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Just as Mr. Diakos was bringing Neville in, Mr. Castor said, “I don’t understand why you mutilated this house.”

“Don’t you?” Neville asked.

Mr. Castor whirled around, saw him, and flushed. “I only meant to say she could have had an architect in to make more graceful changes.”

Major Taverston stepped into the room just behind Mr. Diakos. “Oh, good Lord, no. One should never trust architects.” He was in uniform. And he looked formidable.

Neville made introductions. Mr. Diakos stepped away, but Mrs. Clay hurried in with a tray, carrying glasses of wine. Major Taverston confused Camellia by taking one. He’d always refused wine before.

“Major Taverston? Taverston?” Mr. Castor said. “Your brother is the Earl of Iversley? I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“That wife? It must have been difficult—”

“I can’t imagine what you mean,” the major cut across him, his voice like knives. The look he gave the rector was shriveling. The room remained dead silent until Major Taverston turned to Neville. “This is excellent wine.”

“My father kept a cellar. There are still a few bottles.”

“Is it French? It must be.”

They discussed the advantages of French wine compared to Spanish or Portuguese wine.

Eventually Mr. Castor offered his opinions.

The dangerous moment passed. Shortly, Mrs. Clay came out to announce supper.

Camellia had asked her to move things along as quickly as possible so they would have an early night.

Other dinner guests had been polite when guided from one side of the receiving room to the other, rather than making a formal progression from receiving room to dining hall. Mrs. Castor gave a sharp burst of laughter and turned up her nose.

“How quaint. It is like an indoor picnic, isn’t it, Mr. Castor?”

“What a pleasant way to look at it,” Camellia said, misunderstanding on purpose.

Major Taverston agreed. “Picnics are always good fun. Well, depending on the company.”

Neville was at the head of the table. Camellia sat between him and Mr. Castor, across from Major Taverston.

Mrs. Castor was beside him. The rector said a blessing, then Mrs. Clay served the first course, pease soup.

Camellia noticed the major’s hesitation.

She caught his eye, then put a spoonful in her mouth.

She hoped he understood what she meant: no cream.

He nodded, then dug in. She felt a small thrill at their secret communication.

The conversation suffered a number of false starts and stops. Then, to Camellia’s surprise, Mr. Diakos, who was not expected to serve as their butler, brought in the main course while Mrs. Clay removed the soup bowls. They were taking seriously her request to speed things along.

Camellia saw the major heap his plate with rice and peas and only the tiniest portion of beef stew.

As if taking control of the evening, Mr. Castor said loudly, “Colonel, it is good to have you back, even such as you are. I must say, we had all given you up for dead. Your poor father, pillar of the community, suffering such a terrible blow—”

Camellia jumped in. “It was a blow, losing Papa. But then, his heart was broken after my mother’s death.”

“But it was your brother’s—”

“Your glass is empty. Will you have more wine?” She looked about frantically. The bottle was not on the table.

Major Taverston said, “Allow me.” He rose and left the room, returning a moment later.

“Mr. Diakos will bring more wine.” He sniffed a laugh.

“Do you know, the colonel and I first met Mr. Diakos in a church, a Roman Catholic church, on the peninsula? He was caring for wounded soldiers. He has a gift for it. And he also knows good wine. He’s liable to bring up your father’s best, Colonel. I hope you don’t mind.”

Neville waved his hand. He didn’t care. Camellia practically held her breath until the conversation turned to Mrs. Castor’s pickles, which were apparently leagues above Mrs. Clay’s.

Mr. Diakos returned and poured more wine, then left the bottle on the table and retreated.

“You’ve given up grieving?” Mrs. Castor said, turning the full force of her unpleasantness upon Camellia. “That dress is…bright.”

“It has been over a year,” Neville said.

“There is no time limit on grief. When my father died, I wore mourning for five years.”

“Yes, five years is the time limit on grief,” Major Taverston said, then popped one of Mrs. Clay’s pickles into his mouth.

Camellia stifled a laugh, which would have been fatal to the evening. Mrs. Castor was already giving them both the evil eye.

Then the major turned to Mr. Castor. “My brother was going to enter the church, but he thought sermonizing every week would be too burdensome. How do you choose your texts?”

Camellia saw the man’s chest expand. He treated them to an hour-long discourse on writing sermons. She feared Neville would nod off. But it carried them through to the end of the meal.

Unfortunately, they could not then simply tell the Castors to go home.

“Shall we?” Neville said, gesturing across the room. “Camellia will play for us.”

They all rose, and the major wheeled Neville’s chair toward the pianoforte. Camellia’s hands felt hot, and the back of her neck itched at the thought of having to play. The Castors would not be an appreciative audience. And the major had a very discerning ear.

“Do you play, Major?” she asked, holding back.

“Yes, I do.” He didn’t try to downplay his ability. He didn’t boast of it, either.

“Why don’t you play for us,” she said. “I will if I must, but it was my music teacher who said that I sing better than I play.”

He gave her a sympathetic grin, then stepped around Neville’s chair and took a seat on the bench. He touched a few keys, as if to confirm that it had been tuned. She noted he had a pianist’s fine long-fingered hands. He played a Beethoven sonata. Beautifully. From memory.

After he finished, while she and Neville clapped enthusiastically and the Castors clapped petulantly, he stood to offer her the bench.

“Oh no,” she said. “I certainly cannot play after that.”

“Music isn’t a competition.” He smirked. “Not like poetry.”

She laughed and tilted her head slightly to indicate the Castors, watching them. “Would you like to try the challenge again?”

He widened his eyes with mock horror. “Not for the world. Why don’t I play, and you sing?”

*

That night, after the Castors were gone, Camellia lay awake, listening to the silence.

She was aware, very aware, of the major’s presence just down the hall.

Was he listening to the same silence? In her head, she heard echoes of the sonata he’d played.

Songs she had sung lingered on the tip of her tongue.

She wanted to hear something of his. A breath. A snore. A rustle of blankets. The drop of a boot on the floor. Anything. A connection. To prove to her he was still there, and that the evening had not been a dream.