I regret to inform you that Captain the Hon. Edward Rokesby went missing on 22 March 1779 in Connecticut Colony. We are making every effort to recover him safely.
God bless and Godspeed,
Brigadier General Geo. Garth
“Missing,” George said, looking helplessly around the room. “What does that even mean?”
No one had an answer.
George stared down at the paper in his hands, his eyes taking in every last loop of the script. The message was spectacular in its lack of information. Why was Edward in Connecticut Colony? The last they’d heard he was in New York Town, boarded at a loyalist tavern while keeping an eye on General Washington’s troops across the Hudson River.
“If he’s missing…” he said, thinking out loud. “They have to know.”
“Know what?” Billie asked. She was looking up at him from her position on the sofa, probably the only person close enough to hear his words.
He shook his head, still trying to make sense of it. From the (admittedly sparse) wording of the missive, it seemed that the army was certain that Edward was still alive. Which meant that the general had at least some idea where he was.
If that were the case, why didn’t he just say so?
George raked his fingers through his hair, the ball of his hand rubbing hard against his forehead. “How can a decorated soldier go missing?” he asked, turning back to the rest of the room. “Was he kidnapped? Is that what they are trying to tell us?”
“I’m not sure they know,” Felix said quietly.
“Oh, they bloody well know,” George nearly spat. “They just don’t want —”
But Andrew cut him off. “It’s not like here,” he said, his voice hollow and dull.
George shot him an irritated glance. “I know, but what —”
“It’s not like here,” Andrew said again, this time with rising anger. “The villages are far apart. The farms don’t even border each other. There are giant swaths of land that nobody owns.”
Everyone stared at him.
“And there are savages,” Andrew said.
George stepped closer, trying to block his mother’s view of Andrew’s tortured face. “This is not the time,” he said in a harsh whisper. His brother might be in shock, but so were they all. It was time for Andrew to grow up and bloody well take hold of his emotions before he shattered what little composure remained in the room.
But Andrew’s tongue remained loose and indiscreet. “It would be easy to go missing there.”
“You haven’t been there,” George snapped.
“I’ve heard.”
“You’ve heard.”
“Stop,” someone said. “Stop it now.”
The two men were now nearly nose to nose.
“There are men on my ship who fought in the colonies,” Andrew bit off.
“Oh, and that’s going to help us recover Edward,” George practically spat.
“I know more about it than you do.”
George nearly flinched. He hated this. He hated this so much. The impotence. The worthlessness. He’d been outside playing bloody Pall Mall and his brother was missing in some godforsaken colonial wilderness.
“I am still your older brother,” he hissed, “and I will be head of this family —”
“Well, you’re not now.”
He might as well have been. George cast a fleeting glance at his father, who had not said a word.
“Oh, that was subtle,” Andrew jeered.
“Shut up. Just shut —”
“Stop!” Hands came between them and forcibly pushed them apart, and when George finally looked down he realized they belonged to Billie.
“This isn’t helping,” she said, practically shoving Andrew into a chair.
George blinked, trying to regain his equilibrium. He didn’t know why he was yelling at Andrew. He looked at Billie, still standing between them like a tiny warrior. “You shouldn’t be on that foot,” he said.
Her mouth fell open. “That’s what you want to say?”
“You’ve probably reinjured it.”
She stared at him. George knew he sounded a fool, but her ankle was the one bloody thing he actually could do something about.
“You should sit down,” she said softly.
He shook his head. He didn’t want to sit down. He wanted to act, to do something, anything that might bring his brother safely home. But he was tied here, he’d always been tied here, to this land, to these people.
“I can go,” Andrew choked out.
They all turned to look at him. He was still in the chair that Billie had forced him into. He looked terrible. Thunderstruck. Andrew looked, George had a feeling, rather like he himself felt.
But with one massive difference. Andrew at least believed that he could help.
“Go where?” someone finally asked.
“To the colonies.” Andrew looked up, the bleak desperation in his face slowly giving way to hard determination. “I will ask to be assigned to a different ship. There’s probably one leaving in the next month.”
“No,” Lady Manston cried. She sounded like a wounded animal. She sounded like nothing George had ever heard.
Andrew rose to his feet. “Mother —”
“No,” she said again, this time with fortitude as she pulled herself from Lady Bridgerton’s comforting arms. “I will not permit it. I won’t lose another son.”
Andrew stood stiffly, looking more like a soldier than George had ever seen him. “It’s no more dangerous than serving where I do now.”