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C amellia had intended to rise early, but by the time she awoke, the sun was high.

She hurried to dress. Poor Neville must be waiting.

And she wouldn’t be able to hear him if he called.

Panic made her fingers clumsy—she dropped three hairpins while stuffing her hair under her bonnet.

Lud. Before bed last night, she’d caught sight of herself in the mirror and she’d appeared slovenly.

No wonder Major Taverston had looked at her so oddly.

And now he would think she was slothful as well.

She smoothed the front of her plain black bombazine dress and stepped from her bedchamber. Across the hall, the door to the guest room was closed. Maybe he was still asleep. There had been no sound from the room all night.

She raced down the stairs, bracing herself for Neville’s groans or shouts. She should have slept downstairs. But…she felt a twinge of dismay, remembering her uselessness when he’d asked for a chamber pot. She must send a letter to Mr. Cooper at once and beg him to come.

The ground floor was surprisingly quiet. Were both men asleep? That would be a blessing. She tiptoed to Neville’s room and found it empty. The bed had been made up. She stared a moment, disturbed, before turning on her heel and exiting.

Could they be in the library? She headed there, passing the receiving room, which was as it had been, with everything draped in white dustcloths.

She pushed open the door to the library.

The new shelves were in place, but Papa’s books had been chaotically stacked upon them by the workmen.

Neville was in his chair, pulled up close to the table.

She noted that the four legs of the table had been propped up with books so that the arms of the chair would fit under it.

Neville was bent over, reading, and a teacup rested near his elbow. The major had been busy.

Neville turned his head at her approach and grunted a greeting. “Morning.”

“Good morning, Neville. I’m sorry to be a slugabed. Can I get you anything?”

“I’m fine.” He gestured to the book on the table. “Caesar’s Commentaries on the Gallic Wars . Wellington should write his own commentaries.”

She smiled tentatively, then asked, “And where is Major Taverston?”

He looked away. After a moment, he mumbled, “In the village. Fetching his horse.”

What did that mean? “Will he come back?” Her voice quavered. She had no claim on his time. And he had done so much for them already. But she wasn’t ready to face this alone.

He gave her a sharp look, then set his jaw. “He might. Or might not. I told him to go to the devil.”

Camellia gasped. “Why?”

“He was sticking his nose in. Arrogant blackguard thinks he know everything.”

“Oh, Neville.” She sighed, frustrated. She’d been on the receiving end of Neville’s ill-humor. He could be lacerating. She wouldn’t blame the major if he’d thrown up his hands and left. “After he’s been so kind?”

“I don’t want his ‘kindness.’”

She understood how diminished her brother must feel. But didn’t Neville see how precarious their situation was?

She was too rattled. Too annoyed. She had to step away. “I’m going to make myself a cup of tea. Would you like another?”

“No, I’m fine.”

She left the room and tried to think calming thoughts.

Perhaps it was not so terrible. The major’s horse and that very noticeable carriage were at the Fitzhenrys’ inn.

It wouldn’t be a full day before everyone in the village knew that she’d returned with her brother.

Manfred, their neighbor, would certainly call.

And Mr. Castor, the rector. She grimaced—they were the two men who had once been her suitors.

She’d rather not see them, but Neville might wish to.

Mrs. Tabbit and Mrs. Clay would come around looking for work.

Perhaps the older women could help with Neville’s more intimate care until she found a manservant.

She had been too intent upon hiring someone skilled from the hospital, and had assumed any able-bodied man in the village who was not already employed would be undesirable. But beggars could not be choosers.

It was a long walk into the village, but it wasn’t as if she had never done it before.

And she had made the hour’s long walk to the hospital several times a week if not daily, so she was certainly conditioned to a long trek.

In fact, the walk on their country lanes would be far more pleasant.

And pleasant smelling. They would be fine without the major.

In the kitchen, to her mixed relief and dismay, she found the woodbin filled and two full buckets of well water.

Was there anything he hadn’t thought of?

She rekindled the stove and set the kettle upon it.

As she stood there, trying to mentally prioritize the day’s tasks, she heard the clopping of hooves and rattling wheels.

She threw open the back door to see Major Taverston driving a cart into the yard.

Her heart made a little leap. He hadn’t abandoned them.

