And now I have you.
But he didn’t say that. He couldn’t. Not here.
Not yet.
Clara was awakened at dawn by the sounds of rain on the rooftop, and thunder breaking over the sea. She was glad, for once, that Bertie was hard of hearing. Asleep beside her in the bed, he hadn’t been at all bothered by the storm. He’d snored straight through the night.
She let him sleep while she washed and dressed, and then gathered him up to carry him down to the kitchens.
Neville was waiting for her there, as promised—along with a steaming mug of tea and a thick slice of bread and butter. “I thought you m-might be hungry.”
Clara smiled her gratitude. “Oh, thank you. I haven’t had any breakfast.”
He fed the dogs while she ate, and then the pair of them made their way down to the stables. It was a familiar path by now, though no less treacherous. She clung to Neville’s arm.
She hadn’t yet told him that she was leaving. There had been no opportunity last evening. None save the few moments they’d shared in the drawing room, sitting together on the settee. And she hadn’t had the heart to ruin that.
Stupid, really. They might have already discussed the matter. But she knew, once they did, everything would change. Besides, she was too busy savoring his every word, and every gentlemanlike gesture. Storing it all away. Cataloging every minute with him so she could call it back again in future. Labeling this, and cross-referencing that. A whole file of memories to carry her through the difficult times ahead.
But she owed him the truth. And she knew better by now than to make an entire drama of it. They weren’t Romeo and Juliet for heaven’s sake. They were two sensible adults.
Even so, there was a part of her—a weak, cowardly part—that had hoped he might already have heard the news from Mr. or Mrs. Archer. But as the evening progressed, she’d realized that the Archers had been in no hurry to enlighten the other guests. Nor why would they be? The employment status of their elderly aunt’s companion was hardly food for gossip.
No. It was up to Clara to tell Neville. And she must do it today. This very morning.
And she would.
Just as soon as she could find an appropriate moment.
He helped her remove her cloak and bonnet, shaking the raindrops from them before hanging them to dry.
Clara smoothed her hair, feeling a bit self-conscious. The stable was eerily empty. Even the horses were quiet. “Where is everyone?”
“A tree fell at…at the b-bottom of the cliff road last night. They’ve gone to…to help clear it.”
“Mr. Danvers, too?”
“He fed the horses early so he c-could go.” Neville was silent for several long moments. “I d-didn’t go. I…I’d rather b-be here. With you. Is that…”
“It’s fine.” She took a step toward him. “I’m glad you didn’t go to help them. I’d have been terribly disappointed not to see you. And Betty and Firefly, of course. I’ve grown quite attached to them.”
He regarded her intently. And she knew—she simply knew—that he understood. That it was him she was attached to. Deeply attached.
Drat the entire situation!
She hadn’t come here meaning to develop an affection for anyone. There was no place for such things in her life. Nor in his, she’d wager.
She turned abruptly toward the feed room, her voice artificially bright. “Shall we make their breakfast?”
Neville followed after her without a word.
He let her take charge of Betty’s mash, mixing the bran, grain, and hot water. And he permitted her to assist him in heating the foal’s milk and wrapping the spout of the teakettle with soft toweling. But it was he who carried the bucket. He always sought to spare her a burden. To make the way smooth for her.
Yet another admirable quality to file away in her box of memories.
She walked alongside him down the aisle. As they approached Betty’s loose box, she poked her shaggy head out over the door. When she saw Neville and marked the bucket he was carrying, she gave an impatient whinny.
“Here, Betty.” He let himself inside the loose box, shutting the door behind him. “Easy.”
Clara cradled the teakettle in her hands as she watched over the door. Betty was still a little wary of Neville, but she no longer cringed away or threatened to kick him. Taking his cue from his dam, Firefly stepped forward to bump Neville’s arm with his tiny muzzle, demanding his attention.
It was one of the sweetest things Clara had ever beheld. “Is it safe for me to come in yet?”
Neville clipped the bucket to the hook on the wall. Betty thrust her head into it without hesitation. “Now it is.”
Clara crept inside. Betty didn’t pay her any attention, but Firefly was ready and waiting. He nudged her with his nose, and pushed her hard with his shoulder. “He’s getting strong!”
“He wants his milk.” Neville held Firefly’s neck, keeping him still. “Remember…you have to p-pour it.”
“I remember.” She offered Firefly the padded spout of the teakettle, tilting it so the milk slowly streamed into his waiting mouth. He drank deeply. A smile spread over her face. “He’s getting better at this.”
“So are you,” Neville said.
She didn’t know about that. It was impossible to keep the milk from spilling. At least now, however, after three days’ practice, she was confident that more was ending up in Firefly’s stomach than on the straw-covered floor.
“Good boy,” she murmured. “How clever you are.”
When the teakettle was empty, she stepped outside the loose box again. She was careful not to press her luck with Betty. It was Neville who must win the ponies’ trust, not her.
He remained inside with both of them. His hands moved over Betty while she ate, stroking along her neck, shoulders, and flanks. It was as if he was speaking to her. Gentling her and reassuring her. Persuading her to trust him.
Firefly wandered along with him, mouthing at Neville’s sleeves with tiny, experimental nips.
Neville glanced at Clara. “Fetch your bonnet and cloak.”
She quickly did as he bid her, retrieving her things from the front of the stables and slipping them on as she returned to the back. By then, he’d managed to put a rope halter over Betty’s head and was leading her from the box.
Clara stood back, well out of kicking range. “What about Firefly? Doesn’t he need to be haltered?”
“He’ll follow her.”
Sure enough, Firefly ambled along at Betty’s side as Neville led her through the arched doorway at the back of the stable. It opened to a series of long paddocks with white wooden fences. The smallest was closest to the stables. A pen, merely, with an even footing of mud and grass.