Page 87 of The Winter Companion

He’d dealt with that horse trader who had been abusing Betty.

The memory of it brought a certain satisfaction to him.

“I’m genuinely sorry,” Justin said. “For everything.”

“I’m not angry.”

“I know that.” Justin ran his hand over Adventurer’s back. “You’re only like this horse of yours.”

Neville gave him a questioning look.

Justin smiled slightly. Wearily. “You want more.”

It was a blunt statement. A true one as well. The truth was often simple. Neville let it sink into his soul He did want more. He wanted a life of his own choosing.

He wanted her.

“Perhaps,” Justin said, “you might like to spend a few weeks in London with Tom and Jenny?”

Neville dropped the brush and currycomb into a wooden grooming box nearby. “Why London?”

“If you’re getting the urge to see the world, it seems the likeliest place to start.” Justin paused. “I take it you aren’t interested?”

Neville shook his head. He didn’t have the urge to see the world. He wasn’t an explorer, and he didn’t crave the excitement of London, or the teeming industry of Manchester or Liverpool. If he ever left the Abbey, it wouldn’t be for a place. It would be because he was required elsewhere. By a needful creature.

Or by a woman.

His woman.

But Clara didn’t need him. That much he’d already established. He was of no use to her in Cambridge. No use to her anywhere.

A part of him rose up in protest at the thought.

He was of no use?

It was a dashed lie. A lie he would no longer permit himself to believe. No matter his own insecurities over the years, he’d always had value. He was useful to those around him, to people and animals alike.

And he could be useful to her, too.

But not here. Not by being safe.

In order to help Clara—to win Clara—he would have to face his fears. To summon his courage, and strike out on his own. Like one of those Arthurian knights she spoke of, embarking on a quest.

“Not in London,” he said abruptly.

Justin’s mouth tilted up at one corner. “You have somewhere else in mind?”

Neville met Justin’s eyes over the back of his horse. “As a m-matter of fact…I do.”

Cambridge, England

December 1860

Andrew Bryce-Chetwynde.

The name reverberated in Clara’s head. With it came every memory—every emotion—of that summer four years ago. It was all she could do to focus on Mr. Trent’s face, and to attend to the remainder of his unfortunate tale.

She doubted he realized just how unfortunate it was.