Moreover, Mrs. Clay sat in the cart’s bed, surrounded by crates.

Major Taverston’s horse was tied behind.

Camellia ran outside. “Major! What is all this?” She quickly added, “Good day, Mrs. Clay.”

“Miss Harrington.” Mrs. Clay bobbed her gray-haired head and rocked forward.

“I’m so glad you’re home. For good this time?

The major here says your brother is with you?

” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Mrs. Tabbit has taken another position, but I can cook and keep house too. My rabbit stew is better than hers. I brought some for tonight. I’ve always said—”

“Miss Harrington,” the major said, cutting across her, “I took the liberty of locating your housekeeper and a few supplies. Mrs. Clay was very helpful, telling me what you might need.”

The bed of the cart was lined with hay. She supposed the crates contained foodstuff. Had he put it all on her account? It made her uneasy to think so. But they couldn’t live on potatoes and apples.

He hopped down from his seat and helped the plump, short-legged Mrs. Clay to descend. “I’ll put these crates in the kitchen, then go settle Mercury and Trotty in the barn. Mr. Fitzhenry was kind enough to allow me to hire his rig.”

Camellia finally found her voice. “Major, this is too much. We are taking advantage of your good nature.”

“Not at all.” He gave her a rueful grin. “I was careless, bringing you here with no provisions. If I were a quartermaster, I would be court-martialed for making no advance inquiries.”

Arguing with a man who smiled so readily served no purpose. “Well, then, we are grateful. Even if Neville is too pigheaded to say so. I’m sorry he was rude to you.”

Major Taverston laughed. “I’ve been sent to Lucifer so often, he is tired of seeing me.” He hoisted a crate from the cart. “Lead the way, ladies.”

*

Camellia helped Mrs. Clay unpack the crates while listening to the woman’s praise for “the fine gentleman.” He’d told her to purchase whatever she needed to prepare whatever the Harringtons preferred.

They went to several different shops and he “just opened his purse.” The woman was clearly awed by such liberality.

Camellia was embarrassed by it.

“I asked the major what he’d like, and he said rice and peas. Can you imagine?” Mrs. Clay laughed. “He said he couldn’t get decent rice and peas on the peninsula, and he’d be happy to eat nothing else for a week!”

Camellia returned a wan smile. Did that mean he intended to stay a week? While thinking of a response, she heard a thwacking sound coming from outside.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Clay.”

She went to the front and opened the door.

The major was there, hatless, jacketless, shirtsleeves rolled up to expose muscled forearms, swinging an ax at the ramp.

She couldn’t help admiring the way he moved his body.

All raw strength and grace. Her mouth dried as she watched him pause to yank away a loosened board.

What had Marianne said about men with strong hands?

He tossed the board aside, then glanced over at her and grinned. “I decided to liberate your steps.”

She smiled back, glad he could not read her mind. “I’d hoped to be able to take Neville outside, but that ramp was more hindrance than help.”

“A ramp down the back steps would be better. The dirt in the yard is packed firm and it would be easier to roll that chair. Is there any place in particular on the grounds that he’d like to go?”

“I don’t honestly know. He has spent so little time here.

” Her preparations seemed haphazard now.

Na?ve. “But there is a fishpond. And a flower garden.” She’d hired a mason to lay a brick walkway to the garden, but the garden itself was a disappointment.

She’d planted it, then had to abandon it.

“This all must seem so foolish. He is no better off than he was in London.”

“That isn’t true. Home does not cease to be home just because one is absent from it.”

“But there he at least had Mr. Cooper.”

He shook his head and frowned. “I don’t know about your Mr. Cooper, but I’d trust Adam Diakos more than anyone else.”

“You know Mr. Diakos?”

After a pause, he said, “I’ve met him, yes. Miss Harrington, if you’ll permit me, I’ll write to inquire about Mr. Cooper. And if Mr. Cooper is not available, perhaps Mr. Diakos would be interested in the position.”

“Neville does not like Mr. Diakos.”

“Yes, I know.” The major snickered. “But he doesn’t like me very much either. I told him he should reduce his reliance on laudanum.”

She gaped. Neville’s doctor had said to give him what he needed. He said Neville would be the best judge of his own pain. No wonder Neville called the major arrogant. What could he know of laudanum?

