He opened it and ushered her inside.
Hugging herself with her arms, she looked about the room, examining the worn wingback chairs, old mahogany wardrobe, and metal bedstead. Her gaze lingered on the mattress with its heavy quilt and pillows. She bit her lip. “This isn’t at all—”
“Here.” He guided her to one of the chairs near the cold hearth. “Sit down.”
Again, she did as he bid her, albeit reluctantly, perching on the very edge of the seat, as if she might spring up at any moment and bolt from the room. She was silent as he made up the fire and stoked it to a roaring flame. When he turned again to look at her, some of the color was back in her cheeks.
“Will you stay here?” he asked. “While I t-tend to Betty?”
“Are you going to bathe her?”
He shook his head. “I’ll sponge her d-down. And…I n-need to wrap her leg.”
“I can’t wait long. I’ve already been gone over an hour. Mrs. Bainbridge—”
“It won’t t-take long. Just…” Words eluded him. All the things he wished he could say to her. All the emotion he wanted to convey. It was tangled up in his head and his heart. There was no way to express it. Only a simple request. A husky plea. “Just…wait for me.”
Her chocolate brown eyes glistened. He was reminded of the day they’d met. Of how she’d looked at him. How she’d offered him her hand.
She’d only just come into his life, and now she was leaving just as quickly. And he wasn’t ready for it, lord help him. He wanted—needed—a little more time.
She nodded slowly. “Very well, I’ll wait.”
Clara was true to her word. She waited for Neville, for goodness knew how many minutes. It was long enough for the fire to dry her dress and take the shivering chill from her bones. Long enough for her teeth to cease chattering.
All the while the rain pelted the curtained window of his room, and storm clouds moved across the sun, casting dark shadows across the furnishings and floor. She rose from her chair to light a lamp. There was one located on a wooden table near the bed. A slim book bound in red morocco leather lay closed beside it.
She didn’t like to pry. What Neville chose to read of an evening was none of her business. But as she removed the globe from the oil lamp and lit the wick, she couldn’t keep her gaze from drifting over the gilt-stamped title on the ridged spine.
Poems
—
First Edition
—
Tennyson
—
Vol. II
Her mouth went dry. Neville was reading Tennyson? And not only Tennyson, but the very volume that contained Sir Galahad?
She reached to touch the book, only to draw her hand back. She hadn’t read poetry in four years. Not since the scandal in Hertfordshire. No one had expressly forbidden her from doing so. Not Mama, and certainly not Simon. But both of them had implied it was a contributing factor to her shame. And she’d known it to be true. Poetry, especially the sort which rhapsodized about gallant knights and fair damsels, had only served to exacerbate her tendency toward romantic daydreams.
And now the pleasure she’d once felt in reading Tennyson or Wordsworth was forever tainted. How could she enjoy any of it when all it did was serve to remind her of her own humiliation?
She returned to her chair by the fire, an ache settling into her heart. She was resolved to think about things logically. To focus on reality, not romance. Even so, the idea that Neville was reading the poetry she’d once loved so dearly moved her deeply. It was as if he was seeking to know her. To discover who she really was.
And she wished…
Oh, but she wished things could have been different. That she had met him before, when she was younger, and life was full of possibility.
Which was a grim way of thinking of things.
Her life wasn’t over. She had a plan. A vision for her future, as an educated lady. A sensible secretary to her brother, dealing with lists and ledgers, and cataloguing quantifiable facts.
And that was precisely the reason she must go to Cambridge. She couldn’t permit her brother to jeopardize his standing there. Not when her own life depended so much on his. Without Simon, she had nothing to look forward to, save a dreary future as a companion.
A floorboard creaked outside the door.
Clara turned sharply at the noise. Her eyes widened.
Neville entered the room, coat in hand, looking very much like he’d fallen into a slurry. His shirtsleeves were wet, and his waistcoat and trousers were streaked with mud.
She stood in alarm. “You haven’t been hurt?”
“No. This is what happens when you…when you sponge a wild p-pony who’s rolled in the mud.” His mouth hitched in a rueful half smile. “She’s clean now.”
“And you’re wet through.”
He glanced down at his clothing. “I’ll dry.”
“Nonsense. You need to change into a fresh shirt. And I need to go. It’s past time I—”
“Don’t go.” He came further into the room, his expression losing all trace of humor. “I d-don’t mind it.”
“I mind it for you.” She heaved a breath. “Do change into a dry shirt. I’ll…I’ll turn my back.”
A flush crept up his neck. For a moment it looked as though he’d rebuff her offer. But he didn’t say anything. He only gave a stiff nod.
Clara turned away, staring fixedly at the fire. She was aware of every sound and movement behind her. The click of the wardrobe door opening. The rustle of fabric as he removed his waistcoat and stripped his linen shirt off over his head. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to blush.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you.” Her voice was high-pitched with nerves. She brought it back to a normal level. “I’ve been quite comfortable here in front of the fire.”
“Has your dress dried?”
“Yes.”
He came to join her at the fireplace, garbed in a clean shirt and black woolen waistcoat. His trousers were still muddy. He hadn’t changed them, thank heaven. It would have been doubly embarrassing if he had. The very thought of it! As if it wasn’t already awkward enough between them.
“Neville,” she began.
He motioned for her to sit.
She shook her head. “I’m too restless.” Arms folded, she walked to the window, putting some much-needed space between them. She was conscious of him watching her from his place in front of the fire. “Why are you reading Tennyson?”