Page 97 of The General's Gift
What would a Shakespearean heroine do?
The thought came unbidden, a habit she could not seem to break. Rosalind donned a boy’s clothes. Viola braved a shipwreck. They stepped into danger for love. Was she less brave?
She looked at the field below. A cluster of hussars stood beside their mounts, tightening buckles, laughing at something one of them said. It would not be difficult to join them. She knew how to ride. She could wear a coat and cover her hair. There weredozens of young soldiers smaller than she was. She could slip into their lines and follow them all the way to war.
A few months ago, the idea of a regiment of men in muddy boots and blood-stained uniforms would have sent her hiding beneath her bed.
Still, she could not go.
If she followed him, Hawk would not see courage, but recklessness. He would see the child he believed her to be, the girl who could not tell a game from a battlefield. He would try to keep her safe, and in doing so, he would place himself in danger.
If she loved him, she had to let him do what he was born to do.
So she stayed where she was, hands clenched into the fabric of her skirts, and watched the soldiers prepare to ride.
Her story was not a play after all. There would be no bold escape to the continent. No last-minute charge into his arms before the ship pulled away.
This was not a romantic comedy. This was not even a tragedy, not in the way she had once imagined, but a sorrow that slipped beneath the skin and made a home there.
She would wait, like so many women before, with hands folded in prayer and her heart split between hope and fear. The pain in her chest was suddenly too much, and she laced her arms around herself, tears making her vision blur.
“Be brave, Celeste.” Hawk’s voice replayed in her mind.
She brushed away her tears.
Yes, she would be.
Four weeks later.
Celeste’s fingers ached as she sewed another button into the coarse wool, but she kept on. The regiment needed uniforms. Around her, the ballroom was scarcely recognizable—makeshift tables replaced dancers, bolts of heavy cloth occupied the places where young ladies had once stretched in graceful arcs. The warm scent of wood polish and beeswax had yielded to a heavier aroma of starch and coffee. Sunlight slipped through the tall windows, lending a deceptive cheerfulness to the rows of women quietly sewing coats and rolling bandages.
Prue came near, twisting her apron between nervous fingers. “There is a gentleman to see you, my lady. He says he is General Hawkhurst’s solicitor, and it is rather urgent.”
Celeste hesitated, her pulse quickening with unease. Solicitors only arrived bearing difficult tidings or requests she felt ill-equipped to address.
When she entered the drawing room, the solicitor stood near the window, framed by heavy velvet curtains. He was older, thin-faced, dressed impeccably in sober black. A leather case restedbeside him on the polished rosewood table.
“Lady Cecilia Stratton?” he said briskly, studying her with a practiced eye.
Celeste’s heart tripped, unaccustomed to hearing her name from a stranger’s lips. She steadied her breath, forcing calmness into her voice. “I am Lady Cecilia, yes. May I be of assistance?”
He cleared his throat, adjusting a stack of papers. “On the contrary, I am here to assist you. I bring excellent news. I have just come from Leighton Park. How soon might your bags be ready for travel?”
Celeste’s fingers tightened on the half-sewed coat she was still holding. “I beg your pardon?”
The solicitor gave an impatient sigh. “Come now, Lady Cecilia. It would be most unseemly for you to remain in a widower’s home without proper supervision. The Dowager Duchess of Leighton has kindly offered herself as your chaperone until your marriage can be arranged.”
A chill swept through her limbs, and she took a small step back. “Sir, is this a jest? You must see that there is a war going on, and I am here assisting the soldiers—”
“Precisely the point,” he interrupted, folding his hands primly. “Because of the war, General Hawkhurst wisely transferred your guardianship to me.”
“He did…what?”
The solicitor’s expression shifted into a satisfied smile. “The general fulfilled his duty admirably. In turn, I’ve concluded negotiations with the Duke of Leighton. It is quite a coup for you, my lady, if I may say so myself.”
Celeste’s breath faltered. “His…duty?”
“Yes,” he continued cheerfully, oblivious to her distress. “His duty, of course. He arranged your future security, and rather impressively, I might add. The duke’s family is already preparing for your arrival.”
