Page 22 of Yielding to Love

Chapter Nine

Camellia had intended to rise early, but by the time she awoke, the sun was high. She hurried to dress. Poor Neville must be waiting. And she wouldn’t be able to hear him if he called. Panic made her fingers clumsy—she dropped three hairpins while stuffing her hair under her bonnet. Lud. Before bed last night, she’d caught sight of herself in the mirror and she’d appeared slovenly. No wonder Major Taverston had looked at her so oddly. And now he would think she was slothful as well.

She smoothed the front of her plain black bombazine dress and stepped from her bedchamber. Across the hall, the door to the guest room was closed. Maybe he was still asleep. There had been no sound from the room all night.

She raced down the stairs, bracing herself for Neville’s groans or shouts. She should have slept downstairs. But…she felt a twinge of dismay, remembering her uselessness when he’d asked for a chamber pot. She must send a letter to Mr. Cooper at once and beg him to come.

The ground floor was surprisingly quiet. Were both men asleep? That would be a blessing. She tiptoed to Neville’s room and found it empty. The bed had been made up. She stared a moment, disturbed, before turning on her heel and exiting.

Could they be in the library? She headed there, passing the receiving room, which was as it had been, with everything draped in white dustcloths. She pushed open the door to the library. The new shelves were in place, but Papa’s books had been chaotically stacked upon them by the workmen. Neville was in his chair, pulled up close to the table. She noted that the four legs of the table had been propped up with books so that the arms of the chair would fit under it. Neville was bent over, reading, and a teacup rested near his elbow. The major had been busy.

Neville turned his head at her approach and grunted a greeting. “Morning.”

“Good morning, Neville. I’m sorry to be a slugabed. Can I get you anything?”

“I’m fine.” He gestured to the book on the table. “Caesar’s Commentaries on the Gallic Wars. Wellington should write his own commentaries.”

She smiled tentatively, then asked, “And where is Major Taverston?”

He looked away. After a moment, he mumbled, “In the village. Fetching his horse.”

What did that mean? “Will he come back?” Her voice quavered. She had no claim on his time. And he had done so much for them already. But she wasn’t ready to face this alone.

He gave her a sharp look, then set his jaw. “He might. Or might not. I told him to go to the devil.”

Camellia gasped. “Why?”

“He was sticking his nose in. Arrogant blackguard thinks he know everything.”

“Oh, Neville.” She sighed, frustrated. She’d been on the receiving end of Neville’s ill-humor. He could be lacerating. She wouldn’t blame the major if he’d thrown up his hands and left. “After he’s been so kind?”

“I don’t want his ‘kindness.’”

She understood how diminished her brother must feel. But didn’t Neville see how precarious their situation was?

She was too rattled. Too annoyed. She had to step away. “I’m going to make myself a cup of tea. Would you like another?”

“No, I’m fine.”

She left the room and tried to think calming thoughts. Perhaps it was not so terrible. The major’s horse and that very noticeable carriage were at the Fitzhenrys’ inn. It wouldn’t be a full day before everyone in the village knew that she’d returned with her brother. Manfred, their neighbor, would certainly call. And Mr. Castor, the rector. She grimaced—they were the two men who had once been her suitors. She’d rather not see them, but Neville might wish to. Mrs. Tabbit and Mrs. Clay would come around looking for work. Perhaps the older women could help with Neville’s more intimate care until she found a manservant. She had been too intent upon hiring someone skilled from the hospital, and had assumed any able-bodied man in the village who was not already employed would be undesirable. But beggars could not be choosers.

It was a long walk into the village, but it wasn’t as if she had never done it before. And she had made the hour’s long walk to the hospital several times a week if not daily, so she was certainly conditioned to a long trek. In fact, the walk on their country lanes would be far more pleasant. And pleasant smelling. They would be fine without the major.

In the kitchen, to her mixed relief and dismay, she found the woodbin filled and two full buckets of well water. Was there anything he hadn’t thought of? She rekindled the stove and set the kettle upon it. As she stood there, trying to mentally prioritize the day’s tasks, she heard the clopping of hooves and rattling wheels. She threw open the back door to see Major Taverston driving a cart into the yard. Her heart made a little leap. He hadn’t abandoned them. Moreover, Mrs. Clay sat in the cart’s bed, surrounded by crates. Major Taverston’s horse was tied behind.

Camellia ran outside. “Major! What is all this?” She quickly added, “Good day, Mrs. Clay.”

“Miss Harrington.” Mrs. Clay bobbed her gray-haired head and rocked forward. “I’m so glad you’re home. For good this time? The major here says your brother is with you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Mrs. Tabbit has taken another position, but I can cook and keep house too. My rabbit stew is better than hers. I brought some for tonight. I’ve always said—”

“Miss Harrington,” the major said, cutting across her, “I took the liberty of locating your housekeeper and a few supplies. Mrs. Clay was very helpful, telling me what you might need.”

The bed of the cart was lined with hay. She supposed the crates contained foodstuff. Had he put it all on her account? It made her uneasy to think so. But they couldn’t live on potatoes and apples.

He hopped down from his seat and helped the plump, short-legged Mrs. Clay to descend. “I’ll put these crates in the kitchen, then go settle Mercury and Trotty in the barn. Mr. Fitzhenry was kind enough to allow me to hire his rig.”

Camellia finally found her voice. “Major, this is too much. We are taking advantage of your good nature.”

“Not at all.” He gave her a rueful grin. “I was careless, bringing you here with no provisions. If I were a quartermaster, I would be court-martialed for making no advance inquiries.”