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“You’re welcome to it. We have no use for hay.” Not anymore. Her father had once bred Yorkshire Trotters, only a foal or two a year—but that was eons ago. He’d sent the last horse to auction just before Mama died.

“I could have my agent sell it for you.”

Prickling warmth crept up her neck. She wanted to refuse his interference, but that would be foolish. “That is up to my brother, naturally.”

“Camellia.” He sighed. “Neville is a soldier, not a gentleman-farmer. Your property is falling to ruin. You must see that.”

She kept her expression bland, refusing to acknowledge the truth in what he said.

Unfortunately, the property was Neville’s, not hers, and there was no creature more impotent than a half- sister under the guardianship of an absent soldier.

She’d had no authority to do anything without proof of Neville’s approval.

After he’d been sent back to London, in order for her to even hire laborers for the house renovations, she’d had to slip the necessary papers under his nose while he was half-asleep and would ask no questions as he signed.

She’d thought he would take more interest in the farm once he saw the state of it. But Manfred was right. Neville was oblivious.

Manfred said, “I have much to offer you. You and Neville. If you would but consider—”

She shook her head. “You promised not to ask again.”

“That was before I spent two months in London looking for a wife. None of the ladies appealed to me the way you do.”

He was middle-aged and ailing. Did he imagine he appealed to them? To her? She suspected he thought she was now desperate enough, at twenty-six, to say yes. But she refused to marry out of desperation.

“Please stop,” she said. “I don’t wish to be unkind, but I’ve told you I don’t wish to marry. I have my brother to care for—”

“The Greek is taking care of him. And you would be less than a mile away if he needed you.”

“My answer is no, Manfred. Please respect that.”

He looked away. “I won’t ask again.” He said it as though it were a threat, not a promise, and not one he’d made before.

“Thank you.” She drew a shaky breath. “Please take me home.”

*

She could not fault Manfred. Over the next few days, he behaved very well for a man whose suit had been rejected four times.

He still sent men to mow the field and cart off the hay.

Then he gave a ham and two chickens to Mrs. Clay, and promised to send a joint of beef in two weeks as payment, which he’d been under no obligation to do.

He arrived on Saturday for supper and cards as usual, and although he was stiff and formal toward her, he remained friendly to Neville.

Nothing had changed. Nothing would ever change.

Another of Mama’s bits of wisdom was that it served no purpose to mope.

Sorrow was unavoidable. It would come and go, and one must bear it.

But moping? That was a choice. A wrong choice.

Camellia knew that, compared to many women, hers was not a bad life.

Only she wished she’d experienced more of it.

She wanted to go to the theater. She wanted to meet a poet.

She wanted to dance at a ball. Marianne was right.

She should have made time for herself when in London.

Yet London would not have answered for all. Just once, she wanted to be kissed. She wanted to know how it felt to be held in a man’s arms. But not Manfred’s. She didn’t want to be trapped for the rest of her life with a man she didn’t love.

*

The Harringtons were not as isolated as Camellia had worried they would be.

Mrs. Clay and Mr. Diakos made trips into Tonbridge.

Deliveries came to the farm from the grocer, butcher, and fishmonger.

An advantage to all the coming and going, and whatever tales Mrs. Clay was telling in Tonbridge, was that people in the village and neighboring towns took notice that Neville was home.

Acquaintances of Camellia’s and old friends of her mother and father came calling.

Occasionally someone would bring along a single young lady eager to meet a war hero.

These last were so obviously disappointed by Neville it made Camellia’s heart hurt.

Still in all, it raised her spirits to have more variety to her day.

One afternoon, a woman who had known Neville in his youth, Mrs. Blackwell, came with her granddaughter from nearby Wheatfield.

The granddaughter was plain and bit of a sourpuss, fidgeting and even yawning while Neville and Mrs. Blackwell reminisced.

But she wore a pink-and-blue dress that was so pretty, Camellia could not take her eyes from it.

Even Neville noticed the dress. When the women left, he turned to Camellia and said, “Camellia, must you always wear black? Our father has been dead for over a year. It’s morbid. I feel like you are sitting vigil over me.”

“Neville! What a thing to say!”

“You’re young. You should wear something with color. If you don’t have anything, there must be a dressmaker in the village.”

“The expense—”

“We aren’t paupers. Buy yourself a decent dress.”

Camellia folded her hands in her lap. Not paupers. But closer than Neville realized. “Perhaps I will go into the village the next time Mrs. Clay goes.”

She rose and took her brother into the library, retrieved the book he wanted from the shelves, then excused herself. She went up to her bedchamber, opened her trunk, and examined clothes that she had not worn in years.

What if she had thrown off mourning in London? What if Major Taverston had seen her in pretty, bright dresses instead of her crow costumes?

Silly speculation. In London, he would have been surrounded by beautiful debutantes. A spinster in a dated gown would not have turned his head.

But if Neville felt oppressed by her mourning clothes, she should change them.

She pulled out a pink cotton floral with short, puffed sleeves.

The print was too girlish. She put it back and took out another.

A red-plaid cotton lawn. More formal. The sleeves were elbow-length and less voluminous.

The neckline was square. The bodice was gathered.

It was pretty but she couldn’t recall ever wearing it.

Perhaps she’d thought it dowdy when she was twenty.

She held it out in front of her. The hem looked a bit short. She undressed, then put on the gown. It was tight, but the seams were deep and could be let out. She could fix it and tell Neville she’d had a new dress made.

Maybe she would even wear it.