Page 59 of Yielding to Love

A week passed with no improvement. Rather Crispin’s health declined even further. He was too fatigued even to remain long in his chair. He had to take to his bed.

Hazard did not repeat his threat to send for Jasper. Instead, he and Alice hied off precipitously to Chaumbers. Vanessa had miscarried again. Crispin used to believe Taverstons were blessed. That Jasper was particularly blessed. He didn’t believe that anymore.

*

He was no longer sure what day it was. He slept more hours than he was awake. He’d given in, at last, to James’s entreaties to take the medicine. It didn’t matter. Drugged or not drugged—he could no longer rise from his bed.

He woke to the sound of pounding. Or was it the blood in his head? His head ached. Ached so badly he felt nauseated. He didn’t deserve this. Not for tupping a tart who had thrown herself between his legs.

“James?” he called. He needed a wet cloth to put over his eyes. “James!” There was no answer. He groaned and gulped air.

James stepped into the room. “Major, there is a caller. I told her you were not receiving, but she insists—”

He cast up his breakfast. Or perhaps it was his supper. Onto the floor, thank God, not in his bed. James grabbed a towel and basin from the chair just inside the door. He dabbed and sponged. “Major—”

“I’m not seeing anyone!” Good God! Like this? Was he supposed to receive callers like this? Who would come? Who even knew he was there? Vanessa? No, it would not be Vanessa. Olivia? Mother? Had Hazard spread tales? “Who—”

“She said her name was Miss Harrington.”

Camellia? The blazes. He was having a nightmare. Hallucinations. Pursued by the Furies. “Send her away.”

“I tried, Major, she said she won’t leave until you see her.”

“Then she may rot on the stoop for all I care. Go. Leave that.” The sick could wait. He was likely to add to it. “Get rid of her. Don’t tell her I’m ill. Just say I’m not at home.”

James handed him the basin and dropped the towel on the floor. Crispin reached to the table for the laudanum. He pulled out the stopper and took a swig, then threw the bottle against the wall.

He lay curled up and shivering. Sweating and shivering. After several minutes, his brain floated somewhere above his body. The shivering stopped. James finally returned.

“Is she gone?” Crispin thought his voice sounded disembodied. It could not have come from his mouth.

James nodded. He held out a folded piece of paper. “She said to give you this.”

Crispin’s gut cramped. “Did you read it?”

“Of course not, Major. But I gave her my word—”

“Put it in the fire.”

James grimaced. “She said it was important.”

“And I said, put it in the fire.”

*

Camellia walked across the field between her home and Manfred’s. After two weeks of pacing her bedchamber, crying her eyes dry, this was the only possible solution she could see. She’d been certain Major Taverston would do the honorable thing. She’d been wrong. He wouldn’t even see her, though she had begged, begged his butler to let her in. She could understand that he was too angry to speak with her. But to not respond to her letter? After a fortnight? She could not believe he could be so cold-blooded. Would he abandon his own child to the disgrace of illegitimacy? Did he think she was lying? Did he despise her that much?

Manfred’s butler, a staid, elderly fellow, admitted her with a lifted chin and downward stare of haughty disapproval. A lady did not come alone to call upon a gentleman. Camellia knew that. Yet she was making a habit of it, and it was far from the worst thing she had done. He brought her to the receiving room and asked her to wait while he went to see if Sir Bodwell was at home.

She waited, rocking nervously on her feet. The room was overfull of mismatched furniture and the drapes were drawn. It smelled of dust. It had been years, she realized since she had been here. Manfred always came to them. She would not have believed he might be visiting Neville for cheer and comfort for himself, but if this was where he spent the rest of his days…

“Camellia?” Manfred walked into the room, then closed the double doors. His movements were slow and stiff, not as though in pain, but as if taking great care. “What is it? Is it Neville?”

She shook her head. He came forward, stooped and shuffling. His hair was almost completely gray now. His expression remained masked.

“Sit down, Camellia. You look faint.”

He directed her to the couch. The upholstery was worn smooth. The carpet, too, appeared shabby. A woman’s touch was missing. How many years had it been, she wondered since his wife had died? Six? Seven? Camellia had never known the woman, a shadowy presence at rare local events. Had he loved her? Manfred was a mystery she had never bothered to probe.