Page 108 of The Winter Companion

Understanding registered in his face. With it came a look of such love, such tender affection. He drew her back into his arms. “My dear love…” His words were slow but sure. “This is only the beginning.”

Tavistock, England

June 1861

Neville found his wife in her butterfly garden, her head bent over a sketch pad. She was garbed in a loose-fitting skirt and fitted caraco jacket, a flat-brimmed straw hat pinned to her flaxen hair. Bertie dozed at her feet, snoring as only an aged pug could snore. “The post came.”

Clara looked up. A smile brightened her face. After several months of marriage, that smile still had the power to stop Neville’s heart. “Did we receive anything interesting?”

“A letter for you from…from Jenny.” He sank down beside her on the wrought-iron garden bench. “Here you are.”

Setting aside her sketch pad, Clara took the letter. She paused before opening it to tilt her face up for his kiss.

He bent his head, his lips meeting hers halfway. He loved her to distraction. It took all of his strength of will not to gather her in his arms.

She broke the wax seal on the envelope. Her chocolate-brown eyes skimmed its contents. “She and Tom are staying at the Abbey for a fortnight before they leave for Spain.”

“Oh?” Neville stretched his legs out in front of him. His trousers were all over mud.

He’d been out with the ponies most of the morning. Betty and Firefly were enjoying their newfound freedom in the pasture near the moor. Almost too much. It made the pair of them difficult to catch.

Clara read on. “Justin and Helena are well, and so is little Honoria. Oh! Jenny says she’s grown bigger. Thank heavens for that. She was so small to begin with. I did worry for her.”

Lady Helena had given birth to a slightly underweight baby girl in January. Honoria Alice Thornhill had her mother’s delicacy, and her father’s black hair and gray eyes.

Justin had wept when first he’d held her. An event that had left Tom and Neville speechless and had Alex clearing his throat repeatedly, as if he were in danger of weeping, too.

“Blast the lot of you,” Justin had said, as he’d cradled his daughter. “We’ll see how you behave when your first child is born.”

“Jenny hints at an impending announcement from Laura.” Clara glanced up at him. “Do you suppose she’s expecting?”

“I don’t know.” Neville wouldn’t be surprised. Alex was mad over his wife. It was only a matter of time before the two of them started welcoming children. Though how babies would fit in with the Archers’ thriving perfume business in Grasse, Neville had no idea. “Perhaps it’s m-merely a new variety of…of lavender water.”

“Perhaps so.” Clara resumed reading. “Mr. and Mrs. Boothroyd are in fine fettle. It sounds as though they’re putting off a move to Barnstaple for the present.”

Mr. Boothroyd had wed Mrs. Bainbridge not long after Neville and Clara had married. “It’s cheaper than hiring another companion,” Neville had overheard Teddy joke to Alex.

The truth was, Mr. Boothroyd and Mrs. Bainbridge were quite fond of each other. They were also rather fond of Justin and Helena’s new baby.

“Boothroyd won’t leave the Abbey,” Neville said. “Not n-now he’s seen Honoria.”

“No. I didn’t expect he would. That baby has worked a spell on everyone in residence.” Clara turned to the next page of Jenny’s letter. “She has news of Teddy. He’s thriving in France, apparently. Alex has found an art teacher for him.” Her eyes drifted down the page. Color bloomed in her cheeks. “The rest is about us.”

His brows lifted. “What about us?”

Clara folded the letter and returned it to its envelope. “Only that she hopes we’ve found contentment here.”

“Are you content?” he asked.

She certainly seemed so. Just as content as he was in their new marriage. The friendship of it. The growing intimacy. He’d never imagined it could be so sweet. So perfect.

“More than content,” she said.

He took her hand in his, bare skin against bare skin, warmed by the summer sunshine. “What more is there?”

“There’s happiness.” Clara rested her head on his shoulder. “There’s this. Every day. With you. For the rest of our lives. The stuff of dreams.”

Neville turned his face into her hair. The scent of orange blossoms tickled his nose. “Then I pray I shall n-never wake up.”