The Girl with the Make-Believe Husband
“I should do,” he said. “The doctor wishes to see me once more before I go. I trust the room is acceptable?”
She nodded, eyes still closed. “You might find it small.”
“But you don’t?”
“I don’t require grand surroundings.”
“Neither do I.”
She opened her eyes. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to imply that you did.”
“I have spent many a night sleeping rough. Any room with a bed will be a luxury. Well, except this one, I suppose,” he said, looking about the makeshift ward. The church pews had been moved against the walls, and the men were lying in a motley collection of cots and beds. A few were on the floor.
“It’s depressing,” she said quietly.
He nodded. He should be grateful. He was whole of limb and body. Weak, perhaps, but he would heal. Some of the other men in the room were not so lucky.
But still, he wanted out.
“I am hungry,” he suddenly declared.
She looked up, and he found he rather enjoyed the startled look in her amazing eyes.
“If the doctor wishes to see me, he can bl—” Edward cleared his throat. “He can find me at the Devil’s Head.”
“Are you sure?” She gave him a concerned look. “I shouldn’t want—”
He cut her off by pointing toward a pile of fabric—scarlet and tan—on a nearby pew. “I think that’s my uniform over there. Would you be so kind as to fetch it?”
“But the doctor—”
“Or I’ll do it myself, and I’m warning you, I’m bare-arsed under this shirt.”
Her cheeks burned scarlet—not quite as deep a hue as his coat, but impressively close—and suddenly it occurred to him:
A proxy marriage.
Him: Several months in Connecticut.
Her: Two weeks in New York.
No wonder he had not recognized her face. He’d never seen her before.
Their marriage?
It had never been consummated.
Chapter 4
Lieutenant Rokesby isn’t unbearable at all. In fact, he’s quite a decent fellow. I think you’d like him. He is from Kent and is practically engaged to his neighbor.
I showed him your miniature. He said you were very pretty.
—from Thomas Harcourt to his sister Cecilia
Edward had insisted upon dressing himself, so Cecilia took this time to head outside to find them something to eat. She had spent the better part of a week in this neighborhood and knew every shop and storefront on the street. The most economical option—and thus her usual choice—was currant buns from Mr. Mather’s cart. They were tolerably tasty, although she suspected their low price was made possible by the inclusion of no more than three currants per bun.
Mr. Lowell, a bit farther down the street, sold actual Chelsea buns, with spiraled dough and cinnamon spice. Cecilia had never counted their currants; she’d eaten only one, bought day-old, and she’d devoured it far too quickly to do anything but moan with pleasure at the sticky-sweet sugar glaze as it dissolved on her tongue.
But around the corner—that was where one found the shop of Mr. Rooijakkers, the Dutch baker. Cecilia had gone in only once; that was all it had taken to see that (a) she could not afford his treats and (b) if she could, she’d be fat as a house in no time.
If there was ever a time for extravagance, though, surely this was the day, with Edward having awakened and in goodish health. Cecilia had two coins in her pocket, enough for a fine treat, and she no longer had to worry about paying for her boardinghouse room. She supposed she should be saving her pennies—the Lord only knew where she’d find herself in the weeks to come—but she could not bring herself to scrimp. Not today.
She pushed open the door, smiling at the tinkle of the bell above, and then sighing with delight at the heavenly smells wafting toward her from the kitchen in the back.
“May I help you?” asked the ginger-haired woman standing behind the counter. She was perhaps a few years older than Cecilia and spoke with a very slight accent, one Cecilia would not have been able to place had she not already known that the proprietors hailed from Holland.
“Yes, thank you, I’ll have a round bread loaf, please,” Cecilia said, motioning toward a row of three sitting plump and pretty on the shelf, with a mottled golden crust that looked different from anything she’d seen back home. “Are they all the same price?”
The woman cocked her head to the side. “They were, but now that you mention it, the one on the right does look a bit small. You can have it for a ha’penny less.”
Cecilia was already calculating where she might go to purchase butter or cheese to eat with the bread, but then she just had to ask, “What is that delicious smell?”
The woman beamed. “Speculaas. Freshly baked. Have you never tried one?”
Cecilia shook her head. She was so hungry. She’d finally had a proper meal the night before, but it had only seemed to remind her belly how badly she had been mistreating it. And while the steak and kidney pie at the Devil’s Head had been good, Cecilia was positively salivating at the thought of something sweet.
“I broke one taking them off the tray,” the woman said. “You can have it for free.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t—”
The woman waved this off. “You’ve never had one. I can’t charge you for trying.”
“Actually, you could,” Cecilia said with a smile, “but I’ll not argue with you further.”
“I haven’t seen you in the shop before.” The woman said this over her shoulder as she scooted into the kitchen.
“I came in once,” Cecilia said, declining to mention that she had not made a purchase. “Last week. There was an older gentleman here.”
“My father,” the woman confirmed.
“Then you are Miss Rooey—ehrm, Roojak—” Good heavens, how did one pronounce it?
“Rooijakkers,” the woman said with a grin as she came back through the doorway. “But actually I’m Mrs. Leverett.”
“Thank heavens,” Cecilia said with a relieved smile. “I know you just said your name, but I don’t think I could reproduce it.”
“I have often told my husband it is why I married him,” Mrs. Leverett joked.
Cecilia laughed until she realized that she too was holding on to a husband for his name. In her case, however, it was so that Major Wilkins would do his bloody job.
“Dutch is not an easy language,” Mrs. Leverett said, “but if you plan to be in New York Town for some time, you might find it worthwhile to learn a few phrases.”
“I don’t know how long I will be here,” Cecilia said honestly. Hopefully not too long. She just wanted to find her brother.
And make sure Edward regained his strength. She couldn’t possibly leave until she was assured of his welfare.
“Your English is excellent,” she said to the baker.
“I was born here. My parents too, but we speak Dutch in the home. Here”—she held out two pieces of flat, caramel-brown biscuit—“try it.”
Cecilia thanked her again, fitting the pieces together into their original oblong shape before lifting the smaller one to her mouth and taking a nibble. “Oh my goodness! This is divine.”
“You like it, then?” Mrs. Leverett’s eyes went wide with delight.
“How could I not?” It tasted of cardamom and clove and slightly burnt sugar. It was completely foreign and yet somehow made her homesick. Perhaps it was the mere act of sharing a biscuit over conversation. Cecilia had been too busy to realize that she had also been lonely.
“Some of the officers say they are too thin and crumbly,” Mrs. Leverett said.
“They are mad,” Cecilia replied through her somewhat full mouth. “Although I must say, these would be excellent with tea.”
“Not easy to come by, I’m afraid.”
“No,” Cecilia said regretfully. She’d known enough to bring some with her, but she had not packed nearly enough, and she’d run out two-thirds of the way across the Atlantic. By the final week she was reusing her leaves and cutting her rations in half for each pot.