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T o Camellia’s disappointment, Major Taverston took advantage of Mr. Diakos’s appearance and fled the following morning. He barely made his goodbyes before he was out the door.

Without question, Mr. Diakos proved to be a better manservant.

After all, he was a servant. Neville ordered him about as a matter of course.

It must have been uncomfortable for her brother to be tended to by a fellow officer, one who was his social superior, and a friend.

It must have been difficult for the major as well.

In contrast, Mr. Diakos’s care was impersonal and more thorough.

In addition to daily necessities, he cut Neville’s hair, trimmed his beard, bathed him, and massaged his limbs.

He even had Neville doing exercises. Neville swore at him regularly, but Mr. Diakos was uncowed.

He was likely accustomed to being sworn at by invalided men.

However, there were disadvantages. Camellia had even less time for herself.

Mr. Diakos did not join them for tea or meals.

He ate with Mrs. Clay in the kitchen. He did not play cards with Neville or discuss Caesar’s commentaries in the afternoons.

And he did not sit with them in the evenings.

Camellia and her brother were alone. She had wished for so long to know him better, but Neville didn’t like to speak of the war, not to her, and recalling his youth here in Tonbridge seemed to sadden him.

This meant Camellia was obliged to carry the conversation, and do so in a light-hearted fashion.

She could hardly unburden her soul to him.

Also, she didn’t know what interested Neville, so she often felt she was babbling, and he was not listening.

Moreover, she missed Major Taverston. She missed his thoughtfulness and the way he found humor in so many things. He had a way about him that made her think if she were to fall, he would catch her. Catch her then set her on her feet and move on.

He had been gone only a week when Manfred returned.

Camellia appreciated that he spent the afternoon with Neville, but was less glad when he accepted an invitation to supper.

It appeared to her he claimed a greater friendship with Neville than their long-ago acquaintance warranted.

His interest in renewing that friendship made her nervous.

Since his wife’s passing, Manfred had asked her three times to marry him; the last proposal occurred shortly after Papa’s death.

When she’d said no, he’d promised not to ask her a fourth time.

Still, the question was always there, just beneath the surface.

He didn’t seem to accept that she had no interest in becoming Lady Bodwell.

No desire to jump from taking care of a brother to taking care of an ailing husband.

“Neville tells me your guest has gone to see his family in the country,” Manfred said. His hand shook, but that didn’t prevent him from picking up his fork and spearing a piece of chicken. “And that he is likely bound for India before long.”

“India?” She looked to Neville.

He shook his head. “Conjecture. He is too valuable to go to the West Indies. It is a graveyard for Englishmen. And he would find it distasteful to police Ireland. He’s a young man with important connections.

India makes the most sense. Come up through the ranks—and he could well be the next Wellington. ”

“Wellington would not be Wellington without Napoleon,” Manfred said.

Neville sniffed, but did not disagree. The men fell into a discussion of the French Emperor, now Emperor of Elba.

Camellia let her thoughts drift away. India?

She would never see Major Taverston again if he went to India.

But, of course, she was unlikely to see him again even if he did not.

The realization was sobering but she didn’t want to dwell on it.

When supper ended, they moved to the other side of the receiving room, which had felt cold and empty ever since the major’s departure.

“Will you play for us?” Manfred asked, indicating the pianoforte.

“I’m sorry, I cannot. It needs tuning.”

“Does it?” He dipped his head and frowned sympathetically. Then hmmmed . Then turned to Neville. “A round of whist?”

They played for a little over an hour before Neville laid down his cards and said he needed to retire. Camellia pulled the bell cord for Mr. Diakos. Slowly, Manfred rose to take his leave.

“Should we make this a regular party?” he asked. “Cards once a week? Saturday evenings?”

“Supper and cards,” Neville said, nodding with satisfaction. “I’m sure Camellia would be pleased to see another face besides mine.”

Manfred looked to her, waiting.

Resigned, she said, “Supper and cards would be nice.” Nice for them.

*

It was August the twenty-seventh. Another card party Saturday. It was also Camellia’s twenty-sixth birthday. Neville would not remember, and she had no wish to draw attention to the date. She was now, undeniably, a spinster.

