Page 26 of Yielding to Love

They took their accustomed seats at the small table. Mrs. Clay brought out a tray and served them each a plate of whitefish. The colonel’s was covered with a cream sauce. Miss Harrington’s and Crispin’s were plain. He could tell she was watching him and trying to pretend she wasn’t. He’d refused a number of dishes over the fortnight, and although no one said anything, he was aware of their curiosity—Miss Harrington and Mrs. Clay’s; the colonel did not care. Crispin cut off a piece of fish and ate it. Miss Harrington’s expression turned from sly to triumphant, as if she had solved a particularly difficult puzzle. Not yet, she hadn’t. He was still trying to solve it himself. Normally, scrutiny of his diet annoyed him, but…he took another bite and gave her a wink. It pleased him enormously when she laughed.

*

Crispin spent two days building the ramp. Measuring the sideboards was trickier than he expected. He wished he’d had Georgiana with him, or Reg, to do the geometrical calculations. They were both mathematically gifted. But with trial and error, it turned out well, sturdy with a gentle slope.

It was a fine afternoon, not too hot, so he and Miss Harrington took Old Harry outside, down a brick path to the garden. Miss Harrington’s time spent tending it had been to good purpose. It was beautiful and fragrant. They passed the afternoon in the shade of an elm, enjoying the setting. Miss Harrington read aloud from the book he’d given her. She read expressively—she would make a fine actress. The colonel fell asleep, but when she would have put the book down, Crispin begged her to go on.

“You like novels?” she teased.

“I like this one.” He did, but more so, he enjoyed the company. They laughed at the same scenes, and groaned indignantly together at other ones.

When her voice began to grow hoarse, he took the book from her and read one more chapter before the colonel woke, grumbling, breaking the spell. It was nearly suppertime, so they went back inside, with Crispin pushing the chair up the ramp. He made no comment on the poor quality of the wheels. He’d learned his lesson pointing out that the pianoforte needed tuning.

Supper that night looked like a meat pie. He refused his portion, and took only potatoes and beans. Miss Harrington pursed her lips, miffed.

“It is hake, not beef.”

He repeated, “No, thank you.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” she muttered. “Wrong again. No, don’t tell me.”

It wasn’t a game, but it was beginning to feel like one. He found himself grinning. His misfortune diverted her, and here he was, amused as well. He could imagine what his family would make of that. But his justification was that Miss Harrington could use some entertainment, and he was happy to provide it, even at his own expense.

Besides, she might have an inkling of what he went through. He’d noticed that she also shunned any food or drink produced by a cow.

They finished supper, then moved away from the table. Crispin pushed Harrington’s chair near to the couch where Miss Harrington preferred to sit. He remained standing, waiting. Harrington’s moods dictated how their evenings would go. Sometimes he took the man straight from supper off to bed. However, tonight Old Harry seemed alert and not particularly bothered by pain. Perhaps Miss Harrington could be persuaded to sing again. He’d gladly whistle.

“Camellia,” Harrington said, brow creased with curiosity, “do you still write poetry?”

Miss Harrington blushed. She shook her head. “Not seriously.”

Ah, a bad poet. A true kindred spirit.

With a chuckle, the colonel turned to Crispin. “She used to send me charming poems. But not in a long while. I kept them until…well, they were lost somewhere after Vitoria.”

“A shame,” Crispin said. He shot a teasing smile at Miss Harrington. “I would have liked to read them.” Then he added, “Perhaps you kept copies?”

“Do you? Write poetry?” she asked, turning the tables. “I know you like to read it.”

“Bad poetry. I write bad poetry.”

“Good.” The sly expression he was learning to recognize appeared on her face as she focused her attention back on her brother. “Our father did, too. Did you know?”

“Oh, yes. I remember.”

“Did he ever play ‘poetry challenge’ with you?”

“No. What is that?”

Now Miss Harrington laughed. “We would each pick a poem to read aloud. And then we had half an hour to write something in the same vein. The same as each other’s choice, not our own.” Her smile grew wistful. “Papa was very clever.”

“I imagine you were also.”

“Not as clever as Papa.”

Harrington looked pensive. Crispin felt sorry for him. He must have been hospitalized on the peninsula when he got word of his father’s death. When his own father had died, Crispin was privileged to be at his bedside, with the family gathered around.

Then Harrington said, “Major, I’d like to hear your ‘bad poetry.’ I suspect it is actually quite good. Why don’t you and Camellia play this challenge? I’ll be the judge.”