Page 39 of The Winter Companion

In the days following his accident, he’d felt only frustration. The desire to speak—to be heard—and the anger incumbent in realizing that he couldn’t express his thoughts or feelings with any degree of eloquence. In the beginning, even short sentences had proven difficult. His fists had clenched, and perspiration had risen on his brow. The struggle had, at times, driven him to tears of rage and bitterness.

It would have been easier to have given up. To have refrained from speech altogether. But he was no mute. He’d frequently had things he wished to say. Questions to give voice to, and opinions he longed to express.

What he’d wanted—needed—was someone to be patient with him. To understand.

When Justin had returned from India and bought the Abbey, Neville had been glad to come and live with him. Now, it had seemed, his life could at last begin.

But life at Greyfriar’s Abbey hadn’t been so very different from his life at St. Crispin’s.

There was Justin and Mr. Boothroyd, and occasionally Tom. They were a family of sorts. The closest thing to one that Neville had ever known. But when it came to his own identity, separate and apart from them, nothing much had changed at all. Indeed, it felt that nothing ever would.

He ran a hand over his hair as he passed through the main hall. He’d gone no more than a few steps when he stopped short, his attention arrested by movement on the stairs.

Miss Hartwright was descending, garbed in her cloak and bonnet, with Bertie in her arms. When she saw him, her mouth curved into a smile. “Mr. Cross. Good afternoon.” She stepped down into the hall. “Are you going to the stables?”

“I’m… I was…” His hand curled into a fist at his side. “I was going for a walk.”

Her gaze dropped briefly to his clenched hand. Her brows knit as her eyes met his, her smile fading. “Is something the matter?”

“No.” He looked away with a grimace. “Yes.”

“What is it?”

He didn’t answer. Everything was getting too jumbled. And he was too aware of her, curse it. He couldn’t think straight, let alone speak.

“I must take Bertie out,” she said. “But if you’d like to talk, I’m happy to listen.” She searched his face. “Would you like to talk?”

To talk.

A surge of resentment rose within him. But something else rose in him, too. It was a swell of longing. An ache so bittersweet it tightened his throat and pricked at the back of his eyes.

He swallowed hard, abandoning his pride. “Yes, I…I would.”

“Very well.” She waited while he fetched his hat and coat, and then again for him to hold the door open for her. As she passed through it, he caught the orange blossom fragrance of her hair.

His fingers tightened on the doorknob, drawing it shut behind them. They exchanged not a word as they started down the winding cliff road, Paul and Jonesy trotting ahead.

It wasn’t raining at the moment, but the wind was icy sharp. It ruffled Miss Hartwright’s skirts, and the long ribbon ties of her bonnet. She wrapped her cloak tighter around Bertie.

Neville was silent, his head bent against the cold, and his hands thrust into the pockets of his black woolen coat. In the distance, storm clouds gathered over the sea. “Mr. Atkyns is dead,” he said at last.

“The gentleman you wrote to?” Her brow creased. “Oh, dear. How unfortunate. Was it very recent?”

“Last m-month. Part of his estate is being sold. The livestock and…and…” He took a breath. “There’s a public sale in January. His widow wishes to m-meet with me to…to talk about the wild ponies.”

She seemed to comprehend the difficulty. “And you don’t feel you can go? That you can speak to her?”

He shook his head, a muscle working in his cheek.

She was quiet for a long moment. Their steps down the cliff road were slow and measured, nothing like their hurried pace the previous day. He heard her take a breath. “May I ask…forgive me if I’m being too bold, but…what caused your speech impediment?” She paused. “It is an impediment, isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer straightaway. He couldn’t. It wasn’t the sort of thing he’d ever imagined himself discussing with her.

“Were you born with it?” she asked. “Or—”

“I fell,” he said gruffly.

“From a horse?”