Page 31 of Yielding to Love

The Harringtons were not as isolated as Camellia had worried they would be. Mrs. Clay and Mr. Diakos made trips into Tonbridge. Deliveries came to the farm from the grocer, butcher, and fishmonger. An advantage to all the coming and going, and whatever tales Mrs. Clay was telling in Tonbridge, was that people in the village and neighboring towns took notice that Neville was home. Acquaintances of Camellia’s and old friends of her mother and father came calling. Occasionally someone would bring along a single young lady eager to meet a war hero. These last were so obviously disappointed by Neville it made Camellia’s heart hurt.

Still in all, it raised her spirits to have more variety to her day. One afternoon, a woman who had known Neville in his youth, Mrs. Blackwell, came with her granddaughter from nearby Wheatfield. The granddaughter was plain and bit of a sourpuss, fidgeting and even yawning while Neville and Mrs. Blackwell reminisced. But she wore a pink-and-blue dress that was so pretty, Camellia could not take her eyes from it.

Even Neville noticed the dress. When the women left, he turned to Camellia and said, “Camellia, must you always wear black? Our father has been dead for over a year. It’s morbid. I feel like you are sitting vigil over me.”

“Neville! What a thing to say!”

“You’re young. You should wear something with color. If you don’t have anything, there must be a dressmaker in the village.”

“The expense—”

“We aren’t paupers. Buy yourself a decent dress.”

Camellia folded her hands in her lap. Not paupers. But closer than Neville realized. “Perhaps I will go into the village the next time Mrs. Clay goes.”

She rose and took her brother into the library, retrieved the book he wanted from the shelves, then excused herself. She went up to her bedchamber, opened her trunk, and examined clothes that she had not worn in years.

What if she had thrown off mourning in London? What if Major Taverston had seen her in pretty, bright dresses instead of her crow costumes?

Silly speculation. In London, he would have been surrounded by beautiful debutantes. A spinster in a dated gown would not have turned his head.

But if Neville felt oppressed by her mourning clothes, she should change them.

She pulled out a pink cotton floral with short, puffed sleeves. The print was too girlish. She put it back and took out another. A red-plaid cotton lawn. More formal. The sleeves were elbow-length and less voluminous. The neckline was square. The bodice was gathered. It was pretty but she couldn’t recall ever wearing it. Perhaps she’d thought it dowdy when she was twenty.

She held it out in front of her. The hem looked a bit short. She undressed, then put on the gown. It was tight, but the seams were deep and could be let out. She could fix it and tell Neville she’d had a new dress made.

Maybe she would even wear it.