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It wasn’t a game, but it was beginning to feel like one.

He found himself grinning. His misfortune diverted her, and here he was, amused as well.

He could imagine what his family would make of that.

But his justification was that Miss Harrington could use some entertainment, and he was happy to provide it, even at his own expense.

Besides, she might have an inkling of what he went through. He’d noticed that she also shunned any food or drink produced by a cow.

They finished supper, then moved away from the table.

Crispin pushed Harrington’s chair near to the couch where Miss Harrington preferred to sit.

He remained standing, waiting. Harrington’s moods dictated how their evenings would go.

Sometimes he took the man straight from supper off to bed.

However, tonight Old Harry seemed alert and not particularly bothered by pain.

Perhaps Miss Harrington could be persuaded to sing again. He’d gladly whistle.

“Camellia,” Harrington said, brow creased with curiosity, “do you still write poetry?”

Miss Harrington blushed. She shook her head. “Not seriously.”

Ah, a bad poet. A true kindred spirit.

With a chuckle, the colonel turned to Crispin. “She used to send me charming poems. But not in a long while. I kept them until…well, they were lost somewhere after Vitoria.”

“A shame,” Crispin said. He shot a teasing smile at Miss Harrington. “I would have liked to read them.” Then he added, “Perhaps you kept copies?”

“Do you? Write poetry?” she asked, turning the tables. “I know you like to read it.”

“Bad poetry. I write bad poetry.”

“Good.” The sly expression he was learning to recognize appeared on her face as she focused her attention back on her brother. “Our father did, too. Did you know?”

“Oh, yes. I remember.”

“Did he ever play ‘poetry challenge’ with you?”

“No. What is that?”

Now Miss Harrington laughed. “We would each pick a poem to read aloud. And then we had half an hour to write something in the same vein. The same as each other’s choice, not our own.” Her smile grew wistful. “Papa was very clever.”

“I imagine you were also.”

“Not as clever as Papa.”

Harrington looked pensive. Crispin felt sorry for him. He must have been hospitalized on the peninsula when he got word of his father’s death. When his own father had died, Crispin was privileged to be at his bedside, with the family gathered around.

Then Harrington said, “Major, I’d like to hear your ‘bad poetry.’ I suspect it is actually quite good. Why don’t you and Camellia play this challenge? I’ll be the judge.”

This was the most engaged the man had been since arriving home. And Miss Harrington was smiling brightly, transforming her arrestingly pretty features to arrestingly beautiful. Crispin chewed his lip with exaggerated hesitation, then said, “Very well. I accept the challenge. Miss Harrington?”

She pointed to the wall clock. “We give each other ten minutes to choose a poem. There are a few volumes in the library if you need one.”

“Need one!” Crispin gasped as though offended. He put a hand to his heart. “I carry my favorites here.”

Miss Harrington laughed. “I’m ready as well.

Just a moment.” She moved to a desk that had been pushed against the back wall and opened a drawer, then returned with foolscap and pencils.

“Now we are ready. Marianne shared a poem with me. She said her friend copied it from her sister-in-law’s letter.

The author is very probably the same lady who wrote Sense and Sensibility . ”

“Then it must be delightful.”

“It is.” She recited, “Happy the lab’rer in his Sunday clothes!

—In light-drab coat, smart waistcoat, well-darn’d hose—And hat upon his head, to church he goes—As oft, with conscious pride, he downward throws—A glance upon the ample cabbage rose—That, stuck in button-hole, regales his nose.

—He envies not the gayest London beaux.—In church he takes his seat among the rows—Pays to the place the reverence he owes—Likes best the prayers whose meaning least he knows—Lists to the sermon in a softening doze—And rouses joyous at the welcome close. ”

Crispin burst into laughter. After a startled moment, both Harringtons laughed along. “I’ve been in that laborer’s shoes.” He tried clearing his throat. “So the challenge is to compose a poem where all the lines rhyme with rose?”

“Yes. Or you may pick another word. Something easy to rhyme.”

He nodded.

“And now you must give me one,” she said.

Unfortunately, his boast might be his undoing. Although he knew many poems by heart, his mind had gone blank, except for one filthy limerick he would not recite, and a poem by Donne that he probably should not recite, for all he found it amusing. “Give me a moment.”

Harrington said, “Come now, Major. No waffling.”

Donne it was then. “Well, all right. Here is it. A Woman’s Constancy .”

Miss Harrington rolled her eyes.

“You know it?” he asked.

“Yes. Go on.”

He took a breath. “Now thou hast loved me one whole day,—Tomorrow when thou leav’st, what wilt thou say?

