Edward nodded, mostly because he didn’t know how else to respond. He was probably guilty of the same sin of indifference. Most men were.
“But it will make me feel better to find a home for his shirts,” Cecilia said firmly.
“He would like that,” Edward said, then clarified, “Making you happy.”
She gave him a wry almost-smile, then turned back to the trunk. “I suppose we’ll have to find someone to take his uniform, as well. Someone will need it.” She ran her hand along Thomas’s coat, her slim fingers pale against the scarlet wool. “When I was in hospital with you, there were other soldiers. I . . .” She looked down, almost as if paying her respects. “I sometimes helped. Not as much as I should have done, I’m sure, but I didn’t want to leave you unattended.”
Edward started to thank her, but before he could, she’d straightened her shoulders and was continuing in a brisker voice. “I saw their uniforms. Several were beyond repair. So, surely, someone will need it.”
Her words held a hint of a question, so Edward nodded. Soldiers were expected to keep their uniforms in perfect condition, no easy feat considering the amount of time they were traipsing through the muddy countryside.
And being shot at.
Bullet holes were a nuisance to mend, but bayonet wounds were the absolute devil. In skin as well as fabric, he supposed, but he focused on the fabric, since it was the only way to hold on to one’s sanity.
It was kind of her to give Thomas’s uniform to another soldier. Many families wanted it back, a tangible symbol of heroism and duty.
Edward swallowed and stepped back, suddenly needing to put a little space between them. He did not understand her. And he hated that he could not maintain his rage. It had been only a day. Just over twenty-four hours since his memory had returned in a rush of color and light and words and places—none of which had included Cecilia Harcourt.
She wasn’t his wife. And he should be angry. He had a right to be angry.
But his questions—the ones beating a relentless tattoo in his mind—he couldn’t ask them now. Not when she was lovingly unpacking her brother’s trunk. Not when she turned her face away, trying to hide the swipe of her hand at her tears.
She set Thomas’s coat to the side, then delved deeper. “Do you think he saved my letters?”
“I know he did.”
She glanced up briefly. “Oh, of course. You’ve been through the trunk already.”
It wasn’t how he knew, but she didn’t need to know that.
Edward leaned against the edge of the bed and watched as she continued her exploration of Thomas’s belongings. At some point she had dropped to her knees for easier access, and now she was going through it all with a smile on her face that he’d never thought to see again.
Or maybe it was that he’d never thought he’d want to see it so bloody badly.
He was still in love with her.
Against all better judgment, against his own damned sanity, he was still in love with her.
He sighed.
She looked up. “Is something wrong?”
Yes.
“No.”
But she’d turned back to the trunk before he answered the question. He wondered . . . if she had not, if she had been looking at his face . . .
Would she have seen the truth in his eyes?
He almost sighed again.
She made a curious hmmm, and he found himself leaning forward to get a better look at what she was doing. “What is it?” he asked.
She frowned as she delved her hands into the neatly folded shirts and breeches. “I don’t see the miniature.”
Edward’s lips parted, but he did not speak. He meant to. He’d thought he was about to, but he could not put voice to words.
He wanted that damned painting. Call him a tyrant, call him a thief. He wanted it for himself.
“Perhaps he took it with him to Connecticut,” Cecilia said. “I suppose there is something nice about that.”
“You were always in his thoughts,” Edward said.
She looked up. “It’s very sweet of you to say.”
“It’s the truth. He talked about you so much I felt that I knew you.”
Something in her eyes turned warm, even as they took on a faraway look. “Isn’t that funny,” she said softly. “I felt the same way about you.”
He wondered if he should tell her now that he’d got back his memory. It was the right thing to do; by everything that made him a gentleman, he knew this to be true.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, neatly puncturing his thoughts. She hopped to her feet. “I nearly forgot. I never showed you my miniature of Thomas, did I?”
There was no need for Edward to respond; she’d already started rifling through her one and only satchel. It was large, but still, Edward was amazed she’d made the voyage to New York with so few belongings.
“Here it is,” she said, pulling out the small cameo. She peered down at it with a wistful smile, then held it out. “What do you think?”
“I can tell it’s the same artist,” he said without thinking.
Her chin drew back with some surprise. “You remember the other one that well?”
“Thomas liked to show it to people.” It wasn’t a lie; Thomas did like to show the miniature of Cecilia to his friends. But that wasn’t why Edward remembered it so well.
“Did he?” Her eyes lit with happiness. “That’s very . . . I don’t know what it is. Sweet, I suppose. It’s nice to know he missed me.”
Edward nodded, not that she was looking at him. She’d returned to her task, carefully examining her brother’s effects. Edward felt very odd and awkward, very much a spectator.
He didn’t like it.
“Hmmm, what’s this?” she murmured.
He leaned forward for a better look.
She pulled out a little purse, and twisted around to face Edward. “Would he have kept money in his trunk?”
Edward had no idea. “Open it and see.”
She did, and to her obvious surprise several gold coins tipped out. “Oh my goodness,” she exclaimed, looking down at the windfall in her palm.
It wasn’t much, at least not to Edward, but he remembered how pressed for funds she’d been when he had woken up. She’d tried to hide the extent of her poverty, but she wasn’t—or at least he hadn’t thought she was—an accomplished liar. She’d let slip little details, like how she’d been eating only one meal per day. And he knew of the boardinghouse from which she’d rented a room; it was barely one step above sleeping on the street. He shuddered to think what would have become of her if she had not found him in hospital.
Maybe they’d saved each other.
Cecilia was strangely quiet, still staring down at the gold in her hand as if it were something mysterious.
Perplexing.
“It’s yours,” he said, figuring she was trying to decide what to do with it.
She nodded absently, gazing at the coins with the most peculiar expression.
“Put it with the rest of your money,” he suggested. He knew she had a little. She kept it carefully tucked away in her coin purse. He’d seen her counting it twice, and both times she’d looked up with a sheepish expression when she saw that he was watching her.
“Yes, of course,” she murmured, and she rose awkwardly to her feet. She opened the wardrobe and reached into her bag. He presumed she’d pulled out the coin purse, but he couldn’t really see what she was doing with her back to him.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, perhaps a touch more suddenly than he would have expected. “I just . . .” She turned partway back around. “I did not think Thomas would have money in his trunk. It means I have . . .”
Edward waited, but she did not finish the sentence. “It means you have what?” he finally prodded.
She blinked at him, and an odd beat of silence passed before she answered. “It’s nothing. I just have more than I thought I did.”
That seemed to Edward the very definition of obvious.
“I think . . .”
He waited, but her words trailed off as she turned and looked at the open trunk. A few shirts lay on the floor next to it, and Thomas’s red coat was draped over the side, but other than that, she’d left everything in place.