Page 96 of The Winter Companion

Returning to the platform, he found a bookseller’s stall and purchased a penny novel before boarding the train that would take him the rest of the way.

It was only as he sat down that he registered the decided tension in his muscles. He was out of his element. Out of his depth. He breathed deeply, steeling himself as the next group of passengers joined him in his compartment.

A family this time. Two elegant parents, and their equally elegant young daughter. The father stared at him with cold, unwelcoming eyes. As if he’d expected his family to have the compartment to themselves.

Neville returned the gentleman’s stare with a cold look of his own. One he’d seen Justin use on countless occasions. The implacable gaze of a ruthless cavalry captain.

Across from him, the gentleman hastily averted his gaze, turning his attention back to his small family.

Neville opened his book and began to read, even as his pulse pounded.

Tomorrow he would arrive in Cambridge. He would find Clara. And if he had to brave the fires of hell to get to her, so be it.

Cambridge, England

December 1860

Neville removed his hat before entering the Bell and Swan, shaking the snow from its brim. The jarvey at the railway station had recommended the tavern as the likeliest place a visitor to Cambridge might stay. However, when it came to finding Clara here, Neville was beginning to have his doubts. The place was chock full of guests, the majority of whom appeared to be gentlemen. Their voices drifted out from the dining room into the front of the tavern, some of them laughing and others shouting in spirited argument.

A drab older woman in homespun appeared at the counter to greet him. Behind her, a flight of rickety wooden stairs led to the floors above. “Hope you’re not looking for lodging, sir. We’re full up.”

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?”