The Girl with the Make-Believe Husband
She waited for him to take a few more sips, then said, “You really do look better than you did at the meeting with Major Wilkins.” Then it occurred to her that he might think she was trying to talk him into taking her to Haarlem sooner rather than later, so she added, “Not well enough to head north tomorrow, though.”
He seemed to find that amusing. “Maybe the next day.”
“Probably not then, either,” she admitted. She let out a breath. “I have had time to reflect upon our meeting with Major Wilkins. He said that he would make inquiries at the Haarlem infirmary. I still wish to visit myself, but for now, that is enough.” She swallowed, and she wasn’t sure which of them she was trying to reassure when she said, “I will be patient.”
What other choice did she have?
He set the soup on the table and took her hand. “I want to find Thomas as much as you do.”
“I know.” Cecilia looked down at their entwined fingers. It was odd how well they seemed to fit together. His hands were large and square, his skin tanned and rough from work. And hers—well, they were no longer so white and delicate, but she took pride in her newfound calluses. They seemed to say that she was capable, that she could take control of her own destiny. She saw strength in her hands, strength she had not known she possessed.
“We will find him,” Edward said.
She looked up. “We might not.”
His eyes, almost navy blue in the fading light, settled on hers.
“I must be realistic,” she said.
“Realistic, yes,” he said, “but not fatalistic.”
“No.” She managed a little smile. “I’m not that.”
Not yet, anyway.
They did not speak for a few moments, and the silence, which began as something companionable, grew heavy and awkward as Cecilia realized that Edward was trying to figure out the best way to broach an uncomfortable topic. Finally, after clearing his throat several times, he said, “I would like to know more about our marriage.”
Her heart stopped. She’d known this was coming, but still, for a brief moment she could not breathe.
“I do not question your word,” he said. “You are Thomas’s sister, and I hope you will not judge me as too forward if I tell you that I have long felt that I know you from your letters to him.”
She had to look away.
“But I would like to know how it all came about.”
Cecilia swallowed. She’d had several days to come up with a story, but thinking about a lie wasn’t the same as saying it out loud. “It was Thomas’s wish,” she told him. This much was true, or at least she assumed it was. Surely her brother would want to see his dearest friend marry his sister. “He was worried about me,” she added.
“Because of your father’s death?”
“He does not know of that,” Cecilia answered honestly. “But I know that he has long been concerned about my future.”
“He had said as much to me,” Edward confirmed.
She looked up in surprise. “He did?”
“Forgive me. I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but Thomas had intimated that your father was less concerned with your future than he was with his present.”
Cecilia swallowed. Her father had been a good man, but also a fundamentally selfish one. Still, she’d loved him. And she’d known that he’d loved her to the best of his ability. “I brought comfort to my father’s life,” she said, picking her words as if walking through a field of flowers. There had been good times too, and these were what she wished to gather into a bouquet. “And he gave me purpose.”
Edward had been watching her closely as she spoke, and when she chanced a look in his eyes she saw something she thought was pride. Mixed for certain with skepticism. He saw through her words, but he admired her for saying them.
“Anyway,” she said, trying to lighten her tone, “Thomas knew that my father was ailing.”
Edward’s head tipped to the side. “I thought you said it was sudden.”
“It was,” she said hastily. “I mean, I think it’s often like that. Very slow, and then quite quick.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Or maybe it’s not,” she said. Dear God, she sounded like an idiot, but she couldn’t seem to shut her mouth. “I haven’t much experience with the dying. None, actually, except for my father.”
“Nor I,” Edward said. “Not with natural death, at least.”
Cecilia looked at him. His eyes had gone dark.
“I do not count the battlefield as natural,” he said quietly.
“No, of course not.” Cecilia didn’t even want to think about what he had seen. The death of a young man in his prime was far different than the passing of a man her father’s age.
Edward took another sip of his soup, and Cecilia took this to be a signal that she should continue with her tale. “Then my cousin asked for my hand,” she said.
“I take it from your tone that this was not a welcome proposal.”
Her mouth grew tight. “No.”
“Your father did not rebuff him? Wait”—Edward’s hand rose a few inches, his forefinger flexed the way one did before raising a point in a conversation—“was this before or after he died?”
“Before,” Cecilia replied. Her heart sank an inch. This was where the lies began. Horace had not become a menace until after her father had died, and Thomas had never known that he had begun to pressure Cecilia to marry him.
“Of course. It would have to have been because . . .” Edward frowned, pulling his hand from hers and rubbing his chin. “Maybe it’s my head slowing me down, but I can’t keep the timeline straight. I might need you to write this down for me.”
“Of course,” Cecilia said, but her guilt beat inside her like a drum. She could not believe she was letting him think he was the reason the story was so difficult to follow. She tried for a smile, but she wasn’t sure she managed more than a twitch of her lips. “I can hardly believe it either.”
“I’m sorry?”
She should have known she would have to explain that comment. “Just that I can’t quite believe I’m here. In New York.”
“With me.”
She looked at him, at this honorable and generous man she did not deserve. “With you.”
He took her hand and brought it to his lips. Cecilia’s heart melted a little, even as her conscience sobbed. Why did this man have to be so bloody nice?
She took a breath. “Marswell is entailed, and Horace will inherit if something should happen to Thomas.”
“Is that why he proposed?”
She gave him a look. “You don’t think he was overwhelmed by my natural charm and beauty?”
“No, that would be why I proposed.” Edward started to grin, but it quickly fell to a grimace. “I did propose, didn’t I?”
“Sort of. Ah . . .” She felt her face burn. “It was more of, ah . . .” She leapt upon the only possible answer. “Actually, Thomas took care of most of the arrangements.”
Edward did not appear happy with this turn of events.
“It could hardly have happened any other way,” Cecilia pointed out.
“Where was the ceremony?”
She’d thought of that one. “On the ship,” she said.
“Really?” He looked frankly baffled by the whole thing. “Then how did I . . . ?”
“I’m not sure,” Cecilia said.
“But if you were on the ship, when did I . . . ?”
“Just before you left for Connecticut,” Cecilia lied.
“I went through the ceremony three months before you did?”
“They don’t have to take place at the same time,” Cecilia said, aware that she was digging herself in ever deeper. She had more excuses prepared—that the vicar in her village refused to perform a proxy marriage, or that she had not wanted to say her vows until it became absolutely necessary so that Edward might withdraw from the marriage if he changed his mind. But before she could bring herself to utter another falsehood, she realized that he was stroking her finger, right where a ring ought to be.