Chapter 40
Celeste awoke to the soft trill of a bird. It had to be the nightingale. She lay very still, listening. If she stayed still, Hawk’s steady breathing would reach her. Time would not be so cruel.
Pale morning light filtered through the curtains, and a lark perched on the windowsill, like a sentinel of fate.
She blinked once, then twice, waiting for Hawk to shift beside her.
Nothing moved. She turned slowly, pressing her palm to the empty sheet. It had cooled. She sat up, heart thudding in her chest. The lark tilted its head and sang again.
Celeste jumped to her feet. “Stop this song right now. Go back to your nest.”
But the bird flew away.
Celeste sniffled a sob. She pulled her gown over her head with shaking hands, not bothering with stays or slippers.
The corridors stretched before her as her feet slapped the stone.
She turned corner after corner. The library was silent.
The study held only dust motes. Once the most alive place in the house, the war room had gone still.
At the landing, she nearly collided with Graves.
He removed his hat when he saw her. His mouth pressed into a line.
“My lady. The general, he is—”
Celeste didn’t wait for him to speak. She could not bear the pity in his eyes. Even Othello looked at her tenderly, as if she were the most sorrowful creature.
Hawk had to be on the field, checking the cavalry, speaking to his soldiers. Gathering her skirt, she stepped into the pale morning.
The air stung her cheeks. Summer had broken. The trees were still, but the sky had turned the color of pewter.
When she crested the ridge, the breath left her all at once. The regiment had already begun to move. Long lines of men stretched across the road. Horses snorted and stamped. Wheels groaned beneath the weight of carts and cannon.
Three ships awaited at the pier. Grey hulks, tall as cathedrals, lined with gunports and sails furled tight against the masts. They rocked in place with the tide, patient and hungry, as if they had come to swallow England’s sons whole.
She wrapped her arms around herself and scanned the columns. Red coats, blue coats, black plumes. A sea of movement and sound. But no silver hair. No steady stride.
He was already gone. And she was left behind.
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 were dozens 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.