Page 38 of The Winter Companion

Tom glanced up from his chair near the fire. “Who?”

He was in the library along with Justin, Alex, Mr. Hayes, and Mr. Boothroyd. They’d gathered there for brandy and cigars while the ladies occupied themselves in the drawing room.

Jenny’s former manservant, Ahmad Malek, had come down from London for the day. Now a dressmaker of growing renown, he’d made the trip specially to perform the final alterations on Jenny’s and Lady Helena’s Christmas gowns.

“Erasmus Atkyns,” Neville replied. “He died last month.”

“Who the devil is Erasmus Atkyns?” Justin asked. “Not that vicar in Tavistock?”

Neville nodded. “His widow has written. He’s… His property is…”

Tom stood and came to join him. “Do you mind if I have a look?”

Neville handed him the letter, waiting while Tom read through it. The other men resumed their conversation. Something about the feasibility of improving the cliff road. A tedious subject, and one that Justin had been rather keen on since first learning of his impending fatherhood.

“When the heavy rains come, the road washes out, and we’re isolated here for days at a time,” he was explaining to Mr. Hayes. “It won’t do when there are children in residence. If one should become ill or injured, there would be no way to summon the village doctor or the surgeon.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t removed to town for the winter,” Alex said. “With your wife expecting, it seems only sensible. You’ll want her under a doctor’s care.”

“She won’t go,” Justin replied grimly. “She insists on remaining here for Christmas. Besides which, she has a well-founded mistrust of doctors. Our child’s to be delivered by a village midwife.”

Neville was only half listening. He couldn’t focus on anything fully at the moment. The news of Mr. Atkyns’s death had thrown his thoughts into chaos. Sensing his distress, Paul and Jonesy milled about nearby, too concerned for him to lie down.

“Mrs. Atkyns is very civil,” Tom murmured as he read. “But it seems her husband was in some financial difficulties. He must have been for them to be having the estate sale so soon after the funeral.” He looked up from the letter. “Will you go?”

Neville’s stomach tightened with apprehension. Mrs. Atkyns had invited him to attend the sale. Had said she wished to speak with him further on the matter of the Dartmoor ponies. But it would mean leaving Greyfriar’s Abbey. Traveling to Tavistock, and staying a day or two, at least. “I d-don’t—”

“It sounds as though she’s eager to speak with you in person.”

“Yes, but…” Neville felt the bitter urge to laugh. Speak with him? Wouldn’t that be a charming conversation. Him stopping, starting, and stammering, and her trying to make heads or tails of what the devil he was saying. “I don’t want…” He took a breath. “It isn’t…”

Tom’s eyes were keen, as always. Seeing everything. “You needn’t decide this very moment. The sale isn’t until after Christmas. There’s plenty of time yet to determine the best course.”

Neville took back the letter. He folded it carefully.

“If you require any help,” Tom said, “any advice, I’m here. You need only ask me.”

“I know that.” Neville was grateful to him. Tom never pressed. Never attempted to exert his will. “Thank you.”

Tom smiled. “Won’t you join us? God only knows how much longer the ladies will be with Ahmad.”

“I can’t. I…” Neville cast a look at the door. He wanted to get out, not only of this room, but of his own head. To walk, or to work with the horses. Something physical. “I need…I need some air.”

Tom inclined his head in understanding. “Of course. I’ll make your excuses.”

Neville ducked out without another word, Paul and Jonesy at his heels. The voices of his friends quieted to a dull murmur as he shut the door behind him. It was wet out and growing colder by the minute. But he preferred it to the stifling feeling of being trapped indoors.

He’d never liked being inside, not even as a boy. During lessons in the orphanage schoolroom, he’d often lost himself gazing out the window, falling into a pleasurable daydream—until the teacher had roused him with a vicious box to the ears.

“Will you never pay attention, Cross? Do you aspire to a permanent state of stupidity?”

The nuns at St. Crispin’s in Abbot’s Holcombe had been slightly kinder. After his accident, Mr. Boothroyd had arranged for them to take Neville in. They’d never expected much of him. Once he’d recovered from the fall—as much as he could recover—he’d been given simple work. Washing up in the convent’s kitchens, or mucking out soiled straw in the convent’s stables.

“Silent obedience, Cross,” the Reverend Mother had often said. “That’s what the Lord demands of us.”

It had been permission to refrain from speech. To cease the mortifying struggle of trying to form words. A blessing, really.

Not that he’d thought so at first.