“Ehrm, no,” she murmured, setting aside a soft white linen shirt. It was well-worn and had clearly been washed many times, but she knew enough of stitchery to see that it had been exceedingly well-made. Thomas had not had such fine shirts. Had his held up as well as Edward’s? She tried to picture her brother mending his clothes and failed miserably. She had always done such things for him. She’d complained, but she’d done it.

What she wouldn’t give to do such things again.

“Cecilia?”

“I’m sorry.” She spied the corner of a leather box and wrapped her hand around it. “My mind was wandering.”

“Somewhere interesting, I hope.”

She turned to face him. “I was thinking of my brother.”

Edward’s face grew solemn. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

“I should have liked to have helped him pack his trunk,” she said. She glanced over her shoulder at Edward. He did not reply, but he gave a little nod, the sort that said he understood.

“He did not come home before he left for North America,” Cecilia continued. “I don’t know that he had anyone to help him.” She looked up. “Did you?”

“My mother,” Edward confirmed. “She insisted. But I was able to make a visit home before I sailed. Crake House is not far from the coast. The journey is under two hours on a swift mount.”

Cecilia nodded sadly. Edward and Thomas’s regiment had departed for the New World from the bustling port of Chatham, in Kent. It had been much too far from Derbyshire for Thomas to consider a trip home.

“Thomas came home with me a few times,” Edward said.

“He did?” Cecilia was surprised by how happy this made her. Thomas’s accounts of his barracks were somewhat grim. She was glad that he’d had the chance to spend some time in a proper home, with a proper family. She glanced over at Edward and with a little smile and a shake of her head said, “He never mentioned it.”

“And here I thought the two of you told each other everything.”

“Not everything,” Cecilia said, mostly to herself. She certainly had not written to Thomas about how much she enjoyed hearing from Edward in his letters to her. If she had had the chance to sit with her brother, to talk with him face-to-face, would she have told him that she was a little bit in love with his best friend?

She thought not. Some things were private, even from one’s favorite brother.

She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. Thomas always liked to say that he was her favorite brother, to which she always replied that he was her only brother. And then their father, who’d never really had much of a sense of humor, would grumble that he’d heard this before, and honestly, couldn’t the two of them work this out?

“What are you thinking about?” Edward asked.

“Sorry. Thomas again.” She scrunched up one side of her mouth. “Did I look sad?”

“No. Rather happy, actually.”

“Oh.” She blinked a few times. “I suppose I was.”

Edward nodded toward the open trunk. “You said you would have liked to help him pack?”

She thought for a moment, her eyes growing wistful. “I think so. It would have been nice to have been able to picture him with his things.”

Edward nodded.

“Not necessary, of course,” she said briskly, turning so that he would not see her blinking back her tears. “But it would have been nice.”

“I didn’t really need my mother’s help,” Edward said quietly.

Cecilia turned slowly to look at him, staring at the face that had become so dear to her in such a short time. She did not know what his mother looked like, but somehow she could still picture the scene: Edward, tall and strong and capable, feigning a touch of incompetence so that his mother could fuss over him.

She met his eyes with solemn respect. “You are a good man, Edward Rokesby.”

For a moment he looked almost surprised by the compliment, and then he blushed, although it was mostly obscured by his beard. She dipped her chin to hide her smile. He’d not be able to hide behind his whiskers for long.

“She’s my mother,” Edward mumbled.

Cecilia flipped open one of the buckles on the shaving kit. “Like I said, a good man.”

He blushed again. She couldn’t see it—she’d already turned away—but she would have sworn that she could feel it, rippling through the still air of the room.

She loved that he blushed.

She loved that she’d caused it.

Still smiling to herself, she looked back down at the trunk, trailing her fingers along its edge. Like all his things, it was well-made, of fine wood and iron, with Edward’s initials formed by a pattern of nails at the top. “What is the G for?”

“G?”

“Your initials. EGR.”

“Ah. George.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

“Why do you say of course?”

She glanced over at him. “What else would it be?”

He rolled his eyes. “Gregory. Geoffrey.”

“No,” she said with the beginnings of a sly smile.

“Gawain.”

She rolled her eyes. “Please. You’re a George.”

“My brother is a George,” he corrected.

“So are you, apparently.”

He shrugged. “It’s a family name.” He watched as she opened the leather bag and took out his straight razor. “What is yours?”

“My middle name? Esmerelda.”

His eyes widened. “Really?”

She laughed. “No. Not really. I’m hardly so exotic. It’s Anne. After my mother.”

“Cecilia Anne. It’s lovely.”

Her cheeks grew warm, which struck her as bizarre, given how many other, far more blush-worthy things had happened to her that day.

“How did you shave while you were in Connecticut?” she asked. His straight razor had obviously been packed away with the rest of his belongings. He had not had it with him when he’d reappeared in Kip’s Bay.

He blinked a few times. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” What an idiot she was. Of course he did not know.

“But,” he said, in a clear attempt to put a halt to her embarrassment, “I do own two razors. The one in your hand is from my grandfather. The other was purchased right before I left. I generally take that one when I am traveling rough.” He frowned. “I wonder what happened to it.”

“I don’t recall seeing it with your things at the hospital.”

“Did I have things at the hospital?”

She frowned. “Now that you ask, no. Just the clothes on your back, I’m told. And whatever was in your pockets. I wasn’t there when you were brought in.”

“Well.” He scratched his chin. “I suppose that is why I don’t take my good razor.”

“It’s very fine,” Cecilia murmured. The handle was ivory, beautifully carved and warm in her hand. The blade, the finest Sheffield steel.

“I’m named for him,” Edward said. “My grandfather. His initials are in the handle. It’s why he gave it to me.”

Cecilia looked down. Sure enough, EGR had been etched delicately at the tip of the ivory. “My father’s razor was similar,” she said, moving over to the washbasin. It was empty, so she dipped it in the tub. “The handle isn’t as fine, but the steel is the same.”

“You are a connoisseur of steel blades?”

She gave him an arch look. “Are you afraid?”

“I think I should be.”

She chuckled. “Anyone living so close to Sheffield knows their steel. Several of the men in the village have left in the last few years to go work at the crucible furnaces.”

“Not a pleasant occupation, I should think.”

“No.” Cecilia thought of her neighbors—her former neighbors, she supposed. They were all young men, mostly the sons of tenant farmers. But none of them looked young after a year or two at the furnaces. “I’m told the pay is considerably better than working in the fields,” she said. “I certainly hope that’s true.”