“Is it happening more often?”
“No.” Neville stopped himself, realizing at once that that was a lie. “Only when…when I’m still for t-too long.”
“Sitting at the desk?”
“Sometimes.” And at dinner, or in the drawing room with everyone talking all around him. He couldn’t predict exactly when it would happen. All he knew was that it never happened when he was active. When he was engaged with the horses or some other physical activity.
“You get lost in your thoughts.”
“I lose time. I…I don’t realize until afterward.”
Justin frowned. “I’ve been thinking about that. About some of the difficulty you’ve had with the more mundane aspects of filling Boothroyd’s position.”
Neville didn’t respond. In his opinion, most of Boothroyd’s duties were mundane. Whereas some stewards spent the bulk of their time out on the estate, Boothroyd preferred to remain indoors. He’d structured all of his responsibilities to revolve around his desk.
“I wonder,” Justin said, “if it wouldn’t be more efficient to separate the paperwork, letter-writing, and ledgers from the work that must be done on the estate. Monitoring repairs, collecting rents, and so forth.”
“Who would…?”
“I’d have to hire someone. A secretary, perhaps.” Justin squeezed Neville’s shoulder before releasing it. “Don’t look so glum. Boothroyd’s had decades to learn his role. It’s not realistic to expect you to take over his post immediately.”
“Stewards are educated men.” Many of them had gone to university and knew how best to make an estate profitable. It was more than simply balancing accounts and collecting rents.
“You’ve had an education. First the orphanage school and then the convent. More importantly, you have common sense. You may not be as well read as Tom, or as well traveled as Alex, but you have impeccable judgment. I value it immensely.”
“My judgment is…” Neville pushed his fingers through his hair until it stood half on it. “It’s n-not as good as you think it is.”
Had it been good judgment to take Clara to his rooms above the stable? To kiss her so passionately? He’d known all the while that nothing could come of it. That there was no prospect for a future with her.
And why not?
The three words echoed in his brain—a desperate, angry question.
But he knew the answer. It was as much because of her as it was because of him. She was beautiful and intelligent, with dreams that far exceeded the rigid bounds of his circumscribed existence.
While she went off with her brother, to a fulfilling life as secretary to a natural scientist, Neville would stay here. Frozen in time. Cursed to remain in North Devon as surely as some enchanted knight in one of Clara’s Arthurian legends.
In time, she would forget him.
The prospect sank his spirits.
“Come up to the drawing room with me,” Justin said. “Helena’s there with Jenny having tea and cake. Doubtless they can spare us a slice. We’ll get things sorted with Miss Hartwright’s departure, and then we’ll—”
“I…I can’t.” Neville looked at the implements on the desk—the inkpot, quill, and quire of writing paper. An ache built in his chest.
Dash it all to hell.
He couldn’t leave it this way.
Clara’s feelings meant more than his pride. More, even, than his fears and insecurities. She was that important to him. He’d be damned if he let her leave here believing he didn’t care. That it hadn’t been the sacrifice of his life to let her go.
“There’s something I have t-to do.”
“For me? Let it wait.”
“Not for you,” Neville said. “For me.”
Clara folded the last of her petticoats and placed them inside her portmanteau. Her veins hummed with anxiety. She’d thought she had another day to get her affairs in order. To pack her clothing and belongings and to settle things with Bertie’s care. She glanced at the small gilt clock on the mantel. It was half past eleven. Only twenty more minutes until her departure.
“Are you certain there’s nothing else you require, Miss Hartwright?” Mrs. Archer stood near the wardrobe, a cashmere shawl wrapped around her shoulders. “An extra pair of woolen stockings or another bonnet? I’d be happy to lend you whatever you need.”
Outside, the rain hammered down in a relentless torrent, beating on the roof and the windows. The winter storm was fully upon them, and with it a whistling wind and an ominous gray fog that obscured the sea from view.
Clara tried not to think about how Mr. Danvers would manage to navigate the winding cliff road.
“I’m quite all right as I am.” She shut and locked her portmanteau. Her carpetbag was already packed. She stacked both on the padded bench at the foot of the bed. “I’ll be on the train mostly, not out in the elements.”
Bertie looked up from his place by the dwindling fire. Clara’s eyes found his. She swallowed against a lump in her throat.
“And you’re certain Mr. Cross is going to care for your pug? You can leave him with me if you like, or with Teddy.”
“I wouldn’t wish to put you to any trouble.” Clara’s cloak, bonnet, and gloves were laid out on the bed. She slipped them on. “Besides, Mr. Cross said he’d be happy to do it. He has a way with animals.”
“That he does.” Mrs. Archer went to the bell pull and gave it a sharp tug. “What about your wages? Have you put them somewhere safe?”
“In my reticule.” Clara tied her bonnet tight under her chin. “Except for a single pound note, which I’ve hidden inside the bottom of my half boot.”
Mrs. Archer’s mouth curved in a fleeting smile. “Very wise.”
A footman arrived moments later to collect Clara’s bags.
“Thank you, Robert,” Mrs. Archer said.
“Shall I come back for the dog, ma’am?” he asked.
“I’ll take him myself.” Clara scooped up Bertie. “I must have a word with Mr. Cross.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Archer cast a worried glance at the window. “Though do make it a brief one. The weather appears to be worsening by the minute.”
Clara promised that she would, and with Bertie in her arms, she made her way downstairs.
She hadn’t seen Neville since last night at dinner. The entire evening had been a painful ordeal, and one she’d rather have avoided. After returning from the stables, she’d been quite tempted to plead a headache and keep to her room.