The Girl with the Make-Believe Husband
That might explain why he had not sold it. She gave him a pathetic nod. “Six, then.”
He reached out and took hold of the big one by its leafy green crown. “Do you have a basket?”
She looked down at her hands. What an idiot she was. She hadn’t thought. “Never mind,” she said. She didn’t need six. Not with one the size of Colossus. “I’ll pay you for six,” she told him, “but I only need the one.”
Mr. Hopchurch looked at her as if she were right crazy, but he was far too sensible to argue. He took her money and dropped the giant berry into her hands. “Fresh from the garden. Be sure to come back and tell me how you like it.”
Cecilia was quite certain he would not like it if she did, but she nodded nonetheless, thanking him before making her way to a quiet spot around the corner.
Dear God, now she had to eat it.
She wondered if this was how Shakespeare’s Juliet felt, right before she took her wicked brew. The body rebelled against ingesting something it knew to be poisonous. And her body knew quite well that this strawberry was just two shades short of hemlock.
Leaning against a building for support, she lifted the red berry and held it near her face. And then, against the protests of her stomach, her nose, and honestly, every last part of her body, she took a bite.
By seven that night, Cecilia wanted to die.
Edward knew this because she said quite clearly: “I want to die.”
“No, you don’t,” he said with more pragmatism than he felt. Logically, he knew that she would be fine, that this was probably a case of bad fish at supper—although he’d eaten what she’d eaten, and he was fine.
But it was hell to watch her suffer. She’d already retched so many times all she had left was some pinkish-yellowish bile. Even worse, her skin was beginning to rise with thick red welts.
“I think we should get a doctor,” he said.
“No,” she moaned. “Don’t go.”
He shook his head. “You’re too ill.”
She grabbed his hand with enough strength to startle him. “I don’t need a doctor.”
“Yes,” he said, “you do.”
“No.” She shook her head, then moaned.
“What?”
She closed her eyes and lay very still. “It made me dizzy,” she whispered. “Can’t shake my head.”
Now she had vertigo? “Cecilia, I really think—”
“It was something I ate,” she cut in weakly. “I’m quite sure.”
He frowned. He’d thought the same, but she was getting worse by the second. “Did you have the fish at supper?”
“Aaaahhh!” She threw her arm over her eyes, even though as far he could tell they were still closed. “Don’t say that word!”
“Fish?”
“Stop!”
“What?”
“Don’t mention food,” she mumbled.
He thought about this. Maybe it was something she ate. He watched for a bit, more wary than worried. She was lying utterly still atop the bedclothes, her arms at her sides in two perfect sticks. She was still wearing the pink frock she’d had on earlier, although he supposed they were going to have to get it cleaned. He didn’t think she’d got any bile on it, but she’d been sweating rather viciously. Come to think of it, he should probably loosen her stays or unfasten her buttons or something to make her more comfortable.
“Cecilia?”
She did not move.
“Cecilia?”
“I’m not dead,” she told him.
“No,” he said, trying not to smile. “I can see that you’re not.”
“I’m just lying very still,” she said.
And she was doing an admirable job of it. He could barely see her lips move.
“If I lie very still,” she continued, her voice coming out slightly singsongy, “it almost feels like I’m not going to . . .”
“Vomit?” he supplied.
“I was going to say die,” she said. “I’m fairly certain I’m still going to vomit.”
He had the chamber pot next to her in a flash.
“Not right now,” she went on, reaching blindly out to push it away. “But soon.”
“When I least expect it?”
“No.” She let out a tired exhale. “More likely when I least expect it.”
He tried not to laugh. He sort of succeeded, but he had a feeling she’d heard him snort. He wasn’t nearly as worried about her as he’d been just a few minutes before. If she maintained her sense of humor, she was probably going to be fine. He wasn’t sure how he knew this, but he’d seen enough bouts of food poisoning to decide that she was probably right; she’d eaten something that had not agreed with her.
The welts were concerning, though. He was rather glad they did not have a looking glass. She would not like what she saw.
Gingerly, he sat on the side of the bed, reaching out so that he could touch her forehead. But when the mattress dipped, Cecilia let out an unholy groan. One of her arms swung blindly through the air, connecting with his thigh.
“Ow!”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” he said with a smile.
“Please don’t rock the bed.”
He pried her fingers from his leg. “I thought you didn’t get seasick.”
“I don’t.”
“If that’s the case, I think you now know how the rest of us feel.”
“I was perfectly happy not knowing.”
“Yes,” he murmured affectionately, “I expect you were.”
She opened one eyelid. “Why does it sound as if you’re enjoying this?”
“Oh, I’m certainly not enjoying this. But I have come to agree with you that you’ve a nasty case of food poisoning. So while I have the utmost sympathy and concern, I am no longer overtly worried for your health.”
She grunted. Aside from the retching, it was possibly the least ladylike noise he’d heard from her lips.
He found it delightful.
“Edward?”
“Yes?”
She swallowed. “Do I have spots on my face?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“They itch.”
“Try not to scratch them,” he said.
“I know.”
He smiled. It was the most gloriously mundane conversation.
“Shall I get you a cool cloth?”
“That would be very nice, thank you.”
He got up, moving carefully so that the mattress did not shift overmuch from the loss of his weight. He found a cloth near the basin, and he dipped it in the water.
“You seem stronger today,” he heard Cecilia say.
“I think I am.” He wrung out the cloth and made his way back to her side. Strange how that worked. He felt the strongest when he could take care of her.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“For what?”
She sighed as he placed the cloth against her forehead. “I know you wanted to go to your godmother’s party this evening.”
“There will be other parties. Besides, as eager as I am to show you off, it would have been exhausting. And then I would have had to watch you dance with other men.”
She looked up at him. “Do you like to dance?”
“Sometimes.”
“Only sometimes?”
He touched her nose. “It depends on my partner.”
She smiled, and for a fleeting moment he thought he saw a tinge of sadness in her face. But it was gone so quickly he couldn’t be sure, and when she spoke, her eyes were tired but clear. “I expect it’s like that with many things in life.”
He touched her cheek, suddenly so grateful for this moment. So grateful for her. “I expect so,” he murmured.
He looked down. She was already asleep.
Chapter 12
I am not even able to put my pen to paper without Edward coming over to assure me that had he been at the assembly, he would have been delighted to dance with you. Oh, now he is cross. I think I might have embarrassed him.
Your brother is a menace.
He commandeered my pen! I shall forgive him if only because we have been trapped in this tent for days. It has not stopped raining since 1753, I am convinced.