Chapter 30
The afternoon sun warmed Celeste’s back and threatened to scorch the left side of her cheek, but she was too morose to move.
She looked out the window where Hawk spoke to Captain Graves.
Was there ever alive a more confounding male specimen?
She was out of ideas. Shakespeare could not incite him to romance, and even the Merchant of Venus proved feeble against her Hawk's restraint.
Sighing, she returned to her sewing. The dark blue wool was stiff, but she stitched a brass button onto the miniature military coat.
Rue strode in and froze midstep, arms akimbo.
“Why is Othello gnawing Ambrose’s busby?”
Celeste paused mid-stitch and glanced down.
The poodle stood triumphantly over what looked like a furry chamber pot—or some eccentric kitchen contraption.
Celeste nudged it with the toe of her slipper.
“Is it to keep the soup warm?”
“It is his military headgear.”
“How unfortunate. It’s clearly quite delicious.”
Rue groaned and pried the mangled hat from Othello.
From the corner of her eye, Celeste noticed movement outside the window—Graves, crossing the courtyard below, utterly oblivious.
Before she could react, Rue bellowed, “Ambrose! I found your busby!”
Celeste’s stomach dropped. “Oh, no.”
Rue hurled the misshapen fur hat like a cannonball.
Thud.
A very distinct grunt of pain echoed from below.
Celeste winced. “That sounded—head-like.”
Rue calmly shut the window. “Well, that’ll be a fun uniform report.”
Celeste stared at her, aghast. “Rue!”
“Forget about that tall, utterly delicious captain—I’ll handle his bruised pride later.” She squinted at Celeste. “Now, you look like a wilted daisy. What’s got your petticoats in a twist?”
Celeste closed her eyes. “Nothing works with Hawk. He is more distant than ever.”
Rue sat by her side. “Men are like cavalry horses—you have to feed them, ride them hard, and let them think they’re in charge.”
Celeste could not find the will to laugh. “I’ve tried everything. Even the Merchant of Venus.”
Rue’s eyes widened. “How was it?”
Celeste pressed a palm against her fluttering stomach, heat creeping up her throat.
The memory of Hawk’s hands, his mouth, his touch, sent a delicious shiver down her spine.
Those moments were precious to her. When he snapped from his stone battlements and…
and consumed her. As if she were the only air he could breathe. But how fast he rebuilt his walls.
Celeste shook her head. “It does not matter. He is as distant as ever. This morning, I woke at dawn to breakfast with him, but he ate in the mess with the officers. He is avoiding me….”
Rue clicked her tongue. “The Fabian Strategy. I see.”
Celeste blinked. “I don’t understand.”
“Evading battle. Refusing direct engagement. Wearing you down with prolonged withdrawal. Old Roman tactic.”
Celeste groaned, rubbing her temples. “I don’t want a war. I want—”
“You want him. And he’s being a stubborn ass about it.”
Celeste hesitated, then forced herself to ask the question circling her mind for weeks. “How was Hawk’s first wife?”
Rue’s smile faded, and for a moment, she looked almost… cautious. “She was the perfect officer’s wife.”
Celeste swallowed hard.
“Before she had Nicki, she traveled with Hawk to the campaigns. Helped with everything—galleys, supply routes, even nursing the wounded when the need arose. That woman was tireless. And you never heard her complain. Sturdy.”
Sturdy. The word landed like a rock in Celeste’s chest.
She felt tears prick at her nose, but she willed them away, lifting her chin instead. “I can be sturdy. I can be all that.”
Rue studied her for a long moment, then her gaze flickered to Celeste’s lap.
“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 packing herself 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 a grand 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.”
Celeste frowned. Bleeding. Well, obviously. A cut here, a scrape there.
Then came a pair of angry-looking tweezers, gleaming dully under the oil lamps. Frowning, Celeste turned them over in her fingers.
“Metal forceps. Those are for pulling bullets out,” Rue said flatly.
Celeste’s hands froze around the cold steel. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.
The next item was a long, hooked needle and stiff thread.
“Sutures,” Rue murmured. “To stitch up wounds.”
Celeste inhaled sharply. She had stitched roses onto silk, traced delicate ivy tendrils in thread of gold. This was not so different, was it? Just another kind of needlework.
And yet—her hands trembled as she set it beside the forceps.
Then came a small glass jar, dark liquid swirling inside. Celeste uncorked it, bringing it hesitantly to her nose. A sharp, acrid scent burned the back of her throat.
“Carbolic acid,” Rue supplied. “For disinfecting wounds. Keeps the rot from setting in.”
Celeste set the jar down quickly, wiping her palms against her skirts as if the scent alone could sear them.
Then came a mean-looking saw. Her fingers curled around the rough wooden handle. Too large for anything delicate.
Rue wiped her hands on her apron. “For when the leg can’t be saved.”
Her stomach lurched. She tore her gaze from the blade, turned to Rue in quiet desperation. Surely—surely she was mistaken.
Not bruises. Not scrapes. Not even stitches.
Limbs lost. The saw tumbled from her hands, clattering against the table.
Her vision narrowed to the dark stains on the wooden handle.
She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t.
Her pulse pounded at her temples. Her stomach twisted, nausea creeping up her throat.
The tent was too hot. Too small. Suffocating.
So this was war. Not honorable cavalry charges, banners waving, handsome soldiers returning home with shining medals pinned to their chests. But men strapped to tables, mutilated.
A voice cut through the haze.
“You are not going to faint, are you, girl?”
Celeste’s head snapped up, her gaze locking onto the grizzled surgeon. His expression was neither cruel nor kind, simply pragmatic, as if she were another green recruit about to learn the hard way.
Her lips parted, but no words came.
Because the answer was yes.
It would be easy to faint and wake up in her bedchamber, believing this a bad dream. Yet the strongest part of her held fast, the survivor of the Revolution, the girl who clawed from nothing, who danced until her feet bled and defied Hawk himself.
And who could have foretold such a plot twist? Celeste, sturdy as any fortress stone. The thought almost made her laugh, or cry. Perhaps both.
So she lifted her chin and looked the surgeon in the eye. “No, sir. I will finish the task.”