As she dressed for dinner, donning her best black silk dress, she noticed the cuffs were beginning to fray. She’d worn all her mourning gowns too many times. She was going to have to replace the sleeves to keep up appearances.

Before going downstairs, she stepped close to the mirror.

She couldn’t recall the last time she’d taken more than a quick glimpse at herself, because she never liked what she saw.

As a child, she’d always thought that if she prayed hard enough, her tuft of white hair would miraculously turn black, and she would no longer be teased by other children and stared at by adults.

But her forelock remained stubbornly white.

She remembered, very clearly, her twelfth birthday, when she’d dashed her mirror to the floor, shattering it.

She remembered, too, her mother’s words: “God gave us eyes to look out at the world. Not to gaze upon ourselves.” Words to live by.

Nevertheless, Mama replaced the mirror. Camellia smiled sadly.

Prone to mixed messages, her mother was.

She had also told Camellia she was beautiful.

And that inner beauty was all that mattered.

Camellia wondered, if she had had a London debut, would she have resorted to dye?

She liked to think she would not have. She studied her reflection for the first time in a long time.

Her lips were too plump. Her eyes too narrow.

But she had an acceptable nose and firm chin.

Her complexion? She leaned closer, examining her skin, looking for crow’s feet or lines about her mouth.

No, thank goodness, not yet. But her face was irrelevant when people’s eyes went automatically to her hair.

She stepped away from the mirror. Enough of this. Time to gaze out at the world.

As she descended the stairs, she heard voices. Manfred. With Neville. And a third man. She heard the plink of a pianoforte key. Upon entering the receiving room, she saw a stranger standing near the instrument. A large black case lay open on the floor, filled with unidentifiable tools.

“Ah,” Manfred said, smiling a little uncertainly. “I’ve brought you a present. Mr. White has come from London to tune your pianoforte.”

Neville said, “Isn’t that fine? I’d forgotten it was your birthday. You are how old? Twenty-three?”

“Twenty-six,” she said faintly. She faced Manfred. “This is really too kind.” It was inappropriate. Neville should have told him so.

“You used to sing for your father, I recall. Perhaps you will sing for us?”

“Yes, of course.” All at once, she thought of Major Taverston’s humming. A tuned pianoforte was a poor substitute for his laughter. “I’d be delighted,” she lied.

*

She could not have turned away a pianoforte tuner who had come all the way from London. Nor, she found, could she send Manfred away when he appeared three days later, to ask her if she’d like to go for a carriage ride. Having accepted the gift, she had to grant him her company.

The carriage was small and plain, the wooden body chipped at the corners.

It was wrong to ride in a closed carriage alone with a man, but they weren’t in London, parading in Hyde Park.

No one would know. The driver opened the door and let down steps.

Manfred held her hand while she climbed them.

Then the driver helped Manfred. After another few moments, they were speeding along.

Manfred spoke pleasantly of people they knew in Tonbridge.

Gossiping, she thought wryly. Yet it was good to hear news.

She hadn’t spoken with anyone in the village for quite a while.

Papa’s funeral had been well attended, and in the following weeks, she’d had several callers, but she had been in such a fog of grief, she didn’t remember details.

After a while, people had stopped visiting.

She’d seen no one but Mrs. Clay and Mrs. Tabbit for months.

And Manfred. She winced inwardly. He’d called many times.

Manfred needed an heir. She knew that. He needed a son to keep his property from going to another branch of the family. What she didn’t understand was why that mattered so much to him when he’d be dead when it happened.

She had to acknowledge to herself that he was not a bad-looking man.

Just old. His features were ordinary. He would not stand out in a crowd.

His hair was salted with gray. His skin was a little coarse and sallow, but not marred in any way.

Of course, she was comparing him to Major Taverston, which was unfair.

The major was near to her own age, blue eyed, strikingly handsome, and in robust good health.

Or, looked to be in good health. She could not account for his curious dietary preferences.

As they passed by one of Neville’s fields that had not been tended in a long while, Manfred pointed out the window and said, “Neville has said I might send a few of my men to mow the hay.”