“Perhaps you should ask my brother’s permission rather than mine.”

He regarded her a moment, then said, “I wanted to be certain you would not mind.”

The words startled her. It had been a long time since anyone had taken her wishes into account.

But perhaps his kind manner was meant to obscure the fact that he wanted her to secure a manservant for Neville quickly.

She should assure him he need not stay until they did.

Instead, she cleared her throat and said, “Of course I don’t mind.

And I’ll make inquiries in the village. The sooner we can find someone for Neville the better. ”

*

Camellia removed the dustcloths in the receiving room and set the table while Mrs. Clay cooked and Major Taverston sat with Neville in the library.

The receiving room was another embarrassment.

She’d told the laborers working on the house they could store furniture there until she had a better idea of what should go where.

It now held a hodgepodge of chairs and tables, as well as the pianoforte that had been in the music room that was now the library.

Since the dining room furniture had been moved upstairs, they crowded around a card table to eat.

To Camellia’s surprise, Major Taverston did eat only rice and peas.

He refused fresh-baked bread and Mrs. Clay’s rabbit stew.

He said no to wine and drank only tea. Like Camellia, he took no milk in his tea, and when Mrs. Clay brought out a tray of cheese to finish the meal, he refused it, but with an oddly wistful expression. That much, she thought she understood.

Camellia took a small piece. “You don’t like cheese, Major?”

“No.” His face hardened.

“I didn’t either. Most of it makes me feel ill. But Mrs. Faraday, whose farm is on the other side of Tonbridge, makes this from goats’ milk and it doesn’t bother me. And it’s quite delicious.”

He gave her an unsettlingly dark look. But then he shrugged and took some, an even smaller piece than hers.

Mrs. Clay came back to clear the table. It was early in what threatened to be a long evening. Camellia wished she could escape to her own chamber to read her novel. Instead, she pushed her brother’s chair to a spot a few feet away, facing the pianoforte.

“Do you play?” Neville asked.

She nodded. “A little.” Their father had hired a teacher for her when she was young.

She had no particular talent for it, but she could accompany herself while she sang.

Of course, Neville wouldn’t know any of this.

He didn’t know her any better than she knew him. “I sing more competently than I play.”

“Sing for us then, if you would.” Neville’s voice was rough, and he looked tired. Pained. Usually, he was demanding his medicine by now if he hadn’t taken it already, and then he would have fallen asleep before supper. Major Taverston was probably right. He took too much.

She went to the pianoforte and lifted the lid. She sat down and played the opening to Mary Went Walking , but she heard Major Taverston make a noise, and when she looked over her shoulder, she swore he was wincing. She stopped. “Do I play that badly, Major?”

“What? No. No, your playing is fine, but that instrument is out of tune.” He hastened to add, “Not terribly so.”

“Is it?” She sighed. So much for that. “It hasn’t been tuned since before Papa died.” She didn’t know when she would be able to have a man come see to it. Probably never. She closed the lid.

“I beg your pardon.” He looked abashed. “That was rude of me.”

“Yes, it was,” she said, then laughed to set him at ease. “Can you hum, Major? Or whistle? On key?”

With a bit of a smirk, he answered, “Both.”

“Do you know Brown-eyed Susan ?”

He whistled the opening bars. Then hummed them.

“Very good. For penance, you must accompany me by humming.”

He cleared his throat, a half-smile on his face, then began.

She chimed in singing. After humming the first verse, he joined her in singing the second.

He could do anything, it seemed, and make it appear effortless.

He had a marvelous baritone that complemented what her music teacher had called “an unusually deep voice for a woman.”

Neville clapped when they finished, but without enthusiasm, and his face was a sickly pale.

Beaming, Major Taverston exclaimed, “Miss Harrington, that was superb. Should we try another?”

She pointed to Neville. “I don’t think…”

He groaned. “I cannot do it. This is torture. I need my medicine.”

Major Taverston jumped up. “Yes, of course.” He grasped the handles of Neville’s chair, then turned to her. “Miss Harrington, we will bid you goodnight. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve moved my things down to the spare chamber next to the colonel’s.”

He could do anything. And he thought of everything. It was going to be difficult to make do without him.