“I know there is not an inch of extra space in the city, Mr. Beatty. Please bring her ladyship’s portmanteau upstairs. And tea, Mr. Beatty.”
I do not like tea. Why does Edward not remember?
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
Cassie had been in an inn but once or twice in her life. She climbed the solid oak staircase, uncarpeted and unadorned. The odor of raw wood, ale, and sweat reached her nose. Like New York itself, it was both intriguing and discomfiting. Everything seems so unfinished, even the people.
“I have a small sitting room and bedroom. It is a corner room with a pleasant view of the river.”
“Your valet? Grumman?”
“Batman,” Edward corrected her absently. My God, he thought, as he opened the door, I am taking her to my room as my wife. He felt his loins tighten and drew back at the intense shock of desire he felt.
“Yes, your batman.”
“Grumman occupies a small room on the third floor. Do you wish a maid, Cassie?”
Cassie remembered the two and some odd months she had spent aboard The York, fending for herself, and smiled. “No, it is not necessary. If there is someone to care for my gowns, ’twill be sufficient.”
She stepped into the sitting room and smiled again. No, it was not like Delford Manor or Hemphill Hall—or like the Villa Parese. Clean dimity curtains covered the windows, and several small rugs were scattered about on the wooden floor. The furniture, what there was of it, was plain to the point of starkness, constructed, she thought, with utility in mind. Still, it was a bright, well kept, airy room, fitting for a soldier. After so many days cooped up on The York, she was pleased with its spaciousness.
“It is quite satisfactory, Edward.”
A young boy, hardly older than fourteen, appeared in the open doorway, Cassie’s portmanteau tucked under his arm.
“The lady’s luggage, sir.”
Edward seemed oblivious of the fact that the boy’s wide brown eyes, of the same shade as Mr. Beatty’s, were looking at him with open worship.
“Thank you, Will. You may put it in my—the bedroom.”
“My Ma’s bringing your tea, sir, and on her best silver.”
Mrs. Beatty turned out to be as reed thin as her husband was rotund. She stared with unabashed curiosity at Cassie, and, at the natural patrician nod she received from the young lady, she quickly set the silver tray upon the small circular oak table and dropped into a low, quite awkward curtsy. That Cassie appeared to pay no particular attention to her served only to make her seem all the more the great lady.
When they were finally alone, Edward unbuckled his saber and laid it upon the table beside the tea tray.
For the first time, Cassie noticed his slightly limping gait and remembered General Howe’s mention of a saber thrust. “Is your leg badly injured, Edward?”
She seated herself in a none too comfortable chair, sipping the despised tea.
“No. My men and I were on Staten Island—it’s off the southern tip of Manhattan Island—and came across a pack of rebels. One of them managed to strike me in the thigh. It’s nearly healed now.”
“You must be more careful, Edward.”
Cassie received a wry smile. “I am a soldier, Cass.”
He stood over her for some minutes, seemingly searching for something to say.
“Eliott and I searched for you for over a week.”
He told me that you would. “Thank you, Edward.”
He began to pace up and down in front of her.
“Tell me now, for God’s sake, what happened to you?”
Cassie set her tea cup next to Edward’s saber and clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “I am sorry that I had to pose as your wife, but I did not believe that Captain Crowley would take me aboard otherwise.”
“It matters not.”
His voice was impatient, and she looked away from him. Of course it did not matter what she said, for as a gentleman, honor would dictate his actions, and she did not doubt that she would quite soon become his wife, at his insistence. Unless—
“I am no longer a virgin, Edward.”