Page 81 of The Winter Companion

“I don’t regret any of it, you know. I daresay I should, but I don’t. If you—”

“There you are, Miss Hartwright.” Mrs. Bainbridge’s voice rang out from the doorway. “The carriage is in the drive. You mustn’t keep the coachman waiting.”

Clara forced composure on herself. “No, indeed.” She pressed a trembling kiss to Bertie’s head before passing him into Neville’s arms.

As Neville took him, his hand brushed against hers. He tucked something into her fingers. It was a small, folded envelope. The very one he’d been sealing at his desk.

She looked up at him with a start.

He stared back at her, an expression in his eyes that was hard to read.

“Come, my dear,” Mrs. Bainbridge said. “Time is of the essence.”

Clara discreetly slipped the letter into her sleeve. Her pulse was racing. “Goodbye, Mr. Cross.”

Neville stepped back from her, Bertie in his arms. “Goodbye, Miss Hartwright.”

It seemed as though he might have said more. But there was no time, and with Mrs. Bainbridge looking on, they had no privacy. Clara could do nothing but take her leave.

It wasn’t until later that she was finally able to open his letter. Alone at last inside the carriage, careening down the cliff road in the driving rain, she withdrew the small envelope from her sleeve, broke the seal, and began to read.

My dearest Clara,

I have thought and thought of what I might say on the day of your departure, but as with most unpleasant things, that day has come far too soon. I find myself wholly unprepared to bid goodbye to you, and as lacking in eloquence with a pen and ink as I am when I speak. I’m constrained by the limits of language. No words are adequate to express the light you have brought into my life. I can only say this:

The past weeks with you have been the brightest period of my memory. I shall treasure them always.

If you remember me down the years, I hope it will be as a man who was honored to know you, and to be in your company. And who might have loved you all of your days if things had been different.

Yours faithfully,

Neville Cross

Cambridge, England

December 1860

Clara stood inside the gates of Magdalene College. It was snowing in Cambridge, delicate flakes that caught on her cloak and bonnet, melting away to nothing. She scarcely noticed the cold. Her entire being was too consumed with the sights before her.

She stared in wonder at the imposing stucco-faced buildings. They were set along the sides of a quadrangle. To the east was the great hall. To the north, the chapel. And along the west side, a magnificent classical structure of creamy Ketton stone with a piazza of five connected archways at its front. She recognized it instantly from the descriptions in her brother’s letters.

The Pepysian Library.

Never in her life had she dreamed she’d see it in person. And now here she was, standing less than one hundred feet from its doors.

She inhaled a deep breath and thought, rather foolishly, I am breathing the rarified air of Cambridge. A giddy fact. So much so it nearly made her forget the purpose of her visit.

“Hartwright, did you say?” The elderly porter at the gatehouse beetled his wiry gray brows. “Ah yes. Master Hartwright.” His lined face settled into an expression of disapproval. “He’s gone away with Master Trent.”

She recognized the name. Philip Trent was one of her brother’s school friends. Simon had often mentioned him in his letters. “Do you know when he’ll return?”

“You’d best speak to your brother about that.”

“That’s precisely why I’ve come,” she said. “I’ve traveled all the way from Devon to speak to him. Are you telling me there’s no way to reach my brother at all? No way to deliver a message?”

“I suppose I could have a note delivered to Master Trent’s residence. Can’t promise Master Hartwright’s still with him. He might have gone off on his own, given the circumstances.”

She went still. “What circumstances?”