Page 71 of Yielding to Love

Chapter Twenty-Three

Camellia unboxed her mourning clothes. She was familiar with grief. After all, she had buried both of her parents. Yet her brother’s death hit her harder. It hurt more. She was losing everyone.

After letting out the seams of all her black gowns, she discovered that only one silk dress could be remade full enough to fit. It was threadbare at the elbows and frayed at the cuffs, which embarrassed Manfred. He was always turned out well, even if it took hours for his valet to ready him. He told her she must have new dresses made. Although she was loathe to put her overlarge body into the hands of a dressmaker who would guess her secret, she had no choice. If people were going to talk, they would talk.

Manfred managed to attend Neville’s funeral, but it was so difficult an outing, she suspected it would be the last time he left the house. His condition was worsening. It was not only that his physical infirmity hampered him, but his frustration made him moody. Little things angered him. Often, he grew annoyed that she had not anticipated one of his needs. Other times, he scolded her for fussing over him. He didn’t like to let her out of his sight. He asked her daily, if not twice daily, how long it would be before the baby would be born.

Camellia walked about in a cloud of despair. The hours crawled by. She thought at times that Manfred’s immobility must be contagious because she had no motivation to do anything. She felt cursed.

Then, a week after Neville’s funeral, she and Manfred were in the parlor downstairs, waiting for tea to be served. It seemed they spent most of their days waiting for time to pass. She heard Tonbridge’s church bells. In the middle of the afternoon. Ringing and ringing.

“What can it be?” she asked, moving to the window.

Of course, she could see nothing interesting from the window. And Manfred’s only reply was a grunt. But the bells did not cease, so she finally sent Edward into Tonbridge to ask what was happening. He returned winded and flushed, with the scent of ale clinging to him.

“Milord, Milady, the war is won!” His eyes shone. “There was a tremendous battle. Boney is done for. Wellington destroyed him!”

“I knew he would. God bless Britain!” Manfred said, his voice thick with emotion.

“Yes, thank God!” Camellia murmured. She feigned gladness, but in fact, she was almost blinded by fear. There had been a battle? Did Major Taverston take part? Had he survived?

If only she could see him once more. Even from a distance. Just to assure herself he was alive. Because she was losing everyone.

*

As the weeks passed, Manfred grew more irascible. He insisted he would not be confined upstairs as Neville had been. So Camellia assigned Edward the task of escorting him up and down the staircase. Manfred protested, but she would not budge.

He forgot conversations. Or else he wasn’t listening when she spoke. She felt burdened and hated herself for her impatience with him. But she had spent a quarter of her life caring for others and she was tired. It felt strange to think that the one person who had made her feel cared for, in little ways, was Major Taverston. Or he did, until he did not.

Camellia entered Manfred’s library, bored enough to seek out a book of his to read. But she paused, seeing him slouched in his desk chair. Stepping closer, she saw he held something clutched to his chest. Closer still, she discovered it was a lady’s glove. Her heart stuttered. It was not her glove. It must be Elizabeth’s. Poor dear Manfred. She must be kinder.

She tried to tiptoe out, but he called to her. “Camellia? Come. It isn’t your fault.”

“My fault? What isn’t?” She returned to his side, seeing he’d crumpled the glove and was attempting to stuff it into the top drawer of his desk. He looked groggy. He blinked slowly, then his gaze focused.

“Nothing. I thought…I suppose I dreamed you…the baby. It was a girl.”

She sighed. Of course, a girl would not be her fault. But before she could respond, Manfred started weeping. She laid her hand on his shoulder. “Oh, Manfred.”

“My dear, what will become of you?” Tears continued to spill. “Promise me that you won’t make any bargain with Alexander.”

“Your cousin?”

“He isn’t to be trusted. If he invites you to stay here—”

“I won’t, Manfred.” She shuddered. Whatever he’d been dreaming must have been a nightmare. “I promise I won’t.”

He raised his hand slowly to wipe his eyes. “My dear, you will have to go to the earl. To Iversley. He is known to be an honorable man. Explain to him. He will ensure the major takes responsibility.”

“Good God, Manfred!” Her throat closed. “I don’t want his brother forcing him. What kind of marriage would that be?” A marriage like that of Mr. Cooper’s unfortunate sister.

“If I die—”

“This is not something we need worry about. We have years before we need worry.” Yet she knew this wasn’t true. Her husband’s eyes filled with tears once more. She tried to speak reassuringly. “I can go to Marianne. To Lady Stirling. She has said I’m always welcome.” Marianne’s latest letter announced she had been delivered of her fourth healthy child. A baby girl. How wonderful it would be to be able to welcome the birth of a girl. “And there is no reason to worry now. Another month and we may well be rejoicing over our son.”

*

Crispin stood ashore in Tor Bay with a spyglass. He watched the HMS Northumberland sail away until it was a speck on the horizon, and then gone. The ship was finally en route to St. Helena with Napoleon, his entourage, and his guards aboard.