Page 8 of Yielding to Love

“Who mutters? Mr. Diakos?”

“No, Neville does.” She threw up her hands. “It has to be Mr. Cooper.”

This morning, with Mr. Cooper presumably out badgering his sister’s seducer, it had been Mr. Frye looking after Neville. The brute hoisted Neville from his bed and practically flung him into a rickety wheelchair. Neville shouted a few words she had no business hearing. The chair shuddered as if he’d plunked a horse into it, even though her brother was just skin and bones. Poor Neville’s eyes scrunched tightly, his jaw clenched, and his face went bloodlessly white. After that, Mr. Frye gave Neville two doses of laudanum, and he’d slept away the whole morning. She thanked God she was carrying her battered copy of Lyrical Ballads in her reticule, or she would have spent the hours staring at the walls.

“Well,” Marianne said, refilling Camellia’s cup, “I am selfishly glad to keep you here longer. Now, do say you’ll come with me to Bond Street tomorrow. I’m meeting a few friends at the circulating library to talk about Lord Byron.”

“Oh, but I haven’t read any of his work yet,” she admitted.

Marianne’s smile was so devilish she might as well have winked. “That won’t matter. We’ll be discussing Byron. Please come. Neville won’t mind you taking a few hours for yourself. I’m sure he wants you to!”

She wanted to, too. “I’d better not.” It would just make her more envious. The circulating library in Tonbridge had been closed ever since the death of the proprietor. She hadn’t read anything new in over a year. And Bond Street was filled with shops that Marianne would insist upon visiting. Camellia knew Marianne would press her to purchase something for herself. The temptation to do so would be strong. She needed new stockings. “I realized today that I must buy Neville his own wheelchair before I can take him home.” There were just so many things to arrange. She balled her fists and breathed, counting to ten, trying to slow her racing heart. “I asked the doctor where I might find one, and they have to be built.” She heaved a sigh. “He gave me a name of a man who might make one, but…” She halted.

“It will be expensive?” Marianne asked, eyes on her teacup.

Camellia nodded, embarrassed. “We’ll make do.” It was permissible to complain about expenses only if it was done with a laugh and an air of unconcern. But she was concerned. Father’s debts had exhausted the sum Neville had received for selling his commission. And she’d spent far too much on changes to the house. Her purse was a sieve.

“Has the colonel begun to receive his pension?” Marianne kept her gaze down.

“No. Neville said it won’t start until a year and a day after his injuries were confirmed to be irrecoverable. His physician just submitted his claim.” To shift the focus from the crass topic of money, she added, “The problem is, having a special chair made might take weeks.”

They sat quietly, eating their sweetly tart strawberries, until the twittering of the lovebirds made Camellia think to ask what other gossip Marianne had heard at the Marypoles’. That was followed by a stream of on-dits about people Camellia didn’t know and didn’t care to know. There was so much snobbery among the elite, they all sounded awful.

Of course, that could be envy speaking.

Camellia was not lowborn; she was descended from landed gentry. But good birth was no guarantee against misfortune. The Harrington property had been whittled down over the years. They no longer had tenants. Nevertheless, Papa had once held a position of consequence in their village—enough, she’d thought, that a London Season was not out of reach. Naturally, it would have been abbreviated and she would not have moved in high circles. Marianne, a mere baroness, was the most exalted person she knew, and if Marianne’s mother had not sent her to stay with her grandmother in Tonbridge so often when she was a child, Camellia would not even know her.

“…of course, the biggest event of the Season was last month’s wedding between Viscount Haslet and Miss Fogbotham. You remember that.”

“Hmmm? Oh, yes. Yes, of course.” She frowned, trying to remember what Marianne had told her about it. The prince regent had attended? Was that the one?

“Now that I think of it,” Marianne mused, “the Taverstons are related by marriage, I think, to Miss Fogbotham. Yes! I remember. The youngest brother’s wife is Miss Fogbotham’s cousin. Well, I suppose she is not Miss Fogbotham anymore. She is the viscountess.”

Camellia nodded and tried to appear interested. How did Marianne keep these things straight. More to the point, why did she?

Marianne stopped chattering to give her a narrow look. “You don’t care about any of this, do you?”

“I’m sorry. I do, but I’m distracted by what to do about Neville.” Camellia bowed her head in case her fear showed in her eyes. She worried Neville would die. He couldn’t die. She was certain he would fare better in Tonbridge, but she couldn’t get him there.

“You’re doing all you can. I wish I could help. Would you like me to come to the hospital with you tomorrow morning?”

Camellia shook her head. “That isn’t necessary, but thank you.” Marianne had come with her once, the very first week, and had fainted dead away upon entering Neville’s room. The odor of old blood, men’s sweat, and dried urine, combined with the sight of limbless men and one who was eyeless, had overwhelmed her. She came around, but then proceeded to blather so nervously she irritated Neville. It was not an experience anyone wanted to repeat.

“Then what about this furniture man? Is he near Bond Street? I could talk to him for you.”

“I cannot ask that—”

“Of course you can.” Marianne reached over and patted Camellia’s knee. “Please let me do something.”

She bit her lip. Marianne would demand the very best. “I appreciate the offer, but I have to discuss with him what Neville needs. It’s complicated. And his shop isn’t near Bond Street.” It was on Finsbury Square—almost an hour’s walk from Lord Stirling’s house, in the opposite direction from the hospital. And she had best go tomorrow rather than putting it off. It would either be feasible or it would not be. And then what? Was she to haul her brother about in a wheelbarrow?

“Then what can I do to help?” Marianne asked.

“You are helping.” She’d initially told Marianne she would be in London three months. It had turned into four. And now it seemed her stay would be indefinite. “I hate to be such a burden to you and Philip—”

“You are not a burden. You could never be a burden.” She swept her hand around the room as if indicating the entire house. “We have all this space, and I love having you here. Philip does, too. You are always welcome.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. “That’s very kind.”

Very kind and surely exaggerated. Always welcome? Camellia said a silent prayer that she would never have to test the sentiment. If Neville were to die, after all she’d spent on the renovations…any pension would cease…

She couldn’t think of that. She shouldn’t. Neville was not going to die.

Marianne’s head cocked to one side. High-pitched voices sounded in the hallway, interspersed with the governess’s calm tones. “The children are coming.” She smiled a fond, proud, motherly smile. “Can you bear the noise? I could ask Clara to bring them back in an hour…”

“Oh, don’t send them away. I can think of nothing I would enjoy more.” Camellia meant it. She loved the innocence and exuberance of children. Of all the things she was resigned to having to forego, it hurt most that she would never have any of her own.