And she would too, he had no doubt.
Beautiful as he found her, she never shone so brightly as when she was helping him with Firefly. She smiled and laughed—finding humor in her missteps and fairly glowing at each small accomplishment.
“Perhaps in the morning?” she suggested. “Before Mrs. Bainbridge wakes?”
“At dawn?”
“We can meet in the kitchens again. Or I can come straight to the stable if you’d rather not wait.”
His heart pounded. “I’ll wait.”
There was something exciting about arranging to meet her. It felt illicit. Thrilling.
Though their time together was hardly a secret.
The entire household knew that Clara had been visiting Betty and her foal whenever she had a chance. No one had so much as batted an eye.
Which was a bit depressing, really.
Neither Mrs. Bainbridge, Mr. Boothroyd, nor even Justin seemed to suspect that there was anything going on between Neville and Clara. As if Neville could pose no possible threat to her virtue. As if the thought of romance would never enter his mind.
But it had entered his mind, almost from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her—and every moment since. Scarcely an hour passed that he didn’t think of her, whether in the house, the stables, or alone in his bed.
Last night he’d even dreamed about her. One of those hazy dreams that disintegrates upon waking. All he could recall of it now was the feeling of deep contentment it had left him with. A warm sense of rightness.
Only eleven more days.
The rain beat heavily against the drawing room windows. If not for the blazing fire and the gasolier, and countless lamps and taper candles flickering on the marble mantelpiece and the inlaid side tables, the room would be swathed in darkness.
Normally, Neville wouldn’t have given a thought to the oncoming storm. The elements hereabouts had always been fierce and unforgiving. As brutal as the cliffs sheering down to the sea. One simply got on with things. Acclimating to the climate—just as one acclimated to every other cruelty.
Clara didn’t belong here.
It pained him to acknowledge it. But it was the truth. One that became more evident with each passing day. Despite her eccentricities—her aspirations for education, and employment—she was made for a gentler world. She deserved a gentler world.
“I never noticed the storm,” she said. “Not until I returned to the house this morning.”
“It isn’t so b-bad.”
“No? I shudder to think what could be worse.”
He replied without hesitation. “When the rain c-comes sideways. And when…when the road washes away.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Once a year. Sometimes m-more.”
“You’ve never considered moving someplace more hospitable?”
“I like Devon.”
“Yes, but Devon consists of more than this strip of coast. It’s a large county, I believe. Surely there must be places that are less volatile.”
Neville frowned. He didn’t know what else there was. He’d never been farther than Abbot’s Holcombe. “Sometimes…I imagine a f-farm.”
Her face lit with interest. “A horse farm?”
“With p-paddocks, and a barn, and…lots of room.”
She tilted toward him ever so slightly. “With acres of clover, and rolling fields for the horses to run and to graze?”
He looked into her eyes, very much in danger of losing himself in their satiny depths. “Yes. All of that.”
“And more,” she said.
“What else is there?”
“A snug little farmhouse. And…a butterfly garden.”
His brows lifted in question.
Her cheeks turned a delightful shade of pink. “A garden planted in such a way as to attract butterflies, with lavender, heliotrope, and the like. The butterflies come to sip honey from the flowers. One can sketch and paint them—if one has a mind to.”
His mouth curved. “But this is m-my farm. My dream.”
“Is it?” she asked. “Your dream, I mean? Something you want just for yourself?”
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But…” No dream was worth giving up his friends. He shrugged. “I belong here.”
“I suppose you do.” Clara’s gaze drifted over his face. Fondness shone in her eyes—and a faint sadness, too. “You’re a part of this landscape, as much as anything. It’s how I shall remember you. Walking along the cliffs with Paul and Jonesy. And in the stables, with Betty and Firefly.”
There was a finality to Clara’s words. It settled in his chest, extinguishing the warmth that had bloomed there as she spoke of clover fields and butterfly gardens.
But this wasn’t the end. They had eleven more days together, didn’t they?
He studied her face. It revealed nothing more to him.
Perhaps this wasn’t the place for it. He needed to get her alone. To speak with her frankly. What shall we do when you go? Shall we write to each other? Shall you come back and visit next Christmas?
He knew he would live for every letter. For every visit, even if it was only once a year.
And yet…that wouldn’t be living at all, would it? It would be heartbreak. It would be misery.
He swallowed. “I’ll turn them out in…in the m-morning.”
Her face brightened. “Oh, I long to see that. But what about—” She broke off. A sheepish smile edged her mouth. “I won’t make the mistake again of pointing out the inclement weather. Except to say that, though Betty may be a Dartmoor pony, Firefly has known nothing save that loose box.”
“Dartmoor is in his blood.”
“Perhaps, but he’s still bound to be frightened by all the rain.”
“He’ll t-take his…his c-courage from his mother.”
“Is that how it works? Each of us learning to be brave from the example set by our parents?”
His mouth quirked. “I wouldn’t know.”
Her own smile evaporated. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”
“It’s all right. I d-don’t mind it.”
“I mind it for you. You shouldn’t have had to be all alone.”
“I wasn’t,” he said. “I had Justin, Alex, and Tom. And now…”