He gathered her into his arms. She went into them gratefully, closing her eyes as he held her close. After a time, during which she was mortified to dampen his waistcoat with a few more of her tears, she felt his lips brush against her hair.
A delicate shiver went through her.
“It d-doesn’t have to…to be over,” he said.
“No.” She couldn’t keep the trace of bitterness from her voice. “I suppose I could find another dream.”
“Have you any others?”
“Other than being someone’s secretary? I might ask you the same.”
“I’ve been thinking about it.”
She drew back to look at him. “Have you come to any conclusions?”
“I’m no good at ledgers. I’d like a…a horse farm. The one I t-told you about.”
A smile touched her lips, remembering the evening they’d sat together on the settee in the drawing room. “With paddocks, and a barn, and rolling fields of clover?”
He nodded. “Somewhere near to m-my friends.”
“And you’d live there? All alone?”
“Not alone,” he said. “With someone like you.”
Her mouth trembled. She didn’t know quite how to respond.
“I said that wrong,” he amended before she could speak. “I d-didn’t mean someone like you.”
Her heart sank. “No?” She affected a bright tone. “What did you—”
“I meant you,” he said. “Just…you. Clara Hartwright. No one else would do.”
She set her forehead against his chest. “Oh, Neville.”
“I’m n-not asking anything from you.” He stopped again. “That’s n-not true either. I do have something to…to ask you.” His fingers came beneath her chin, gently tipping her face up, compelling her to meet his eyes. “Will you go somewhere with me?”
Anywhere, she wanted to say. To the ends of the earth.
But she hadn’t abandoned all of her good sense. Not yet, anyway.
“Where?” she asked. “Back to Devon?”
“Yes. To the Abbey. But first, I…I want you to c-come with me to Tavistock. To see Mrs. Atkyns.”
She couldn’t conceal her surprise. “You’re going to talk to her about the ponies? But I thought you’d decided to have Mr. Finchley do it in your stead?”
“It has to be me. They’re my responsibility.” He looked steadily at her. “Will you c-come?”
Her heart swelled at the gruff request. She realized then that he needed her, just as she’d needed him. Someone to be there. To lean on during the difficult moments. He’d been that person for her almost from the day they’d met. She could be that person for him now. An unfailing support. A true friend.
Her spirits lifted a little. “Yes,” she said. “I will.”
They left Cambridge almost immediately and within an hour and a half were settled in a wood-paneled first-class railway carriage on the train back to Devon. Clara didn’t like to ask how Neville had afforded the fare. Her single attempt at reimbursing him for her ticket had been met with a very stern glare. Gentlemen could be prickly when it came to matters of money.
She smoothed her skirts as the train left the station, chugging down the tracks in a shriek of grinding metal and a cloud of steam. Her small curtained window looked out on austere buildings of Ketton stone and brown fields dusted in winter snow. Her last glimpse of Cambridge. It was bittersweet.
“I brought something for you,” Neville said.
She turned her head from the window.
He sat beside her, unbearably handsome in his hat, coat, and neatly tied black cravat. He’d shaved and changed before they’d left, availing himself of the washstand in her room while she busied herself at the front desk, arranging for a hansom cab to take them to the station.
“Have you?” she asked politely. They weren’t alone in the carriage. Two gentlemen travelers were established in the upholstered seats across from them, one reading a newspaper, and the other already dozing. Clara was determined to do nothing that would draw their attention.
Neville reached into an inner pocket of his greatcoat and withdrew a slim leather-bound book. He offered it to her. “I thought you m-might like something to…to read.”
She took it from him, her gaze drifting over the familiar gold-stamped spine.
Poems
—
First Edition
—
Tennyson
—
Vol. II
Her eyes lifted back to his in question.
“I’ve been reading it,” he said.
“Sir Galahad?”
“All of the poems.”
She cradled the book reverently in her hands. “Have you found any you like?”
“One,” he said. “I’ve…I’ve marked it.”
“With notes? I trust Lady Helena won’t mind.”
His mouth quirked. “She gave them to me.”
Clara blinked. “Both volumes?”
He nodded. “The other is in my case. But this one…it’s my favorite.”
A small thrill of anticipation went through her as she opened the book, turning to the first page with one gloved finger. It had been years since she’d read anything by Tennyson. Years since she’d read any poetry at all.
Did she dare?
“Read,” Neville encouraged her. “We have a long journey ahead.”
Clara didn’t require his permission, but having it gave her courage to begin.
And that’s exactly where she started—at the beginning.
The first entry in the volume was “The Epic,” set on Christmas Eve. It was followed by “Morte d’Arthur,” and then “The Gardener’s Daughter.” She read them slowly, with long-suppressed pleasure, savoring every word.
She hadn’t forgotten them, but she’d forgotten how they made her feel, as if her heart was overflowing and her spirit had taken flight. Some lines made her smile, and others made tears prick at her eyes. Each was moving—powerfully moving—and yet she saw no sign of Neville having marked any of them.
The journey to Tavistock was a long one, broken by stops at obscure railway stations and long delays, which the passengers took advantage of by disembarking to stretch their legs on the platform.