“Mr. Bryce-Chetwynde.”
“Bah.”
“It’s true, Mama. He kissed me today.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed behind the lenses of her spectacles. “He what?”
“He kissed me,” Clara said again, smiling giddily. “In the field behind the cottage. He says we will soon be husband and wife.”
At least, that was what she thought he’d said.
She was so certain of it—of his love, and of his words—that she allowed her mother to march her straight into the squire’s drawing room. Clara had stood there in her best Sunday dress, in the presence of the squire and Mr. Bryce-Chetwynde, as Mama demanded that Mr. Bryce-Chetwynde acknowledge the secret betrothal he had with her daughter. Clara had been confident he would.
More fool her.
That confidence had cost her everything. Her pride, her job, and her reputation.
It had cost Mama and Simon, too.
Clara recalled how badly her hands had shaken as she’d held the newspaper a week later, desperately scanning the employment advertisements. That there was a listing for a lady’s companion was nothing short of a miracle. Clara responded to it at once, and within a fortnight, was on a train to York—as far away from Hertfordshire as she could manage.
She’d thought never to see Andrew Bryce-Chetwynde again. Never to hear his name.
And yet it would have been a lie to say she hadn’t thought of him in the years that followed. Indeed, she’d spent that first six months in York going over and over every interaction the two of them had had, trying to light on the instance she’d first misconstrued things. The moment she’d diverged onto a course that had very nearly ruined her, and her mother and brother along with her.
She’d never discovered it.
Which just went to show that her own judgment was faulty. That she’d spent too much time with her head in a book, daydreaming about epic poems and legends.
She’d resolved then and there to be done with such foolishness. If her imagination was so powerful it could make her see things that weren’t there, she couldn’t afford to keep feeding it. Better to starve it of its sustenance. Of poetry, novels, and plays. To force it to function, instead, on a diet of provable scientific facts. Everything sensible and orderly, fitting into neat rows and columns.
Coins clinked onto the table as Mr. Trent settled the bill for their tea. “Do you have relatives hereabouts?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You’ll need somewhere to stay. I’d offer you a room myself, but…” He stuck a finger into his cravat, tugging the rumpled linen as he cleared his throat. “The lads and I have rented a hunting lodge for the holiday. It’s no place for an unmarried lady.”
“You’ve no need to trouble yourself. I’m already established here. I see no reason I shouldn’t remain for the night.”
“At the Bell and Swan?”
She cast a pointed look around. “It appears respectable enough.”
“Yes, but wouldn’t you rather return to wherever it is you came from? It’s still early. I could easily find you a cab. And Simon would—”
“My brother can discuss matters with me directly when he returns. I gather he’s one of the lads with whom you’ve rented your hunting lodge?”
“He is.”
A fresh flicker of anger sparked in Clara’s breast at the imagined expense of such a thing. “Then you may tell him where I am, and that I shall remain here until he sees fit to call on me.”
“Simon won’t like it,” Mr. Trent said before taking his leave. “He’ll rake me over the coals for not putting you directly back onto the train.”
“I should like to see you try, sir.”
The next morning Clara emerged from her room to find that the establishment had grown significantly more crowded. She hadn’t any idea why. Some of the students returning to Cambridge after their holidays, she supposed. Indeed, most of the guests at the inn appeared to be single young gentleman. She’d never felt so conspicuous. As she sat down to take her breakfast in the public dining room, it seemed as though every eye was upon her.
She finished her cup of tea and ate the last bite of her toast, hardly tasting either of them. Mr. Trent had said that Simon would be back in Cambridge first thing in the morning. And it was already half nine.
As she exited the dining room in search of the tavern keeper’s wife, the murmur of masculine voices followed, setting her already frayed nerves a-jangle. What she needed was a brisk walk and some fresh air to clear her head. She refused to meet her brother in a state of abject emotion.
She found the tavern keeper’s wife in the taproom, wiping down the high, polished wood counter with a dirty cloth. Clara caught her gaze as she approached. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. I’m expecting my brother this morning. If he arrives while I’m out, will you tell him I’ve gone for a short walk and will be back by ten o’clock?”
“Aye, miss. Will you be needing anything else? I can fetch you a hot coal to warm your hands.”
“No, thank you.” Clara didn’t possess a handwarmer. Gloves would have to suffice. She fetched them from her room, along with her cloak and bonnet, and made her way out onto the street.
It had snowed during the night, blanketing Cambridge in a light dusting of sparkling white, as pristine as powdered sugar. She walked briskly through it, eyes straight ahead, in the direction of Magdalene College.
There were other people about. Working folk going about their day. A woman at a storefront bid her good morning, and Clara replied in turn. But she wasn’t interested in shopping, or even in admiring the view of the university. It was exercise she required.
Glancing to the right and left of her, she crossed the road. She’d gone no more than a few steps when a gentleman walking equally briskly in the opposite direction nearly collided with her.
He caught at her arm, bringing them both to a stumbling halt. “Clara!”
She looked up at the young fellow with a start. He was tall and thin, with floppy blond hair that fell over his forehead, and the same limpid brown eyes as her own. “Simon!” A breath of relief gusted out of her. “Goodness’ sake. What are you doing here?”
“I’m on my way to see you. Trent said you were staying at the Bell and Swan.”
“I am. I was waiting for you, but when you didn’t arrive by breakfast—”
“You went for a walk to clear your head?” His mouth curved in a tight smile. Taking her arm more firmly, he turned her back the way she’d come. “You don’t want to be walking here. Not unescorted.”