once our father passes, there will be nothing for her there. Our cousin will take ownership of Marswell, and he has always been an oily sort. I should never want Cecilia to be dependent on his generosity and goodwill.
Nor Edward. Cecilia had told him all about Horace. Oily was an apt modifier.
I know this is a great deal to ask of you. Derbyshire isn’t quite the end of the earth—I believe we both know that’s right here in New York—but I am sure that once you return to England, the last thing you will wish to do is travel north to the midlands.
No, but he wouldn’t have to. Wouldn’t Thomas be surprised to know that Cecilia was just a quarter mile away, in room twelve at the Devil’s Head. It was truly a remarkable thing she’d done, crossing an ocean to find her brother. Somehow Edward thought that even Thomas wouldn’t have imagined her capable of it.
So this is farewell. And thank you. There is no one I would trust my sister’s welfare to more than you. And perhaps you will not mind the task so very much. I know you used to read her letters when I was gone. Honestly, did you think I wouldn’t notice?
Edward laughed. He couldn’t believe Thomas had known all along.
I bequeath to you the miniature I have of her. I think she’d want you to have it. I know that I do.
Godspeed, my friend.
Yours most truly,
Thomas Harcourt
Edward stared down at the letter for so long his vision blurred. Thomas had never let on that he knew of Edward’s infatuation with his sister. It was almost mortifying to think of it. But clearly he’d been amused by it. Amused, and maybe . . .
Hopeful?
Had Thomas been a matchmaker at heart? It had certainly sounded that way in his letter. If he’d wanted Edward to marry Cecilia . . .
Could Thomas have written to her about it? She’d said that he had made the arrangements for the marriage. What if . . .
Edward felt the blood drain from his face. What if Cecilia really did think they were married? What if she hadn’t been lying at all?