Page 24 of Yielding to Love

He gave her an unsettlingly dark look. But then he shrugged and took some, an even smaller piece than hers.

Mrs. Clay came back to clear the table. It was early in what threatened to be a long evening. Camellia wished she could escape to her own chamber to read her novel. Instead, she pushed her brother’s chair to a spot a few feet away, facing the pianoforte.

“Do you play?” Neville asked.

She nodded. “A little.” Their father had hired a teacher for her when she was young. She had no particular talent for it, but she could accompany herself while she sang. Of course, Neville wouldn’t know any of this. He didn’t know her any better than she knew him. “I sing more competently than I play.”

“Sing for us then, if you would.” Neville’s voice was rough, and he looked tired. Pained. Usually, he was demanding his medicine by now if he hadn’t taken it already, and then he would have fallen asleep before supper. Major Taverston was probably right. He took too much.

She went to the pianoforte and lifted the lid. She sat down and played the opening to Mary Went Walking, but she heard Major Taverston make a noise, and when she looked over her shoulder, she swore he was wincing. She stopped. “Do I play that badly, Major?”

“What? No. No, your playing is fine, but that instrument is out of tune.” He hastened to add, “Not terribly so.”

“Is it?” She sighed. So much for that. “It hasn’t been tuned since before Papa died.” She didn’t know when she would be able to have a man come see to it. Probably never. She closed the lid.

“I beg your pardon.” He looked abashed. “That was rude of me.”

“Yes, it was,” she said, then laughed to set him at ease. “Can you hum, Major? Or whistle? On key?”

With a bit of a smirk, he answered, “Both.”

“Do you know Brown-eyed Susan?”

He whistled the opening bars. Then hummed them.

“Very good. For penance, you must accompany me by humming.”

He cleared his throat, a half-smile on his face, then began. She chimed in singing. After humming the first verse, he joined her in singing the second. He could do anything, it seemed, and make it appear effortless. He had a marvelous baritone that complemented what her music teacher had called “an unusually deep voice for a woman.”

Neville clapped when they finished, but without enthusiasm, and his face was a sickly pale.

Beaming, Major Taverston exclaimed, “Miss Harrington, that was superb. Should we try another?”

She pointed to Neville. “I don’t think…”

He groaned. “I cannot do it. This is torture. I need my medicine.”

Major Taverston jumped up. “Yes, of course.” He grasped the handles of Neville’s chair, then turned to her. “Miss Harrington, we will bid you goodnight. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve moved my things down to the spare chamber next to the colonel’s.”

He could do anything. And he thought of everything. It was going to be difficult to make do without him.