Page 30 of Yielding to Love

“Twenty-six,” she said faintly. She faced Manfred. “This is really too kind.” It was inappropriate. Neville should have told him so.

“You used to sing for your father, I recall. Perhaps you will sing for us?”

“Yes, of course.” All at once, she thought of Major Taverston’s humming. A tuned pianoforte was a poor substitute for his laughter. “I’d be delighted,” she lied.

*

She could not have turned away a pianoforte tuner who had come all the way from London. Nor, she found, could she send Manfred away when he appeared three days later, to ask her if she’d like to go for a carriage ride. Having accepted the gift, she had to grant him her company.

The carriage was small and plain, the wooden body chipped at the corners. It was wrong to ride in a closed carriage alone with a man, but they weren’t in London, parading in Hyde Park. No one would know. The driver opened the door and let down steps. Manfred held her hand while she climbed them. Then the driver helped Manfred. After another few moments, they were speeding along. Manfred spoke pleasantly of people they knew in Tonbridge. Gossiping, she thought wryly. Yet it was good to hear news. She hadn’t spoken with anyone in the village for quite a while. Papa’s funeral had been well attended, and in the following weeks, she’d had several callers, but she had been in such a fog of grief, she didn’t remember details. After a while, people had stopped visiting. She’d seen no one but Mrs. Clay and Mrs. Tabbit for months. And Manfred. She winced inwardly. He’d called many times.

Manfred needed an heir. She knew that. He needed a son to keep his property from going to another branch of the family. What she didn’t understand was why that mattered so much to him when he’d be dead when it happened.

She had to acknowledge to herself that he was not a bad-looking man. Just old. His features were ordinary. He would not stand out in a crowd. His hair was salted with gray. His skin was a little coarse and sallow, but not marred in any way. Of course, she was comparing him to Major Taverston, which was unfair. The major was near to her own age, blue eyed, strikingly handsome, and in robust good health. Or, looked to be in good health. She could not account for his curious dietary preferences.

As they passed by one of Neville’s fields that had not been tended in a long while, Manfred pointed out the window and said, “Neville has said I might send a few of my men to mow the hay.”

“You’re welcome to it. We have no use for hay.” Not anymore. Her father had once bred Yorkshire Trotters, only a foal or two a year—but that was eons ago. He’d sent the last horse to auction just before Mama died.

“I could have my agent sell it for you.”

Prickling warmth crept up her neck. She wanted to refuse his interference, but that would be foolish. “That is up to my brother, naturally.”

“Camellia.” He sighed. “Neville is a soldier, not a gentleman-farmer. Your property is falling to ruin. You must see that.”

She kept her expression bland, refusing to acknowledge the truth in what he said. Unfortunately, the property was Neville’s, not hers, and there was no creature more impotent than a half-sister under the guardianship of an absent soldier. She’d had no authority to do anything without proof of Neville’s approval. After he’d been sent back to London, in order for her to even hire laborers for the house renovations, she’d had to slip the necessary papers under his nose while he was half-asleep and would ask no questions as he signed.

She’d thought he would take more interest in the farm once he saw the state of it. But Manfred was right. Neville was oblivious.

Manfred said, “I have much to offer you. You and Neville. If you would but consider—”

She shook her head. “You promised not to ask again.”

“That was before I spent two months in London looking for a wife. None of the ladies appealed to me the way you do.”

He was middle-aged and ailing. Did he imagine he appealed to them? To her? She suspected he thought she was now desperate enough, at twenty-six, to say yes. But she refused to marry out of desperation.

“Please stop,” she said. “I don’t wish to be unkind, but I’ve told you I don’t wish to marry. I have my brother to care for—”

“The Greek is taking care of him. And you would be less than a mile away if he needed you.”

“My answer is no, Manfred. Please respect that.”

He looked away. “I won’t ask again.” He said it as though it were a threat, not a promise, and not one he’d made before.

“Thank you.” She drew a shaky breath. “Please take me home.”

*

She could not fault Manfred. Over the next few days, he behaved very well for a man whose suit had been rejected four times. He still sent men to mow the field and cart off the hay. Then he gave a ham and two chickens to Mrs. Clay, and promised to send a joint of beef in two weeks as payment, which he’d been under no obligation to do. He arrived on Saturday for supper and cards as usual, and although he was stiff and formal toward her, he remained friendly to Neville.

Nothing had changed. Nothing would ever change.

Another of Mama’s bits of wisdom was that it served no purpose to mope. Sorrow was unavoidable. It would come and go, and one must bear it. But moping? That was a choice. A wrong choice. Camellia knew that, compared to many women, hers was not a bad life. Only she wished she’d experienced more of it. She wanted to go to the theater. She wanted to meet a poet. She wanted to dance at a ball. Marianne was right. She should have made time for herself when in London.

Yet London would not have answered for all. Just once, she wanted to be kissed. She wanted to know how it felt to be held in a man’s arms. But not Manfred’s. She didn’t want to be trapped for the rest of her life with a man she didn’t love.

*