Page 75 of The General's Gift
“Dear… is that a military coat you’re sewing?”
“Othello gets cold in autumn.”
Rue shuffled near and smoothed a hand over Celeste’s hair. “We should not try to be who we are not.”
Celeste shoved the sewing basket aside and stood. “I can be an English lady. And I will start this afternoon.”
Determination stiffened her spine. She crossed the room to her armoire, where her trousseau lay untouched.
Her fingers lingered on the nightgown she had chosen for her wedding night—tulle illusion, soft as a whisper, delicate as spun moonlight. Sighing, she stored it away. For one foolish moment, a pang went through her chest. It felt as though she were packingherself into the cedar shadows—the girl of tulle and laughter, of secret hopes and ridiculous dreams.
She pressed her lips together. Childish nonsense. Hawk’s wife had followed him into war, enduring tents, wounds, and smoke. She had not fluttered her wings over trifles like lace and moonlight.
“What are you up to now, Celeste?” Rue asked.
Celeste turned, lifting a gown of fine muslin. “Come, Rue. Help me out of my tulle skirt and into one of these dresses.”
If he would not love her as she was because she was not sturdy, she would learn his rules, his sturdiness, his Englishness. She had learned to dance en pointe. Really, what could she not do if she applied herself to it?
Rue groaned.
Celeste lifted her chin. “If I am to be a proper English lady, I must look the part.”
Rue sighed dramatically and rose to her feet. “Fine, fine. But if you start drinking weak tea and calling things ‘agreeable,’ I’m abandoning you to your fate.”
***
The medical tent smelled of alcohol, herbs, and something metallic she couldn’t quite place. Celeste straightened the plain dress. A uniform of sorts. One that marked her as Lady Cecilia Stratton, a responsible Englishwoman, not Celeste the dancer, the dreamer. The cloth chafed her wrists, and it was too tight around her legs. She would fall flat on her face if she decided to do agrand jeté. It was just a dress. Still, a terrified voice whispered—what if you change, and he still does not love you?
Her chest tightened until every breath rasped thin, as if the air itself had turned mean and withheld its kindness.
What if it isn’t the tulle? What if it’s me?
She blinked hard, but the candlelight blurred anyway. She had spent her whole life building roles, ballerina, heiress, Lady Cecilia, and still the fear throbbed beneath them all. Strip the costumes away, and would anyone stay for Celeste?
Stop this! She was not here for desperate soliloquies. She was here to be sturdy. And perhaps, she thought grimly, that was the one advantage of this awful English dress: starched stiff, it could serve as armor.
Rue led her through the maze of stacked crates and trestle tables to where a surgeon sat hunched over a ledger. He was weathered, grey-bearded, and built like an old warhorse.
Rue cleared her throat. “This is Lady Cecilia Stratton. The general’s ward. She is here to help.”
Celeste braced for some polite acknowledgment, perhaps a skeptical glance at her pristine gloves.
The surgeon didn’t so much as glance up. He merely waved a hand toward a shadowed corner where wooden shelves sagged under the weight of ugly-looking boxes. “She can store the surgery supplies for embarkation.”
A young assistant approached, setting a heavy crate before them, its contents jostling with a dull clatter. “Sort them and pack them tight. We need everything ready for when the order comes.”
Rue nodded and reached in, retrieving the first item. A roll of white linen.
“Bandages,” she muttered, passing them to Celeste. “For all sorts of wounds.”
Celeste folded the strips carefully, smoothing out their edges. Clean. Soft. Not so different from the ribbons they used in ballet, the fabric wound securely to protect fragile ankles. Men were bound to get scraped and bruised while battling about on their horses…
She sighed and tucked them into the crate. Perhaps this new role would not be so hard.
The following item was a bundle of cloth strips, stiffened at the edges.
“Lint pads,” Rue explained. “For stopping the bleeding.”
