The Girl with the Make-Believe Husband

“I should not complain,” Mrs. Leverett said. “We are still able to get sugar, and that is far more important for a bakery.”

Cecilia nodded, taking a nibble of the second half of her biscuit. She needed to make this one last a little longer.

“The officers have tea,” Mrs. Leverett continued. “Not a lot, but more than anyone else.”

Edward was an officer. Cecilia did not wish to take advantage of his wealth, but if he could procure some tea . . .

She thought she might offer up a very small portion of her soul for a good cup.

“You did not say your name,” Mrs. Leverett said.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m quite in a fog today. I am Miss Har—I’m sorry. Mrs. Rokesby.”

The other woman smiled knowingly. “Newly married?”

“Quite.” How quite, Cecilia could not possibly explain. “My husband”—she tried not to stumble over the word—“is an officer. A captain.”

“I had suspected as much,” Mrs. Leverett remarked. “No other reason you’d be here in New York Town in the middle of a war.”

“It’s strange,” Cecilia mused. “It doesn’t feel like a war. If I didn’t see the wounded soldiers . . .” She stopped, reconsidering her words. She might not be witness to actual fighting in this British outpost, but signs of struggle and deprivation were everywhere. The harbor was filled with prison ships, and indeed, when Cecilia’s ship had sailed in, she had been warned to stay below as they passed.

The smell, she’d heard, was too much to bear.

“I beg your pardon,” she said to the other woman. “I spoke most callously. There is much more to war than the front of a battlefield.”

Mrs. Leverett smiled, but it was a sad smile. Tired. “There is no need to apologize. It has been relatively quiet here for two years. Pray God it remains so.”

“Indeed,” Cecilia murmured. She glanced out the window—why, she wasn’t sure. “I suppose I must go soon. But first, please do wrap up a half dozen speculaas.” She frowned, doing a little arithmetic in her head. She had just enough money in her pocket. “No, make that a dozen.”

“A full dozen?” Mrs. Leverett gave her a cheeky grin. “I hope you find that tea.”

“I hope so too. I’m celebrating. My husband”—there was that word again—“is leaving hospital today.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I did not realize. But I assume this means he is recovered.”

“Almost.” Cecilia thought of Edward, still so thin and pale. She had not even seen him out of bed yet. “He still needs time to rest and regain his strength.”

“How lucky he is to have his wife at his side.”

Cecilia nodded, but her throat felt tight. She wished she could say it was because the speculaas had made her thirsty, but she was fairly certain it was her own conscience.

“You know,” Mrs. Leverett said, “there is much to enjoy here in New York, even with the war so close. The upper crust still hosts parties. I do not attend, of course, but I see the ladies in their finery from time to time.”

“Really?” Cecilia’s brows rose.

“Oh yes. And I believe there will be a performance of Macbeth next week at the John Street Theatre.”

“You’re joking.”

Mrs. Leverett held up a hand. “On my father’s ovens, I swear it.”

Cecilia could not help but laugh at that. “Perhaps I shall try to attend. It has been some time since I went to the theater.”

“I cannot vouch for the quality of the production,” Mrs. Leverett said. “I believe that most of the roles are being played by British officers.”

Cecilia tried to imagine Colonel Stubbs or Major Wilkins treading the boards. It was not a pretty image.

“My sister went when they did Othello,” Mrs. Leverett continued. “She said the scenery was very prettily painted.”

If that wasn’t damning with faint praise, Cecilia didn’t know what was. But beggars couldn’t be choosers, and truly, she didn’t often get to see Shakespeare in Derbyshire. Maybe she would try to go.

If Edward was up to it.

If they were still “married.”

Cecilia sighed.

“Did you say something?”

Cecilia shook her head, but it must have been a rhetorical question because Mrs. Leverett was already wrapping the speculaas in a cloth. “I’m afraid we haven’t paper,” the baker said with an apologetic expression. “Like tea, it is in short supply.”

“It means I shall have to come back to return your cloth,” Cecilia said. And when she realized how happy that made her—just the thought of sharing a greeting with a woman her own age—she said, “I’m Cecilia.”

“Beatrix,” said the other woman.

“I’m very glad to have met you,” Cecilia said. “And thank you for—no, wait. How do I say thank you in Dutch?”

Beatrix smiled broadly. “Dank u.”

Cecilia blinked in surprise. “Really? That’s it?”

“You picked an easy one,” Beatrix said with a shrug. “If you wanted to learn please . . .”

“Oh, don’t tell me,” Cecilia said, knowing that she would, regardless.

“Alstublieft,” Beatrix said with a grin. “And don’t say it sounds like a sneeze.”

Cecilia chuckled. “I’ll stick to dank u. At least for now.”

“Go on,” Beatrix said. “Get back to your husband.”

That word again. Cecilia smiled her farewell, but it felt hollow. What would Beatrix Leverett think if she knew Cecilia was nothing but a fraud?

She got out of the store before her tears could prick their way out of her eyes.

“I hope you have a sweet tooth, because I bought—oh.”

Edward looked up. His wife had returned with a small cloth bundle and a determined smile.

Not determined enough, though. It wobbled and fell when she saw him sitting with slumped shoulders at the end of his bed.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

Not really. He’d managed to dress himself, but that was only because she’d placed his uniform on the bed before she left. Honestly, he didn’t know if he would have been able to make it across the room on his own. He’d known he was weak, but he had not realized just how much until he had swung his legs over the side of his cot and tried to stand.

He was pathetic.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

“Of course,” she murmured unconvincingly. “I . . . ah . . . Would you care for a biscuit?”

He watched her slim hands as she unwrapped her bundle.

“Speculaas,” he said, recognizing them instantly.

“You’ve had them before? Oh, of course you have. I forget, you’ve been here for years.”

“Not years,” he said, taking one of the thin biscuits. “I was in Massachusetts for nearly a year. Then Rhode Island.” He took a bite. God, they were good. He looked up. “And apparently Connecticut too, not that I remember it.”

Cecilia sat on the end of the bed. Well, more like a perch. She had that look of someone who didn’t want to get too comfortable. “Did the Dutch settle all over the colonies?”

“Just here.” He finished off the biscuit and reached for another. “It hasn’t been New Amsterdam for over a century, but most of the Dutch stayed when the island traded ownership.” He frowned. Actually, he had no idea if most had stayed, but walking around town, it felt like they had. Dutch influence was all over the island, from the distinctive zigzag façades on the buildings to the speculaas biscuits and crunch bread at the bakery.

“I learned how to say thank you,” she said.

He felt himself smile. “Very ambitious of you.”

She gave him a look. “I take it you know the phrase, then.”

He took another biscuit. “Dank u.”

“You’re quite welcome,” she said with a little flick of her eyes, “but perhaps you should slow down. I don’t think it’s a good idea to eat too much at once.”