He dropped his leather portmanteau onto the floor beside him. He had hoped to get a room. He’d been traveling straight through the night. A whisper of urgency had encouraged him on, growing louder the nearer he drew to Cambridge. He had the distinct sense that Clara was in trouble. That she needed him.
It was likely nothing but his own overtaxed nerves. He’d been under a fair bit of strain since leaving the Abbey. His muscles had tensed every time he encountered a new person—a porter, a coachman, or a stranger seeking to make conversation.
Several times he’d lost his words. And once during the journey he’d drifted off in his head while staring out the window. It had been awkward and disconcerting. But he’d managed to get through it. To keep going.
“You can try the Red Lion, across town,” the woman said. “I won’t say it’s as fine a place as me and my husband keep, but it will do you for a bed.”
“I…” He tried to formulate his thoughts. The noise at the back of the tavern was distracting. “I’m looking for someone.”
“One of the Antiquarians? They’re all in the dining room. The meeting’s well under way by the sound of it. Are you a member of the society?”
“No. I’m looking for a…a lady.”
Understanding registered in her weathered face. “Ah! You must be the young miss’s brother. She says I’m to tell you that she’ll be back roundabout ten o’clock. Gone for a walk, she has.”
Behind him, the bell on the door jingled as it was opened and shut again. A brief gust of icy wind filled the entryway.
“And there she is,” the tavern keeper’s wife said. “Right on schedule.” She raised her voice. “Your brother’s just arrived, Miss Hartwright.”
Neville slowly turned around, his heart in his throat.
Clara stood in the doorway, having just removed her bonnet. Her face was white as marble, her brown eyes glistening. She looked more beautiful than he remembered. Beautiful, and brittle as glass. As if at any moment she might shatter into a million pieces.
Something had happened. He could sense it. Her small form was practically vibrating with tension.
He took an instinctive step toward her.
She didn’t wait for him to approach. Didn’t address him or ask what it was he was doing in Cambridge. Indeed, she didn’t say anything. She merely looked at him, in stunned silence.
And then, all at once, her face crumpled, and with a choked sob, she threw herself straight into his arms.
Neville enfolded her in a protective embrace. She was trembling violently, her body racked with tears. He held her close as she wept, wrapping her in his arms, and inside the warmth of his greatcoat. “It’s all right,” he murmured against her hair. “I’m here. You’re safe now.” He raised his head to address the tavern keeper’s wife. “Where is her room?”
“Upstairs. Last door to the right.” She gave Clara a look of motherly concern. “The poor mite. Is she unwell?”
“Just…overwrought.” Neville picked Clara up easily, one arm at her back, and the other sliding beneath her knees. She clung to his neck, her face pressed into his cravat. “Will you send up a…a p-pot of tea?”
“Right away, sir. And I’ll have the boy bring up your case.”
He nodded once before striding across the hall and bounding up the creaking stairs to Clara’s room. In other circumstances, accompanying her there would have been enough to ruin her. For all he knew, it still might. But the tavern keeper’s wife seemed to think he was her brother. A fiction he prayed would hold long enough for Clara to compose herself, and for the both of them to leave.
He found her room key inside of the cloth reticule that dangled from her wrist. Shoving it into the lock, he unbolted the door and pushed it open with his shoulder. Once inside her room, he kicked the door shut behind them.
“It’s all right,” he murmured again. He sat her carefully on the bed and made short work of removing her cloak and gloves. Crouching in front of her, he took her hands and warmed them briskly between his own. They were like twin blocks of ice. “You’ll feel b-better soon. After you’ve had some tea.”
Her head hung on her neck, her shoulders shaking with every sobbing breath. “I’ve made a spectacle of myself.”
“No one saw. Only that woman.”
“I c-can’t stop weeping. I knew…once I started…”
Releasing her hands, he withdrew a large linen handkerchief from his pocket and used it to dry her face. It was a futile exercise. The tears continued to come, at an alarming rate. In the end, all he could think to do was to hold her again. He sank down beside her on the bed and drew her back into his arms.
“What happened?” he asked. “Won’t you tell me?”
She didn’t answer, only wept into his shoulder.
He brushed his lips to her temple. And he let her weep. All the while, a lump of helpless torment formed within his vitals. A mass that was equal parts anguish and anger. If someone had hurt her, he would—
What?
What would he do?
He wasn’t an inherently violent person. But at the thought of all the things that might have happened to cause Clara’s tears, he felt as though he could tear a man limb from limb with his bare hands.
Long minutes later, a knock sounded at the door. “Your tea, sir!”
Neville eased Clara from his arms and went to open it. The tavern keeper’s wife entered with a tray. A stripling lad in patched trousers followed after her with Neville’s portmanteau.
“I’ve brought a plate of biscuits, as well.” She placed the tray on a chest of drawers near the washstand. Her eyes flicked to Clara and then back to Neville. There was no suspicion in her gaze. “Begging your pardon, sir, but the room’s only paid through noon. If you mean to stay, that’ll be another shilling and sixpence. Two shillings if you want meals.”
Neville withdrew two shillings from his purse and paid the lady. He had no intention of staying with Clara overnight, but neither did he intend to have her rushed out of the place by noon. She was in no fit state.
“Very good, sir.” With a bow, and one last sympathetic look at Clara, the tavern keeper’s wife exited the room, the servant boy in her wake.
Neville bolted the door behind them. When he turned back to Clara, she was blotting her tears with his handkerchief. Her hair was coming loose from its pins. Several long flaxen strands had fallen forward to frame her face.
“Tea?” he asked.
She nodded mutely.
He prepared a cup for her, just as he had Christmas morning at the Abbey. Only this time, he mixed in a hefty dose of sugar. Jenny Finchley swore by heavily sugared tea. According to her, it was the best medicine one could administer in cases of shock.