—Wilt thou then antedate some new made vow?

—Or say that now—We are not just those persons which we were?

—Or, that oaths made in reverential fear—Of love, and his wrath, any may forswear?

—Or, as true deaths, true marriages untie,—So lovers’ contracts, images of those,—Bind but till sleep, death’s image, them unloose?

—Or, your own end to justify,—For having purposed change, and falsehood, you—Can have no way but falsehood to be true?

—Vain lunatic, against these ’scapes I could,—Dispute and conquer, if I would,—Which I abstain to do,—For by tomorrow, I may think so too. ”

Harrington sniffed. “I say, Major, that’s rather rude.”

“It’s John Donne,” Miss Harrington said. “His love poetry is generally rude.” She handed Crispin a few pieces of paper and a pencil, then pointed at the clock. “Thirty minutes.”

*

“You are out of time,” Harrington announced. “What do you have?”

Crispin winced. He’d forgotten how truly bad he was at writing poetry. Jasper used to taunt him about it. He knew this was a game. And he’d warned them he was bad at it. But this was embarrassing.

“Go on, Major Taverston,” Miss Harrington urged. “You may go first.”

“Fine.” He tried not to grit his teeth. “ Happy the poet who dost compose,—With the same ease with which a river flows,—Who never resorts to overblown prose,—But turns out couplets like well-aimed arrows— ”

“Couplets like arrows?” Harrington’s head fell back, and he roared. Laughter was good medicine. He looked less like a slowly dying man and more like a man with something to live for.

Miss Harrington pressed her lips tight, appearing desperate not to guffaw.

Crispin circled his hand in the air. “It goes on like that.”

Miss Harrington snorted. “Maybe you should have used ‘dear.’”

“It wouldn’t have been any better.” He tried to look sorrowful, but ended up laughing along. “I concede. Just don’t make me read the rest.”

When he’d caught his breath, Harrington said, “Let us hear yours, Camellia.”

She picked up her paper and read, “ Now I have loved you one whole day,—Or at least, vain lunatic, that is what you say,—For love is not love to you unless—It is something spontaneous, which we confess—At a weak moment, never felt until the words are said,—A newborn emotion, in languor bred.—In that respect, it’s true, I did just say—I love you, therefore, I’ve loved you one whole day.

—If you were not so dull, I’d try to make it clear—A woman’s love does not just appear.

—It is not generated in her lover’s arms at night—To fade forgotten or denied in the morning light.

—If you knew how devotedly I’ve loved, and how long—You’d see how silly you appear, and how wrong.

—All the excuses you’ve provided for a love well ended—Are your defense, my constancy need not be defended.

—No better proof of devotion could there be—Than loving you till you loved me.

—Your spontaneous, painless love for me was earned—By my longing love, so long unreturned.

—And tomorrow…who can know—Whether your love will waste away, or grow?

—My love, full-grown, has nowhere else to go.

—Tomorrow, when I leave, and you ask why,—I’ll say, having reached its end, my love could not help but die . ”

Silence fell. Crispin knew he should say something, but his chest felt knotted and his throat too tight to speak. Was there truth in her poem? Had she loved someone that much? A love that could not be sustained? Why should that make his chest hurt?

Harrington coughed. “Well, we have an obvious winner.”

Miss Harrington bobbed theatrically clumsy curtsies. An act. As though the poem meant nothing more than a quickly imagined response to Donne’s incivility. But Crispin wanted…he wanted to know more.

While he was struggling to find the right words to congratulate her, he grew aware of a noise. A knocking. The Harringtons did, too. They watched Mrs. Clay emerge from the kitchen to go to the front door.

A minute later, she came to them, the visitor trailing behind, looking footsore and weary.

Crispin said, “Adam!” at the same time Miss Harrington said, “Mr. Diakos!”

He bowed. “Pardon me for intruding. I’ve come at Major Taverston’s request.” He turned to Crispin as if awaiting permission to say more. But before Crispin acknowledged that he had written to him, Adam said, “I regret to inform you Mr. Cooper succumbed to the pox.”

Miss Harrington gasped. Crispin merely swallowed hard. More death.

Adam faced the colonel. “If you are still in need of an attendant, I believe Major Taverston will vouch for me.” It impressed Crispin that Adam could say that last without irony.

Harrington grunted. Then he rolled his shoulders in either defeat or apology. “I do need someone. Major Taverston has given us too much of his time.”

And now, Crispin thought, he was being summarily dismissed.

But that was a good thing. He glanced sidelong at Miss Harrington. It was.