Page 10 of Yielding to Love

Crispin adjusted his expectations. Poor Harrington could provide no insight into life after the army. The man was not recuperating, but dying.

He strode into the room. The woman glanced up, then straightened, her movement and posture that of a young woman not an elderly one. Harrington called out in a hoarse, weak voice, “Lieutenant! I’ll be damned.”

Crispin reached the foot of the bed but could go no closer because a chair fitted out with wheels blocked his path. He saluted. “Colonel.”

Harrington’s face was lined with pain, but he smiled. “It’s good to see you. Let me…” He pushed against his mattress, trying to sit up straighter. The woman tucked her hand into his armpit to help, but he scowled and brushed her away. “Lieutenant, this is my sister, Miss Camellia Harrington. Camellia, this is Lieutenant Taverston.”

Miss Harrington. So not a widow. Crispin faced her. She seemed startled, peering questioningly at him as if she were trying to place his name. For his part, he knew Harrington had a sister; Old Harry used to speak of her from time to time. Yet seeing her up close disoriented him completely. Through the gauzy veil, he noted that her bonnet sat atop sheeny, black-as-ebony tresses. Still, he had not mistaken the white fringe of hair at her forehead. That was odd.

And if Harrington was forty-something but looked sixty, this lady looked at least a decade younger than her years—what he assumed her years to be, given she was Harrington’s sister. She could rather be Harrington’s daughter. Her ivory skin was unlined. She had dark-brown eyes rimmed by long black lashes. And her lips were plump and bow shaped. She was objectively pretty. Very pretty. She could have used a lead comb to darken that white patch, but he respected the fact that she didn’t.

He bowed quickly, hoping his studying of her had not been prolonged enough to be impolite. That was an army habit he needed to break—assessing everything and everyone as though scouting the terrain before a battle. “Miss Harrington. It is a pleasure.”

She nodded slightly. “Lieutenant.”

“Oh. Ah…” He shook his head. This should not be awkward, but it was. “Major. I am Major Taverston.”

Harrington snorted. “That was a quick climb. But deserved, I’m sure.” He turned to his sister. “You’ve heard—well, you’ve read about my visitor.”

Miss Harrington looked puzzled. More than puzzled, her cheeks had pinkened. “I don’t recall the name,” she murmured.

“Because I called him Lieutenant Cheatdeath when I wrote to you.” He laughed, then coughed. Crispin tried not to grimace as Harrington choked out a compliment. “Bravery verging on recklessness. Led from the front.”

“Yes, I recall Cheatdeath,” Miss Harrington said, eyes cast down.

“And I recall the sister you boasted of,” Crispin said, addressing the colonel, trying to turn the topic away from himself. “A faithful correspondent. And caring for your aged parents if I’m not misremembering.”

“Both deceased,” Harrington said, drawing a deep breath. “But it was her mother and our father she cared for these past few years. And now, she is cursed with me.”

“Blessed with you!” Miss Harrington protested.

A second marriage. So the age difference made more sense. As did the mourning clothes. Their deaths must have been recent. He wondered what her story was. He didn’t recall Harrington ever saying anything about her being courted, and she was a “Miss” not a “Mrs.” That was unfortunate for her, but it meant Old Harry would be cared for.

“I don’t mean to interrupt your visit,” he said.

Miss Harrington fluttered her hand. “You are not interrupting. I’m sure Neville is more interested in visiting with you than with me. I’m here all the time.” She cast a look around the room, her face falling. “If Mr. Cooper were here, you might go out to the terrace.”

“Mr. Cooper?” Crispin asked.

“One of the attendants. Mr. Frye took the others out.” She indicated the three empty beds.

But not the colonel? Crispin didn’t understand. Was it some hospital rule? Only three men could go out at a time with one attendant? He looked at the wheelchair, sitting empty. “It’s a fine day. If the attendants are all busy and you’d like to go outside, I can take you.”

Harrington grumbled and Miss Harrington made some inaudible protest, shaking her head.

Having no desire to remain in that depressing room, Crispin tried again. “Why did Mr. Frye take the others out but not you?”

“Mr. Frye is a brute,” Miss Harrington said, clearly this time, with a touch of anger. “He tosses Neville around like a sack of dirt. He says it’s less painful to do it quickly, but if you saw—”

“Camellia! Enough of that.” Harrington went red to his ears, and muttered, “You’ve already given Frye an earful.”

Soldiers did not complain about pain. They endured. But Crispin could put the pieces together. Miss Harrington had refused to let her brother be manhandled by Frye—good for her! Except that meant he’d been left behind.

Crispin took hold of the handles on the chair and pulled it into the aisle. Then he stepped to Harrington’s side, opposite his sister. “Arms around my neck, Colonel.”

Miss Harrington gave a startled chirp. Harrington scowled, but lifted his arms as Crispin bent down and pushed away the sheet. Crispin remembered him as a stocky man, meticulous about his uniform. Now, the colonel wore a grayed white shirt and very baggy navy-blue trousers. Pretending not to notice the wasting, Crispin slid one arm beneath his commander’s legs and another around his shoulders. Harrington held his breath. Crispin scooped him up, carried him to the chair, and placed him in it. Harrington let out a sigh. His face relaxed.

Miss Harrington gaped, then composed herself and said, “Thank you, Major.” She snatched up a blanket and spread it over her brother’s knees.

Crispin grasped the handles again. “Will you show me the way to the terrace, Miss Harrington?”

She nodded, but the colonel said, “I’ll direct you. Camellia, there must be something else you’d like to do. The major and I will bore you with our reminiscences.”

“Oh! Oh, yes, of course.”

Crispin couldn’t tell if she was pleased or hurt by the dismissal. Not by her tone. But she’d said she was “here all the time.” He wagered that was no exaggeration. Poor girl. He turned the chair toward the door, hiding his grimace from her. The war had ruined too many lives.