Page 92 of The Winter Companion

“And I will.” He met her eyes, his color high. “When I settle, I mean to make you my housekeeper.”

Something inside of Clara shriveled and died. “Your housekeeper?”

He leaned forward in his chair. “You must have known it wouldn’t lead anywhere. The notes and drawings I sent you—they were just a bit of fun. A way to amuse you. It was a kindness, for I knew your life as a companion would be very dull indeed.”

The chill in her blood was positively glacial now, making her shiver from the inside out. She clamped her teeth to stop them chattering.

“Come now,” he said. “You’re intelligent. Smart enough to have taught the young ones at the village school. But my course of study is something outside of your experience. The knowledge is far too complex for a woman.”

“‘Those who admire and love knowledge for its own sake ought to wish to see its elements made accessible to all.’”

“What?”

“Herschel said that.”

He scrunched his brows. “I don’t think so. I didn’t write that in any of my letters.”

“No, you didn’t. I read it myself, in his Preliminary Discourse.” She curved her hands around her mug in a futile attempt to warm them, and stop their trembling. “Do you think I’ve merely been studying your letters? That I haven’t a mind or a thought of my own?” She paused before quoting another passage: “‘Knowledge can neither be adequately cultivated nor adequately enjoyed by a few.’”

“Oh, Clara…” Simon shook his head. “He didn’t mean women. Education in women is only useful insofar as it makes them better wives and mothers. What wife and mother needs a thorough understanding of beetle classification? You’re better off, truly. In time you shall see I’m right.”

Her throat constricted. “You’ve wasted four years of my life.”

“That’s rather hard. What else might you have been doing these four years? After the scandal in Hertfordshire —”

“Which you now acknowledge wasn’t of my making. If you and Mama had only believed me—”

“It’s rather too late to split hairs on the matter. The damage has been done. We’ve all got to move on from it, as best we can. I’m only sorry you had to come all this way. I daresay I should have written to you and Mama about what happened with Bryce-Chetwynde, but there seemed no point in reopening old wounds. Better to let things lie.” He glanced at her coffee. “If you’re not going to drink that, we may as well go.”

Her hands dropped from her mug, as cold as they’d been when first she put them there.

“We’ll collect your bags from the Bell and Swan and then I’ll put you in a cab.” He stood. “You can catch the midday train back to—”

“I don’t require your assistance.”

Simon heaved a sigh. As if he were the put-upon elder brother instead of the much-sacrificed-for younger. “Don’t make things worse, Clara.”

“I mean it.” She rose from her chair and gathered her cloak and bonnet. She slipped them on. “I’d rather fend for myself.”

“But you are going home, aren’t you?”

She tugged on her gloves. “Where is home, Simon?”

Another sigh. “Clara…”

“I’ll collect my things and return to my employer’s cottage in Surrey. You’re right. There’s no reason for me to remain.” She snapped open the drawstring top of her reticule and withdrew the stack of tradesman’s bills. “You may take responsibility for these.” She thrust them into Simon’s hand. “I won’t deplete my savings on your account. Not so I might one day aspire to be your housekeeper.”

He crumpled the bills into the pocket of his overcoat. “Mama won’t be pleased.”

Clara didn’t respond. She simply turned and walked out of the coffeehouse. She was relieved when Simon didn’t follow. The last thing she wanted was a witness to her loss of composure.

At the moment, she was numb. Quite frozen to the heart. But a storm was brewing within her. Four years’ worth of tears and anger sealed behind a dam that was about to break. She could only pray that, when it did, she’d be alone in her room at the tavern and not on the street for the world to see. For, once those emotions were unleashed, she had no earthly idea how she’d ever dam them back up again.

North Devon, England

December 1860

Neville leaned back in his corner of the carriage, bracing himself as the wheels rolled along the rain-slick coastal road that led to the railway station in Abbot’s Holcombe.