Page 8 of The Winter Companion

“Forgive me,” Justin said. “Since I married, I find myself incapable of properly assessing the beauty of any lady, save my wife. But you’re right. I misspoke. Miss Hartwright isn’t mousy.” He paused. “What is it? Are you worried she’ll say something unfeeling about your condition? That she’ll treat you poorly?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It clearly does. But there’s a simple enough solution. Helena can have a word with her. Or, perhaps, Laura—”

“No!” Neville stifled a frustrated growl. “I wish…” The words were as thick as molasses. As slow as molasses, too. The more out of sorts he became, the harder it was for him to form them. “I w-wish I hadn’t said anything about…about her.”

Justin didn’t comment on Neville’s loss of temper. Not directly. “I’ve asked a lot of you this past year, haven’t I? First, you were obliged to accustom yourself to the Abbey having a mistress. Then Tom married Jenny. And last week Alex returned to Devon, along with his new bride. It’s been difficult for you, I fear.”

“Not d-difficult. Just…”

“Traveling into Abbot’s Holcombe wasn’t difficult? You couldn’t even manage to do so for my wedding last year. It can’t have been easy for you.”

It hadn’t been.

Located thirteen miles up the coast from the Abbey, Abbot’s Holcombe was now a fashionable resort town. But two decades ago, it had been a bleak and stormy place, more notable for its parish orphanage than for its pleasing prospects of the sea.

Neville had hoped to never see the place again.

He’d refused to attend Justin’s wedding, it was true. A cowardly decision Neville had come to regret.

When Alex had arrived last week on the train, Neville had determined not to make the same mistake again. He couldn’t refuse to meet his childhood friend at the station. The very friend who’d saved Neville’s life on the day of his accident. Abbot’s Holcombe was just a place, after all. It wasn’t a person. And it certainly wasn’t responsible for the ills that had befallen him.

Nevertheless…

As he’d climbed down from the carriage and onto the railway platform, his palms had grown damp, and his pulse had accelerated with alarming swiftness.

“Tom and Jenny will be returning for dinner this evening,” Justin said. “I won’t insist you join us. I’ll only remind you that this is your home, and that you’re among friends. Don’t isolate yourself down here. It serves no purpose.”

“I’m not. I—”

“I know you prefer it, even at the best of times, but this is Christmas. And we’re all together at last. The eloquence of your speech will be the last thing on people’s minds.”

Neville shook his head. “You don’t understand. You can’t.”

“Oh, can’t I? Do you think I don’t know what it’s like to be looked at askance?”

“Yes, but…” Neville scarcely noticed Justin’s burns anymore. And when he did, they didn’t alarm him. They were merely a reminder of his friend’s bravery and strength of character. “You’re a hero.”

Justin snorted. “Hardly.”

“Lady Helena says—”

“Of course Helena says so. She’s my wife.” A smile edged Justin’s mouth. Any mention of Lady Helena always served to boost his spirits. “How is your speech any more repellent than my burns? And what about Laura’s brother? He’s in a wheeled chair, for God’s sake. A dashed nuisance, I expect, for a young lad like him. And yet he’s here—among strangers, no less.”

Neville’s gaze dropped to the straw-covered floor of the stables. He knew what Justin was trying to do. He was attempting to make him feel better. But one’s infirmities weren’t any easier to tolerate simply because some other poor chap had it worse.

Besides, faulty speech was different from burn scars or a wheeled chair. Language went to the heart of a person’s humanity. It was the dividing line between men and beasts. And for a man of his size to stammer, and stutter. To forget his words entirely, or to blurt them out like a disordered child… It was worse than embarrassing. It was shameful.

“You spend too much time alone of late,” Justin said. “You’re in danger of sinking into a melancholy.”

“I’m not.”

“Don’t deny it. Not to me. I’ve had personal experience with the state. I recognize the signs when I see them.” Justin clapped a hand on Neville’s shoulder. “Come. Enough moping about. Gather your things—and that little dog—and return to the Abbey with me.”

Neville looked up. “The pug can come up to the house?”

“Naturally. I’ll rouse Paul and Jonesy. We can get all the introductions over with at once—God help us.”